"WORORORORO...!"
Kaido's thunderous laughter rolled across the storm-churned skies like the cry of a god. Lightning flashed across the heavens, outlining his colossal dragon form in a web of blinding light. Beneath him, the once-proud island of Water 7 was burning — a sea of chaos as the World Government's naval fleet unleashed relentless salvos of cannonfire. The ocean itself seemed to boil with fury as explosions tore through docks, homes, and entire districts.
"It seems... they've finally run out of patience," Kaido rumbled, his voice carrying through the clouds like an earthquake. "They've decided to sink the whole damn island."
Each word dripped with scorn — but also with grim amusement. He didn't need to think long to understand the Government's intentions. To annihilate an entire island meant only one thing: someone had found something they were never meant to.
"Or maybe," a sharp, magnetic voice cut through the thunder, "someone else got their hands on what they wanted... and now the Government would rather see it sink than let it fall into another's hands."
Kaido's serpentine head turned, his molten eyes narrowing. Floating beside him was Scarlett, her body framed by shards of twisted metal swirling around her like a living storm. Her feet rested on a gleaming iron platform, suspended in the air by her magnetic powers. The battle between the two had halted — both monsters now shared a single, bitter understanding.
Below them, Vice Admiral Garp stood upon the Marine flagship, his very presence tilting the balance of the battlefield. Kaido's gaze darkened. The sight of that man — the one who had brought him down more than once, the one whose fists had haunted his past — stirred something deep and unwanted inside him. Even now, the shadow of those defeats clawed at his mind.
"Scarlett...!" Kaido's massive jaws curled into a grin, his fangs glinting like ivory scythes. "Our little grudge can wait. You don't want someone else getting their hands on the ancient weapon, do you?"
Scarlett's crimson eyes flickered like embers. She hated to admit it, but he was right. Fighting Kaido now served no purpose. His crew had already made landfall, and worse—Whitebeard had arrived.
Even for her—a woman who lived for the thrill of battle—the idea of facing Edward Newgate, the man who could shatter the seas themselves, was not one she entertained lightly. Especially not when rumors whispered that the Tremor-Tremor Fruit had finally awakened within him.
She clenched her fists, and the air hummed with magnetism. "Fine. But once this is over, Kaido… we finish what we started."
"WORORORO! I'll be waiting," Kaido bellowed, his laughter rolling across the sky as he turned his gaze back to the island below.
Far out on the turbulent waters, the Whitebeard Armada surged forward, cutting through waves and fire like a spear of vengeance. The Moby Dick, majestic and indomitable, led the charge. Each of its sister ships followed, banners snapping in the storm wind.
At the prow stood Whitebeard himself—titanic, immovable, a relic of an age that refused to die. His Naginata, Murakumogiri, was planted firmly at his side, and the air around him seemed to hum with restrained power. His eyes were fixed not on the destruction, but on a single figure in the distance.
"So... Garp," he muttered, his deep voice carrying even over the thunder, "this is your justice? Watching as your Marines burn an entire island to ash?"
Behind him, Marco the Phoenix hovered slightly above the deck, his wings flickering with blue fire as his Observation Haki swept the battlefield. "Pops... we might be too late. The Navy's already razing the place."
Whitebeard didn't answer immediately. The old man's gaze stayed locked on the Marine fleet—on the ships that bore the symbol of the World Government and on the arrogance that symbol represented.
Then he laughed, a booming, ancient laugh that shook the very sea. "So be it. If the world wants to sink this island... then let's remind them what happens when they try to drown the age of pirates!"
He turned to Marco, his voice cutting through the storm like a commandment.
"Capture the retreating pirates. Interrogate them. I want to know who found the weapon."
As Marco nodded and took flight, Whitebeard lifted his Naginata, the very air cracking with the force of his will. His eyes burned with righteous fury, and a tremor rippled across the ocean—the calm before a world-shaking storm.
"You bastards at the top... it's been a long time since I've paid you back."
He grinned, a titan reborn. "Let's settle this debt!" The Naginata came down — and the sea itself split apart.
****
Holy Land, Red Line
Rain came down in sheets, relentless and cold, hammering against the marble streets of the Holy Land. Lightning clawed across the skies, momentarily illuminating the chaos below—a sea of bodies, thousands of slaves, all running, stumbling, screaming in a mad rush for freedom.
The years of chains, of silence and subjugation, had finally burst into a tidal wave of desperation.
Men, women, and children surged through the storm—barefoot, half-naked, and bleeding, yet unwilling to stop. The collars on their necks sparked and fizzled, their seals destroyed when the gates had blown open. Every heartbeat was an act of rebellion. Every breath, a stolen miracle.
The once-sacred streets of Mary Geoise were now a living nightmare—the holy land of the gods turned into a battlefield of the damned.
Through the lightning-lit haze, a little girl stumbled. Her frail body was drenched, her breath ragged. The rusted chain still clung to her ankle, the iron biting into her skin as she slipped on the muddy slope. She fell face-first into the earth with a cry lost in the storm.
Behind her, the stampede did not stop. The thunder of thousands of feet rolled toward her—people who, for the first time in their lives, saw an open path and refused to let anything stand in their way. Freedom was within reach, and mercy had no place in the chaos. The girl turned, eyes wide in terror, the glow of a hundred torches reflecting in her tears.
And then—a shadow fell across her.
A massive figure crashed into the mud in front of her, skin glistening under the rain, muscles coiled like steel cables. The girl felt a powerful arm scoop her up and pull her close, just as the stampede thundered past. The man's back took the blows of panicked bodies and flailing limbs, yet he didn't move an inch. His enormous frame was a wall against the storm.
When the flood of slaves passed, he set the girl down gently.
"Are you alright, child?"
The voice was deep, gravelly, yet gentle—like the rumble of the sea before dawn. The girl looked up into the fierce eyes of a Fishman—a towering being with scars like lightning across his chest and gills that flared with each breath. For a heartbeat, she froze. Fear—ingrained by years of human prejudice—held her in place.
Then she turned and ran, not even pausing to thank him. Fisher Tiger watched her go, his expression unreadable. He didn't blame her. The world had taught her to fear his kind. Tonight, he wasn't fighting for gratitude. He was fighting so they all could live to see a dawn free of chains.
He turned his gaze toward the Red Line's edge—toward the massive lifts that led down to the Red Port far below. The slaves had already overrun the platforms. Some were climbing into bondolas, others breaking the control panels in confusion. The structures groaned under the weight.
And then, to Tiger's horror, he saw them—dozens of slaves hurling themselves off the edge, vanishing into the black abyss. Their screams faded into the wind before they ever reached the sea.
"No...!" Tiger's roar shook the rain. But desperation had deafened reason. The sight of others jumping only spurred more to follow. It was madness—beautiful and tragic all at once.
Then —
Bang!
A gunshot cracked through the storm. Tiger spun just in time to see a bullet tear through the shoulder of a fleeing man. The slave collapsed, lifeless, as red bloomed across the mud. More shots followed—the sharp, disciplined rhythm of trained soldiers. The first of the World Government troops had arrived, their rifles gleaming under the rain, their white cloaks plastered to their bodies. Their orders were clear: capture or kill, and from their actions it was clear that they were leaning on the latter.
Fisher Tiger's eyes narrowed, his gills flaring with fury. "Not tonight," he growled. Then he moved.
The first soldier barely saw the blur that crashed into him. Tiger's massive hand caught him by the face, lifting him off the ground before slamming him into the cobblestone. The impact cracked stone and bone alike.
A second soldier raised his rifle—too slow. Tiger's hands lashed out, coiling around the weapon, yanking it forward before his knee shattered the man's jaw.
"Secure the lifts! Kill anything that moves!" a commanding officer bellowed from behind the ranks. His men spread, forming firing lines, rifles trained on the escaping slaves below. Tiger surged forward, closing the distance like a charging beast. Gunfire erupted, muzzle flashes strobing the darkness—but the Fishman was faster. Bullets whistled past him as he leapt high, his silhouette framed against a flash of lightning.
"FISHMAN KARATE...!"
The air itself seemed to tremble as Tiger's arm swung downward, the water in the rain around him condensing into a spiraling force.
"VAGABOND DROP!"
He slammed his palm into the ground. The rain exploded outward like a tidal wave. A shockwave of compressed water and air blasted through the ranks of world government soldiers, sending them flying like rag dolls.
Bodies hit walls, rifles snapped, and the very earth trembled. But more came. From the upper terraces, squads of government soldiers poured in—some wielding spears crackling with sea stone tips, others carrying flamethrowers to flush out the fleeing slaves.
Tiger drew a deep breath, feeling the rhythm of the sea echo through his blood. His body moved like a force of nature—fluid, unstoppable.
A spear lunged toward his chest; he twisted, grabbing the shaft mid-thrust, and wrenched it aside. His elbow struck the attacker's throat, sending him sprawling. Another soldier came from behind, blade flashing—Tiger spun, his leg whipping through the air with the crack of thunder, sending the man crashing into a wall.
Every movement was deliberate, every strike born from years of rage and discipline. For every soldier that fell, three more emerged from the storm. But Tiger did not yield. He could not.
He saw the slaves below, still scrambling toward the bondolas, their cries of fear and hope mixing into a single primal roar. This was his purpose—not vengeance, not glory—but to see them reach that fleeting promise of freedom.
"Go! Keep moving! Don't look back!" He bellowed, his voice cutting through the chaos.
A bullet grazed his arm; another struck his shoulder. He barely flinched. Then, from the upper platform, a world government officer leveled a cannon toward the lift cables. "If we can't stop them, we'll cut the whole thing down!"
Tiger's eyes widened. "Not while I live!" He leapt—a blur of muscle and fury—covering a hundred meters in a heartbeat. The cannon fired, a blazing projectile screaming toward the lift tower. Tiger met it mid-air, his fist glowing with water energy and his arms coated with armament Haki, and punched.
The explosion lit the night like a second sun. Rain and fire clashed, waves rolling through the square. The tower shook but held, miraculously intact. When the smoke cleared, Tiger stood amid the wreckage, steam rising from his skin, eyes burning with defiance.
The soldiers hesitated. For a moment, even the storm seemed to pause.
"This is the night we take back our freedom," Tiger roared, his voice echoing through the holy land. "Tell your masters—the era of slaves ends tonight!"
He charged again, into gunfire, into the storm, into history itself—a lone Fishman standing against the gods. And above him, lightning split the sky—like the heavens themselves bearing witness to the day Fisher Tiger defied the world.
****
Rain lashed against the domes of alabaster and gold, the heavens themselves seeming to recoil from the cries that echoed through the streets below. The once-pristine avenues, usually walked by the self-proclaimed "gods," were now filled with fire, smoke, and the thunder of running feet. The slave pens had burst open. Tens of thousands were fleeing through the storm.
But within the shimmering palaces of the World Nobles, there was no order. Only panic.
"Seal the gates! Seal them all! Don't let anyone near my estate!"
"Where are my guards? I want ten of them—no, twenty! Right now!"
"Keep them away from me! Those filthy creatures will not come near my halls!"
The shrill voices of Celestial Dragons overlapped, echoing through corridors lined with marble and stained glass. Servants and attendants scattered like frightened insects, tripping over each other in their haste to obey. The air reeked of fear and perfume, of gunpowder and incense.
In the grand throne chamber of the Manmayer family estate, dozens of World Nobles huddled together beneath the enormous portraits of their ancestors, clutching their jeweled oxygen masks as if the very air around them had turned poisonous. Their pale, bloated faces gleamed with sweat, their trembling fingers adorned with rings worth more than entire kingdoms.
And outside, the world burned. The elite forces of the Holy Land—the Cipher Pol agents, themselves—stood in tense silence, awaiting orders that never came. Their black uniforms glistened under the moonlight, their weapons ready, their expressions grim.
"We should move out," one of the agents muttered, glancing toward the distant flashes of gunfire. "The slaves are overrunning the lower rings. If we don't intervene now—"
"You will do nothing until you are ordered!" a steward snapped, his voice shaking. "The Holy Lords demand protection here. Their safety takes precedence!"
A murmur rippled through the soldiers. Even they—trained to obey without question—looked uneasy. Another agent, her gloved hands tightening around her blade, spoke through clenched teeth.
"If we stay here, the entire Red Port could fall. The lifts are already compromised. We should be there—"
"Do you question the Celestial Dragons' will?" the steward hissed. His trembling finger pointed toward the grand chamber doors, behind which came the sound of muffled weeping and hysterical commands. "They will not risk another disaster. You remember what happened last time!"
The room fell silent at those words. The last attack—the one whose true extent the world never learned of—was still a ghost in their memories. Dozens of Celestial Dragons were slaughtered. Entire estates burned to ash. The blood of "gods" spilled across sacred marble.
The name of the man responsible still haunted the Holy Land: Donquixote Doflamingo.
Even now, years later, the trauma lingered. The Celestial Dragons still woke screaming from dreams of that night, when one of their own had turned their gilded paradise into a slaughterhouse. The very thought of rebellion—of blood touching their perfect world again—drove them mad with terror.
And so they clung to their guards, smothering their strength with fear. Cipher Pol's finest—trained assassins and agents capable of crushing armies—stood idle, their mission aborted before it began. Even the high-ranked marines stationed on the holy land, sworn to protect the world's balance, found themselves reduced to petrified sentinels outside locked doors.
Every command from within the chamber was another chain around their necks.
"Stay here. Protect me. If the slaves reach the gates, you die before I do. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Saint Roswald."
The words were obedient. The eyes beneath the masks were not. Through the arched windows, flashes of lightning revealed the truth they were forbidden to face. The city below was collapsing. The "gods" had abandoned their own holy land to chaos.
In the distance, a crimson shadow cut through the storm—Fisher Tiger, the Fishman whose hands had shattered the gates of Mary Geoise. The explosions echoed faintly through the wind, carried up the estate to the trembling nobles. The sound alone made one of them drop their chalice.
"That monster! He'll come for us!" shrieked a Celestial Dragon, clutching her helmet, thinking that Doflamingo had once again come to haunt them. "Why aren't you doing anything?! Kill him! Kill all of them! I want every last slave dead!"
"We can't deploy the elites, my lady," a trembling aide replied. "If we move Cipher Pol or the elite guards from this sector, the palace itself will be unguarded—"
"Then double the guard! Triple it! Take the ones from the lower quarters—what use are slaves alive anyway?!"
Outside the palace, within the slave quarters, explosions continued to thunder. The regular world government soldiers—poor souls stationed as glorified servants to the "gods"—were left to deal with the uprising alone. Ill-equipped, terrified, and outnumbered, they formed desperate firing lines at the Red Line's edge while Fisher Tiger tore through them like a force of nature.
Every minute, more slaves escaped. Every minute, more soldiers fell. And the elites—the ones who could have ended it—remained paralyzed by the fear of their masters.
In the highest balcony of the Figarland family estate, the supreme commander of the God's knights stood observing the chaos below. Rain streaked across his face, his hands tightening behind his back.
"So this is what the gods have become," he whispered to no one. "Cowering in their palaces while the world they built burns around them."
He turned away from the balcony as another scream echoed through the marble estate. "And they wonder why the seas rebel." Outside, thunder rolled, and the sky itself seemed to answer.
****
The storm had swallowed the world above. From the vantage point of the Red Port, the towering face of the Red Line was nothing but a wall of black stone lost in the night sky. Rain fell in unbroken sheets, drumming against steel and stone, turning the port into a mirror of rippling puddles and running mud.
The garrison stationed there, one of the very few still on duty—barely two dozen World Government soldiers—huddled beneath the overhang of a cargo shed, their coats soaked through, their rifles leaning against the wall. The air stank of salt, oil, and ozone. The storm had been raging for hours, and to the men below, it was just another miserable night on watch duty.
Until one of them noticed the cables.
The soldier squinted through the curtain of rain. "Hey, Captain… you see that?" he said, raising his voice over the wind. "Did any of you get word from up top about an arrival?"
His question drew a few tired glances, but no answers.
"No messages, no calls. Everything's shut down," the squad captain grunted, tugging his soaked cloak tighter around his shoulders. "Command said the bondolas were grounded for safety. Who'd be mad enough to use 'em in weather like this? Even the patrol ships are tied down at harbor."
The soldier frowned, wiping rain from his brow. "Then, sir, why are the cables moving?"
The words landed heavier than the rain. The captain followed his gaze—and froze.
Up above, barely visible through the storm, the bondola cables were trembling, shifting ever so slightly. At first, it could have been the wind—but no. Even through the gloom, the old port hands could see the rhythm, the mechanical motion. The lifts were descending.
All of them.
"That's impossible," muttered another soldier, stepping forward, trying to see past the haze. "They can't all be moving at once... can they?"
"They are," the first soldier whispered, voice tight with unease. "Every last one of them. Someone's coming down."
The group exchanged uneasy glances. The cables stretched nearly ten thousand meters straight up the Red Line—connecting the sacred world above to the harbor of men below. For anyone to be using them in such a storm was madness. And yet, the truth was there in the faint shudder of steel, the hum of engines carried faintly by the wind.
Then— SPLAT!
The sound cut through the storm like a gunshot. Something heavy struck the ground less than twenty meters away. The wet, sickening crack of impact made every man flinch.
"What in the hell was that?!" the captain barked, grabbing his rifle. "You two—check it out! Go!"
Two soldiers broke from the group, boots splashing through puddles as they stepped into the open. The rain hammered them mercilessly, soaking them to the bone. Lightning flashed overhead, illuminating the colossal wall of the Red Line like the face of a god—and the tiny figures moving at its feet.
They reached the object—or what was left of it—and froze. It wasn't cargo. It wasn't debris. It was a body.
The soldier nearest to it gagged, covering his mouth. The corpse had hit the cobblestones so hard that it no longer looked human—limbs twisted, flesh flattened, bones reduced to pulp beneath the torn rags of a slave's uniform. A broken length of chain still dangled from one ankle, the iron link split by the fall.
"Sweet mother of mercy..." one of them muttered, his voice trembling. "He fell... from up there."
The second soldier stared upward, eyes wide in disbelief. The Red Line towered above them, vanishing into the storm clouds. "Ten thousand meters... no one survives that."
They turned back toward the others, shouting over the rain, "It's a body! A damn slave! Must've jumped from the top!"
The captain and the rest of the squad hurried forward, boots sloshing through the mud, gathering around the grisly sight. Even for veterans, the sight was hard to stomach.
The captain crouched, frowning. "Idiots... I've heard stories. Sometimes they throw themselves off the cliffs, thinking they'll reach the sea alive." He shook his head, rain streaming down his face. "Even if they hit the water, the fall alone kills them. If they hit stone—"
"They end up like this," another soldier finished grimly.
The group stood in silence for a moment, the storm swallowing their words. The sound of the rain hitting the corpse was grotesquely soft, rhythmic—like water drumming on broken flesh. One soldier looked away, muttering a quiet prayer.
"Collect the remains," the captain ordered, voice low. "We'll send a report once the storm clears."
As they moved to obey, a faint rumble drifted through the air—deep and mechanical, almost lost beneath the thunder. The captain frowned, glancing toward the cliffs again. The bondolas were coming closer now. The outlines of the massive steel platforms were just beginning to emerge from the fog—huge, swaying shapes descending through the rain, their lanterns flickering like dying stars.
"Captain..." the first soldier said again, voice trembling. "You might want to see this."
The captain turned—and his stomach dropped. Every gondola—every single one—was packed. Even from a distance, even through the haze, it was unmistakable: dozens, hundreds of figures pressed together behind the glass panels, hands clawing at the walls, eyes wild with fear and hope. The bondolas shuddered under their weight, packed far beyond capacity, cables whining in protest.
The soldiers stared, speechless.
"That's impossible," one finally whispered. "Those aren't nobles..."
The captain's face went pale. "They're slaves."
As if to confirm it, lightning split the sky again, revealing the impossible sight in full: the first bondola nearing the port, its glass cracked, its frame bent under the crush of bodies. Faces stared out from within—sunken, desperate, alive.
And behind it—dozens more descending. Thousands of desperate eyes. The storm that had raged above was finally reaching the world below. The captain took a step back, heart hammering in his chest. "Sound the alarm! Now!" he roared. "STOP THE SLAVES…!"