The ocean was endless—an abyss of ink and silence. Far below where sunlight dared to reach, the black water pressed in from all directions, thick and heavy like liquid night. The only thing that moved through this oppressive stillness was a shape of steel and ambition—a compact submarine, gliding swiftly through the depths.
Its engines hummed with a low, almost predatory rhythm, slicing through the deep with the precision of a knife. This was no ordinary vessel. It was one of Wold's masterpieces—an invention whispered about even within the Donquixote Family, but never seen by outsiders. In a world dominated by sea, wind, and Devil Fruits, such a creation was a secret weapon. To most, it was impossible. To the Donquixote Family, it was simply business.
Inside, the air was close and metallic. Pipes ran along the ceiling, dripping condensation. The space was barely large enough to house half a dozen people, with narrow benches lining the curved walls. Every movement echoed faintly—a reminder of how thin the line was between steel and the crushing pressure beyond.
Two figures occupied the dim red glow of the control room. Agana sat nearest to the observation glass, her face half-lit by the flickering dials and gauges. The glow reflected in her eyes like twin embers. Beside her, Smoker leaned against the bulkhead, arms folded, his expression caught somewhere between admiration and unease.
"Agana-san…" he began quietly, his voice competing with the steady hum of the sub's engines. "Don't you think you went too far this time?"
His gaze drifted to her left arm—or rather, what remained of it.
From her shoulder extended not flesh, but a writhing construct of living blood. It pulsed faintly, veins shifting like molten glass, casting a crimson glow across the cabin. The sight made even Smoker's hardened stomach twist.
"Even if Gloria-san can regenerate limbs with her devil fruit ability," he continued, "what if the attack had gone for your head instead? That wasn't a bluff; that was suicide."
Agana didn't turn to face him. A faint smirk tugged at her lips as she stared into the darkness beyond the glass, the endless void of the sea.
"Do you really think they could've taken my arm," she said, her voice soft but edged like a blade, "if I hadn't let them?"
Her laughter—quiet, low, dangerous—filled the small chamber.
"According to Doflamingo," she continued, finally meeting Smoker's eyes, "we needed to make them believe they'd killed Tom. Not just suspect. Believe it with their whole heart. If the fight had ended too easily, the Marines, the government dogs, and especially the God's Knights—they'd have smelled deceit. But with this…"
She lifted her blood-forged arm, crimson droplets floating briefly before vanishing into vapor.
"With this, they'll believe the fishman they butchered was Tom himself. And while they celebrate their 'victory'…" Her smirk widened into something almost feral. "…we'll already be back in the New World, three steps ahead."
Agana leaned back in her seat, the crimson shimmer of her reconstructed arm flickering faintly with every pulse of the sub's instruments. Her eyes—sharp, calculating, yet strangely serene—shifted toward Smoker.
"So," she began, her voice breaking the hum of the deep, "are you coming back with me to Dressrosa… or planning to go back and join the other three?"
There was no accusation in her tone—just curiosity, threaded with a kind of quiet respect. Over the years within the Donquixote Family, Agana had grown used to solitude, suspicion, and obedience. But there were a few—a rare few—whose company she actually valued. Smoker was one of them.
He gave a crooked grin, exhaling smoke that curled lazily through the cramped cabin. "Well… I heard there's a shipment due for that old hag ready to depart from Dressrosa," he said, voice casual but eyes sharp beneath the haze. "So I figured I'd tag along with you and probably take that ship, then head back to the first half and join up with Lucci and the rest. That old hag did send me on a shopping errand anyway; I will have an easier time procuring the things she needs in Dressrosa."
Agana's lips quirked upward, amused. The mention of Lucci—the cold-eyed prodigy who walked the thin line between good and evil—sparked a flicker of interest in her gaze.
"Speaking of Lucci," she murmured, tilting her head, "tell me, Smoker… now that you've seen the extent of my power…" She raised her blood-forged arm, its surface rippling like molten glass under the cabin's red light. "…do you think he could stand a chance against me in a direct fight?"
Her tone was calm, almost curious—but there was something dangerous beneath it. A glint of challenge. Of pride. Of fascination.
Smoker studied her for a moment, the grin fading from his lips. The memory of her earlier battle flashed before his mind's eye—the chaos, the precision, the calculated madness that had driven her to lose an arm just to sell a lie.
Smoker leaned his head back, blowing out another plume of smoke that twisted into the dim red light. "Honestly, Agana-san… I do not know."
****
Holy Land , Red Line
The sky was bleeding. Lightning carved through the storm clouds as rain fell like steel needles, drenching the shattered plateau atop the Red Line. Fisher Tiger's breath came in heavy bursts, his massive chest rising and falling, each exhale mixing with the cold mist that hung over the battlefield.
Around him lay a sea of corpses — Marines, guards, and freed slaves alike — all swallowed by the storm. Blood mingled with rainwater, running down the slope in crimson streams. The sound of battle had quieted, but the echo of chaos still lingered in the air.
Tiger's hands clenched, muscles coiled, his heart pounding like a war drum. He could feel it — his body slowing, his spirit burning out. Each extra second he stayed here was a dance with death. He held no illusions; he could not defeat the elites of the World Government. It was already a miracle that he still drew breath.
He glanced toward the horizon, where flashes of lightning illuminated the distant bondolas descending the cliffside — carrying freed slaves toward the sea and safety. But there were still so many left behind. So many chains yet unbroken.
Then —
"There!"
A Marine's shout cut through the storm. Dozens of rifles turned as one, the soldiers spotting the towering Fish-Man amid the carnage.
Tiger's eyes narrowed. "Damn it…"
He had wanted to retreat the moment the previous group escaped, but the tide of soldiers kept coming, wave after wave, dragging him back into the slaughter. He'd come here expecting to die — ready for it, even. But fate had mocked him by giving him a chance to live, and he intended to seize it.
The Marines opened fire.
Tiger's stance shifted — his left leg grounding into the mud, his right arm coiling back, the sea's power gathering around his fist. The rain seemed to halt for a breath as the water itself responded to him.
"Fish-Man Karate Ogi—" The air rippled. "Buraikan!"
A deep, guttural roar tore from his throat as he unleashed the strike. The shockwave that burst from his fist was monstrous — a compressed current of force capable of splitting coral reefs and collapsing ships. The air screamed as it tore forward, the water vapor around it swirling into a spiraling vortex.
But then—
A blur. A flicker of movement — so fast it seemed like the rain itself parted around it. Before the shockwave could reach the Marines, a figure materialized between them and the oncoming destruction. The world seemed to slow as lightning illuminated the newcomer.
An elderly man stood tall in the storm, long silver hair tied neatly in a high bun that gleamed under the flashes of light. His white coat of justice fluttered behind him, not in chaos, but in rhythm — like flower petals swaying in a calm breeze untouched by the storm. The golden epaulets on his shoulders caught the lightning's glow, and the kanji for Justice shimmered like divine judgment.
The blade in his hand — a slender katana with a black-and-silver sheath — slid home with a soft, chilling sound.
Click.
The sound was delicate — almost serene — yet it cut through the howling wind and crashing thunder with terrifying clarity. Tiger froze.
His instincts screamed. His Kenbunshoku Haki hadn't sensed the man's arrival — not even a flicker. It was as if the Admiral had been born from the storm itself. But the truth was harsher: the gap between their strengths was too vast. Ginshimo's mastery of Soru had carried him beyond the reach of Tiger's perception.
The air trembled. Tiger's heart thundered once, twice — then he roared and thrust his arm forward, trying to complete his technique. But before his strike could land, his power shattered.
The colossal shockwave— the culmination of his might and fury — simply disintegrated. The rippling torrent of energy fractured into thousands of misty petals, dissolving soundlessly into the air. Each droplet of rain caught the light as the remnants of Tiger's attack drifted down like falling blossoms.
He stood there, stunned — his arm still extended, the echo of his technique fading into the storm's heartbeat. Admiral Ginshimo didn't move. His eyes, sharp yet calm, regarded Tiger with quiet authority.
"Fishman… no matter what your intentions were," he said, his voice low, steady, and resonant even amidst the downpour. "You should have stayed beneath the waves. Up here, even the strongest drown."
****
Within the heart of Pangea Castle, where light itself seemed to bow, silence reigned. The Throne Room of the Empty Throne—that sacred place forbidden to all but the highest of gods—stood untouched by the chaos raging outside. The Holy Land burned; screams echoed through its gilded streets, flames devouring the estates of Celestial Dragons. Yet none of that sound, none of that ruin, reached this sanctum.
Here, there was only stillness. The marble floor gleamed like frozen moonlight, each tile engraved with celestial sigils. A ring of black fire torches cast pale gold reflections across the vast chamber, their flames swaying unnaturally slowly—like time itself dared not move too quickly in the presence of the one who ruled from above.
And upon the Empty Throne sat Imu-sama.
Their form—slender, still, and wrapped in a gown woven from shadow and silk—seemed carved from the air itself. A delicate crown of thorns rested upon her head, each thorn tipped with faint crimson light. Her eyes—impossible to name, for they shifted like the color of galaxies—were fixed forward, expressionless.
Before her, the Five Elders—or rather, the remaining four—knelt. Beside them, Figarland Garling and the God's Knights mirrored their posture, heads bowed, hands on one knee, not daring to breathe too loudly.
No one spoke. No one moved.
Even as the Holy Land's skyline glowed red from distant flames, none of them stirred. No orders had been given. And until Imu-sama willed it—until a single whisper from their lips—they would rather die in that position than act.
Then—
A low hum trembled through the chamber. The ritual circle before the throne began to glow, its carved lines igniting with a sinister light. Pitch-black flames licked the edges of the runes, burning without smoke, casting shapes of writhing shadows across the walls. The air thickened with the smell of iron and ancient power.
With a sound like the tearing of reality itself, five figures stepped forth from the circle. Elder Saturn led them, his coat pristine and untouched despite returning from amidst a world-altering battle, followed by four members of the God's Knights, among whom two of their uniforms were scorched and cracked. For the briefest moment, confusion crossed their features—then realization struck.
They were standing before the Throne. Instantly, all five dropped to one knee, heads bowing so low that their foreheads touched the cold stone. The air was thick with reverence and terror.
Imu-sama did not speak.
Only the faint lift of their fingers—resting lazily on the arm of the throne—signaled that Elder Saturn was permitted to speak.
"Imu-sama," Saturn began, his voice low and strained. "We rushed back in all haste because of the summons. As such, we were unable to uncover the full whereabouts of the ancient weapon blueprints."
A pause. The silence that followed was suffocating.
He swallowed, forcing the next words out. "However… we succeeded in eliminating the individual suspected of possessing them. And an order for a Buster Call has already been issued to—"
He stopped.
Because Imu-sama had not blinked. They had not nodded. Their eyes—those shifting cosmic eyes—did not see him; they pierced him. A faint hum began to resonate from beneath Saturn's feet. The stone floor rippled as if it were water.
And then—
From the shadow beneath him, a black tendril erupted. It coiled up his legs in an instant and wrapped around his throat.
"—ghhk!" Saturn's words died in his mouth as the tendril constricted, its texture shifting like smoke and muscle combined. The sound of crushing bone filled the silence. His windpipe began to compress, his eyes bulging, veins flaring across his temple.
The other Elders didn't move. Not a sound escaped them.
Imu-sama remained perfectly still, their expression unchanged. Only the faintest tilt of their head—graceful, almost curious—betrayed the storm boiling beneath that calm exterior.
"Excuses…"
The word was soft. Barely more than a whisper. Yet it rolled through the hall like thunder, echoing off the marble pillars, vibrating in every kneeling soul.
Elder Saturn trembled, not from fear—he had none left—but from the raw power coursing through the tendril crushing his throat. His hands twitched at his sides, instinctively resisting the urge to claw free. He knew better. He knew better. To struggle would mean obliteration.
The tendril tightened once more, then slowly released. Saturn collapsed to his knees, coughing violently, blood seeping between his fingers as he covered his mouth. Imu-sama did not look away.
Elder Saturn, his throat still raw and bruised from the shadow's grip, forced his trembling body upright. The pain radiated through his neck and chest like molten iron, yet he steadied himself, spine straight, head bowed low once more. Blood trickled down his collar, lost against the dark floor, but not a sound escaped him.
Imu-sama had not moved.
Their gaze, ageless and all-seeing, shifted ever so slightly—downward and to the left—toward the line of figures kneeling behind Saturn. The motion was delicate, almost lazy, yet every soul in the throne room felt it like the descent of a blade.
Their eyes lingered on one God Knight in particular.
A small figure clad in the immaculate uniform of the God's Knights—Gunko, the second among their order. The faint chandelier light from above reflected against the silver trimmings of her hat, yet no amount of shine could mask the invisible weight pressing upon her shoulders.
For a fleeting moment, silence reclaimed the chamber. Even the sound of the storms seemed to dim, bowing before the presence upon the throne. Then—
"Gunko…"
Imu-sama's voice broke the silence—soft, elegant, and unbearably calm. Yet each syllable carried with it the pressure of an ocean, a divine resonance that made the very air shudder.
"I am… disappointed."
The words fell like the final toll of a bell. Gunko's head sank lower, her forehead almost touching the floor. She did not beg, nor did she offer excuses. She merely accepted the judgment—because to explain oneself before the Empty Throne was to question their will.
And Imu-sama's will was absolute.
For a moment, their gaze lingered on her—those impossible eyes, reflecting the cold gleam of worlds long dead. Beneath the veil of serenity, a flicker of disdain passed through them, the kind reserved for something once exquisite that had become… mundane.
The faintest sigh escaped their lips. It was not anger. Not even annoyance. It was the sigh of an immortal being confronted with disappointment so trivial it barely registered—like watching a favorite toy fall apart. Then, faint amusement curved the corners of their mouth.
"A single Fish-Man…" they murmured, their tone carrying both mockery and quiet fascination.
"And this is what becomes of the Holy Land?"
Their words dripped with irony, and for an instant, even the shadows seemed to tremble in shame. Imu-sama leaned back upon the throne, fingers resting lightly on its armrest. Their motion was languid, unhurried, yet with it came a subtle shift in the room's weight—an invisible pressure that made the marble beneath their knees groan.
"The blueprints still exist," they said softly, their voice neither male nor female, human nor divine. "The fire still burns… and yet you bring me ashes."
"Imu-sama… let me—" The words barely left the lips of the Supreme Commander of the God's Knights before he froze. Imu-sama's gaze shifted. That was all it took.
No sound. No gesture. No power unleashed. Merely the turn of their eyes — and the man who commanded the deadliest warriors in the world fell silent, his breath caught somewhere between reverence and terror. His voice, so used to issuing decrees of judgment and death, now faltered into nothing.
The air in the throne room grew heavier, denser, as if the walls themselves understood their place in the hierarchy of existence. Even the sacred flames lining the chamber dimmed, bowing inward, their light shivering under the pressure of that gaze.
For a heartbeat, nothing moved. Then— Imu-sama rose. The motion was slow. Graceful. Eternal. Their hand lifted from the armrest of the Empty Throne, and as it did, the entire Pangea Castle seemed to shudder. A deep vibration rolled through the marble foundation, through the obsidian walls and golden spires — like the heartbeat of the world itself skipped in awe.
They stood tall, slender yet terrible, the folds of their gown whispering across the steps as they descended. Each footfall was soft, deliberate — yet with every step, the very stone beneath them seemed to tremble, as though rejecting the burden of something so absolute.
Thunder rumbled outside, distant and reverent, echoing the rhythm of their steps. The kneeling Elders, the Knights, even the Supreme Commander dared not raise their heads. Not one soul in that vast chamber breathed too deeply, lest they draw attention to themselves and be found unworthy beneath that gaze.
Imu-sama's shadow stretched long across the marble floor — formless, shifting, unbound by their movement — as though the concept of shadow itself bowed before them. The silence was so complete that the faint sound of their trailing robes brushing the marbled floor was like the toll of a divine bell.
They passed Elder Saturn without a glance. The man who had nearly been crushed moments before remained frozen in place, trembling beneath their aura. When they passed Gunko, the knight felt a weight upon her soul so crushing it hollowed her breath. It was not malice. It was judgment.
Imu-sama's presence spoke louder than any decree could. They did not need to say it aloud — but every kneeling figure in that chamber heard the message clearly in the depths of their minds:
Prove your worth… or be replaced.
At the base of the steps, they paused. Their gaze drifted once more toward the ritual circle, still faintly glowing from the dark summoning that had brought Saturn and the knights back. For an instant, the black flames recoiled, flickering lower, as if the very essence of that magic feared being seen. Then they turned away.
Without a single command, without a single explanation, Imu-sama walked toward the towering obsidian doors at the end of the hall. They parted soundlessly before them, ancient mechanisms shifting like the movement of mountains.
The gale from outside poured in, whipping their dark robes into a dance that mirrored the storm over the Red Line — chaotic, yet never daring to touch her form. And then they were gone. The doors closed behind them with a deep, echoing boom that rolled through the castle like the toll of fate itself.
For several long moments, no one dared to move. The silence was suffocating, broken only by the soft hiss of dying torches and the distant rumble of thunder. When at last the echoes faded, Saint Killingham bowed his head even lower, voice barely a whisper.
"Imu-sama… said nothing."
The Supreme Commander of the God's Knights clenched his fists, jaw tight. "They didn't need to."
All around the throne room, the kneeling figures remained frozen, the shadow of Imu-sama's presence still pressing upon their souls. The Empty Throne loomed above them once more — vacant, but far from unoccupied. Its silence was louder than words.
Its emptiness, a promise. And within that silence, one truth was clear to all who remained in the room: Imu-sama had left them no orders… because they were deciding who among them deserved to remain when they returned.