The world government battleship, anchored at the heart of the blockade, loomed like a steel fortress over the raging sea — its massive hull bristling with cannons, its decks crawling with Cipher Pol operatives. It was the temporary command center for the entire Water 7 operation, the nerve of the World Government's most covert assault.
Inside, the air was thick with the hum of transponder snails and the clipped chatter of intelligence agents relaying fragmented reports from the island. Yet as the lead operative stepped out onto the upper deck, all noise seemed to fade into the background.
From this vantage point, he could see it clearly — the island of Water 7, or rather, what used to be visible of it. The entire city had vanished beneath a rolling wall of white fog, so thick and unnatural that it pulsed faintly under the moonlight. The smog wasn't merely covering the island; it was devouring it, inch by inch, creeping outward toward the blockade itself. The air carried a faint metallic tang along with the unnatural fog — like blood evaporating on steel.
Behind him, an agent held a transponder snail to his ear. The snail clicked, whined, then went silent. The agent's eyes widened, and without needing to say a word, the Cipher Pol lead knew what it meant.
"Another one?" he asked quietly.
The agent nodded. "Unit 9-A, sir. Their signal went dead mid-report."
That made sixteen. Sixteen elite Cipher Pol agents, trained to survive in the most hostile conditions, wiped out in under two hours — without even the courtesy of a distress code.
The lead's jaw tightened. He rested his hand against the railing, his fingers brushing through the thick air where the fog met the ship's hull. It clung to him unnaturally, sliding across his skin like oil rather than mist.
"There's someone with formidable strength in there…" he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. "That density, that control — this isn't natural weather. It's a Devil Fruit, no doubt… perhaps the Smoke Logia. But if that's true—"
He paused. The Smoke Logia user they knew of was aligned with Donquixote pirates. His gaze hardened. "Then what is someone from the Donquixote family doing here…? And how did theyy bypass our blocakade, aren't all the New World's pirate crews still en route..?"
Behind him, the five CP-0 elites stood at rigid attention, their white suits immaculate despite the ash drifting down from distant bombardments. They were death incarnate — faceless, silent, efficient. And yet even they shifted uneasily as the fog lapped against the ship, tendrils curling like ghostly fingers around the railing because even among the Cipher Pol division the reputation of the Donquixote family was legendary , afterall this particular emperors crew had been the bane of Cipher Pol for years.
"Should we deploy, sir?" one of them asked.
Before the Cipher Pol lead could answer, a voice — honeyed and mocking — slid through the air like silk over steel.
"Deploy? And ruin my entertainment before it even begins?"
The lead stiffened. Every agent on deck instantly dropped to one knee as heavy, measured footsteps echoed from the corridor behind them. Emerging into the dim light came a figure that radiated both authority and dread in equal measure.
The Cipher Pol lead's breath hung in the cold air as silence fell over the deck. The waves crashed violently against the hull below, but even that sound felt distant—muted by the oppressive curtain of white fog that had consumed Water 7. It was as though the island had been erased from the map, swallowed whole by something unnatural.
Every agent still knelt, heads bowed, waiting for permission to move. None dared to look up.
But Maffey, Saint Maffey of the Satchels Family, had not spared them a glance. She stood at the railing, the sea wind thrashing her platinum hair and snapping the gold-trimmed coat draped over her broad shoulders. The smog pulsed faintly ahead of her, spreading outward like a living thing. Her crimson eyes gleamed with wicked delight.
The Cipher Pol lead finally straightened, his voice faltering. "Satchels-sama, if I may—"
She cut him off with a lazy wave, eyes still locked on the white abyss. "Tell me, mutt… you do recognize what kind of fruit power this is, don't you?"
He hesitated, unsure if it was a trap. "Smoke, Tenryūbito-sama. A Logia-type, most likely—"
"Most likely," she repeated, mocking him with a smile that bared her sharpened teeth. "You really have grown soft. This isn't one ability. It's two."
She inhaled deeply from her cigar, then exhaled a slow stream of smoke that shimmered dark red in the torchlight. "One—yes, a Smoke Logia. The other…" She trailed off, a laugh bubbling from her chest, low and delighted. "…the other is far more familiar to me than you could ever imagine."
The Cipher Pol lead looked up, alarmed. "You mean—?"
"Oh, yes," Maffey purred. "You dogs might not recognize it, but I could never forget the scent of that blood." Her grin widened, eyes blazing like molten gold. "That crimson blood mist—that's no ordinary Devil Fruit. That's Agana's logia devil fruit."
The name alone made several agents stiffen. Agana—once a prodigy among the Celestial Dragons, groomed to join the ranks of the God's Knights themselves. A woman born of divine blood and power. Until she fell.
Until she betrayed them. Until she vanished from the Holy Land. Maffey's expression twisted with something between hatred and glee.
"Oh, how low you've fallen, Agana… The Supreme Commander's prodigal daughter, reduced to consorting with gutter-born filth." She tilted her head back and laughed—a wild, manic cackle that sent shivers down the spines of every man present. "The commander would be livid if he heard what his dear girl has become."
Her voice dropped, dark and hungry. "But then again… he wouldn't complain if I were the one to end you."
Without warning, she stomped once—BOOM—and the deck cracked beneath her heel. Then she leapt.
The air itself exploded from the force, scattering papers and sending the Cipher Pol agents reeling. Her massive frame shot upward like a cannonball, the Geppo steps beneath her feet bursting into existence one after another as she vaulted into the roiling mist. Each step echoed like thunder, each flash of moonlight catching the glint of her golden epaulets.
"Saint Satchels-sama—!" the Cipher Pol lead shouted, but his words were swallowed by the wind. Above the armada, her laughter trailed behind her—a savage, echoing melody that danced with the crashing waves and cannon fire.
"Let's see how strong you've become, little fallen angel," she hissed, eyes narrowing as she pierced the veil of smoke. "Show me what betrayal buys you in this world."
The smog surged as she entered it, swirling around her like a living sea of ghosts. For a heartbeat, the agents on the deck caught a glimpse of her silhouette—arms outstretched, coat billowing like a banner of divine wrath—before she was swallowed whole by the storm.
****
Beneath the glittering canals and bustling shipyards of Water 7 — below the laughter of merchants and the ring of hammers striking steel — there existed a world long forgotten. A silent, drowned city, buried under centuries of tide and time.
Few alive even knew of its existence.
It was said that the original Water 7 — the first city ever built on this part of the sea — had been swallowed whole by the rising tides long before the World Government's records began. But the truth was that it hadn't vanished. It had simply been buried, entombed beneath layer upon layer of stone and salt, as each generation built atop the ruins of the last.
And within those ancient corridors — the bones of the old world — Tom the Shipwright led the last remnants of Water 7's true citizens.
The tunnels were massive, their ceilings supported by age-worn arches of coral stone, and lit only by faintly glowing orbs of sea prism crystals embedded in the walls — a technology no modern shipwright could reproduce. Moss clung to every surface, and distant echoes of the ocean above groaned through the cracks like the sighs of ghosts.
It was here, in this sanctum untouched by the Aqua Laguna's wrath, that hundreds of survivors huddled — shipwrights, apprentices, and families who had followed Tom beneath the waves seeking refuge from the chaos that now consumed their home above.
Tom turned to face them, his massive frame silhouetted by the soft blue light. Despite the turmoil in the city above — the bombardment, the screaming, the thick unnatural fog rolling across the canals — his expression remained calm, resolute.
"It's better we split ways here," he said quietly, his deep voice echoing through the cavern.
"Tom-san… you—" one of the younger shipwrights began, but Tom lifted a hand, silencing him before the words could form.
"They're here for me," he said simply. "Not for you. If you stay near me, you'll only invite danger to your families. The World Government doesn't stop until they get what they want — and what they want…" His gaze drifted upward, to the ancient ceiling of the drowned city. "...is buried somewhere in this island's bones."
His words hung heavy. No one dared to speak further. They all knew the rumors — that Water 7 had once been home to the creation of an ancient weapon, a ship so powerful it could change the tides of the world itself. And they knew that the government's current hunt for blueprints was not a coincidence.
Yet, in their fear, some still clung to desperate hope.
"Tom-san," one of the older craftsmen murmured, trembling, "if the blueprints exist… if you have them… maybe you should just hand them over. Spare yourself — spare us—"
The man's voice died instantly. Not because of Tom's glare — but because of the presence standing beside him. Kyros, the gladiator who had walked out from thousands of death battles.
The swordsman's sharp eyes gleamed faintly under the crystal light, and his hand rested lazily against the hilt of his sheathed blade. His very stance radiated quiet warning — a predator's calm before the strike. No one else dared speak after that.
"Tom-san, we should move," Kyros said evenly. "The Marines and Cipher Pol are already landing on the southern docks. If we delay any longer, we'll risk exposing this place."
Tom gave a grave nod. The plan was already set in motion. The Donquixote Family had promised him a way out — not freedom, but an illusion of death that would buy him and these people a chance to live on. He turned once more to the shipwrights he had saved, to the children clutching their parents, to the men who had learned under his roof and called him master.
"Stay here until it's over," he said, his tone softer now. "The sea rises and falls… but it never forgets. Just like this city. Someday, Water 7 will rise again — and when it does, you'll build it better than ever before."
His apprentices stood silently near the back. Iceburg and Cutty Flam — two bright lights in a darkening world.
"You two should go with them," Tom said, his gaze lingering on his students.
Iceburg's fists clenched at his sides. He already knew what his master meant — die, but not really. Let the world believe the myth so that the hunters would lose their scent. But even knowing the plan, hearing it aloud broke something inside him. Because the plan itself carried with it certain risks, and one wrong misstep could truly end up with their master losing his life.
Franky, though, shook his head violently because he hadn't been made aware of the true plans regarding Tom's fate. "No! I'm not leaving you behind, Tom-san! I—"
"Cutty." Tom's voice carried the weight of an ocean. "You will. Both of you will. You've got a future to build. A shipwright's duty isn't to fight — it's to create. Remember that."
"And everything you build," he said, glancing at each of the young shipwrights before him, "must be done with a DON!"
His booming laugh echoed through the caverns, filling the darkness with life for just a moment.
"Always be proud of what you build! No matter who judges it or what fate it meets. A shipwright's soul lives in his creation — and that can never be destroyed!"
Even now, surrounded by uncertainty and the shadow of death, Tom's pride burned bright. He had lived his life with purpose. Building the Oro Jackson had been an honor — a sin in the world's eyes perhaps, but in his, it was the culmination of a dream. Then came the Sea Train — a miracle that united islands through the sea itself. And now, though the world hunted him for something far greater, he still held his head high.
If fate allows it, he thought, perhaps I'll build one last thing — something that'll be remembered for all of time.
He turned toward Iceburg, his expression softening. The young man stood still, fists clenched, tears streaming freely down his face despite his effort to hide them.
"Are you sure you want to do this, Iceburg?" Tom asked, his voice quieter now. "You don't have to take this risk. Once I'm gone, the World Government will mark you. You'll be walking a thin line between life and death, every single day."
Iceburg swallowed hard but didn't look away. "If I don't stay, everything you've built will die with you," he said, voice trembling but firm. "Water 7… this island… it needs someone to carry your will forward. And if the Donquixote Family plans to protect that will — even from the shadows — then I'll do my part."
Tom gave a small, knowing smile. He didn't need to ask how much Iceburg knew. The young man's composure said it all. Iceburg was the only one among them aware of the full truth — the plan the Donquixote Family had carefully woven.
Tom's "death" would not be the end, but the beginning of a lie powerful enough to deceive the entire world. His body would never be found; his name would go down in history as a man who died protecting the blueprints to an ancient weapon. And while the World Government celebrated their victory, Tom would simply… vanish — carried away by the very shadows that had once threatened to consume him.
But to make that illusion real, Iceburg had to play his part — had to stay behind. His apparent "grief" and later success would convince the world that Tom's legacy had ended with him, while in truth, the Donquixote Family would ensure that the shipwright lived on in secret, safeguarded far from the World Government's reach.
Tom's gaze shifted next to Franky — or Cutty Flam, as he still called him. The young man was trembling, his heart screaming rebellion even before his mouth could.
"Take care of Cutty, Iceburg," Tom said gently, resting a massive hand on Iceburg's shoulder.
"Don't let him cause too much trouble. He's still got a lot to learn… and I hope you'll teach him the things I've taught you — and more."
Then he turned, his eyes finding the woman standing a few paces away — Kokoro, her ever-present bottle hanging loosely in her hand, though her eyes shimmered with unspoken sorrow.
"Kokoro… I'll leave the Sea Train in your care once I'm gone. Keep it running, no matter what. And keep an eye on these brats when you can."
A faint smile tugged at his lips. "Oh, and don't forget to feed Yokozuna. That rascal gets cranky when he's hungry."
Kokoro laughed — a brittle sound that broke halfway through, tears welling up despite her attempt to hide them. "You always worry about everyone else, Tom… even when you're the one walking into hell."
But before she could say more, a raw shout cut through the still air.
"NO!" Cutty Flam's voice cracked with anguish. He stormed forward, shoving Iceburg aside and grabbing Tom's arm. "You can't do this! You don't have to sacrifice yourself! We can run — we can hide! I'll fight them myself if I have to—"
"CUTTY!" Iceburg's voice rose, catching his friend by the shoulders and forcing him back.
"Enough!"
"Let go of me!" Cutty struggled violently, his tears falling onto the dusty stone floor. "He's gonna die out there! You're just gonna let him—"
Iceburg's grip tightened, his own tears slipping free as he whispered harshly, "He won't die… Trust me."
Cutty Flam froze, confusion and pain etched into his young face. He didn't understand. He wasn't supposed to. Tom placed a massive hand on Franky's head, his voice low and kind. "Cutty… you've got a big heart. Too big for this world sometimes. But promise me one thing — whatever happens next, don't lose faith in your craft. The world might call us criminals, but as long as we build with pride… we'll always be free."
Cutty fell silent, his sobs muffled as Tom turned away for the last time. The shipwright's heavy footsteps echoed through the ancient tunnel, fading slowly into the distance. Kokoro wiped her eyes, Iceburg stood in silence, and Cutty Flam — still trembling — finally sank to his knees.
Up above, cannon fire thundered and the world screamed, but down here, beneath the ruins of history, one fishman's quiet resolve burned brighter than any flame. And as the shadows swallowed Tom's towering figure, the sea itself seemed to whisper in reverence — a shipwright's farewell.
****
The heavens above Water 7 split open with a roar. What began as a drizzle of fine rain turned, in the space of heartbeats, into a raging maelstrom. Clouds twisted into monstrous spirals, bruised with violet and black, lightning carving jagged veins across the firmament. The sea itself—once churning only with the fury of cannonfire and blood—rose in rebellion, waves climbing like walls, tearing through the fragile lines of ships locked in combat.
"Brace the sails! Drop anchor, damn it!" a Marine officer bellowed, clutching the railing as his vessel pitched violently to starboard. The Gale's Emissary, a proud battleship of the Navy's second line, groaned as a massive wave slammed against its hull. "We're losing formation! Signal the Vice Admiral—tell him the blockade is breaking!"
But the wind devoured voices whole. Orders scattered like whispers in a hurricane. From the dark horizon, the pirate fleet—scores of mismatched, battle-scarred ships—saw opportunity. The storm that tore apart the Marines' discipline became their salvation.
"There! The current's tearing a gap through the blockade!" shouted a tattooed helmsman, veins bulging as he fought the spinning wheel.
A grinning captain, eyes wild beneath a soaked tricorne, slammed his cutlass into the railing and howled into the wind. "HYAHAHAHA! The sea's on our side today, boys! Get us through that gap before the dogs recover! All cannons, FIRE!"
Explosions lit the storm like fireworks. Cannonballs streaked through rain and fog, some swallowed whole by the wind, others crashing into Marine hulls, bursting plumes of flame across the black water.
A Marine lieutenant, blood streaking down his temple, screamed into his den-den mushi: "This is the third squadron! Enemy vessels breaching the eastern front! We've lost sight of the fifth and sixth ships—repeat, they've been capsized!"
"Hold the line!" came the Vice Admiral's furious voice through the snail, distorted by static and thunder. "I want every ship left afloat to close ranks! Deploy the Sea Stone Nets! No pirate touches that island—no one!"
But nature itself had ceased to obey. Lightning speared the ocean, vaporizing seawater into great clouds of steam. The wind howled like the cry of a living god. In the chaos, pirate ships rammed through the broken defense, slipping between foundering Marine vessels. One monstrous galleon with black sails bearing a crimson fang crested a wave so high it seemed to climb into the sky itself before crashing down between two Marine battleships.
"You bastards thought you could stop us?!" its captain roared, firing his pistol into the air.
"This storm ain't yours to command! The sea belongs to pirates!"
"Vice Admiral!" another Marine officer shouted over the roar, clutching his telescope.
"Something's wrong with the clouds—they're… moving!"
And indeed, above the chaos, the storm seemed to twist with purpose. Lightning gathered around a single coiling shadow that rippled through the clouds like a serpent of thunder. The rain faltered for an instant as a monstrous form glided through the heart of the tempest.
Then— A deafening roar shook the heavens themselves. It wasn't thunder. It was alive. Every ship, pirate and Marine alike, froze. Men fell silent, staring skyward as the clouds tore apart under the weight of scales and wings vast enough to blot out the moon.
A dragon—massive, endless—circled above Water 7, its serpentine body shimmering like molten metal under the lightning's flash. Storm winds howled from its breath, the very sea bending to its presence.
"By the gods…" whispered a Marine ensign, his voice barely audible over the storm. "That's… that's not natural…"
Another officer, eyes wide in terror, dropped his den-den mushi. "It's him… Kaido!"
The dragon's roar came again—low, resonant, ancient. The air itself trembled, and the sea answered. Ships splintered, men screamed, and the blockade shattered completely as Kaido's immense body disappeared once more into the storm clouds.
In his wake, chaos reigned supreme. Pirates surged through the broken ranks, their laughter and cannonfire mixing with the howling of the gale. Marines scrambled to re-form lines, their discipline torn apart by primal fear.
Above it all, the sky rumbled once more—a dragon's challenge echoing across the endless sea. And below, the island of Water 7, already hidden beneath smoke and mystery, awaited the monsters that now drew near.