Beneath the grandeur of a once-proud noble estate, hidden beneath layers of opulence and deception, lay a secret chamber—a sanctuary of rebellion carved from the shadows of hatred. It was deep underground, its existence known only to a select few.
This was no ordinary basement. Its stone walls, rough and uneven, bore the silent testimony of hands that had labored in secrecy. No gilded embellishments adorned this place, no extravagant furnishings befitting a Celestial Dragon.
Instead, the air was thick with purpose, with the scent of burning oil from flickering torches that cast jagged shadows along the walls. It was a stark contrast to the lavish world above, a hidden war room buried beneath the very system Mjosgard despised.
Along the chamber's length stood racks of weapons—blades sharpened to lethal perfection, firearms stolen from the World Government's arsenals, and crude yet effective tools meant for silent assassinations.
Stacks of documents lined a wooden table in the center—maps, names, and movements of key figures within the Holy Land. Mjosgard had spent years preparing, gathering intelligence under the guise of a loyal World Noble.
Yet, he had long abandoned his identity as one.
Mjosgard stood among his warriors, his posture regal yet rigid, the weight of his own hatred pressing upon his shoulders. His outward appearance remained unchanged—a pompous noble in flowing silks, an air-filled bubble helmet sealing him off from the 'filth' of the outside world. But beneath the ceremonial garb, his body was one of discipline, honed through years of relentless training.
The naïve, self-indulgent boy that had once roamed these halls had died alongside his father—hunted like an animal for sport in the so-called 'Native Hunting Competition.'
The memory of it burned in his veins like poison. He had watched his father, a once-proud Celestial Dragon, fall in disgrace, torn apart not by revolutionaries, not by pirates, but by their own kind.
The ones who called themselves gods.
And now, he lived among them, hiding in plain sight, waiting.
Waiting for a chance to strike.
He had played the part well, feigning arrogance, sneering at the suffering of lesser beings while secretly whispering promises of freedom into the ears of those deemed unworthy of salvation. He had used his influence not to inflict suffering, but to smuggle families away from the Holy Land—to give them new lives beyond the chains of servitude.
And in return, they had sworn themselves to him—not as slaves, but as warriors.
"Is everything ready?"
His voice was calm, but the fire within it was unmistakable.
A burly figure stepped forward—once a slave, now a soldier. His expression held no resentment, no fear—only unwavering loyalty to the man who had given his family freedom.
"Master..." the man spoke, his voice steady, a far cry from the trembling servitude once expected of him.
Mjosgard let his gaze sweep over the half-dozen warriors standing before him. Some bore scars—reminders of the torment they had endured—but now, their eyes held something far deadlier than pain.
Conviction.
And yet, he could sense the lingering hesitation. Not doubt in him, but in the audacity of the plan itself.
Could Doflamingo truly create a distraction large enough for them to act unseen? Could a Celestial Dragon truly betray their own without being crushed before they even began?
Mjosgard's lips curled into a grim smirk. "I believe in my cousin."
Doflamingo was many things—a demon, a kingmaker, a man willing to burn the world to see his vision realized. If he had promised chaos, then chaos would come.
And Mjosgard had no intention of wasting the opportunity.
"Remember," his voice carried through the dimly lit chamber, firm and unwavering. "We have only a short window. The signal will be clear—you won't miss it. When it happens, we move swiftly."
He stepped closer, his presence imposing despite his age.
"We make it look like an outside attack. A rogue force—escaped slaves, pirates, anyone but us." His gaze hardened. "If a single trail leads back here, if even one of you is caught—my path to vengeance is severed."
His fists clenched at the thought. He could not afford to fail. Not now. Not when he had spent years carefully planting the seeds of his retribution.
The warriors before him exchanged glances before one of them stepped forward, his expression resolute.
"Trust us, Master. You gave our families freedom—we will not fail you."
Mjosgard nodded, the fire in his chest burning brighter.
"And remember," he added, "Observation Haki is a double-edged sword. Many here can use it—be mindful. The killings must appear random, but prioritize those on the list. If we can remove key figures while masking our true intent, we cripple them from within."
He exhaled slowly.
"Use your status as slaves. Their arrogance will make them careless. Let them lower their guard. And when they do—silence them. Every last one. Not a single whisper of this can escape."
The warriors nodded in unison. The moment was upon them.
Mjosgard took one last look at the chamber—his hidden sanctuary, the heart of his rebellion.
Soon, the walls of the Holy Land would tremble, and his war would begin.
Tonight, the first crack would form in the foundation of the so-called gods.
And Donquixote Mjosgard would be the one to make it happen.
A heavy silence hung in the underground chamber as the flames from the torches flickered against the damp stone walls. The scent of burning parchment filled the air, the last remnants of a carefully laid plan turning to embers in Mjosgard's hand.
One of the warriors hesitated before speaking. His voice, though steady, carried the weight of unspoken fears.
"Why them… Master?"
His gaze fell upon the list, the names now reduced to ash in Mjosgard's grip. He knew the consequences of this act—the Holy Land would descend into chaos, every noble's estate would be scrutinized, and even the most powerful families would not be spared from suspicion.
Mjosgard smirked, watching the blackened fragments drift to the ground.
"Why them?" he echoed, his tone laced with a mixture of amusement and cold purpose. "Partly because many of those names belong to the ones responsible for my father's death."
His smirk faded, his expression hardening.
"As for the rest…" He let his words linger, his mind drifting to the true scope of his vengeance.
He turned to his men, his piercing gaze sweeping across their faces, ensuring that they understood what was at stake.
"Tell me… what is it that makes the World Government truly untouchable?"
Silence.
Some of them opened their mouths as if to answer but stopped short, hesitant.
Mjosgard let out a dark chuckle.
"Many believe it's because of their authority. Their so-called legitimacy." He scoffed. "But that couldn't be further from the truth."
He stepped forward, the weight of his years of hatred pressing into every calculated movement.
"Imagine this… What if the twenty families—who call themselves gods—began to look at one another with hostility? What if distrust seeped into their ranks? A crack, no matter how small, in the foundation of their unity?"
His voice was almost hypnotic, weaving a vision of what could be.
He began pulling shelves down, scattering their contents into the growing pile of documents and records meant for destruction. After tonight, this place would cease to exist. Mjosgard was prepared to burn his entire palace to the ground if necessary. Not a single trace of this rebellion could remain.
One of the warriors, a man who had seen more suffering than most, furrowed his brows. "Would that really work, Master? From what you've told us, these families have ruled for centuries. They stand together, unwavering."
Mjosgard paused, then turned to face him.
"Will it cause a substantial crack?" he admitted. "No. The Elders hold the true power—without them, the families might not openly turn on each other. But…" He stepped closer, his presence looming over the man like a storm on the horizon. "I will plant doubt. And doubt is a poison that lingers. It festers."
His voice dropped to a whisper, cold and sharp as a blade.
"This is only the beginning."
He turned then, his attention shifting to a lithe figure standing in the shadows—a man who had spoken little, but whose presence commanded respect. His strongest soldier.
The man straightened as Mjosgard addressed him.
"I hope you don't miss." Mjosgard's smirk returned, though there was something dangerous beneath it. "I'd hate to die before I see the World Nobles erased from this world."
The man hesitated, unease flickering across his face. "Master… are you sure about this? It seems excessive."
Mjosgard sighed, his expression softening—not out of regret, but out of understanding.
"I see your concern. But this… this is my insurance."
His gaze grew distant for a moment, as if peering into the uncertain future.
"Anything can go wrong. If one of you is caught—if even the slightest suspicion falls upon me—I need a failsafe. A story they will believe." He exhaled. "If I am found wounded, near death, it will solidify my innocence. They will believe my slaves turned on me, tried to escape. No one will doubt it."
His fingers curled into a fist. "Losing a limb is a small price to pay."
The silence that followed was heavy.
The soldier clenched his jaw, his eyes betraying his inner turmoil. "Master… to leave you that close to death—"
"It must be convincing," Mjosgard interrupted. His voice was firm, final. "If I live through this night, I will still be among them. They will still trust me. That trust will be my weapon. And through it, I will ensure their downfall."
The room fell still.
His warriors understood now.
Mjosgard was not simply rebelling. He was playing the long game.
And he was willing to sacrifice everything—even his own body—to see it through.
As the last of the documents were thrown into the flames, the embers danced like fireflies, the smoke curling toward the ceiling like a silent omen of what was to come.
Mjosgard took one final look at the chamber, knowing that by morning, this place, this night—everything—would be erased.
His fingers twitched slightly, anticipation thrumming through his veins.
"It's almost time," he murmured.
His cousin, Doflamingo, had already begun his meeting with the Elders. Whatever was happening in that room would shake the very core of the Holy Land.
And when that first tremor hit, when the world above erupted into chaos—
That was when they would strike.
****
Doflamingo stepped forward, his boots clicking against the polished marble floor as he entered the heart of the world's greatest power—the Empty Throne Room. The vast chamber stretched high into the heavens, its towering columns and intricate gold-lined murals whispering the silent weight of history.
His gaze lifted, drawn to the three-tiered platform that loomed above him like a monument to absolute authority.
At its peak, the Empty Throne.
A grand, ornamented seat of crimson and gold, its imposing frame adorned with the sigil of the World Government. The golden armrests bore the sculpted faces of lions, their snarling visages frozen in silent dominance. This was no mere chair—it was a declaration of power, an emblem of the untouchable sovereignty that had ruled over the world for centuries.
Doflamingo's lips curled into a smirk as he took it all in.
"So this is the infamous Empty Throne," he mused, his voice dripping with amusement.
But beneath that amusement lay something else—something colder.
The throne sat atop a three-level platform, each step a testament to the myth that no single ruler governed the world. That this seat was meant to remain empty, a symbol of equality among the kings who had sworn to serve under its shadow.
But Doflamingo knew better.
His sharp eyes took in the nineteen rusted weapons buried into the ground on the third tier—swords and axes once wielded by the rulers of the twenty great kingdoms that had forged this empire centuries ago. All except one.
The Arabasta Kingdom never knelt.
The first tier bore more weapons, planted by the hands of kings who had joined the World Government in later years, pledging their fealty in exchange for protection and privilege. But despite their numbers, despite the display of unity—this throne was not empty.
It never was.
Moss crept over the ancient weapons, a quiet testament to the passage of time. A kingdom built on blood, bound by oaths long forgotten, and ruled by a god no one spoke of.
Doflamingo let out a low chuckle as he took a step closer, his coat billowing behind him. The Five Elders followed, their expressions unreadable, but he could feel the weight in the air—the silent acknowledgment that this was no mere meeting.
His fingers twitched slightly, the desire thrumming beneath his skin.
This throne…
This seat of absolute dominion…
Someday he would burn this throne to ash and sit upon it.
And yet, there was another who sat upon it, unseen, unknown to the world.
His smirk widened, his sunglasses catching the flickering torchlight.
"What a grand lie you've all built," he murmured, "and yet… even the mightiest walls can crumble."
The air in the chamber felt heavy, as if the very stones could hear him—as if the ghosts of the kings who had once knelt here stirred in their graves.
Doflamingo turned his gaze back to the throne.
A low creak echoed through the grand chamber as the massive doors adjoining the throne room slowly swung open. A rush of scent followed—a thick, intoxicating wave of fresh flowers.
The fragrance was overwhelming, unnatural even, as if the very air had been steeped in the bloom of something both divine and ominous. The floral aroma did not mask the suffocating pressure that accompanied it; instead, it amplified the weight of what was to come.
From the shadows beyond the doorway, Imu emerged.
A silhouette at first, bathed in the dim glow of flickering torchlight. The figure moved with a grace that was both effortless and deliberate, as if the world itself adjusted to their presence. The sound of each step was near silent, yet it reverberated deep within the bones of those present.
At that moment, the Five Elders fell to their knees.
Their heads bowed low, foreheads nearly touching the floor, not daring to lift their eyes toward the being before them. These men—who commanded the world with unchecked authority, who struck fear into even the strongest of pirates—now knelt like devout worshippers before their god.
But amidst their unwavering reverence, one man stood.
Doflamingo.
His sharp gaze, veiled behind tinted glasses, followed every step Imu took. His breath was steady, his stance firm, but deep within, something primal stirred—a sensation unlike anything he had ever felt. Not fear. No, not fear. But an instinctive awareness that in the presence of this being, power itself was being redefined.
Despite Imu making no overt show of their might, the sheer pressure of their existence pressed down upon the chamber like an unseen force, like the abyss itself staring back. The throne room, massive and vast, felt as if it had shrunk, the very air bending to accommodate the presence of its true sovereign.
Imu paused mid-step.
Their head turned slightly, just enough to acknowledge what none of the Elders dared to—the lone figure who still stood in defiance.
A silence stretched. A moment where time itself seemed to hold its breath.
Then, a voice echoed through the chamber—soft yet commanding, ancient yet untouched by time. A voice that had ruled for nearly a millennium.
"You are young... It seems the blood of the Nerona family flows strong in you."
Doflamingo's smirk twitched, but his eyes never wavered as he watched Imu ascend the platform. Every movement was regal, calculated—not a king, not an emperor, but something beyond those mortal titles.
Still, Doflamingo's defiance did not falter.
"Fufufufu... Last I checked, I was born into the Donquixote family," he remarked, his signature laugh laced with amusement.
Imu did not stop. Their steps did not hesitate. Instead, their voice echoed once more—unmoved, unquestioning.
"And yet your mother bore the Nerona name, making you Nerona as much as you are Donquixote."
A revelation wrapped in absolute certainty. Not a suggestion. Not a theory. A truth.
For the first time in a long while, Doflamingo felt a flicker of something unfamiliar—an edge of unease beneath his confidence. He had always known of his noble bloodline, but to hear Imu claim him as one of their own was something else entirely.
Was it acknowledgment? Or possession?
Before anyone could process how long the moment had stretched, Imu reached the summit of the platform.
Their back remained turned to those below, as if acknowledging their presence was beneath them. And yet, their dominance was absolute.
A single word fell from their lips.
"Rise."
Like puppets responding to their master's call, the Five Elders immediately stood, their obedience unquestioning. The tension was palpable—the unease in their posture evident as they remained silent about Doflamingo's refusal to kneel.
But none dared to speak of it.
Because Imu had not.
And that, more than anything, proved that what was about to unfold… would be unlike anything the world had ever seen.
Doflamingo leaned back slightly, his ever-present smirk widening as he gazed up at the enigmatic figure before him. The true ruler of the world. The shadow behind the so-called Empty Throne.
"So this was the real reason you brought me here? Because you wanted to meet me?" His words dripped with mockery, his tone laced with amusement rather than reverence.
The Five Elders visibly tensed at his audacity, but Imu did not react with anger. Instead, a soft chuckle echoed through the vast chamber—a sound so rare that even the Elders themselves seemed caught off guard. Imu moved with a slow, deliberate grace as they ascended the final step and casually took their place upon the Empty Throne.
Doflamingo's gaze followed, watching as the supposed untouchable, unoccupied seat of power was claimed without hesitation.
He chuckled, shaking his head. "But I have to say, your hospitality is lacking. You don't even have a chair for your guest."
Without waiting for permission, he dropped himself onto the carpeted marble floor, sprawling out with the arrogance of a king in his own right. The Five Elders looked ready to explode at his blatant disregard for decorum, but again, Imu merely chuckled.
For a moment, an eerie silence stretched between them. Imu's presence was overwhelming, suffocating in its weight, yet Doflamingo did not shrink beneath it. Instead, he met the unseen gaze of the figure on the throne head-on, unbothered, unmoved.
"The Donquixote…" Imu finally mused, their voice carrying an odd sense of nostalgia. "Even your ancestor was not as fiery as you. He was… a madman, yes, but even he knew where to draw the line."
As they spoke, Imu leaned forward, running a delicate hand over one of the rusted weapons embedded into the stone platform. The ancient blade, a relic of an oath sworn centuries ago, was caressed almost fondly. Then, without warning, Imu ripped it free.
The air thrummed with an unseen force as they observed the decayed weapon in their grasp. Then, with a flick of their wrist, they tossed it carelessly toward Doflamingo.
The blade struck the floor just before him. It shattered upon impact.
Rust and steel fragments scattered across the pristine marble like discarded remnants of forgotten loyalty.
"If you think carrying the Donquixote name grants you privilege," Imu's voice was soft, yet it carried the weight of undeniable authority, "then you are mistaken. That is all your family name is worth."
The Elders watched in absolute silence, their gazes flickering between the broken shards and Doflamingo's unreadable expression.
Then—
Laughter.
A deep, mocking "Fufufufu."
Doflamingo's lips curled, his signature smirk widening as he glanced at the shattered remains of the rusted sword. Then, slowly, his gaze lifted back to Imu.
"Do I look like someone who has relied on the privilege of my name to survive in this world?"
BOOM.
A surge of pure, overwhelming force erupted from him—his Conqueror's Haki crashing through the throne room like an invisible storm. The air cracked under the sheer pressure, the marble beneath him groaning as if struggling to withstand his presence.
It was a declaration. A statement. A challenge.
But more than that—it was a disruption.
Doflamingo knew what he was up against. Knew the vast difference in power. And if he had even the slightest chance of walking out of here alive, he needed to ensure that neither Imu nor the Elders could see his next moves before they happened.
A burst of Conqueror's Haki—uncontrolled, chaotic—was the perfect way to mask himself from Observation Haki.
It was a technique his little brother had taught him.
As the force settled, Imu sat motionless upon the throne. Unbothered. Unimpressed. And yet, for the first time, their unseen gaze lingered on Doflamingo… with what could almost be called amusement.