Judge moved cautiously toward the main console. Each step echoed softly against the polished floor, his boots sounding almost intrusive in a place that felt closer to a sanctum than a laboratory. Before him stood rows of biopods—sleek, towering constructs of translucent alloy and light, their surfaces alive with flowing data. Compared to the crude containment tanks he had been using to force Linlin's Iron Balloon trait onto disposable bodies, these pods were on an entirely different level.
They were not merely advanced. They were generations ahead. Within them floated infants—small, serene, almost angelic in appearance. Their chests rose and fell in perfect rhythm, vitals stable, cellular cohesion immaculate. No spasms. No rejection. No violent instability.
Judge's breath slowed despite himself. Around the chamber, several scientists—faces he recognized from the MADS era—worked in tense silence. The moment they noticed the CP0 agents approaching with Judge, they stiffened. One by one, they quietly stepped away from the consoles, retreating to the edges of the lab.
They did not wish to be seen. Here, they were not innovators chasing truth or ambition. They were prisoners. And morality was a luxury long discarded if one wished to remain alive.
Judge, however, felt none of that hesitation. If anything, his eyes burned brighter.
He was a man who had once been willing to alter his own unborn children, to gamble their humanity for the sake of power and perfection. Compared to that, the ethics of this place meant nothing. Seeing Judge standing transfixed, one of the CP0 agents cleared his throat.
"Ahem… with these specimens," the agent asked evenly, "do you believe you can provide us with better results?" Judge snapped out of his reverie.
"What—? Ah… yes. Yes," he replied, adjusting his visor. His gaze swept over the pods once more, sharper now, more analytical. "These are excellent specimens. With Lunarian genes reinforcing the base, I can guarantee at least a fifty-percent inheritance rate of the Iron Balloon trait."
That was not arrogance. That was calculation. Judge knew of the Lunarians. Fragments of truth buried beneath erased history. A race once worshipped as gods, their flames burning eternally, their bodies nigh indestructible. Centuries ago, they had ruled the skies from the Red Line—until the World Government had exterminated them and claimed their homeland as the throne of the Celestial Dragons.
The agent frowned slightly. Then shook his head. "I'm afraid you misunderstand," he said calmly. "The Lunarian trait is merely an addition." Judge's eyes narrowed.
"A side trait," the agent continued, "engineered to stabilize and enhance durability. The core DNA of each specimen was extracted from unique individuals—using lineage factor isolation, cellular reconstruction, and techniques you are intimately familiar with."
A pause.
"After all," the agent added, "you were one of the foremost minds in bioengineering and cloning."
He stepped forward, input a command, and the massive display before them shifted. Profiles appeared. Detailed. Classified. Forbidden. The agent gestured lightly, inviting Judge closer.
Judge didn't hesitate. The moment his eyes landed on the first profile, his pupils shrank.
"…Isn't this," he muttered, incredulous, "the one the world calls the Demon Heir?" A younger man's image filled the screen—wild eyes, feral grin, raw power practically radiating from the still frame.
"A youth who once sailed with the Pirate King… Douglas Bullet." At the mention of Gold Roger, the atmosphere shifted subtly. Even the air felt heavier. "Yes," the CP0 agent replied. "The same individual. We successfully extracted his DNA—from his severed arm."
Judge exhaled slowly. That revelation alone would have shaken the world, but he wasn't entirely surprised. Bullet was imprisoned in Impel Down. Given time and secrecy, the World Government could extract whatever they wished from a captive.
Still… Judge scrolled down. The second profile appeared. Long golden hair billowed wildly around a grinning, predatory face. A mane like a lion's. Eyes brimming with madness and ambition. Even frozen in an image, the man exuded overwhelming presence. Judge's breath hitched.
"Golden Lion… Shiki." His voice was barely above a whisper. "But… how?" Judge asked, genuine disbelief seeping through. "How did you manage to obtain genetic material from a monster like him?"
Shiki had gone quiet in recent years, but no one on the seas doubted that the Golden Lion was plotting something catastrophic. And yet here—here was his essence, stripped down, cataloged, and repurposed.
Cold sweat trickled down Judge's temple. This wasn't science anymore. This was heresy. The profiles kept scrolling. Judge stopped again.
"…Even her?" he murmured.
A woman's image filled the screen—elegant, deadly, unmistakable. Power coiled behind calm eyes, the kind that commanded fear without effort.
"How did you gather her data…?" The reply was immediate. "We have our ways." Nothing more needed to be said. For the Seraphim Project, the World Government didn't require the whole person. Only enough DNA. Judge's fingers trembled slightly as he scrolled once more.
Then— He froze. His body moved before his mind could catch up, instinctively stepping back as if struck. The face staring back at him from the screen was unmistakable. Black hair. Calm, resolute eyes. A presence so absolute it had reshaped the era itself.
A face the world had burned into history, a presence that needed no introduction. Judge's mind went blank. His breath caught so violently it felt as though his lungs had forgotten how to function.
"…No…" The word slipped out, hoarse and unsteady. He took an involuntary step back. Then another. As if the man on the screen could hear him. As if that gaze—frozen in time—might turn and look back.
"Th–That's impossible…" Judge whispered, hands trembling despite himself. "That face… that name… you're telling me…"
His voice failed him. Gold Roger. The Pirate King. The man who had stood at the very summit of the seas, who had broken the world open with a laugh and a sentence. The man whose death had ignited the Great Pirate Era itself. Judge felt a cold weight settle in his stomach.
"…You preserved his lineage factor," he said at last, realization crashing into him like a tidal wave. "Not just samples… not fragments…"
A clone. A foundation. The CP0 agents did not deny it. Judge's mind raced, calculations colliding, logic screaming at him to reject what he was seeing. Roger's body had been publicly executed, cremated by history itself, no one knew where Roger's final resting place was or who had his corpse. The World Government had paraded his death as final, absolute.
And yet—they had stolen something from that moment. Something sacred. Something unforgivable. "…You didn't just erase him from the world," Judge muttered, awe and dread intertwining. "You harvested his gene."
Silence answered him. Judge swallowed hard. A Seraphim built upon the blood of Lunarians was already unthinkable. One infused with the lineage of monsters like Bullet and Shiki bordered on madness.
But this— This crossed into blasphemy. "If this specimen matures…" Judge said slowly, his voice barely controlled, "…then what you're creating isn't a weapon." His gaze locked onto Roger's image. "It's a successor to the blood of the Pirate King."
No. Worse. "It's a replacement."
For the first time, Judge felt something he hadn't felt in decades. Fear. The World Government was not content with controlling the seas. They were attempting to surpass history itself. And standing there, staring at the face of the Pirate King reborn in data and blood, Vinsmoke Judge understood one terrifying truth—
If this Seraphim ever awakened… The world would kneel, not to a pirate king—But to gods forged by the World Government.
****
Dressrosa, New World
The merchant galleon eased toward the northeastern port of Dressrosa with practiced grace, its hull creaking softly as the tide guided it home. Colorful banners fluttered from its mast, emblazoned with the symbols of spice guilds and textile merchants—harmless, familiar, forgettable. To the port authorities, it was just another trade vessel arriving on schedule, one more cog in Dressrosa's endless wheel of commerce.
But beneath the polished wood and friendly flags lay the truth. This ship belonged to the underworld. More precisely, it belonged to Stussy.
The northeastern port was accustomed to such visitors. Black-market ships came and went like phantoms, all of them cloaked in legitimacy, their ledgers clean, their manifests immaculate. Weapons, lineage factors, forbidden fruits of science—everything passed through here, so long as it wore the mask of trade. And among the brokers who ruled that shadowed economy, Stussy's name was spoken with increasing reverence. A rising power. A woman many believed would one day claim the mantle of an Underworld Emperor.
Deep within the galleon, far from the cries of dockworkers and the calls of gulls, lay its most lavishly adorned cabin. The room was an indulgence in excess—velvet drapes dyed a deep rose, gilded mirrors framed with curling filigree, soft lantern light refracting through crystal decanters filled with rare wine. Perfume lingered in the air, sweet and intoxicating, masking the scent of the sea.
At its center sat Stussy herself. Short, curly blonde hair framed her face, her blue eyes sharp and amused beneath long lashes. Red lipstick curved into a knowing smile, matching the glossy crimson of her fingernails. Her body was slim and sinuously curved, her presence impossible to ignore. She wore a salmon-colored dress that hugged her figure, fading into a rich purple hem patterned with pink diamonds. A small white cape rested lightly on her shoulders, and a sunhat adorned with a single flower lay discarded beside her. Even seated, her high-heeled shoes—ribbons neatly tied—gave her an air of effortless dominance.
Opposite her sat another woman. And if Stussy commanded attention, this one repelled it. Everything about her was plain. Mousy brown hair pulled back without care. A face so unremarkable it slid from memory the moment one looked away. Her clothes were simple, worn, the kind favored by widows and refugees. She blended into the background so completely that even seasoned observers would struggle to recall her features moments later.
Except for the infant in her arms. The baby was small, swaddled in faded cloth, its tiny chest rising and falling with soft, sleeping breaths. That fragile presence drew the eye, anchored the story the woman wished the world to see: a hapless mother, alone, desperate, searching for a new life in Dressrosa.
A lie. She was an Aegis agent—CP0 to her bones. And the child was nothing more than a tool.
"You do understand," Stussy said lightly, swirling the wine in her glass, "that the best I can do is get you through the gates. I can arrange passage, paperwork, a convincing story—but if they so much as suspect you, they won't hesitate. And make no mistake, even if they stripped me naked and searched every seam, I couldn't stop them."
She let the implication hang. Her allegiance. Her cover. Her life.
"I understand," the plain woman replied calmly. Her voice was steady, unbothered. "If I'm caught, I'll ensure they never associate you with me. To them, you'll be nothing more than a kind merchant who took pity on a stranded widow."
Stussy rose to her feet, her dress shifting, her presence filling the room. Her gaze lingered on the infant, and for once, something like discomfort flickered across her face.
"Is that really necessary?" she asked quietly. "A widow's story would be enough. Why involve a child at all?"
The agent didn't answer immediately. Then, without warning, she lifted the infant by one small arm and let it dangle. The baby jolted awake, a sharp wail slicing through the room. There was no hesitation. No remorse. She adjusted the swaddling cloth with clinical precision, tucking the infant back against her chest as if nothing had happened.
"I don't rely on likely outcomes," she said coldly. "I rely on certainty. This ensures belief." Stussy's lips pressed into a thin line. She turned away. "…I hope you succeed," she said at last. "If you're captured, I'll claim my crew rescued you from a shipwreck. Nothing more."
The agent nodded. "Understood." As the ship lurched gently, signaling their arrival, Stussy paused. "By the way," she added, glancing back, "that shipwreck of yours… how did you know one would appear on a Dressrosa route so conveniently?"
The agent smiled faintly.
"Oh, that?" she said casually. "I killed the passengers and forced the captain to run aground on a reef. This route sees frequent patrols—I simply waited. Had I not known your identity, I'd have done the same with another vessel."
Her tone was conversational. Matter-of-fact. Stussy stared at her for a long moment. Then she laughed softly. The galleon's hull kissed the pier. And somewhere between silk and blood, lies and truth, Dressrosa opened its gates—unaware that a wolf had entered, carrying a lamb only as bait.
The galleon settled against the pier with a low groan of timber and rope, its mooring lines snapping tight as dockhands moved in practiced silence. The northeastern port of Dressrosa was already alive—merchants shouting, crates thudding onto stone, gulls screaming overhead—but the moment Stussy's ship made port, a subtle shift rippled through the docks.
Eyes turned. Not openly. Not foolishly. But those who mattered noticed. A line of uniformed port officers waited at the end of the gangplank, their white coats crisp, their weapons polished. To any outsider, they were civil servants—keepers of order, protectors of Dressrosa's trade. But beneath the insignia and pressed fabric lay a far older allegiance.
They served a pirate family. The Donquixote Family ruled this country from the shadows, and these men were its first gate. Passengers were ushered forward one by one, papers checked, questions asked with rehearsed politeness. The process was thorough, unyielding. No shouting. No cruelty. Just pressure—slow, methodical, absolute.
Then Stussy stepped onto the gangplank. At once, the officer at the front straightened and broke into a wide, practiced grin.
"Ah—Miss Stussy," he said, his voice carrying easily over the din of the docks. "Dressrosa is always brighter when you grace us with a visit. One might say the sun itself envies you."
The man in charge of the port was a head taller than most, his shoulders broad beneath the uniform, his posture rigid with discipline. His face was rough-hewn, weathered by years of hardship—scars faintly traced his jaw and brow, half-hidden beneath stubble. This was not a man shaped by indulgence or comfort. Long before he wore the colors of Dressrosa, he had lived a harder life—one forged in blood, hunger, and survival.
Stussy returned the smile effortlessly, her eyes glittering with amusement. "You flatter me," she purred. "If that were true, I'd never leave."
She knew better. His praise was ritual. Polite. Hollow. When it came to duty, this man was iron. Bribes had been offered to him—many times. Gold, jewels, favors whispered in velvet rooms. He accepted them all without hesitation, only to catalogue every coin, every promise, every trembling hand that tried to cut corners. Those bribes became chains later—irrefutable evidence used to ruin anyone foolish enough to think him corruptible.
Even Stussy had tested him. Once, she had sent two of her finest girls his way—beautiful, lethal, perfectly trained in persuasion. They had returned empty-handed, shaken not by rejection, but by the man's unwavering indifference. He did not bend. Not for pleasure. Not for profit.
His loyalty to the Donquixote Family—and to Dressrosa as it existed under their rule—was absolute.
He gestured smoothly. "Your manifest checks out, as always. Still, protocol demands a full screening. I trust you understand."
"Of course," Stussy replied sweetly. "I'd be offended if you didn't."
His sharp eyes moved past her then, scanning the remaining passengers. They lingered for a fraction of a second on the plain-looking woman clutching a bundled infant. Just long enough to weigh her. A widow, the papers claimed. Rescued from a shipwreck. Seeking a new life.
The baby whimpered softly. The officer's expression didn't change—but his gaze hardened, just a shade. Stussy noticed. So did the woman.
This was a man who had survived a lifetime of lies and learned to smell them in the air.
As the line moved forward, Stussy watched him with something close to genuine respect. Men like this, she thought, were wasted on kingdoms ruled by pirates and monsters. In another world, under another flag, he would have made an exemplary Marine.
But this was Dressrosa. And here, loyalty did not belong to justice. It belonged to the Donquixotes.
Stussy did not wait. Privilege had its uses, and hers was unquestioned. With a final exchange of pleasantries and a flick of her wrist, she was escorted past the remaining lines, her heels clicking sharply against the stone as she disappeared into the heart of Dressrosa. She did not glance back—not at the ship, not at the passengers, and certainly not at the plain-looking woman cradling a child.
Leisure had not brought her here. Business had. Behind her, the screening continued with ruthless efficiency.
The port authority of Dressrosa operated like a perfectly tuned machine. Every few minutes, another traveler was processed—papers examined, seals stamped, identities verified. There was no shouting, no unnecessary cruelty, but the pressure was omnipresent, suffocating. Any outsider found within Dressrosa without proper authorization was executed without hesitation. No trial. No mercy. The rule was well known, and fear kept the lines orderly.
Citizens, meanwhile, were required to carry citizenship cards at all times—small, lacquered identifiers bearing the seal of the kingdom. To lack one was to invite suspicion; to lose one was to risk death. Dressrosa did not tolerate the unaccounted.
The plain-looking woman waited her turn in silence. Her posture was slouched just enough to appear tired. Her gaze stayed low, unfocused. The infant in her arms stirred occasionally, a soft whimper here and there—perfectly timed, perfectly human. To the officers, she was forgettable, already blurring into the background of dockworkers and refugees.
To herself, every second was measured. She counted breaths. Tracked exits. Marked angles, distances, blind spots. A dozen minutes passed.
"Next."
She stepped forward. Her papers were taken, examined, compared. The officer's eyes flicked from the document to her face, then to the baby, then back again. The stamp came down with a dull thud.
"Cleared. Welcome to Dressrosa."
She exhaled softly, relief painted flawlessly across her features, and took a step past the threshold—the invisible line that separated the outside world from Donquixote territory.
"Wait."
The single word cracked through the air like a gunshot. Her body reacted before her mind could intervene. Muscles coiled, tendons tightening for a lethal strike that would snap a neck or crush a throat in less than a second. Routes bloomed in her vision—three officers within reach, one rifle behind her, two more at the gate. Manageable. Costly, but survivable.
Then, just as quickly, she buried the instinct. She turned slowly. Her shoulders hunched. Her grip on the infant tightened protectively. When she faced the officer again, her eyes were wide, glassy with fear—perfectly executed.
"Yes…?" she asked, voice trembling just enough to sell the act.
The officer studied her in silence. Up close, his presence was oppressive. His gaze was steady, unblinking, as if he were weighing something far heavier than her papers. For a moment, the noise of the port seemed to fade, the world narrowing to the space between them. Then his eyes dropped—to the infant.
"Your citizenship will need to be registered within three days," he said flatly. "Failure to comply will result in detainment."
She nodded quickly. "Y-Yes, sir. I understand."
A pause.
"Dressrosa is a far better place than the world beyond its shores," the officer said, his voice low but steady. "The rules may seem harsh… but they are fair."
He studied her again—not like a predator, but like a man weighing responsibility. His eyes drifted to the infant bundled in her arms, then back to the travel papers.
"These documents say you were rescued from a shipwreck," he continued. "From the look of things, I'd wager the sea took everything you owned." The woman swallowed, her fingers tightening around the swaddling cloth. She nodded, letting silence speak for her.
"You'll find your footing here," the officer went on. "Dressrosa gives everyone a chance—provided they follow its laws. Until you do…"
He reached into his coat. Before she could react, a weight was pressed into her palm. Bellies. Not a token amount, either—a thick stack, well more than a dock laborer would earn in weeks.
Her eyes widened despite herself. "S-Sir, I—"
"This will help you get by," he said, closing her fingers around the money with a firm, calloused grip. "Food. Shelter. Something warm for the child."
For the briefest instant, her composure faltered. Nothing in this world was free. She had learned that lesson in blood long ago. Instinct screamed that this was a trap, a hook hidden beneath kindness. She opened her mouth to refuse— But the officer shook his head, already turning away.
"Don't trouble yourself," he said casually, as if dismissing the matter entirely. "That money was a bribe. Someone thought they could buy their way past my post." His jaw tightened, just a fraction.
"They're already in chains." He glanced back once more, not at her face this time, but at the infant.
"Better it goes to someone who actually needs it," he added. "Take it—for the child's sake."
With that, he turned his back on her. No name given. No favor asked. No strings attached. He returned to his station, posture straight, attention already fixed on the next traveler in line—as if the moment had never happened.
The woman stood there for a heartbeat longer, the stack of berries warm in her hand, the baby's quiet breathing brushing against her chest. To the world, she looked like a shaken widow blessed by unexpected mercy.
In truth, she was a trained Aegis agent—an executioner in silk and shadows—momentarily disarmed by something far more dangerous than suspicion. Genuine kindness. She bowed deeply toward the officer's retreating back, a gesture no one was meant to notice, then melted into the flow of the city.
Behind her, the first gate of the Donquixote Kingdom closed once more—guarded not just by fear and iron law, but by men who believed those laws were worth protecting.