Just as Ace was preparing his firework elsewhere—
Onigashima stood bathed in torchlight and drunken noise.
Yamato was standing alone in front of a massive screen.
There was nothing on it.
No image. No sound. No signal.
Just a dark, silent rectangle reflecting her face.
Her eyes held no excitement—only a quiet mix of sadness, anger, and resolve, tightly bound together. She didn't move. She didn't blink.
Then—
The screen flickered.
Static rippled once.
And the night sky appeared.
The sudden activation drew attention immediately. Laughter died down. Cups stopped mid-air. One by one, the Hundred-Beast Pirates turned toward the screen, curiosity overtaking drunken cheer.
In this world, television and screens were a luxury.
Live broadcasts even more so.
Only Morgans possessed the reach—the network of sub-channels capable of forcing an image onto every corner of the sea.
And this wasn't the scheduled broadcast.
The war between the World Government and the Whitebeard Pirates was still a week away.
So why now?
The image stabilized.
A vast city came into view—golden lights layered upon towering structures, built on an impossibly massive red mountain that pierced the heavens.
A pirate squinted.
"…Doesn't that place look familiar?"
Another stiffened.
"That mountain—"
A third whispered, voice suddenly dry.
"That's… Mary Geoise."
The name spread like poison.
Conversation ceased completely.
Why would Morgans broadcast that place?
Was this an announcement? A declaration? A warning from the World Government?
Heavy footsteps echoed across the floor.
King and Queen arrived after hearing the commotion, their presence crushing the remaining noise.
Queen adjusted his glasses, eyes locked on the screen.
"Well I'll be damned," he muttered.
King said nothing at first.
He observed the image. The timing. The silence.
Then he turned sharply to a nearby subordinate.
"Call Kaido-sama," King ordered. "Tell him Morgans is about to show something… unusual."
The pirate nodded and rushed off.
Then—
King's gaze shifted.
It landed on Yamato.
She was partially covered, blending in with the shadows—but the aura around her was wrong.
King narrowed his eyes.
That Haki—
He'd felt it before.
Not from an enemy.
He turned back to the same pirate, his voice colder now.
"And tell Kaido-sama," King added, "that a guest has arrived."
---
Whitebeard Pirate Territory, Sphinx Island
Torches burned bright against the night sky, music rolled like waves, and laughter echoed from shore to shore. The smell of roasted meat and strong alcohol filled the air, carried by the sea breeze.
It was a celebration.
And everyone knew why.
A war was coming.
A war so large that no one—no matter how strong—could guarantee they would see the next sunrise after it ended.
So tonight, there was no restraint.
Tonight was for family.
Edward Newgate—Whitebeard—sat at the center of it all, his massive frame relaxed, his laughter booming as he drank from an enormous gourd. For once, Marco hadn't stopped him.
Rare permission. Rare indulgence.
Around him sat the sixteen division commanders, faces worn but smiling. Beyond them were nearly seven thousand crew members, shoulder to shoulder, singing, arguing, laughing like brothers who had already accepted tomorrow.
Further still—
The forty-three affiliated pirate crews. And beyond even them—
The people of Sphinx Island.
Civilians. Merchants. Children. Elders.
They drank and danced alongside pirates without fear.
Because to them—
Whitebeard wasn't just an Emperor.
He was their father, their family.
And he treated them no differently.
The entire island had become a single, enormous banquet.
Whitebeard leaned back, letting out a deep, satisfied laugh, then turned his head slightly.
"Oi," he said, voice rough but warm. "Doc."
Deuce stiffened slightly and stepped closer.
"Where's Ace?"
Whitebeard took another drink, eyes half-lidded.
"It's been a year since that brat last showed his face." "Tch… runs off, travels the world, and now—"
He snorted.
"Gets mixed up with Kaido's daughter of all people."
A few nearby commanders chuckled.
Before Whitebeard could continue—
"Tch."
Marco's voice cut in, lazy but sharp.
"That guy," Marco said, sipping his drink, "ran off with Kaido's daughter and forgot about us."
A pause.
Then Marco smirked faintly.
"…Though, I guess congratulations are in order."
Laughter rippled outward.
Whitebeard laughed loudly, the sound shaking the air.
"Gurararara!"
"That's my son for you."
---
Across the world—
Massive screens flickered to life.
In crowded town squares. Outside noisy taverns. Within the territories of pirates, revolutionaries, and Marines alike.
People stopped mid-step.
Conversations died. Cups froze halfway to mouths. Music faltered.
Everyone knew the reason these screens existed.
The war was coming.
The World Government versus the Whitebeard Pirates.
That was what the broadcast was supposed to show.
But tonight—
Something was wrong.
One by one, the screens activated far earlier than announced.
And instead of a battlefield—
It showed the night sky.
Marijoa.
The Holy Land of the Celestial Dragons.
Confusion spread instantly.
"Why Marijoa?" "Did something already happen?" "Is this an announcement?"
The cameras didn't move.
They didn't zoom.
They simply showed the city from afar—its towering structures, its sacred mountain bathed in artificial light, untouched and arrogant as ever.
Then—
Someone noticed it.
"Wait… what's that?"
High above the city—
A black dot cut through the sky.
It was small. Distant.
But unmistakably moving.
As it drew closer, flames became visible—flickering wings of fire wrapped around a human silhouette.
Gasps erupted across the world.
"That's a person." "No—someone's flying." "Who the hell would invade Marijoa so openly?"
The figure descended steadily, unhurried, like a falling star that had chosen its destination.
The flames burned brighter against the darkness.
And for the first time—
The world felt it.
An inexplicable pressure. A tightening in the chest. A sense that something irreversible was about to happen.
---
Above Marijoa—
Half an hour had passed since Ace left the Thousand Sunny.
Now he hovered directly above the Holy Land, flames spread wide behind him, holding him steady against the night air.
From this height, Marijoa was… beautiful.
Ace didn't deny it.
White marble buildings stretched endlessly, their edges trimmed with gold that reflected the city's artificial lights. Broad streets gleamed clean and untouched. Fountains flowed quietly, water catching the glow as if it were liquid glass. Carefully shaped gardens filled the gaps between structures, perfect and controlled, every leaf in its proper place.
The entire city looked unreal—like something displayed behind glass rather than lived in.
Ace knew the truth of it.
He knew what lay beneath those streets. The blood. The chains. The suffering that never reached the surface.
And still—
He found himself admiring it.
From up here, it felt impossibly distant from the rest of the world. Untouchable. Elevated above everything and everyone else.
Ace knew it, even if he worked his entire life in his previous world… even if he gave everything—
He would never be allowed to live here.
The thought came uninvited.
And then another followed it.
Thinking about what he was about to do to this place—
Ace felt a faint, unsettling sense of delight.
His brow furrowed.
He shook his head sharply, as if trying to dislodge the thought itself.
"No," he muttered. "That's not it."
Flames flickered behind him, responding to his unease.
"It's not because I want to destroy it," Ace said quietly. "It's because this city is wrong. Because it's built on evil. Because it needs to be stopped."
He exhaled slowly.
"I can't think like that."
For a moment, he hovered in silence, staring down at the flawless city below.
Then, more quietly—
"…I haven't even landed yet, and my thoughts are already twisting."
Ace's eyes hardened.
"Now I get it," he said.
"THIS place corrupts everyone who lives in it."
---
Lost in his own thoughts, Ace barely noticed when his wings shifted.
With a single, lazy flap, he began descending.
Not fast.
Not aggressive.
He drifted downward with an almost casual ease, like someone strolling through a garden in the early morning—unhurried, unconcerned, as if this were any other city beneath his feet.
The flames carried him smoothly.
When he came within a hundred meters of the city—
He felt it.
Eyes.
Sharp ones.
Suspicious ones.
Disbelieving ones.
Curious, angry, hostile ones.
They pressed against him from every direction.
Ace didn't bother identifying them. It could've been residents finally looking up. Government soldiers hidden across the rooftops. Cipher Pol agents already moving into position.
Or something else entirely.
It didn't matter.
He slowed his descent, inhaled deeply, and let the air settle in his lungs.
Then he spoke.
His voice carried.
Not just across the streets of Marijoa—
But through every screen, every island, every sea where the broadcast had reached.
" Dogs of the World Government.
I, Portgas D. Ace, have descended bearing salvation for the sins you have committed.
If even a fragment of shame yet clings to your souls, cleanse your necks and bow.
Those who kneel before judgment is enforced
shall suffer less when the gates of hell open for them."
For a moment—
Nothing happened.
Not in Marijoa.
Not anywhere.
The world itself seemed to freeze, as if it needed time to process what it had just heard.
Who would dare?
Who would openly invade the Holy Land—
mock the Celestial Dragons—
and declare them as sinners in the same breath?
Across the seas, jaws slackened.
On distant islands, pirates stared at the screens.
Even Luffy—watching from afar—felt his chest tighten, eyes shining with something dangerously close to admiration.
Then—
It began.
The city stirred.
Luxury villas burst open as figures in astronaut suits stepped out onto balconies and terraces. Celestial Dragons emerged into the open air, faces twisted with disbelief.
Then fury.
Then curiosity.
Not fear.
Never fear.
They stared down at the lone figure descending from the sky like he was an insect that had flown too close to something sacred.
Ace finally reached the ground.
The flames behind him vanished.
The moment his boots met white marble, the space around him tightened.
Agents appeared—silent, precise, disciplined. Cipher Pol operatives, the Army and the private protectors of the Celestial Dragons.
They didn't attack.
They surrounded him instead.
Not out of mercy.
Out of caution.
They knew his face.
They knew his name.
They knew the bounty tied to it.
A man like this couldn't be handled recklessly—not here, not among what they considered precious.
Their goal was clear.
Hold him.
Delay him.
Wait for someone stronger.
Ace glanced around at the ring forming around him.
Then he smiled.
Slowly, he tilted his head upward, eyes lifting toward the sky above Marijoa—toward the screens watching him, toward the world holding its breath.
"Good," he said softly.
Then—
"Forbidden awakening : "
The air shifted.
Heat warped the space around him.
Ace's voice dropped, steady and final.
"Thermal Requiem."
---