The first sensation wasn't warmth, or light, or even the gentle tug of gravity. It was cold. A bone deep, marrow-freezing chill that seeped up from the polished stone beneath him, radiating from the vast, echoing emptiness around him. It was the cold of absence, of a space too large for life.
His eyes snapped open.
Darkness. Not the comforting dark of sleep, but the profound, light-swallowing dark of a cavern. Above, a vaulted ceiling lost in shadow. Before him… nothing. Just an immense, silent hall stretching into gloom. And beneath him… a throne.
Not a comfortable seat. Not a symbol of rest. It was stone, hard and unyielding, shaped like a blade pointing upwards. The Empty Throne. The symbol of ultimate, centralized power, the lie told to the world that no single ruler sat upon it.
Except someone did.
Panic, cold and sharp as the throne itself, lanced through him. He tried to gasp, but the sound died in his throat, choked off by a wave of wrongness. His body felt alien. Tall, unnaturally so, draped in heavy, ornate fabrics that rustled like dry leaves. Long, pale fingers his fingers? curled against the cold armrests. He felt the weight of something immense on his head, a circlet of cold metal pressing into his scalp.
Where? How? The memories were a chaotic storm. A life. A normal life. Traffic jams, deadlines, streaming shows… and then… nothing. Just this. This impossible, terrifying awakening.
He forced his head to turn. Movement felt sluggish, like wading through tar. Figures stood in the gloom at the base of the dais, silent, still. Five of them. Tall, robed, their faces obscured by shadows and the distinct, almost monstrous silhouettes of their headwear. The Five Elders. The public face of the World Government's ultimate authority.
They weren't looking at him. Not directly. Their heads were bowed, eyes fixed on the floor before the throne. Yet their posture radiated an intensity, a reverence so profound it was suffocating. They weren't just respecting a position; they were worshipping the presence occupying it.
I am what....
The name slammed into his consciousness with the force of a cannonball, a knowledge not learned, but ingrained, a terrible truth settling into his bones like lead.
IMU
He was Imu. The shadow. The secret. The sovereign who ruled from the deepest dark, pulling the strings of the World Government, the Marines, the Cipher Pols. The entity whose existence was the world's most closely guarded secret. The one who sat upon the Empty Throne.
A strangled whimper escaped his lips, barely audible in the cavernous silence. It wasn't power he felt. It wasn't invincibility. It was dread. Pure, unadulterated, soul-crushing dread. Because he knew. He knew everything.
He knew this world. He knew its stories, its legends, its impending cataclysm. He wasn't just some nameless reincarnate dropped into a peaceful village. He'd been shoved into the eye of the hurricane, wearing the target painted on the back of the most hated figure in existence.
The Great Pirate Era. It wasn't coming; it was here and it is already too late. The boiling point was near. Gol d. Roger's words had echoed across the waves, and now the seas churned with ambition and chaos.
The Four Emperors. Kaido's drunken rage and suicidal acts, Big Mom's uncontrollable hunger, Shank's mystery, Blackbeard's Ambition and Whitebeard's power… they weren't distant threats. They were active forces, clashing, scheming, each a potential apocalypse given form. And they all, eventually, would brush against the foundations of the World Government. His government.
Monkey D. Luffy. The name sent a fresh wave of terror through him. Not just a pirate. The protagonist of destiny. The man who would laugh in the face of Imu's power, who would punch Celestial Dragons, who would defy Imu directly and win. He was out there right now, getting stronger, gathering allies, sailing towards the dawn that would Imu's eternal night. Every second Luffy lived, breathed, and ate meat was a second ticking closer to Imu's doom.
Monkey D. Dragon. The Revolutionary Army's Supreme Commander. The World's Most Wanted Man. And he hadn't just declared war; he was waging it. Sabo, his chief of staff, was a ghost striking at the heart of the system. Koala, Hack, commanders across the globe… they weren't just rebels; they were a hydra dedicated to tearing down everything Imu represented. They were coming for the throne. For him.
And that wasn't all. The Ancient Weapons – Pluton, Poseidon, Uranus are slumbering terrors that could crack the world open. The Void Century the buried truth that could shatter the World Government's legitimacy like glass. Rogue kingdoms like Alabasta and Dressrosa, already scarred by Celestial Dragon corruption, ripe for revolution. The D. family, carrying the will of those who opposed the founders of the World Government…
They were all rising. Like ghosts from the depths of history, like waves gathering force offshore. And every single one, every faction, every pirate, every revolutionary, every seeker of truth… they were all vectors aimed directly at Pangaea Castle. At the Empty Throne. At Imu.
He was the keystone in the archway holding up a world built on lies and oppression. And the archway was cracking. The pressure was immense, and he could feel it, not just as knowledge, but as a physical weight pressing down on his chest, making it hard to breathe.
The Five Elders remained motionless, silent sentinels of his power. But what did they see? Did they see the new Imu, the absolute ruler? Or did they sense the tremor in his hand, the ragged edge to his breathing, the sheer, unadulterated panic radiating from him like heat? Would they interpret it as weakness? Would the sharks circling this throne sense blood in the water?
He tried to steady his breathing, to project the icy calm the position demanded. But his mind was a screaming vortex. What do I do? What should i do? how? Every move was a minefield. Ordering a purge could spark the very rebellion he feared. Showing weakness could invite assassination. Unearthing Void Century secrets could unravel the fragile tapestry of control before he was ready. Ignoring Luffy or Dragon was suicide, but acting too soon could reveal his hand, accelerate the inevitable.
He was trapped. Not in a cell, but on a throne. Not by bars, but by the crushing weight of history, destiny, and the countless enemies he hadn't made but had inherited. The Empty Throne wasn't a sanctuary. It was the bullseye painted on the heart of the world.
He looked down at his pale, trembling hands the hands that held the leash on the Admirals, that could order a Buster Call, that held the fragile threads of global order. They felt weak and Useless.
The cold of the stone seeped deeper, into his core, matching the dread that froze his soul. He was Imu. He is king of the world. And he had never, in any life, felt so utterly, terrifyingly powerless. The world wasn't just his to rule anymore. It was his to lose. And the fire was coming.