Room of Authority, Mary Geoise
"Bam!"
The thunderous crash echoed through the marble chamber as the glass table shattered into a thousand shards, scattering like broken pieces of the illusion the World Government had long clung to. At the center of the chaos stood Elder Mars, fists clenched in fury, the latest edition of the World Times crushed beneath his trembling hand.
The room fell into a heavy silence. Not one of awe or fear—but grim understanding. A storm had come. Mars' face was contorted in rage, eyes flickering with barely contained fire as he read aloud the bold headline inked in defiance: "Barca Empire Declares Independence: No More Allegiance to the World Government!"
He spat the words like poison.
"The Barca Empire has openly renounced our rule. They have severed all diplomatic ties, disavowed their loyalty to the Celestial Dragons, and declared themselves a sovereign nation!" Elder Mars roared, throwing the crumpled newspaper across the chamber. "They dare proclaim autonomy from us, in the heart of the New World!"
Across the vast, domed hall of Pangaea Castle, the air thickened. Not even the towering stained-glass windows lining the sacred Chamber of Elders could lighten the atmosphere. What had once been a chamber of serene dominance now felt like a war room perched on the edge of collapse.
Five elders stood in a half-circle, the highest authority beneath the Imu themselves—the Gorosei, the Five Elders. Each bore the scars of centuries, men whose whispers shaped continents, whose decisions redrew borders, whose presence brought kings to their knees. But today, their expressions were not proud. They were darkened by unease.
It wasn't just the act of rebellion that troubled them. It was how it happened. There had been no warning, no whisper of revolution. No signs of infiltration. No trace of external incitement. No Revolutionaries. No rogue pirate crews. The Barca Empire, proud and powerful, one of the last loyal monarchies in the New World, had made this choice of their own volition. A precedent had been set—and nothing was more dangerous than that.
"This..." Elder Saturn said slowly, rubbing the bridge of his nose as he processed the implications, "...is not an isolated incident. This is the start of an avalanche. If one kingdom openly breaks away, others will find the courage to do the same." He turned toward the broken table, now a symbol of their crumbling grip.
"The dominoes are lined up. Barca was the first to fall. If we don't act—decisively—every kingdom in the New World still under our jurisdiction will begin to question their chains."
Elder Nusjuro, the grizzled tactician among them, folded his arms, his voice as cold as the steel of his blade.
"Then we eliminate the ruling family. The Valerian Dynasty must be extinguished. We find a suitable replacement, someone malleable, someone we can control, and place them on the throne. Let the people see loyalty restored—through blood, if necessary."
But Saturn shook his head. "We can't. Not this time."
That declaration froze the room. Even Mars turned sharply toward him, disbelief flaring in his eyes.
"And why not?" Elder Warcury growled, barely restraining the bloodlust simmering in his voice. "We've done it before. Many times. Replace one head with another—clean and quiet."
"It would not be clean," Saturn said, his tone laced with dread. "Not with this."
He raised a steady hand and tossed another report onto the shattered remains of the table. The front page showed a chilling image: the flag of Whitebeard—the unmistakable skull with a crossed mustache—fluttering above the royal palace of the Barca Empire.
"They've sworn fealty to Whitebeard," Saturn said. "He's claimed them under his protection. Their capital now flies his banner. The Valerians reached out to him directly… and he accepted."
The gravity of that statement nearly knocked the wind from the chamber.
Elder Nusjuro hissed through his teeth. "So… the bastard decided to get involved. Wasn't he someone who always kept to himself? Why now…?"
"And not just him," Mars growled. "Our intelligence confirms something even worse." He turned, pacing the chamber as if trying to escape his own thoughts.
"There's a silent pact in place—a mutual understanding among the Three Emperors of the New World: Whitebeard, Doflamingo, and Scarlett of the Bloodsteel Fleet. They've united—not in arms, but in intent. An unspoken alliance to keep us out. They watch the seas, they watch the currents, they even watch the skies. Every fleet we move is detected before it reaches the Calm Belt."
"Every agent we send disappears into silence," Warcury added grimly. "Our agents are being hunted. Not by pirates or revolutionaries—but by kings and queens of the New World themselves. They're no longer afraid of us."
Elder Saturn's gaze hardened.
"Our dominion over the New World has collapsed. We are no longer feared there—we are resisted. Silently. Systematically. And now, the Barca Empire has made it official. They've declared war through independence."
A long silence followed. No one spoke. The World Government had ruled the world for over eight hundred years. Kings bent the knee. Islands flew their banner. The might of the Navy, the Cipher Pols, the Celestial Dragons—all were testaments to their unchallenged supremacy.
And now, one kingdom had burned that legacy to the ground. A whisper of rebellion had become a roar.
"Then let us teach them a harsh lesson that would be a reminder for everyone," Warcury growled. "Authorize a Buster Call. Reduce Barca to ash. Let the sea remember who rules it."
"That will not work," Saturn said.
Warcury's eyes widened. "And why not?! They've defied us. What other response do we have?"
Saturn stepped forward, voice low and sharp.
"Because if we move on Barca with overwhelming force, we will trigger a war not just with Whitebeard, but with all three Emperors. The moment we strike, Scarlett will send her cursed fleets. Doflamingo will unleash the underworld networks we've spent decades trying to contain. And Whitebeard… if he sets foot beyond Barca, he may march all the way to Mariejois itself."
"And what will we do then?" Mars asked, biting his tongue, fury brimming under the surface.
"Then it will be an all-out war we're trying to prevent." Elder Saturn's voice rang out, sharp and weary. "And if it comes to that… this won't be like the wars of the past. Not like God Valley. Not like Ohara. Not even like Marineford. This time, we may have to sacrifice everything just to keep the world from slipping through our fingers."
He paused, eyes shadowed beneath the low light of the chamber's sun-dappled dome.
"With the Ancient Weapon currently… unusable, we no longer hold the ultimate deterrent. We can't bluff anymore. If war erupts now, we bleed for real." The declaration echoed in the silent chamber.
Elder Nusjuro exhaled slowly, the furrows on his weathered brow deepening. He gripped the hilt of his sheathed blade, not out of intention to draw—but as though anchoring himself in the reality they faced.
"No matter how powerful we may be on parchment, we cannot expose all our secrets unless we want to repeat another Void Century," Nusjuro said quietly. "A three-front war in the New World is suicide, especially now. We're still recovering from the losses inflicted during the campaign against the Donquixote Pirates—and even that cost us dearly. Add to that the rising momentum of the Revolutionary Army and the slow but steady erosion of loyalty among the affiliate kingdoms..."
He shook his head grimly.
"If we show weakness, we collapse. But if we strike too aggressively—we provoke a war we're not prepared to win. Either way… we fall."
A tense silence followed, thick with the weight of the truth that none of them wanted to accept.
Elder Mars slowly approached the tall stained-glass mural adorning the eastern wall—a depiction of the Twenty Kingdoms, forged in blood and pact, united under the Celestial Throne after the fall of the Great Kingdom eight centuries ago. Each colored shard shimmered in the morning light, casting fractured beams across the ancient floor.
"What we need… is not brute force," Mars muttered, more to himself than to the room. "We need precision. Strategy. A scalpel, not a hammer."
Saturn stepped beside him, folding his hands behind his back.
"We must divide them. Tear the alliance apart before it truly solidifies. We need to know what pushed Barca to act now. They were never fools. What were they promised? Or threatened with? Who among our enemies whispered into their ears and offered them sanctuary under Whitebeard's flag?"
Nusjuro nodded thoughtfully.
"If we can identify the cracks between these so-called Emperors, we can pry them open. Whitebeard has always walked a line of honor—perhaps that can be exploited. Scarlett is unpredictable, and her hatred for Marines is well known. And as for Donquixote Doflamingo… he may play the role of Emperor now, but he's still a creature of control and ego. He can be manipulated."
"Then what we need," Saturn said coldly, "is someone in the New World who can operate in the shadows. Not to conquer. Not to provoke. But to unravel."
"Infiltrate. Sabotage. Divide," Nusjuro agreed. "Someone who can move through the cracks unnoticed, understand the politics of the New World, and plant seeds of mistrust among them."
Their eyes turned in unison toward the far end of the chamber—where an ancient stone table sat beneath flickering candlelight, its surface covered in bounty posters. Weathered, curled at the edges, but still sharp enough to sting.
The Seven Warlords of the Sea.
Once a cornerstone of the World Government's counterbalance to the Emperors and the Revolutionary threat, now little more than fraying leashes on wild dogs. Mars narrowed his eyes as he studied the faces.
Mihawk. Gone. Location unknown.
Izumi Arakaki. Isolated, with rumors swirling of defiance.
Dorian Lacasse. Missing.
Scarlett D. Lachlann. Defected.
Gecko Moria. Turned into a ghost of a man.
Only Crocodile remained in contact—though even his loyalty was tenuous at best.
"You think they'll be of any use in this matter?" Nusjuro asked bitterly, eyeing the table as though the very sight of the posters offended him. "Most have gone rogue. The Shichibukai system is in shambles. Only one, maybe two, are even on our radar."
His gaze fell on Crocodile's poster—creased and faded, but still marked as "Frozen."
"Crocodile is the only one whose movements we can track. And even he's been suspiciously quiet."
"He thinks his little games in Arabasta have gone unnoticed," Elder Ju Peter muttered coldly, casting a piercing gaze at the bounty posters. "Crocodile is clearly up to something. He's probing—testing the waters. Maybe it's time we eliminate him before he causes any real damage."
But Elder Saturn shook his head, slow and resolute.
"No," he said firmly. "Crocodile's presence in Arabasta serves a purpose." Ju Peter frowned, but Saturn continued. "His influence keeps the kingdom afraid. In the New World, the balance has already collapsed. But in the first half of the Grand Line—and across the Four Blues—our grip remains strong because of perception. They still believe in our power. They still fear our tools. And nothing reminds a kingdom of its place like a Warlord stationed near their borders."
He let his words sink in before adding, "If Arabasta—or any kingdom like it—begins to believe they can survive without us, we lose more than just one territory. We lose the illusion. And that is what truly holds the world together."
A tense silence followed. Elder Mars leaned back, jaw clenched, his fingers tightening around the arm of his chair.
"If only our intelligence network wasn't so crippled in the New World," he muttered. "We wouldn't be in this damned position. It all began with them—the cursed Donquixote brothers…"
His voice trembled with fury, the resentment boiling beneath his normally calculated demeanor.
"They destroyed more than just our network of information and spies," Mars growled. "They destroyed the balance. Doflamingo turned from puppet to puppeteer, and now he controls threads we can't even see. If he wasn't born of Celestial blood, we'd have buried him already."
Elder Nusjuro nodded grimly. "Unless we can identify the source of his intelligence, we'll always be a step behind. He's feeding information directly to Whitebeard—perhaps even Scarlett and her fleet as well. Every move we make through the Calm Belt, every strategic deployment… they know."
He slammed his fist against the table.
"We can't afford a war we can't hide. Not when our enemies are watching us from the shadows. Not when Doflamingo sees the pieces before we even place them on the board."
Then Elder Warcury, always the most militaristic among them, leaned forward with an edge to his voice. "We still have a sword to draw," he said, eyes narrowing. "Why not send Figarland to act? Let the God's Knights make their move. With Rosinante's fate still unconfirmed after his encounter with Garp, the Donquixote family is fractured. We could use this moment to eradicate them once and for all."
At the name Rosinante, the room tensed. Saturn's eyes darkened. A bitter scoff escaped his lips as he shook his head.
"You really think Garp would kill his own protégé?" Saturn asked, voice laced with contempt. "That fool has always placed his heart before duty. I'm certain Rosinante is still alive—and I'm just as certain Garp knows it." He turned, walking toward the ancient mural on the chamber's back wall—a map of the world carved in obsidian, stretching from the Red Line to the farthest corners of the Blues.
"And even if that weren't true, the God's Knights cannot be deployed. Not now."
"Why not?" Warcury snapped, frustration flaring. "What could possibly be more important than restoring control over the New World?"
Saturn's gaze sharpened, voice dropping to a cold whisper. "They have been sent on a mission far beyond the politics of kings and pirates."
The other Elders froze. Mars narrowed his eyes. "What are you talking about…?"
Saturn hesitated for a moment—then spoke with deliberate weight, his voice echoing across the chamber like a prophecy. "They are hunting the God Fruits."
A silence descended like a shroud. Even the crackling of the torches along the stone walls seemed to fade. "You mean…" Ju Peter began, disbelief tinging his tone.
"Yes." Saturn turned, his expression unreadable. "The ancient lineage of Divine Devil Fruits—fruits so powerful they were believed to carry the will of the gods themselves. The ones born not just from nature... but from something older. Something that even we don't understand."
"The ones mentioned in the old Legacy scrolls? Like the Sun God Nika's fruit…? The one that was consumed by Joyboy…?" Mars whispered. "I thought those were destroyed—"
"Not all of them… Like the Sun God's devil fruit, there seem to be a few other of these so-called God's fruits that have resurfaced, and we should know better; they cannot be destroyed…. They have a will of their own." Saturn interrupted.
"Imu-sama themselves have preserved the knowledge of the so-called gods in fragments. Buried in the deepest vaults of Pangaea Castle. Long before the current Devil Fruit system flourished, before Paramecia, Zoan, and Logia were ever categorized—there were Thirteen."
"Thirteen?" Nusjuro echoed, barely breathing.
"Thirteen known God fruits…" Saturn confirmed. "Born from forbidden knowledge of the gods. Crafted by the will of the gods themselves. Each one holding a facet of what they called 'Divinity'—Life, Death, Sea, Earth, Sun, Moon... Powers that could bend the world, not merely change it." He stepped forward now, the weight of truth behind him like a rising tide.
"These are not just merely devil fruits… but a path to godhood. They are relics of a forgotten era. And they are awakening."
Warcury's expression twisted with awe and confusion. "Why now?"
"Because the world is changing," Saturn intoned, his voice steady, almost reverent. "And Imu-sama must have sensed it. For only a god… can feel the stirrings of another god." The room grew silent once more as the weight of those words settled over the table like an invisible pressure.
"The balance that's held this world in place for over eight centuries is beginning to crack," Saturn continued. "The Will of D., the resurgence of long-forgotten legacies, the secret movements of the Moon Tribes… and the Sea Kings—they've begun whispering again. Whispering of Poseidon's revival. Of the one who speaks with the creatures of the deep."
He scanned the faces of the other Elders, his gaze cutting into each of them like a blade.
"That is why the God's Knights are not on the frontlines. They are not waging battles, they are waging a hunt. Not for pirates or kings… but for power itself. For the God Fruits. Before they fall into the hands of the enemies of this world—the revolutionaries, the pirates, the heretics who would defy Heaven itself."
A long, heavy pause lingered. The shadows in the room seemed to deepen. "And if we fail?" Mars asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
Saturn's eyes burned, amber flames behind cold irises. "Then the Celestial Dragons will fall," he said. "And the Age of Gods—an age before this world was tamed, before the flame of order was lit—will return."
Silence gripped the chamber like a vice. "We must ensure our dominion," Saturn added, slowly pacing around the table. "We must retain our grasp on this world… For the moment we loosen our hold, even for a breath, they will strike."
"And if that fails too...?" Elder Warcury asked, the tension in his voice betraying the storm beneath his calm exterior.
For the first time since the meeting began, Saturn smiled—a cold, slow, deliberate curve of his lips that sent chills down the spines of even his fellow Elders. "Then," he said, "we raise the red flag." His voice fell to a whisper—barely audible, yet thunderously final.
"Then... the Great Cleansing shall begin anew." A tremor passed through the chamber.
"The same cleansing that erased the Great Kingdom nine centuries ago. The same cleansing that buried an entire era beneath the waves. If this world dares to forget who stands above it… we will remind them."
He turned his gaze toward the mural of the globe etched in ancient basalt on the far wall.
"There can be only one god in this world," he said, his voice as cold as iron. "And that god… shall always be Imu-sama."
He allowed the gravity of his words to settle before turning sharply toward Elder Ju Peter, who had been notably silent through much of the council.
"Have you handled the matter you were assigned?" Saturn asked. Ju Peter gave a slow nod.
"There has been… considerable unrest in Fishman Island," he said. "The Ryugu Kingdom has begun a crackdown on the Fishman District. In the chaos, several elements from the slums have agreed to work with us. Former criminals, exiles, and dissenters—they seek protection, power. We offer both."
He paused before continuing, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his face.
"There is, however, a new faction rising. They call themselves the Sun Pirates." Saturn's brow rose ever so slightly at the name, his eyes narrowing. "The Sun Pirates, you say?" he echoed.
Ju Peter nodded slowly, as if confirming a long-buried suspicion.
"The name alone is no coincidence," Saturn murmured, folding his arms. "The shadow of Joyboy still clings tightly to the roots of Fishman Island. It seems even after centuries, his legend continues to bloom in the darkness."
Mars scowled. "It was inevitable. Joyboy's promise to the Mermaid Queen—what the old texts call the Great Apology—still holds power among them."
"Indeed," Saturn said. "It was that Mermaid Queen, after all, who bore the mantle of Poseidon... the one who could command the Sea Kings. And if the Sea Kings have begun whispering again…" He turned slowly back to Ju Peter.
"Tell me—have there been any developments in identifying the new bearer of that ancient power? Who has inherited the soul of Poseidon?"
Ju Peter hesitated, then slowly shook his head. "Not yet," he admitted, his voice low and cautious. "Thus far, there hasn't been anyone with even the remotest potential of inheriting Poseidon's powers. The Ryugu Kingdom is careful, cloaking their bloodline behind layers of diplomacy and isolation. But with our informants now embedded within the Fishman District and the deeper sectors of the island, it's only a matter of time. The moment even a whisper surfaces... we'll hear it."
He paused, aware of the gravity his words carried. He knew the significance of Poseidon—not just as a weapon, but as a myth capable of toppling the World Government's dominion over the seas. Saturn's expression darkened.
From what Imu-sama had revealed to him in confidence, he was certain—the rebirth of Poseidon was not just likely, it was imminent. The signs were aligning. The Sea Kings were restless. The tides, quite literally, had begun to shift.
And every time, without fail, throughout history—whenever a child of the sea was born with the ability to command the great leviathans of the deep—the World Government had acted swiftly. Ruthlessly. Poseidon was never allowed to reach maturity. Not once.
It was an unspoken law of survival.
"We cannot afford complacency," Saturn said coldly, his voice sharp as a drawn blade. "If Poseidon has truly been born again, then we are already behind. You are to keep a watchful eye over Fishman Island, Ju Peter. Every movement. Every festival. Every new birth in the royal family—especially the females. You are to monitor every fluctuation in Sea King activity. No rumor is too small to chase."
His voice dropped, heavy and absolute.
"If the new Poseidon exists... then we must bring her under our control." A chilling silence followed. "This would not be the first time we hunted Poseidon. Nor will it be the last," Saturn continued, his gaze distant now, as though reliving the echoes of blood-soaked centuries. "But in this age—in a world that is surrounded by water, choked by oceans, and dominated by the very element Poseidon commands—she represents the single greatest threat to our authority."
He leaned forward, his voice now a deadly whisper.
"Of the three Ancient Weapons… Uranus slumbers still, and Pluton—though deadly—requires a power source capable of driving it, and the whereabouts of the Pluton used during the void century is still unknown. But Poseidon… Poseidon listens only to the call of a child born of the sea. She is the will of the ocean incarnate."
The other elders said nothing, each lost in the gravity of his words.
"If the wrong hands reach her first," Saturn went on, "if she falls into the grasp of the Revolutionaries… or worse, if Joyboy's so-called inheritor gains her trust—then our dominion is over. There will be no safe harbor for the Celestial Dragons. No sanctuary for our fleets. The Sea Kings will rise, and the seas will turn against us."
Mars clenched his jaw. Warcury's fingers drummed restlessly on the table. Even Nusjuro, often the quietest among them, looked unsettled.
"We've silenced generations of Poseidon before they could awaken to their power," Saturn finished, "and we will do so again if necessary. But this time..." He paused.
"This time, we must be certain. We must find her first. And if she cannot be controlled..."
He looked Ju Peter dead in the eyes. "Then she must be erased from this world—completely."
Ju Peter bowed his head slightly, understanding the gravity of what had just been commanded. Failure was not an option. Poseidon wasn't merely a target. She was the pivot upon which the fate of the world could turn.
"Understood," he said solemnly. "I will see to it personally." Saturn exhaled, his thoughts momentarily drifting back to the last known records of Poseidon's awakening centuries ago. Entire fleets had vanished. Islands swallowed. Sea Kings had attacked without provocation, heedless of their size or purpose, as though driven by a higher will.
If such a being arose again—especially in an age where the World Government's grip on the New World was slipping—then the world would not survive a second coming of the Sea King's wrath.
"And remember," Saturn said finally, his voice deathly quiet, "should Poseidon awaken... she will not be alone. The others will follow."
He looked toward the distant stained-glass mural of the world map, where three lights shimmered—faint, ancient glows representing the three forgotten weapons of the old world.
"The balance of this world is crumbling," he whispered. "The storm we buried nine hundred years ago is returning... and this time, it will drown the sky itself."