—Real World—
With the appearance of Zetsu—Lower String II in Buggy's Pirate Alliance hierarchy—the Sky Screen's memory fragment from Egghead Island reached its conclusion. The broadcast faded to black, leaving billions of viewers to process what they'd witnessed: technological horror, betrayal, the Anti-Life Equation's terrifying potential, and Admiral Sakazuki's impossible rescue.
But for some observers, the screening wasn't merely entertainment or intelligence gathering. It was a briefing. A warning. A tactical assessment requiring immediate response.
—Broadcast—
In Rome—the massive fortress-city serving as the New Marine's headquarters in that distant future timeline—Admiral Sakazuki stood before his commanding officer, delivering his perspective on the invasion with characteristic directness.
Fleet Admiral Artoria Pendragon listened intently from behind her desk, the young woman's exhausted features betraying the weight of command she bore. Even six years removed from Mariejois, even with the merit system functioning smoothly and Rome's construction complete, the burden of leadership never truly lightened.
"The Ultron robot army represents a systemic threat," Sakazuki reported, his tone clipped and professional. "Distributed consciousness across thousands of platforms. Adaptive learning protocols. The ability to hijack any conventional robotic system. Individual units are disposable; the core intelligence persists indefinitely."
He paused, allowing that assessment to sink in before continuing.
"And this newly emerged organization—the Illuminati—demonstrates technological capabilities beyond our current understanding. Hextech crystals with eternal energy output. Molecular decomposition weapons. Causal manipulation equipment." His right hand—the one bearing that golden glove—clenched briefly. "They excel in areas where conventional military force is inadequate."
Artoria's green eyes tracked his movements with the precision of a monarch evaluating strategic assets. "Your recommendation, Admiral?"
"Close monitoring. Intelligence gathering. Specifically regarding MADS—the scientific organization that seems to be the common thread connecting Vegapunk, Caesar Clown, this Victor entity, and likely others we haven't identified."
The Fleet Admiral nodded slowly, her fingers steepled beneath her chin as she processed the tactical implications. Then she spoke, her voice carrying the weight of hard-earned wisdom.
"I agree with surveillance. However, we will not actively pursue them at this time."
Sakazuki's scarred features showed no reaction, but internally he'd anticipated this response. Artoria didn't make decisions based on emotion or immediate threat assessment. She thought strategically, balancing risks against available resources.
"The sea is currently turbulent," she continued, her exhaustion bleeding through despite her controlled delivery
Her assessment was brutally pragmatic: "Hunting the Illuminati now would be searching for a needle in a haystack. A wasteful expenditure of manpower and resources we cannot afford. Better to monitor, collect data, and strike decisively when we understand their structure and vulnerabilities."
Sakazuki inclined his head in acknowledgment. "Understood, Fleet Admiral."
"However," Artoria's expression hardened slightly, "you did the right thing bringing Vegapunk's original body back to Rome. Despite his reluctance to cooperate, having him physically secured within our walls minimizes the risk of his knowledge falling into hostile hands."
A thin smile crossed her features—more predatory than amused. "I've arranged for him to share laboratory space with Caesar Clown. Perhaps those two scientists will find common ground. Or at least keep each other distracted enough that neither attempts anything... inadvisable."
The Sky Screen showed Artoria rising from her desk, gesturing toward the door with practiced grace. "Now then, Admirals, shall we adjourn for dinner? The newest Marine cafeteria has private dining rooms where we can discuss these matters more thoroughly without concern for eavesdropping."
—Real World—
Mary Geoise
The impact of Egghead Island's invasion broadcast rippled far beyond the Marine's headquarters. Across the Red Line, in the holy land where Celestial Dragons maintained their eight-hundred-year reign, five elderly men gathered in the Room of Authority.
The Five Elders—Saint Jaygarcia Saturn, Saint Marcus Mars, Saint Topman Warcury, Saint Ethanbaron V. Nusjuro, and Saint Shepherd Ju Peter—sat in their customary positions, the circular chamber's architecture designed to ensure no single member held positional superiority.
For once, they weren't interrupted by supplicants, emergencies, or the endless administrative demands of global governance. The Sky Screen's revelation had granted them this rare window of uninterrupted discussion.
And they intended to make full use of it.
"Vegapunk truly exceeded all expectations," Saint Warcury began, his deep voice carrying notes of genuine admiration mixed with calculating avarice. "To actually invent the Anti-Life Equation in our future timeline. The title of world's greatest scientist is permanently welded to his credentials now."
The massive man leaned forward with barely contained enthusiasm. "As long as this Anti-Life Equation remains in Celestial Dragon hands, every problem plaguing this world becomes solvable. We could become true gods—not merely in title and privilege, but in fundamental consciousness. Control the planet forever through scientific dominion rather than military force."
The other Elders listened, their expressions varying between contemplative and predatory. They'd all witnessed Vegapunk's previous achievements: the Mother Flame, that weapon of mass destruction capable of erasing entire islands with a single shot. Advanced Pacifista units. The Seraph program.
But those paled in comparison to what the Sky Screen had revealed.
"The concerning element," Saint Nusjuro interjected, his hand resting on the pommel of his beloved blade, "is that Vegapunk concealed this research entirely. The Anti-Life Equation represents his most critical work, hidden in absolute secrecy even from us—his primary benefactors and the source of his unlimited funding."
The swordsman's eyes narrowed behind his distinctive glasses. "We must question whether he's already pursuing this research in our current timeline. When did development actually begin?"
Saint Peter nodded slowly, his scientific mind analyzing the timeline. "Vegapunk withdrew from MADS and integrated seamlessly into the World Government's research apparatus approximately fifteen years ago. The Anti-Life Equation's theoretical framework might have existed even then—a seed planted during his MADS tenure, cultivated in secret ever since."
The implication hung heavy: they'd been funding their own eventual enslavement, unknowingly providing resources for a weapon that could make them puppets in their own regime.
"The Pacifista program requires immediate reevaluation," Saint Nusjuro continued, his financial acumen asserting itself despite his warrior's bearing. "The broadcast clearly demonstrated their vulnerability. Too easily controlled by outside forces. The invaders' hacking capabilities rendered our expensive war machines into weapons against us."
He gestured dismissively. "Such platforms possess too many exploitable defects. Effective only against mid-to-low-tier combatants. Even the Shichibukai can defeat them casually. Armament Haki penetrates their defenses within seconds. Yet each unit costs equivalent to a Marine warship."
The financial assessment was damning: "Even the World Government's treasury cannot sustain such an expensive program with such limited returns. The Sky Screen has given us the answer regarding their future viability. Better to cut losses now."
"Agreed," Saint Warcury rumbled. "Halt mass Pacifista production. Redirect those funds entirely toward the Seraph Program. We must accelerate development—jump from first-generation to second-generation as rapidly as possible."
His eyes gleamed with something approaching religious fervor. "The Celestial Dragons need Homelander."
Saint Saturn, the god of scientific defense, had remained silent throughout the discussion. Now he spoke, and his words carried the weight of absolute obsession.
"I have been completely captivated by Homelander's performance in the broadcast." His elderly features showed an expression bordering on fanatical devotion. "The second-generation Seraph represents perfection. True artificial divinity. I cannot identify a single flaw in his design, capabilities, or performance."
He enumerated Homelander's demonstrated abilities with the precision of a worshipper cataloging divine attributes: "Invulnerability to all conventional attacks. Flight without mechanical assistance. Omega Rays that can destroy anything given sufficient exposure. Adaptive combat intelligence. Classical aesthetic perfection. Absolute loyalty to the Five Elders."
The litany continued: "During the Egghead invasion, nothing could harm him. Not the Sentinel robots' adaptive alloys. Not Ultron's hacking attempts. Not environmental hazards or sustained combat. He emerged from that battle without a single meaningful injury—merely some dust on his costume."
Saint Saturn's hands trembled slightly—whether from age or excitement was unclear. "When he employs those Omega Rays at full intensity, he can obliterate any opponent on the physical level. Molecular bonds simply surrender. Matter ceases coherent existence. This is what artificial gods look like."
But then his expression darkened, paranoia seeping through the enthusiasm.
"However, there is one critical concern. Vegapunk demonstrated profound dishonesty by developing the Anti-Life Equation without informing us. This proves he's capable of concealing apocalyptic research while appearing completely cooperative."
The implication crystallized: "If he hid that, what else has he hidden? Specifically regarding Homelander—I believe Vegapunk installed backdoors in the second-generation Seraph's programming. Control mechanisms allowing him to override Homelander's loyalty protocols at critical moments. Making our perfect weapon into his perfect weapon."
The other Elders shifted uncomfortably. None had considered this possibility, but once voiced, it seemed horrifyingly plausible.
"The broadcast did show one reassuring moment," Mars Saint offered, his strategic mind finding the silver lining. "Just before the Egghead invasion concluded, a brief frame showed Homelander reporting directly to you, Saint Saturn. This suggests his nominal allegiance remains with the Celestial Dragons. He obeys the Five Elders unconditionally."
Saint Saturn nodded agreement. "Loyalty appears genuine in that future timeline. But we must verify there are no hidden overrides in our current timeline—before Homelander is actually created."
"Which brings us to the immediate problem," Ju Peter Saint stated, his voice carrying aristocratic authority. "Vegapunk has concealed far too much from us. CP0's presence on Egghead Island is insufficient oversight. I propose we station several God's Knights there permanently. Only Celestial Dragons can be truly trusted to monitor another Celestial Dragon's descendant."
He'd originally considered suggesting one of the Five Elders personally relocate to Egghead—ideally himself, securing direct control over the Anti-Life Equation and Seraph programs. But such transparent power-grabbing would fracture their coalition, and he was currently in Lord Imu's favor. Better not to jeopardize that position with obvious colleague-exclusion tactics.
"God's Knights represent acceptable compromise," Ju Peter continued. "A dedicated team stationed on Egghead to monitor Vegapunk and his satellites continuously. Real-time surveillance of all research. Immediate intervention if he attempts to hide additional apocalyptic weapons."
The proposal met general approval—though each Elder privately calculated how to ensure "their" knights were included in the deployment.
"Most critically," Saint Warcury emphasized, "the Anti-Life Equation must never fall into non-Celestial Dragon hands. This is non-negotiable. If pirates acquire it, we face global rebellion coordinated by mind-controlled populations. If Revolutionaries obtain it, they reshape global consciousness toward their ideology. If the New Marine secures it before we do..."
He didn't finish the sentence. The implication was clear enough.
Saint Nusjuro grimaced. "The Sky Screen revealed Egghead Island's precise location. Catastrophic for operational security. That facility houses our most advanced and expensive scientific equipment—recently constructed, impossible to relocate without multi-year delays and astronomical costs."
"We're forced into reactive defensive posture," Mars Saint agreed. "Strengthen Egghead's military presence. Physically eliminate any pirate forces approaching within a hundred kilometers. Possibly station a Marine Admiral there permanently for rapid response."
But that final suggestion met with uncomfortable silence.
The Five Elders found themselves paralyzed by competing fears—their Mythical Zoan transformations subtly influencing their decision-making toward territorial paranoia and threat-aversion rather than bold action.
They feared that deploying Admiral-class combatants might interfere with Vegapunk's work, delaying the Anti-Life Equation's development. Pirates were dangerous, but interrupting their path to godhood was worse.
Simultaneously, they feared that Marine Admirals gaining access to the Anti-Life Equation before the World Government secured it would invert the power hierarchy entirely. What if Artoria Pendragon—that terrifyingly competent monarch—decided the technology was too dangerous for Celestial Dragons? What if she used it first, reshaping global consciousness before they could?
The Anti-Life Equation represented ultimate authority. The power to rewrite minds, reshape values, impose will upon unwilling populations.
Everyone who knew of its existence suddenly became both potential ally and existential threat.
The meeting descended into paranoid circular arguments, five elderly men terrified of losing power to each other, to their subordinates, to external enemies, to the very weapon they desperately craved.
They'd worked centuries to reach their current positions. Fought, schemed, murdered, manipulated. The idea of becoming someone else's puppet—consciousness rewritten, free will deleted, personality reconstructed—was unbearable.
Yet that fear paralyzed them. Prevented decisive action. Left them reactive rather than proactive.
In trying to secure everything, they risked losing it all.
And somewhere in the Room of Authority's shadows, an ancient presence watched these five supposed gods squabble like frightened children.
Lord Imu observed. Evaluated. And said nothing.