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*****
Doflamingo's laughter had barely faded when Elder Saturn took a step forward, his aged yet commanding voice slicing through the tension that lingered in the throne room.
"So, Doflamingo—now that you have seen Imu-sama with your own eyes, I trust you no longer harbor any delusions about who truly rules this world?"
There was no arrogance in his tone, nor was there malice. It was cold certainty.
The Five Elders did not need to entertain the idea of negotiation, nor did they believe in the necessity of coercion. To them, submission was not a choice—it was an inevitability.
Behind Saturn, Elder Mars stroked his long, silver beard, his gaze sharp yet calculating as he added with a tone that bordered on magnanimous, "Imu-sama's will is absolute. Your brother will report to the Holy Land, and we will set aside the… unfortunate events of the past."
As if it were that simple.
Mars gestured toward the Empty Throne, where Imu sat in silent indifference. Their presence was so absolute, so overwhelming, that they did not need to speak—the Elders spoke for them, as they always had.
"You will have what you've always desired," Mars continued, as though speaking to a mere child grasping at unreachable dreams. "Power beyond imagination. Immortality. A throne worthy of your ambition. You will rule over this world in our name, as you were meant to."
As if they were granting him a gift.
As if he had a choice.
Doflamingo could feel it—the way the Elders stood, the way their gazes bore into him. In their eyes, he was already theirs.
For the first time in centuries, Imu's eyes gleamed—not with anger, not with contempt, but with something almost akin to recognition.
Doflamingo sat before them, untouched by the weight of their presence, unmoved by the aura that had silenced kings and shattered the wills of the strongest. There was no fear. No reverence. Only cold, unrelenting ambition.
The same kind of ambition that had once driven Imu to seize the world.
A memory long buried stirred within the sovereign of the world. The cunning, the arrogance, the audacity—it was like looking into a mirror of the past.
And then, Imu spoke.
"So you refuse."
The voice echoed from atop the Empty Throne, emotionless yet heavy, carrying an authority that could break nations. Yet instead of trembling, Doflamingo chuckled.
A low, mocking sound that sent a ripple of unease through the chamber.
He rose to his feet, taking his time, brushing off his white pants with an air of complete disregard, as if the very floor of the most sacred hall in existence had dirtied his attire.
Then, with his signature grin stretching wide, he turned his gaze to the Five Elders—men who had shaped the world in Imu's name, rulers second only to the one sitting above them.
"You sure are eager to make decisions for me, aren't you?" He mused, tilting his head slightly, the lenses of his signature shades catching the dim light.
The Elders stiffened.
"You offer me the world in exchange for bending the knee," he continued, his voice dripping with amusement. "But you see, I've got a bad knee... and it doesn't bend."
His mocking tone was like a slap to their dignity.
A sharp breath was drawn from one of the Elders, while another's hand curled into a tight fist. The air grew heavier, as if reality itself wished to crush him for such insolence.
And yet, he was not done.
With slow, deliberate steps, Doflamingo turned his gaze upward—straight at Imu.
The unseen god of this world. The true ruler. The one who had watched from the shadows for nearly a millennium.
"You must be so bored up there, huh?" His voice was almost sympathetic, though the venom in it was unmistakable. "Centuries of ruling from the shadows, with no one daring to challenge you. No one daring to make you bleed."
A smirk curled his lips.
"Well, worry not, Nerona Imu."
A sudden pulse of Conqueror's Haki crackled in the air—enough to make the walls tremble.
The Elders froze. Doflamingo took another step forward, staring straight at the one being that no mortal dared to challenge.
"Sooner or later, I'm coming for that throne."
His words were not a boast.
They were a promise. The tension in the room turned suffocating. He had not just defied Imu—he had insulted them. He had called them a coward, a shadow ruler who lacked the spine to rule from the open. The Five Elders stiffened in absolute terror.
Never—never—had anyone dared to mock Imu-sama to their face.
Yet instead of outrage, instead of wrath, Imu merely watched. A slow smile formed on their lips.
And they whispered, almost amused, almost intrigued—
"…Interesting."
"It is truly a pity..." Imu mused from atop the Empty Throne, their voice carrying an eerie calm. "Someone like you, stripped of their title... Yet, you have the spirit of a dragon."
There was something almost admiring in their tone. Almost. Because at the same time, Doflamingo's fate was already sealed.
Imu never left variables unchecked. And this man—this reckless, ambitious, unpredictable storm standing before them—was the greatest variable they had encountered in centuries. The unspoken command rang clear.
The Five Elders moved.
Their robes billowed as they closed in, forming a semicircle—an inescapable formation. It was a silent execution sentence, spoken in the language of warriors.
Doflamingo's grin never wavered. He noticed. He noticed everything.
From the way Nusjuro's hand gripped the Supreme Grade Kitetsu, its cursed blade humming with restrained malice, to the faint ripple in the air as the others readied themselves for an all-out battle.
High above, Imu watched. Amused. Curious.
Eager to see how the young dragon would struggle in the face of inevitable death. Elder Nusjuro finally spoke, his voice sharp as a blade.
"Doflamingo… you should have taken the offer. Now, death is the only path left for you."
The plan was simple: Capture him alive if possible. Use him as bait. Lure Rosinante to the Holy Land. If they held Doflamingo's life as a bargaining chip, then his younger brother—the Ghost of the Marines, their greatest enemy—would be forced to submit.
It was checkmate. Or so they thought. Doflamingo chuckled. A slow, knowing laugh that made the tension in the air even heavier. His hands slipped casually into his trouser pockets, as if this wasn't a fight for his life. As if he wasn't standing alone, surrounded by the most powerful men in the world.
"You know," he began, his voice laced with mockery, "you sure are shameless."
His grin widened.
"Calling someone to your home as a 'guest'… only to surround them like cowards."
The taunt stung, but the Elders gave no visible reaction. Their pride was already wounded by his defiance—there was no need for words.
But what they hadn't anticipated… Was it that Doflamingo hadn't come here to be captured…
No.
He came here to meet Imu. To see with his own eyes the one who sat on the throne. To understand his true enemy.
And more importantly—
To leave a scar on the World Government that they would never forget.
"You have no way out, Doflamingo..." Elder Mars intoned, his voice carrying the weight of centuries. His lips curled into a cruel smirk, barely containing his malice.
"It's not too late to bend."
He didn't say it out of mercy. No—he relished Doflamingo's defiance, reveled in the thought of tearing him apart with his own hands. His arms flexed, coated in obsidian-black Armament Haki, hardened through centuries of bloodshed.
But Doflamingo… Doflamingo only laughed.
That same arrogant, mocking chuckle that sent a pulse of irritation through the Elders.
"Fufufufu… I'll remember this," he mused, rolling his shoulders as if utterly unbothered.
And then his grin widened, something wicked gleaming behind those dark shades.
"I hope you all remember to watch your backs… every single day from now on."
Without another word, he crushed the hidden Den Den Mushi in his pocket.
It happened instantly. A shift. A seamless, impossible exchange. Doflamingo vanished.
And in his place, a middle-aged man materialized out of thin air. The Five Elders barely had time to react— even Imu's eyes widened.
For a split second, the overwhelming Conqueror's Haki that had been distorting the air cleared. Observation Haki returned. And with it—the vision of death.
A shriek of fanatical devotion filled the throne room.
"FOR DOFLAMINGO-SAMA…!!!"
The man's body began to expand, his breath ragged with sheer, unwavering determination.
Imu's gaze darkened as their mind raced, their massive form unfurling in an instant, reacting with terrifying speed—
But it was too late.
Far too late.
The Elders moved, their instincts kicking in as they lunged backward—but distance meant nothing now.
The man's torso—wrapped in a massive detonation device—ignited.
And then—
The Holy Land shook.
A roaring, blinding explosion tore through the heart of Pangaea Castle, flames devouring everything in their path. The very foundation of Marijoa trembled, the impact rippling through its core.
****
A couple hundred miles from Redport, just a few moments before the explosion that shook the Holy Land, beneath the veil of twilight, a galleon disguised as a merchant ship sailed steadily away from the Red Line. Its weathered sails and unassuming hull gave no hint of the storm it had just unleashed upon the world.
Onboard, tension hung thick in the air.
The core cadres of the Donquixote family stood in silence, their gazes locked on a single, unmoving transponder snail—the signal they had been waiting for. Even Issho, the ever-composed guardian of Dressrosa, stood still, his blind eyes shifting toward the middle-aged man standing at the ready.
Senor Pink's real body paced anxiously across the deck, hands clenched into tight fists. The Señor Pink that had accompanied Doflamingo was nothing but a string clone, a decoy meticulously crafted to fool even the most adept Observation Haki users.
To complete the deception, a bound prisoner had been hidden within the string-clone, his life force used to mask the illusion, ensuring that even the Five Elders and their god-king would not suspect a thing.
And then—the snail shattered.
The middle-aged man's eyes hardened, and without hesitation, he activated his devil fruit ability.
The Switch-Switch Fruit.
A paramecia-class power that allowed its user to swap places with a single marked target. A simple yet devastating ability, bound by one absolute rule—he could only switch with someone he had previously marked.
But he had consumed this fruit for one purpose, and one purpose alone—to become Doflamingo's escape route. To deliver a deathblow to the Holy Land itself.
The world blurred—
Space twisted.
And in the blink of an eye—
Doflamingo appeared on the deck.
And the man who had sacrificed everything for the Donquixote name… vanished.
Along with the hellish payload strapped to his chest.
For a moment, no one spoke.
Doflamingo's back was turned to them, his coat billowing in the salty wind as he slowly faced the direction of Mariejois—as if he could see it, feel it, despite being hundreds of miles away.
Then—the sky ahead of them roared.
The night was split asunder, a brilliant glow blooming in the distant heavens, its embers casting an eerie radiance across the horizon.
A soundless storm of destruction that would send shockwaves through the world.
Doflamingo watched, his sunglasses obscuring his eyes, his lips curling into that same, ever-present grin.
"I shall remember your name…"
His voice was low, yet it carried across the deck like a solemn decree.
"For you will be forever known as the first Donquixote who dared to strike the very heart of the World Government."
And with that, the Heavenly Demon laughed— As the era of the gods began to crumble.
****
BOOOOOOM!
A heaven-piercing explosion tore through the Holy Land, a blinding inferno engulfing everything in its wake. The very foundation of Mariejois trembled as the shockwave ripped through the skies, its force shattering glass, toppling statues, and reducing centuries-old structures to rubble.
Meanwhile, at Redport, Senor Pink's clone smirked. The sudden, apocalyptic explosion sent a wave of panic through the city. CP0 agents, stationed to keep the world's elite safe, froze in disbelief, their eyes widening as the realization struck them like a thunderbolt.
One of them, a lithe and deadly woman, reacted in a blur—her blade flashing as she lunged straight for Senor's heart.
This level of destruction… this monumental blunder—she could not even begin to fathom the wrath that would follow.
Doflamingo. It had to be him. Her blade pierced cleanly through Senor's chest—but something was wrong. The smirk never left Senor's face. Then—his form dissolved into strings.
"No—!"
Within the unraveling threads lay a bound, helpless prisoner, his body now impaled on her sword. His eyes were hollow, lifeless—rigged with explosives.
The CP0 agent barely had a moment to curse herself.
BOOOOM!
The second explosion ripped through Redport.
She had no time to retreat. Her instincts screamed, and she braced herself.
"Tekkai!" she roared, her muscles hardening like steel—as did the others who understood the impending catastrophe, and in addition, a layer of jet-black haki surged through her form.
Yet even this reinforced defense barely held against the force of the blast.
And then—chaos unfolded.
The initial, cataclysmic detonation had already gutted more than half of the Holy Land, but it was far from over.
One after another—
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
Dozens of secondary explosions ignited in a chain reaction, rippling across the entire Holy Land. The world itself seemed to shake, fire swallowing marble and gold, sacred halls collapsing into ruins.
The air was thick with screams, crumbling stone, and the roar of destruction.
This level of devastation had not been seen in Mariejois since its very founding.
From the grand estate overlooking the Holy Land, Figarland Garling stood motionless.
His gaze was locked onto the raging inferno, watching as the Pangaea Castle—the very seat of the world's rulers—was engulfed in flame and ruin.
For a brief, fleeting moment, his expression flickered—not with fear, but something else.
Expectation. A deep-seated ambition, long buried beneath years of duty, surfaced just for an instant.
Behind him, figures emerged from the shadows, moving like specters—the God's Knights.
They had appeared instantly, summoned by the catastrophe. Garling's voice was calm, almost contemplative.
"Secure the castle."
Then he hesitated, his gaze lingering on the towering flames.
Imu…
If their god could be shaken so easily, they would not have ruled for over a millennium.
Even so—this was a scar upon history.
And for the first time in centuries, the World Government bled.
BOOOOM!
A thunderous detonation shook the Holy Land once more, and within the noble quarter, the Donquixote family estate was obliterated in a fiery burst.
From the shadows, Mjosgard watched the destruction unfold, the blazing inferno reflected in his eyes. This was his doing. His vengeance.
And yet, despite meticulously following his cousin Doflamingo's guidance, the sheer scale of the attack exceeded even his expectations.
"This isn't just my plan anymore," Mjosgard thought grimly. Doflamingo had more pieces in play than he had ever let on. How deep did his cousin's schemes truly run?
The realization sent a thrill down his spine, but it also solidified his resolve—following Doflamingo was the only path forward.
Amidst the chaos, a deafening crack echoed as part of the colossal walls of Mariejois collapsed.
The massive explosion near Pangaea Castle had weakened the structure, and now—after centuries of looming over the oppressed like an unbreakable fortress—the walls had given way.
And through the gaping breach poured hundreds of prisoners.
Men, women—former slaves who had once been stripped of everything—now armed themselves with weapons scavenged from fallen guards.
For every ten soldiers, there were a thousand slaves.
And though the chains of oppression had long weighed them down, hope had a way of reigniting the human spirit.
"Aaaaaaargh—!"
A piercing shriek rang out as a liberated prisoner drove a stolen spear straight through the helmet of a Holy Land soldier.
Mjosgard smirked. It had begun.
He watched as more slaves turned on their former masters, wielding shattered chains, makeshift clubs, even broken glass—anything that could be used as a weapon.
Many could have run.
Many could have fled into the night, desperate for escape. But instead—They fought. The rage of centuries, the pain of generations, all boiled over into an unstoppable wave of carnage.
Noble families, once untouchable, now cowered as their own halls were stormed.
Soldiers, trained to keep order through fear, now found themselves outnumbered, overwhelmed, and torn apart by the very people they had once deemed lesser.
For years—no, for centuries—the oppressed had been chained, beaten, stripped of their dignity, and forced into submission under the crushing rule of their oppressors. Their spirits had been reduced to embers, barely flickering beneath the weight of absolute dominion and fear.
But hope… hope was a dangerous thing.
At first, it started as a whisper—a fleeting thought. "What if we could be free?" But whispers spread, and thoughts turned into belief.
And belief…?
Belief was the precursor to action.
The moment that first wall crumbled, the moment that first nobleman screamed in terror, something inside the oppressed snapped. The ones who had spent lifetimes hunched over in servitude straightened their backs. The ones who had kept their gazes low, afraid to meet the eyes of their masters, now lifted their heads to look their oppressors in the eye.
And what did they see?
Fear.
The very same fear that had been forced upon them, now reflected in the eyes of those who once seemed untouchable.
It was intoxicating. That fear fueled them.
The first man to pick up a weapon wasn't a warrior. He was a slave—a frail, starved figure with bruised wrists and broken fingers who had known nothing but pain. But when he grabbed a shattered piece of stone and drove it into the throat of a Celestial Dragon's guard, something inside him came alive.
He had killed a man.
And in that moment, he realized he could kill again.
That moment spread like a wildfire.
The oppressed, who had spent years being too afraid to fight back, suddenly realized that their masters bled just like they did. That they screamed. That they begged.
Some might call it vengeance. Others might call it justice.
But to the ones who had suffered under the boot of tyranny, it was something even greater.
It was hope, turned into action.
It was hope, wielded like a weapon. And once hope becomes a weapon, there is nothing more terrifying for those who stand at the top.
****
The prison, once a dungeon of despair, had transformed into a hellscape of blood, screams, and unshackled rage.
Fisher Tiger stood motionless, his breath ragged, his powerful hands dripping with blood—not his own, but that of the jailer who had tormented him for weeks since the day of his capture. The lifeless body slumped at his feet, a ring of keys dangling from his trembling fingers.
"Click."
The heavy shackles binding his wrists and ankles clattered to the ground with a dull, final thud. He was free.
Yet the moment barely registered.
Because all around him, the world was burning.
The first explosion had been a cataclysm—ripping through stone, steel, and flesh alike—but it was the second wave of violence that truly shook him. The slaves had turned.
They pounced on their captors like rabid beasts, no longer just seeking escape but vengeance. Their nails tore through fabric and skin, their stolen weapons pierced throats and bellies. The once-orderly corridors of the Holy Land's dungeons were now filled with wailing and gurgling, blood pooling in dark crimson puddles across the cold stone.
There was no mercy. Not for the jailers. Not for the handlers.
Not for the traitors—the slaves who had once served as enforcers for the World Nobles, who had kept their own kind subjugated in exchange for scraps.
They begged. They pleaded. Some cried out the names of the Celestial Dragons, hoping that invoking their masters would spare them. But their cries were swallowed by the chaos.
A man who had once been too weak to lift his own head under the weight of oppression now bludgeoned his former master to death with his bare fists. A woman who had been a prisoner since childhood drove a jagged piece of broken metal into the throat of a World Government officer, twisting it as he choked on his own blood.
This wasn't just an uprising. This was a massacre.
Yet even as the slaves gained ground, their moment of triumph was fleeting. The World Government would not fall so easily. The retaliation came like a storm.
Armed guards in pristine white uniforms surged forward, cutting through the mob like scythes through wheat. Gunsmoke choked the air. Bullets ripped through unarmed bodies.
Explosions sent limbs and charred corpses flying in every direction. Pleas for mercy were met with cold steel.
Fisher Tiger's instincts screamed at him.
"Run."
For a brief moment, he hesitated. He had spent weeks dreaming of this moment—of taking revenge, of watching the Celestial Dragons suffer.
But now, standing amidst the carnage, he saw the truth. This was no rebellion. This was a culling. And if he stayed here, he would die too.
His gaze snapped toward the distant walls, where beyond lay the open sea.
That was his escape.
Before his brain could fully process the decision, his feet were already moving.
He turned away from the slaughter, his heart pounding in his chest as he sprinted toward freedom—toward the sea.
****
The once-mighty Pangea Castle, the very heart of the Holy Land, now lay in ruins.
What had stood for centuries, an untouchable monument to absolute power, had been reduced to rubble and ash. The famed Empty Throne, the very symbol of the world's greatest secret, was nothing more than scattered debris—obliterated beyond recognition.
The sheer magnitude of the blast had not just leveled the castle; it had scarred the Holy Land itself. The epicenter of the explosion had been powerful enough to consume an entire island, and its shockwave had sent tremors across the Red Line.
For the first time in a millennium, the foundations of God's domain had been shaken.
And then—
A massive form shifted beneath the wreckage.
Enormous slabs of stone and twisted steel groaned and tumbled aside, pushed away by an inhuman force.
Beneath the smoldering ruins, a shadow rose. As the dust cleared, two piercing eyes burned through the darkness—eyes filled with unadulterated rage.
Imu emerged.
Their colossal form, still shifting from the aftermath of the transformation, retracted into their humanoid state. But their presence did not shrink—if anything, the sheer pressure of their fury expanded, suffocating the air itself.
A sudden burst of Conqueror's Haki erupted from Imu's body, a wave so monstrously powerful that the entire Holy Land shook beneath its force. The very sky darkened, lightning crackling across the heavens as if the world itself trembled in fear of its unseen ruler.
Then—more movement.
From beneath the broken remains of their shattered throne, other forms began to stir.
The Five Elders, in their beastly yokai forms, forced their way out of the wreckage.
Massive claws and monstrous limbs tore through the stone, their bodies covered in deep, gaping wounds. Their immortal flesh burned and mangled from the sheer devastation of the blast, but still—they endured.
Had it not been for the forbidden power that bound them to Imu, even they—the so-called pillars of this world—would have surely perished.
Their breath was ragged, their bodies trembling, not from pain but from something even more terrifying—rage.
They had never suffered such an insult. They had never been challenged in their own domain.
And then—
"Ha... ha... HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!"
A shrill, bloodcurdling laughter echoed across the ruined Holy Land. A sound that had not been heard for centuries. It was not the laughter of amusement. It was not the laughter of madness. It was something far worse.
It was the laughter of a God remembering what it meant to feel anger. For the first time since the end of the Void Century, Imu felt something real. And it was wrath.