Mary Geoise, Red Line
The marble floor, polished to a mirror's sheen, reflected the towering pillars engraved with the sigils of the World Government. Heavy curtains muted the sound of the wind sweeping across the Holy Land. The only noise that usually broke the silence was the ticking of the ancient clock suspended above the central dais — a sound symbolic of control, of patience, of a world always ticking according to their design.
But today, that rhythm was broken. Elder Nusjuro paced across the chamber, his wooden sandals echoing against the marble like thunderclaps. The light from the ceiling domes caught the steel of his blade — still sheathed, yet vibrating faintly, as if it too could sense his unrest.
The remaining Elders sat in their usual positions around the obsidian table, their shadows stretching long across the floor under the flickering light of the crystal lamps. But the calm that had always defined them was gone. The air was thick with tension, almost suffocating, as the gravity of what had transpired over the last few hours settled over them.
The ancient weapon. Water 7. The words hung like poison in the room.
"This should have been contained." Nusjuro's voice cut through the still air, a low rumble that made even the lights flicker. "We approved Spandam's operation under absolute secrecy to investigate the matter. Cipher Pol Nine was to act discreetly, extract the blueprint, and deliver it directly to us — not turn the entire world upside down!"
He stopped mid-stride, slamming a hand on the edge of the small table. The sound reverberated across the chamber like a gunshot.
"The entire Underworld knows," Elder Warcury hissed, adjusting his suit. "And not just them — the Yonko, the Revolutionary Army, even the bounty guilds from the four blues. Every power worth its salt is mobilizing toward Water 7."
"It should have been impossible…" murmured Elder JuPeter seated nearest the window. "No one should have known about the possibility of an ancient weapon within Water 7, even we were only made aware recently because of Spandam's work. Cipher Pol reports are encrypted through seven layers. The only ones who should have known of the operation were Spandam, ourselves, and—"
He didn't finish. No one dared to speak the rest aloud. Because the implication was clear — a leak from within. From within their own ranks.
The silence that followed JuPeter's declaration was suffocating. It pressed down like the weight of the sea itself, thick and heavy, until even the sound of breath seemed loud in the chamber. The storm beyond the stained glass windows flashed again — a white glare casting long, distorted shadows of the Five Elders upon the floor.
For a time, no one spoke. Then, with a weary sigh that sounded more like resignation than calm, Elder Saturn finally broke the silence.
"There is no point crying over spilled milk," he said, his voice low, deliberate, each word heavy with age and authority. "The information is out. The world is already in motion, and we cannot turn back the tide now."
He straightened from his seat, his weathered hands clasping behind his back as he stared into the latest edition of the World Times newspaper sprawled on the center of the tables—its headlines bold for the whole world to see and for the information to spread across the seas like a spreading infection.
"Spandam may be an ambitious fool, but he's not suicidal," Saturn continued. "He knows the price of leaking such a matter. If he wanted power, he would've come to us first. Whoever revealed this — they did not get it from him."
He turned his gaze slowly toward the others. "No… this reeks of chaos for chaos's sake. Someone shot blindly into the dark — and by sheer chance, hit something close enough to truth to make the world bleed."
His tone was measured, but beneath it lurked a venomous frustration. Across the table, Elder Mars leaned forward, his long fingers steepled before him, eyes glowing faintly in the lamplight.
"Then we must act before this situation spirals out of control; we cannot let them shake our control over the first half of the Grand Line." He paused for a moment and then continued in a grave tone.
"There is still one way to silence this before it grows beyond us…we can simply root out the problem at its source, remove the prize…." His voice dropped to a whisper, cold and precise. "We can seek Imu-sama's permission to deploy it… to erase Water 7."
That single word — it — made the air itself still. Even Nusjuro, whose restless pacing had not ceased for hours, stopped mid-step.
"You're suggesting we use the ancient weapon," he said quietly. It wasn't a question.
Mars nodded once, expression grave. "If Water 7 is truly the source of this madness, if there is even a chance that the blueprint exists there like Spandam suspects, we must erase it completely. Better to destroy it than give those worms a chance to lay a hand on the keys to this world… Let the world think what it wants; let them think it divine retribution — it does not matter. Better to lose one island than the balance of an entire age."
The idea hung in the air like a guillotine. Then Saturn's eyes hardened, and he shook his head. "I'm afraid that's not an option."
Mars frowned. "Why not?"
Saturn turned toward him, the dim light reflecting off his round spectacles. "Because if we use it now, they'll know," he said simply. "Every power in the world who has seen us deploy the ancient weapon before will feel it — the difference in its destruction, the reduction in its reach. The weapon can barely operate at twenty percent of capacity."
He began to pace slowly around the table, his tone shifting into the precise, clinical cadence of a scientist explaining a catastrophe. "After Sorbet… and then Fleevance… the reserves are depleted. The core is unstable — its fuel almost exhausted. If we fire it again without an alternate power source, it might fail mid-deployment."
The silence that followed was deafening. Even the storm outside seemed to hush.
Elder Mars leaned back slowly in his chair, the realization dawning on him like a spreading sickness. His voice trembled slightly — not with fear, but with fury restrained.
"So what do we do?" he asked finally, breaking the suffocating silence. "As we speak, Whitebeard, Kaido, Scarlett — all three are mobilizing to enter the first half of the Grand Line. And the Donquixote…" His gaze darkened. "We don't even know what they're planning. Are we simply going to stand by and let the blueprint of an ancient weapon fall into pirate hands? Have you considered what the consequences will be?"
The words echoed through the vast chamber like cannon fire. Elder Saturn turned toward him, his voice sharp and unyielding — the voice of a man who had ruled the world's shadow long enough to understand that panic was death.
"No," he said. "Not yet. We move only when the world moves against us. The illusion of invincibility is the only shield we have left — unless you would rather reveal how thin that shield truly is."
His hand tightened behind his back, the tendons visible beneath his aged skin. "The moment that illusion cracks… the moment anyone learns the truth of our state — every wolf on the sea will descend upon us."
That word — wolves — carried a gravity that stilled the room. Every man there knew exactly who he meant. The Donquixote Family. For a long heartbeat, no one spoke. Then, Elder Nusjuro's voice, low and gravelly, cut through the static hum of the storm.
"You're referring to Doflamingo."
Saturn nodded once, grimly. "Who else? The Donquixote brothers are the single thorn we have never been able to extract. Their intellect is a weapon more dangerous than any fruit or fleet. That young man's cunning outstrips even the other Yonko's combined — he's patient, calculating, and vindictive. And if he ever discovers that our deterrent is no longer functional…"
He trailed off. The flickering light of the storm caught the side of his face, revealing deep creases of strain — anger, exhaustion, and for the briefest of moments… something like fear.
Elder Mars clenched his jaw, his voice seething with venom. "He'd burn the world just to watch us flinch — or at the very least, to see us panic."
Nusjuro's reply came as a low growl. "He's done it before. Mary Geoise still bears the scars of his last tantrum."
The memory was like an open wound — the day the Heavenly Yaksha had torn through the Holy Land's defenses, leaving behind a crater of chaos and humiliation. For a moment, even the omnipotent rulers of the world sat in silence, haunted by the echo of that day.
Then Saturn spoke again, his voice regaining its cold, deliberate cadence.
"Which is why," he said, "we will not risk it. Not unless we have no other choice."
Mars slammed a fist against the obsidian table. The impact reverberated like a thunderclap. "Then what would you have us do? Sit idly while pirates and revolutionaries converge on our own shipyard? If the blueprint is real — if even one of them manages to obtain it—"
"Then the age of order ends," Saturn finished quietly. "And the age of war begins anew." Lightning tore through the skies again, illuminating their faces like specters of judgment. But then Saturn's tone hardened, shifting from fatalism to command.
"But we will not let it come to that. Perhaps others converging upon the island remain ignorant of the details, but we are not. According to Spandam's reports, he suspects a specific individual of possessing the blueprint. Originally, we instructed him to retrieve it discreetly." Saturn's eyes narrowed. "Now, that luxury no longer exists."
He looked around the chamber, his gaze cold and absolute.
"We must capture that man — whether he truly has the blueprint or not is irrelevant. Remove him from the equation, and no other faction will have a chance to claim the weapon."
A heavy silence fell again, broken only by the rain hammering against the glass. At last, Elder Warcury, who had been silent until now, spoke — his gravelly baritone carrying the weight of military command.
"It's not going to be easy," he said grimly. "With the blockade already in place around Water 7, the situation has escalated beyond our control. The rumors of a Buster Call have gained traction, and every pirate within reach now believes it's true. They're circling like sharks — waiting for the New World fleets to make the first move."
He stepped closer to the holographic map that dominated the chamber, the red light reflecting off his metallic beard. "Over a hundred pirate ships have already been spotted near Water 7," he continued, his tone sharp. "And those are only the reckless ones too loud to hide their presence. The truly dangerous ones — the warlords, the Yonko fleets — they're waiting just beyond the horizon, biding their time for the first crack in our blockade."
He looked up, his gaze cutting across the room. "Once that happens, even our fleets may not find it easy to withdraw."
A grim murmur rippled among them. They all knew what that meant — the marines and the world government's own armadas could be swallowed by the maelstrom that was building, dragged into a conflict unlike any since the days of Rocks. It was a war that none of them were prepared for.
The room plunged into silence once more, broken only by the echo of distant thunder. And in that silence, the Five Elders — rulers of a trembling world — stood not as untouchable deities, but as weary men caught in the tide of their own making.
Outside, the storm howled louder, as though the world itself sensed the beginning of another age of destruction.
****
Dressrosa, New World
Crunch… Crunch.
The sound echoed across the grand dining hall of Dressrosa Palace, loud enough to make even the crystal chandeliers tremble.
A banquet fit for kings stretched from one end of the marble hall to the other — a sprawling ocean of golden platters and steaming dishes. Roasted sea beasts from the New World, exotic spices from Paradise, desserts crafted by world-renowned chefs — the spread was nothing short of divine. The air was thick with the scent of sizzling meats, caramelized sugar, and rich wine.
And sitting at the very center of it all — with his legs crossed and sleeves rolled up — was Vice Admiral Monkey D. Garp, crunching into a mountain of senbei as if he were back in the Marine mess hall.
He chewed happily, crumbs flying everywhere, utterly oblivious to the tension hanging in the air like a blade.
Across the hall, seated with all the stiff formality of a man regretting every decision that led him here, was Admiral Kuzan — long arms folded, a half-melted cube of ice floating in his untouched drink. His sharp eyes scanned the room warily, every muscle coiled with quiet vigilance.
Because surrounding them — lining the walls, lounging across couches, and watching with predatory amusement — were the Donquixote Pirates. The monsters of Dressrosa. The pillars of the Emperor's power.
Doflamingo wasn't even trying to hide his grin, seated casually on his ornate throne at the head of the hall, his trademark sunglasses glinting in the golden light. Beside him, seated to his immediate right was the man who carried a bounty surpassing 5 billion berries, the true monster of the Donquixote pirates, Donquixote Rosinante. And to Doflamingo's left sat the blind swordsman Issho, calmly sipping his tea.
And there, in the middle of it all — the Marine Hero sat cross-legged, surrounded by enemy royalty, devouring senbei like a man without a care in the world.
"Oi, Kuzan!" Garp's booming voice shattered the uneasy silence, making half the table flinch.
"You need to write a petition to Sengoku once we get back to Marineford!"
Kuzan blinked, unsure if he heard correctly. "…A petition?"
Garp nodded solemnly — or as solemnly as a man could while talking with his mouth full. "Yeah! We should procure snacks from Dressrosa henceforth! These senbei—" crunch! "—are the best I've ever had! You should use that fancy Admiral authority of yours to make it official! Hah!"
Kuzan sighed, dragging a hand down his face, his tone a drawl of resignation. "Right… because nothing screams 'justice' like requisitioning pirate snacks, huh?"
A ripple of barely restrained laughter passed through the Donquixote pirates. Even Doflamingo's grin widened a fraction. "Fuffuffuffu… truly, the Marines send us their most distinguished representatives," he mused, voice dripping with irony.
But if Garp noticed the mockery, he didn't show it. He was already halfway through his next plate — grilled sea king ribs glazed with honey and citrus. "Mmmm! You know, Kuzan," he said between bites, "even the Marine HQ can't compare to this! You'd think the World Government could afford better cooks!"
He leaned back in his chair, patting his belly contentedly, utterly unbothered by the fact that he was surrounded by some of the most dangerous criminals alive.
Kuzan, on the other hand, hadn't taken his eyes off Doflamingo once. His observation haki flickered instinctively, tracing the threads of power weaving invisibly through the hall. Every instinct screamed that this was a lion's den — and that even one careless move could trigger a bloodbath.
But then he glanced at Garp. The man was laughing — actually laughing — with a chunk of roasted meat in one hand and a senbei in the other, crumbs dotting his uniform like battle scars. The table shook with each booming laugh, and even the Donquixote officers found themselves exchanging wary glances.
There was no fear in him. Not even a trace.
And that, Kuzan realized, was what made Garp the Hero — not just his strength, but that absurd, almost divine level of confidence that made the world itself bend around him. The Marine Hero didn't walk into the lion's den. He invited the lions to dinner — and then ate first.
"Oi, Doflamingo!" Garp bellowed suddenly, raising his cup with a grin that could split mountains.
"You should open a branch of your restaurant in Marineford! I'll vouch for you with Sengoku! BWAHAHAHAHA!"
The tension shattered — replaced with a stunned silence that lingered for a beat before Doflamingo's signature laugh slithered through the air.
"Fuffuffuffu… Vice Admiral Garp," he drawled, eyes gleaming with amusement, "you truly are a madman."
Garp bit into another senbei, unfazed. "Hah! Been called worse!"
Kuzan just sighed, sinking deeper into his seat, muttering under his breath, "I should've never taken on this Admiral promotion…"
"Fufufufufu… Aren't you worried," Doflamingo drawled, his smile cutting across the candlelight like a razor, "that we could have poisoned your food, Vice Admiral Garp?"
His words slipped into the air like silk, smooth and venomous, making the atmosphere in the hall tighten. Even the ever-calm Issho paused mid-sip, his blind eyes flicking toward the Marine hero who continued to eat as if he hadn't heard.
Garp didn't even glance up. He bit into another senbei, the crisp crunch echoing louder than Doflamingo's taunt. Then, with a mouth half full and a tone of complete nonchalance, he said —
"Have you?"
A beat of silence. Then —
"Fufufufu…No," Doflamingo replied with that same smile, his pink feathers whispering as he leaned back lazily in his throne. "Not at all. We do not treat our guests in such ways, even if they are… enemies."
"Well, that's a relief," Garp said cheerfully, raising another rice cracker in mock salute before tossing it into his mouth. "Would've been a shame to waste good senbei!"
Around them, several of the Donquixote officers exchanged amused glances. Was this man even aware of where he was? The infamous Dressrosa palace — heart of an Emperor's dominion — and this Marine was cracking jokes about poisoned snacks.
But Doflamingo merely chuckled again, that low, melodic laugh that never quite reached his eyes. "So tell me, Vice Admiral Garp… have you gotten everything you came here for? If there's anywhere else in Dressrosa you'd like to visit, I can have Ross personally escort you."
He gestured toward Rosinante, who was standing quietly by the throne — a calm presence beside his flamboyant brother. His tone was smooth, his offer sincere… at least on the surface.
But the subtext was unmistakable. You've seen enough. Time to leave.
Garp leaned back, rubbing his chin thoughtfully — crumbs still clinging to his greying beard.
"Hmm… nah." He said it like he was ordering dessert. "I think I'll stay another week or two. You don't mind, do you?"
Kuzan's hand froze halfway to his glass. His head snapped toward his mentor, his eye twitching.
A week or two?
If he let that go, he knew exactly what would happen. Garp would turn this "mission" into a beachside vacation — one that somehow involved him, an Admiral, doing all the paperwork and explanations to Sengoku later.
Kuzan exhaled through his nose, resigned. "...Vice Admiral, you do remember this is supposed to be a covert investigation, right? Not a culinary tour."
Garp grinned, utterly unbothered. "You're too uptight, Kuzan! You need to learn to relax. Besides, how often do we get free luxury food and five-star treatment?"
Kuzan's gaze flicked toward Doflamingo, who was watching the exchange with serpentine amusement. Five-star treatment, he thought grimly. From a man who once burned the Holy Land itself just to make a point.
The Admiral sighed again and reached for his transponder snail. "I'm calling Sengoku san."
He pulled the specially-issued Den Den Mushi from his coat — one that could connect directly to Marineford, no matter the distance or sea current interference. He pressed the receiver to his ear and waited.
Nothing. Just static. Kuzan frowned, adjusting the dial, then the frequency. The line hissed and crackled — no response. He tried again. Static. And again.
His brows knitted. "That's… odd." He switched channels, this time connecting to the Marine vessel anchored just off Dressrosa's shore. "This is Admiral Kuzan, come in—"
SSSSHHHHHHHHH.
Still static. No voices. No signal. Not even the faint echo of a transmission. Just a dead, suffocating silence.
Kuzan's frown deepened. The snails weren't malfunctioning — he knew that tone. That specific distorted silence meant only one thing: the frequency was being jammed. Before he could voice the thought, a calm, almost musical voice spoke from behind Doflamingo's chair.
"I'm afraid that's not going to work in here, Admiral."
The speaker stepped forward — Senor, his movements smooth, his smile too polite. His shadow stretched long across the golden floor as he adjusted his cufflink.
"Any communications other than those belonging to the Family are barred," he said pleasantly, as though he were explaining palace etiquette. "Unless, of course, we allow it."
Kuzan's eyes narrowed. His fingers hovered over the snail, still buzzing softly in static.
So that's why there had been no messages. No orders. No updates. Two days in Dressrosa — two full days — and not a single transmission from HQ had come through. Not even a recall notice.
At first, he'd assumed Sengoku was dealing directly with Garp — after all, the Vice Admiral had a reputation for ignoring half the Fleet Admiral's orders anyway. But now, as he looked at the cheerful old man who was currently debating which dessert to try next, the realization sank like ice through his veins.
Sengoku hadn't called. Because he couldn't. They were cut off. Completely isolated inside Doflamingo's web. Kuzan leaned back slowly, his expression unreadable. The air in the hall suddenly felt heavier, the laughter and clinking of plates distant and hollow.
Meanwhile, Garp let out a hearty laugh, raising his cup once more. "See, Kuzan? You're worrying for nothing! These guys are good hosts! Best food, best company — and look, no paperwork!"
Kuzan didn't respond. He simply stared at his superior, wondering — not for the first time — whether the old man was actually fearless… or just suicidally insane. Doflamingo's grin widened by a fraction, his fingers twitching slightly as invisible threads shimmered faintly in the candlelight. He could see it — the slight tension in the Admiral's posture, the dawning suspicion in his gaze.
"Fufufufu…" His laugh echoed softly, curling through the hall like smoke. "I do hope you'll enjoy your stay, Vice Admiral. And you too, Admiral Kuzan. After all…" He leaned forward, eyes glowing behind his lenses. "…there's no safer place in the world than Dressrosa."
The words dripped with honey — and poison. Garp just smiled, popping another senbei into his mouth. "That's good to hear. Because I plan to eat everything on this table before I go."
Kuzan however didn't share his mentor's easy laughter or his appetite. Something was wrong. Deeply, viscerally wrong. He could feel it in his bones — that strange stillness in the air, too controlled, too rehearsed. The Donquixote Family weren't acting like hosts entertaining an enemy; they were acting like predators watching prey dance closer to the edge of a web.
And Kuzan, who had lived long enough to trust his instincts, could sense it. His gaze flicked toward Doflamingo, lounging lazily in his throne of feathers and gold. The pink lenses of his shades glinted under the candlelight, hiding eyes that were far too calm.
Every smile, every laugh, every drop of civility in the air — it was all too perfect. That's when Kuzan's tone changed. The lazy warmth left his voice, replaced by the chill of the Grand Line's deep currents.
"Would you mind turning off the jammer," he said quietly, his breath misting in the air, "so I can connect to Marine HQ?"
The words hung in the hall like shards of ice. The temperature dropped instantly. Thin wisps of frost coiled from Kuzan's fingertips, spreading outward — curling across the silver trays, freezing cups and plates solid. The desserts cracked under the sudden frost.
Even Garp, who had been halfway through another rice cracker, froze mid-bite. The crackling sound of ice filled the silence.
"Oi… Kuzan," Garp muttered, slowly lowering his snack. "What's going on?"
The jovial gleam in his eye faded, replaced by something much sharper. His instincts — honed from decades of fighting monsters in human skin — were fully alert now. Doflamingo's smirk hadn't twitched once since the frost began creeping across the table.
Kuzan didn't take his eyes off him. "Garp-san," he said, voice even, "I think they're stalling us."
That made the old hero's expression harden completely.
"Stalling…?"
"Yeah." Kuzan's breath fogged as the chill deepened. The air grew dense, each exhale turning to vapor. The edges of his coat shimmered with frost. "The signal jamming — it's deliberate. And it's not about security. They want us cut off. They know something… something we don't. And they're making sure we stay in the dark."
His gaze sharpened. "And it's been this way since before we arrived."
The realization slammed into Garp like a blow. Even his laid-back demeanor couldn't hide the tension that flooded the air now. The Donquixote family — jamming Marine transmissions, keeping two of the Navy's strongest officers contained within their own territory — wasn't a coincidence.
It was a play. A calculated move in a game neither of them knew they'd been dragged into. The frost crackled louder. A frozen cup shattered, echoing through the hall like a warning bell. That was when Doflamingo's laughter broke the silence — slow, deep, and smooth.
"Fufufufufu…"
The Heavenly Yaksha rose from his throne, the golden threads of his coat shimmering as he tilted his head back and smiled — wide, almost gleeful.
"Not bad… not bad at all, Admiral Aokiji."
His voice was velvet, but every word carried a note of razor-edged mockery.
"I was wondering how long it would take for you to figure it out."