The sunlight filtered through a thick layer of storm-washed clouds, casting long shadows across the polished deck of the lead galleon. The tang of gunpowder, oil, and treated wood lingered in the air. Crates—dozens of them—lined the ship's deck in tight formations, sealed meticulously with the Donquixote Family's insignia stamped in gold wax.
Zephyr stood before one of the open crates, arms folded, his gaze sharp and calculating. Inside lay a small arsenal: rifles crafted with black-market precision, each etched with dark steel patterns, reinforced barrels, and integrated mechanisms for seastone-coated bullets—weapons that could even bring down a Devil Fruit user with a single shot.
He whistled low.
"You're trying to tell me… all this," he motioned at the vast cache behind them, "is just a gift from her? For her siblings?"
He glanced sideways. The girl—small, dainty, dressed in a noble's coat two sizes too big—stood quietly beside Diamante, the ever-flamboyant commander of the Donquixote executives. Her violet eyes flicked up innocently toward Zephyr, betraying none of the gravity of what she'd just delivered.
Diamante gave a theatrical smile and gestured grandly toward the crates. "Her first meeting with her younger siblings—of course it had to make a statement."
Zephyr's brow furrowed. He wasn't easily moved by theatrics, and this display screamed overcompensation. These weren't just a few weapons; it was an entire year's worth of supplies, maybe more than the revolutionaries normally acquired through covert channels.
Ammunition, medical gear, spare ship parts, encrypted dials, smuggled blueprints, rare supplements, and even raw seastone essence—the kind of cargo black markets went to war over.
Dragon remained silent beside him, arms crossed behind his back as he scanned the endless rows of supply crates. His expression was unreadable, but his voice came cold and precise.
"This is excessive. Lavish, even. We're not a kingdom. We don't deal in tribute and flattery. So I'll ask plainly—what's the real message here?"
His gaze briefly passed over Reiju, but it lingered on Diamante. "Because I've known Doflamingo from his time in North Blue when he was just an upstart pirate… and this level of generosity has never been his style."
Gladius, who stood further off with his arms propped lazily against the ship's railing, finally spoke. His voice was sharp, laced with impatience. "If you're suspicious, feel free to send it back. We'll sell it on the black market. People will pay double for these supplies—especially with a war brewing every other day."
He shrugged. "There's never a shortage of those in need. Only a shortage of trust."
The remark earned him a swift glare from Diamante. The elder Donquixote executive turned with a tight smile, teeth clenched behind his lips. "Gladius," he said sharply, his tone suddenly colder, "hold your tongue."
Gladius stiffened but didn't respond.
Diamante turned back to Dragon and Zephyr, bowing slightly in apology. "Forgive him. Our family takes pride in its symbolism. And this," he gestured to Reiju, who stood silently but with regal posture, "is not just a show of generosity. It's a declaration from the Donquixote family."
Dragon raised an eyebrow.
Diamante continued, "Vinsmoke Reiju. She may not carry the Donquixote blood in her veins. But she is Doffy's personal disciple and, by extension, his heir. And she is to meet the world standing on equal footing—not as a child in awe of empires, but as one who could one day shape them. Doflamingo made that clear. This fleet, these weapons, these resources—consider them her dowry of power."
Silence settled briefly. Zephyr turned to Dragon, who remained deep in thought, expression still unreadable. The sea wind picked up again, fluttering the Donquixote banners above. Far below, the rest of the galleons remained in tight formation—each one carrying more of the same.
Zephyr gave a short nod to Dragon, a silent signal of concession. In their current condition, every additional weapon, every ration, every bolt of fabric or crate of medicine was a godsend. Aside from a few sympathetic monarchies covertly funding them, the Revolutionary Army's coffers were stretched thin.
Armaments and auxiliary materials like the ones now being presented were the lifeblood of any insurgency—and the Donquixote Family had delivered enough to sustain a full-blown war.
Dragon finally spoke, turning not to Diamante, but directly to the young girl standing between the towering Donquixote officers.
"Very well," he said, his voice calm, but firm, "the Revolutionary Army will accept the gifts you've brought us, Lady Reiju. I understand now—this is more than a gesture of goodwill. This is the Donquixote Family establishing your place… and I will respect that."
Reiju gave a small, practiced curtsy, but her violet eyes never blinked.
Dragon's gaze hardened slightly as he shifted to Diamante. "That aside… what I truly want to know is how your fleet managed to bypass our surveillance entirely."
His tone was clipped. Frustration was evident in the crease of his brow. The revolutionary surveillance web had been designed personally by Dragon himself, using a multilayered system of lookouts, signal points, and rotating scouts positioned over dozens of surrounding islands. It wasn't just robust—it was supposed to be impenetrable.
Diamante's grin widened at the question, the kind of smug smile only a veteran smuggler could wear with such elegance.
"You don't expect us to hand over trade secrets, do you?" he said with a chuckle, his golden epaulets swaying slightly with each exaggerated movement.
But then, unexpectedly, he reached into his coat and produced a small, hand-bound binder. The pages were yellowed, handwritten, and clipped together with a single iron pin.
"I'm not going to tell you how we broke through," he said. "But this,"—he handed the binder to Zephyr—"this details all the flaws we exploited. Consider it… a professional courtesy. Young Master Rosinante had me deliver it to you personally."
Zephyr flipped the binder open immediately. His eyes narrowed with each page. "Tch…" he muttered, barely able to contain his irritation. Every note pointed out overlooked gaps, routine predictabilities, and exploitable intervals in their scout rotations—errors so fundamental that Zephyr felt a creeping shame. Their system hadn't been outmatched by brute force—it had been dissected with surgical precision.
Before Dragon could speak, Diamante reached once more into his coat. This time, he pulled out a sealed brass cylinder, the kind normally used for nautical maps.
"This, too, is from Master Rosinante," Diamante said, his tone less playful now. "He asked that you see it with your own eyes. I wasn't told what it contains—only that it was for you alone."
Dragon accepted the cylinder with cautious hands. A gentle twist, a soft click, and the top popped open. Inside, he found a scroll of ancient parchment, its edges frayed, the ink faded but legible. As he slowly unfurled the map, his eyes widened—not in alarm, but in awe.
An old nautical chart. Not just any map… a legend. Baltigo. The island of white soil. The Island of Mystery.
A place whispered about in seafarers' tales—untraceable, unreachable. Hidden deep within the Grand Line. No standard log pose had ever pointed to it, and no Eternal Pose had ever been confirmed. Those few who had stumbled upon it by accident couldn't replicate their path. It was a ghost on the ocean.
And yet… here in his hands, was a chart detailing an exact, step-by-step route. Tidal patterns. Celestial cues. Even atmospheric conditions required for approach. A map that shouldn't exist.
Zephyr looked over Dragon's shoulder and let out a low whistle. "Is that what I think it is?" Dragon's silence was answer enough.
Baltigo had long been theorized as the perfect location for a permanent Revolutionary HQ. Their current base—temporary and fragile—would last no more than a year. Relocating annually drained resources, put civilians at risk, and always left them one step behind. But Baltigo… Baltigo could be the solution.
And yet, the implications were as troubling as they were miraculous. If Rosinante had access to this chart… then so did Doflamingo.
Still, Dragon wasn't foolish. Ignoring this would only leave it for someone else to claim—perhaps someone far less trustworthy. Quietly, he rerolled the chart, slid it back into the brass tube, and sealed it once more. Then, without a word, he tucked it inside his coat.
"Thank Rosinante for me," Dragon finally said, his voice low, thoughtful.
Diamante nodded. "I will."
And with that, the wind picked up once again, tugging at the Donquixote banners overhead—banners that now seemed less like pirate colors, and more like chess pieces being moved across the board of the world.
"Well then," Zephyr said at last, folding his arms with a faint smile that softened the edges of his otherwise stern face, "with the kind of generosity the Donquixote Family has shown us today, it's only right that we welcome our guests warmly."
His voice was genuine, steady. Once, long ago, he would've never imagined shaking hands with pirates, let alone standing on their ship offering gratitude. But time—and betrayal—had a way of reframing ideals. Compared to the World Government he had once served with unwavering loyalty, the Donquixote Family—pirates though they were—lived by a code. Twisted, perhaps. But honest in its own way. And honesty had become a rare commodity.
He turned to Diamante, clasping his hands behind his back like an instructor addressing a squad. "Still, as impressive as your approach was, it's better if we guide your fleet from here. You may have discovered a great deal, but there are… additional defensive layers in place that I doubt even your network knows about."
The pride in his voice was subtle, but unmistakable—a well-timed attempt to claw back some dignity after their surveillance system had been so thoroughly dismantled. Zephyr gave Dragon a sidelong glance, as if expecting a nod of support.
But before he could elaborate, a soft voice cut through the air.
"Fufufufu…"
Both men turned their heads. Little Reiju, her short violet hair fluttering in the breeze, held a gloved hand to her lips in a near-perfect mimicry of a man both of them knew too well. Her eyes sparkled with mischief as she tilted her head ever so slightly—an unmistakable impression of the Heavenly Demon himself.
"If you're referring to the sea mines and the explosive-laden suicide skiffs anchored beneath the coral shelf near the southern reef… we already know about them, Zephyr-san."
The deck fell quiet for a beat. Zephyr blinked. Then blinked again.
He opened his mouth, closed it, and let out a dry cough as if clearing his throat might somehow clear his embarrassment. "Well… not everything, then," he muttered, clearly reeling as Dragon turned away with a small smirk twitching at the corner of his lips.
"You've got to be kidding me…" Zephyr mumbled under his breath, rubbing his temple. "Even the mines…"
Reiju just beamed, entirely pleased with herself. Her impression had been flawless, her delivery impeccable, and her timing… lethal.
Diamante couldn't help but chuckle. "She's quite the prodigy, isn't she? Young Master Doflamingo personally taught her how to read military formations before she could count to twenty. She's already fluent in subterfuge."
"I'm starting to see that," Zephyr replied dryly, still recovering. "And mimicry, apparently."
Dragon glanced at Reiju and gave a soft nod of approval. There was no mocking in his expression, only a quiet amusement. For all the showmanship, this was also Doflamingo's subtle message: If this is how sharp the youngest among us is… imagine what the rest can do.
****
Amazon Lily, Calm Belt
The sun was dipping low over Amazon Lily, casting golden hues across the thick canopy of the jungle. The cries of exotic birds echoed from the trees as a soft breeze swept across the grand palace grounds of the Kuja tribe. Within its marbled corridors, a solitary figure strode silently—barefoot but assured.
Young Boa Hancock, just fourteen years old, returned from her daily training, sweat still glistening across her brow, her raven-black hair tied back in a high tail. Her gait was confident, precise, every step speaking of poise and discipline earned through hardship.
Despite her age, Hancock already bore the makings of a warrior feared across seas. Her control of Haki—both Observation and Armament—was unprecedented among her peers. She moved with grace, lethal and deliberate. Her Amazonian garb clung tightly to her frame, chest rising and falling with calm exertion, a polished bow slung across her back. The training grounds had tested her today—but she had tested them back, and won.
She turned the final corner and approached her chambers—an elegant room in the Empress's wing, one reserved only for the most promising of candidates. Hancock, the favored successor to the current Empress Tritoma, had earned it.
As the door creaked open, a soft breeze fluttered the sheer curtains. Hancock took one step inside—and froze. A quiet chuckle rang from within. Feminine, playful, unfamiliar.
In one smooth, flawless motion, Hancock's body pivoted, bow unslung in less than a heartbeat. Her hand blurred as she nocked an arrow, her Haki surging into the shaft like black lightning. Without so much as pausing to breathe, she let the arrow fly—an instant response, forged by years of training and trauma.
"My, my... such deadly hospitality," came the amused voice.
But it never reached its target. With a lazy snap, a slender hand snatched the arrow from midair, the tip inches from the side of her head. Haki flared in response, then dissipated like a passing wave.
"Well, I must say, I didn't know the Kuja trained their seamstresses to replicate Rosinante's portrait so perfectly," came a velvet-rich voice laced with mischief. "Or that our dear Hancock had taken such a personal interest in interior decorating…"
Hancock froze. Hancock's face drained of color, then flushed a deep scarlet.
"N-no...! This isn't... I mean...!" Her voice cracked as she stammered, her confident warrior persona utterly shattering.
Her eyes widened in dawning horror as her brain caught up to the face now leaning casually against the window couch. Shakuyaku—"Shakky" to most—former Empress of Amazon Lily, leaned elegantly on one elbow, the arrow still in hand, grinning like a cat who'd found cream.
And beside her, legs crossed and smile ever-so-knowing, sat Empress Tritoma herself.
For a moment, Hancock stood stunned in the doorway, like a startled deer caught in a lantern's glare, already forgetting that she had attacked the current empress. Then, as if realizing what had just transpired, a deep flush blossomed across her cheeks.
"No… no no no no…" she whispered, turning so red she could've boiled water with her face. Her eyes darted around her own room in mounting dread.
There was no denying it now. Every direction they looked—every corner of her private sanctum—screamed obsession.
The walls were lined with framed bounty posters of Donquixote Rosinante, not just the official issue but painstakingly re-drawn versions, clearly touched up by Hancock's own hand. One corner of the room housed a collection of plush pillows, each stitched with Rosinante's face in varying expressions—smiling, laughing, even pouting.
Her bedsheets bore a repeating pattern of his silhouette mid-cape flourish. A finely dressed replica doll—almost life-size—rested in the center of her bed, arms perpetually spread in welcome. Even the rug had Rosinante's personal Jolly Roger, which he barely used, embroidered at the edges.
Her bookshelf? Lined with handwritten notes, doodles, and articles—every scrap of information she could gather about him over the years.
Shakky raised one finely plucked brow. "Well," she said lightly, still holding the haki-clad arrow as though it were a curiosity, "I suppose that answers the age-old question of what teenage heartbreak looks like when you give it a weapons budget."
"Y-you're not supposed to be in here!" Hancock finally sputtered, backing up like a wounded animal, her usual fierce poise shattered by sheer mortification. "This is—this is private!"
Hancock, the fierce warrior who once challenged a Sea King with only a spear, was now hiding behind the curtain like a child who had been caught stealing sweets.
Tritoma tilted her head slightly, one brow raised in quiet surprise, though her expression was not of judgment but of fond curiosity. Shakky, meanwhile, couldn't resist. Her grin widened as she rested her chin on her hand.
"Oh, we knocked," Tritoma offered, entirely unbothered, her eyes scanning a set of hand-drawn Rosinante manga panels taped to the inside of Hancock's closet door. "But you didn't answer."
"Because I wasn't here!" Hancock cried, hiding her face behind her long curtain as if that could erase the memory from the others' minds. "This is so embarrassing…"
Shakky, ever the playful one, tilted her head toward Tritoma. "She really captured his sleepy eyes well, don't you think? Especially on the body pillow."
Tritoma gave a soft, rare laugh and leaned her chin into her palm. "I didn't realize our heir to the throne was also an artist. That embroidery must've taken weeks."
"You're both cruel," Hancock muttered from behind the curtain, voice muffled, tone petulant.
"Young one," Tritoma said gently, standing now and walking toward her, voice filled with something more akin to sympathy than judgment, "you need not hide."
"But… it's shameful!" Hancock whimpered. "You told me love is weakness! That we must forsake it! That a ruler cannot—"
"A ruler must choose, Hancock," Tritoma interrupted, kneeling beside her so their eyes were level. "I chose to forsake love. That was my path. But I never asked that you walk it."
From behind the curtain, Hancock peeked out hesitantly, eyes rimmed with watery defiance.
"You… you're not angry?" she asked, clearly not trusting the kindness she was hearing.
"Why would I be?" Tritoma smiled. "If anything, I'm glad. You were robbed of your innocence, Hancock. If a little love—no matter how absurd—can give you peace, then you embrace it. And should you become Empress one day, it will not be because you're heartless, but because you're strong enough to feel."
Hancock's lower lip quivered slightly as she stepped from behind the curtain, her head bowed low in embarrassment.
Shakky crossed her legs, still smirking. "I do wonder, though… how would Little Rosinante react if he found out the girl he saved was now decorating her entire home with his face?"
"Don't say it…" Hancock groaned.
"Would he blush? Does he even know…?" Shakky continued, teasing. "Would he bow? Would he think it was adorable? Would he—"
"I SAID DON'T SAY IT!"
Her Haki flared again—uncontrolled, fierce. The curtains flapped, the floor cracked slightly beneath her. Even the Rosinante pillow tumbled to the floor from the sheer force of her emotional surge.
But the two older women were unfazed. In fact, Shakky just looked even more amused.
"You're going to be a fine Empress," she said at last, standing and brushing off her long coat.
"And if Rosinante ever stumbles into Amazon Lily, I'm sure he'll be thrilled to know he has a temple devoted entirely to his existence."
Hancock buried her face into her hands. "I'm never going to live this down…"
"Oh, don't worry," Tritoma chuckled, walking toward the door. "Your secret's safe with us."
"Sort of," Shakky added under her breath.
Hancock glared at her with a pout that would've been adorable if not for the residual Haki lacing her aura.
"I suppose," Tritoma said softly, rising from her seat with regal composure, "in her current state, it's better we postpone the conversation we came to have. Let the matter rest for tonight. We'll discuss it with her tomorrow."
Her voice was gentler now, layered with maternal understanding. Tritoma had seen many things in her time as Empress—bloodshed, betrayal, and the impossible cost of rule. But what stood before her was something rare and innocent: a young girl caught in the snares of first love. And despite the power Hancock wielded — the deadly grace, the battle-hardened aura — she was still just fourteen. Just a girl. A girl with a heart beating too loudly in her chest.
Tritoma offered a small smile and gestured toward the door, silently beckoning Shakky to follow. The former empress sighed dramatically, but followed her friend's lead, standing with the grace of a queen and the mischief of a fox. But she couldn't resist one last jab.
As she reached the door, she paused — just long enough to glance over her shoulder with a smirk that promised no good. Her eyes sparkled with teasing malice.
"Oh, one last thing," Shakky purred, "You do know Rosinante has no idea how you feel, right? I mean—he probably thinks of you as a little sister... if he remembers your name at all."
The words were a poisoned arrow wrapped in silk. And they struck home. Hancock's gaze jerked up from the floor. Her face crumpled for a brief second — eyes wide, lips parting in disbelief, a shimmer of wetness already lining her lower lashes.
"You take that back…" she whispered, voice small but trembling with an edge of devastation.
But Shakky, already halfway into the hallway, only winked.
"I'm just teasing, sweetheart," she said breezily, waving her hand like she hadn't just cracked open the heart of a teenage girl. "Mostly."
The door shut with a soft click. And the silence that followed was deafening.
Hancock lay there in her bed, frozen, hugging the Rosinante doll so tightly to her chest that the seams groaned. Her arms trembled. Her eyes, defiant just moments ago, now brimmed with the kind of tears only a young heart can cry — the fragile ache of first love laced with the sting of doubt.
"…Stupid Rosinante," she murmured again, her voice shaky now, barely a breath.
She buried her face into the doll's plush chest, as if hiding from the world — from the embarrassment, the teasing, the fear that what Shakky said might be true. That he'd never looked at her that way. That maybe… he never would.
She squeezed her eyes shut.
But even in the darkness, his smile lingered. That soft, lopsided grin. The coldness in his voice when he entered the auction house, cutting down a Tenryubito like it was nothing. The way his presence had made others too scared to speak, but to her it seemed like a warm embrace. The way he'd called her "brave" when she had felt anything but.
He had looked at her for a fraction of a second when she had tried to stand back up. He had smiled for her. That meant something… didn't it?
"I'll show you…" Hancock whispered fiercely to the silence, to herself, to the future. Her Haki pulsed faintly through the room, responding to the storm inside her. "I'll become the strongest woman in the world… and then he'll have to see me."
The moonlight filtered through the window and touched her face gently, catching the shimmer of tears on her cheeks. The soft sound of wind in the trees returned, as if the island itself was holding its breath for her.
Outside, in the corridor, Tritoma exhaled slowly.
"She's going to break a lot of hearts one day," she said, hands behind her back, expression unreadable.
Shakky, arms folded as she leaned casually against a pillar, chuckled dryly. "Only if she can stop obsessing over one first."
Tritoma gave her a side glance. "You didn't have to go that hard."
Shakky raised a brow. "Better she cries now than later. First loves don't always end the way you dream. And that kid isn't someone who could be simply ensnared by a pretty face. If she wants to really stand a chance, she needs to reach the apex."
"But they shape who we become." Tritoma looked out into the moonlit courtyard. "Let her dream a little longer."
And dream she would. Inside her room, Hancock sat alone, clutching her Rosinante doll like a lifeline — her young heart wild, wounded, but brimming with fire. It was love — awkward, hopeless, and impossibly pure. And it was hers.