From the initial shock, to disbelief, and finally to a cold, grim expression—Doflamingo's face changed as the battle unfolded before him.
That Rosinante's forces could annihilate those slave armies didn't surprise him in the slightest.
If they couldn't even handle such trash, that would've been the real joke.
What truly unsettled him was how the entire battle played out—
From the moment the slaves charged into the lawless zone, to the moment they were all wiped out, not a single one of Rosinante's men had even shown their face.
The bullets came from nowhere, raining down from unseen space.
It wasn't a battle—it was a one-sided slaughter.
And the sheer power of those weapons… even Doflamingo hadn't expected that.
As a prominent broker in the underworld, he'd handled more weapons than anyone could count. But never—never—had he seen firearms of such destructive precision and overwhelming power. Every gun seemed like a masterpiece, uniquely modified for death.
"Heh… heh heh heh…" Doflamingo chuckled darkly. "At this rate, unless Fosfit has some true heavy hitters on his side, even if every single slave under his command charges in, they won't even get to see Rosinante's face before they die."
The might of the Gray Country—and Rosinante's influence—had far exceeded his expectations.
To casually take out one trillion Berries, to command tens of thousands of elite fighters, to have monsters like Bins, Jack, and Relman at his side… even beings like B.I. were said to have crossed blades with him as equals.
Rosinante's power and influence had long since surpassed his own.
Once upon a time, Doflamingo had been the one protecting his "little brother."
Now, that same brother had risen so high he could no longer even reach him.
All the years Doflamingo had clawed and bled in the underworld, all the achievements he'd killed for—they meant nothing compared to what Rosinante had built.
In wealth, Rosinante could throw around a trillion like spare change. Doflamingo, after all his years of schemes and blood, had never come close.
In strength, Rosinante could go toe-to-toe with monsters like Sengoku. Doflamingo might be strong, but compared to that level… he was still a shadow, crawling beneath the sun.
And in influence? That wasn't even a contest. Rosinante ruled over all of Skypiea's twenty-four domains, commanding tens of thousands of loyal warriors and officers like Jack and Bins—each of them terrifying in their own right.
Doflamingo clenched his jaw. The only thing he had left—perhaps—was information.
But even that… as long as one had money, intelligence networks could be rebuilt in time.
"Heh… heh heh heh…" he chuckled to himself again. "When you think about it, the Gray Country really has become a giant among giants. Why didn't I think of it sooner? That's a leg worth clinging to! Once I enter the New World, even Kaido won't dare provoke me if I've got that backing."
He laughed, but there was no joy in it. His eyes burned with conflict… and unwillingness.
Deep down, he knew Rosinante despised him. But had he really done wrong?
He'd fallen from heaven into hell. To survive, he had to do what he did. There was no other choice—only the cruel will to live.
"Heh… heh heh heh… Rosinante, my dear little brother," Doflamingo muttered, lips curling into that familiar smile. "You wouldn't turn me away, would you? You can't. No matter what, blood is blood. I'll always be your big brother… heh heh heh… hohohoho…"
Meanwhile, over at the Sabaody Archipelago, the journalists on site were utterly dumbfounded.
"What the hell…? That can't be right, can it? That was over five thousand men—gone in five minutes?"
"I didn't even see anyone! They all just… disappeared! How are we supposed to call that a war?!"
"The Gray Country is terrifying…"
"This is headline material—massive news! This has to go on the front page tomorrow!"
"Boss! Boss, you hearing this? Tomorrow's headline needs to be reprinted immediately! The Gray Country—five thousand slaves wiped out in just five minutes! You have no idea, it was horrifying—pure, calculated extermination!"
"Boss…!"
Reporters were frantically calling their editors, their voices trembling with disbelief and awe.
While they raved, panic rippled through the remaining slave armies and mercenaries stationed around the bay.
"Hey—hey! What the hell just happened back there?" one mercenary shouted.
"That's a Devil Fruit ability! Word is, the Gray Country's Bins can create wormholes—he must've done it just now! But how the hell are we supposed to fight that? You can't even see your enemy!"
"You've gotta be kidding me! That's just suicide! What, are we supposed to shoot through space now?!"
"I'm out! No way I'm dying like that—I'm not even getting paid enough for this!"
The mercenaries broke into chaos—some shouting to abandon the mission, others demanding higher pay.
Then, suddenly—shing!
A flash of silver cut through the air. The loudest complainer froze as blood sprayed from his neck. His eyes went wide in disbelief as he toppled silently to the ground.
"Take the money—and do your damn job, scum."
A man in a black combat suit stood on a ship's mast, his chest embroidered with a single word: "刺" (Assassin).
"Th-the… the Dark Assassins!"
"The Dark Assassin Guild?!" gasped another mercenary, face paling.
Their reputation in the underworld was legendary—an organization said to never miss a target. Their name alone brought terror, their symbol a shadow of death.
"Take Lord Fosfit's money, and you work," the assassin said coldly. "Do you fools have any idea who he is? If you think you can take his pay and walk away, you won't last a week in the underworld. If he says the word, your lives are forfeit."
The mercenaries exchanged uneasy looks. Fosfit was one of the underworld's most powerful figures—defying him was as good as suicide.
"But how do we fight something we can't even see?" one mercenary protested weakly.
"Bullets are bullets. If you're afraid to die—don't call yourself a mercenary."
With that icy declaration, the assassin vanished, melting into the air.
His words left a heavy silence behind.
The mercenaries' faces twisted with frustration and fear.
Then—
"Kill!"
A new roar thundered from the distance. Tens of thousands of slave soldiers surged forward again—an even greater tide of bodies flooding toward the lawless zone.
"Tch. Useless trash," someone sneered from the mercenary ranks.
The others turned and froze—recognizing the insignia on the sneering man's armor.
"The… Grim Reaper Mercenary Corps!"
A collective gasp rippled through them.
Even among mercenaries, Grim Reaper Corps were a nightmare whispered in taverns and trenches alike—ruthless, disciplined, and unstoppable.
And now… they had joined the fray.
...