"Is he going to be all right…? Can you save him…?"
Whitebeard turned toward me, and for a man hailed as the strongest in the world, the hope in his eyes was painfully human. Edward Newgate had faced the might of fleets and emperors without flinching, yet now his massive frame felt weighed down by helplessness. He knew it as well as I did—if King Neptune had even the slightest chance of survival, it lay here, in the hands of the Donquixote family.
Beyond the opaque reinforced glass of the treatment chamber, Neptune's colossal body lay still. Tubes and seals were embedded along his scales, strange machines humming softly as they tried to stabilize a life that was slipping away. The forbidden drug still ravaged him from within—power borrowed at the cost of everything else. It had wrung the merfolk king dry, draining his vitality to the last trembling ember. Only his indomitable will kept his heart beating.
"I'm not a healer, Newgate-san," I replied quietly, never taking my eyes off the room. "All we can do is let Princess Mansherry do what she can. Beyond that… fate will decide."
Inside, Mansherry hovered above Neptune, her tiny hands glowing faintly as she poured every ounce of her strength into her Healing Fruit. Sweat streamed down her face, her breathing ragged from the strain. Beside her, Giolla worked in silence, her Rule-Based Restore Restore fruit weaving invisible laws across Neptune's failing body, attempting to anchor what little remained of his life. Arnold stood nearby, hands clenched, ready to intervene the moment something went wrong.
I already knew the truth Mansherry hadn't voiced. Even her miraculous power might not be enough. That was why Giolla had been summoned all the way from Dressrosa. If there was any chance—any loophole in reality itself—it would be through her. The wait was unbearable for Whitebeard.
Then footsteps approached from behind, slow and deliberate. Señor Pink came into view, a thick stack of papers in his hands. One glance was enough to recognize them—fresh ink, crisp edges. Bounty posters.
"Young Master," Señor said, his voice steady, though the soft smile on his face betrayed him. Pride shone through it, unhidden, unashamed. "You might want to see this."
Even before the papers changed hands, Doflamingo let out a low, amused chuckle.
"Fufufufufu… Seeing you smile like that, Señor," he said, leaning back in his chair, "makes me think these new posters are something worth celebrating."
Señor stepped forward and placed the stack into Doffy's outstretched hand. The smile on Doflamingo's face widened as he flipped the top sheet over, his sunglasses reflecting the bold print and inked portrait.
The timing was cruelly ironic—life and death hanging in the balance behind glass, while outside the world announced its judgment in numbers and ink. Yet for the Donquixote family, every bounty was a declaration.
Doffy's fingers froze mid-motion the instant his gaze fell upon the top poster. For a heartbeat—just one—Donquixote Doflamingo forgot how to breathe.
The ever-present grin that defined him faltered, sunglasses reflecting the bold ink as if the numbers themselves had weight. Then, slowly, deliberately, his lips curled upward once more—but this time, there was something different behind it. Not mockery. Not amusement. Awe.
"My… my, congratulations are in order, little brother." His grin widened behind the lenses. "It seems even Gol D. Roger has finally been dethroned. The crown of the highest bounty in history now belongs to you."
He folded the poster with casual elegance, shaping it into a crude paper plane before flicking it across the room. It glided lazily through the air. I caught it without looking, the motion effortless, and unfurled it as Whitebeard stepped closer, drawn in despite himself.
"Roger?" Newgate asked, his massive shadow falling over us. "What do you mean… dethroned Roger?"
For decades, one name had stood alone at the summit of the world's fear. Gol D. Roger. The man who circumnavigated the world and uncovered its true secrets. The Pirate King. His bounty—5,564,800,000 Berries—had been untouchable, a monument carved into history itself. No living soul had ever been deemed more dangerous. Until now. My eyes traced the ink slowly, deliberately, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of my lips.
[WANTED]
DON QUIXOTE ROSINANTE
ONLY DEAD
6,064,600,000 BERRIES
Silence followed. Not the awkward kind—but the heavy, suffocating kind that pressed against the chest. Even Whitebeard, a man who had stood as Roger's equal, stared at the number for several long seconds before exhaling through his nose.
"…Tch," he finally said. "So that's it, huh." An unprecedented sum. The highest bounty ever issued since the founding of the World Government itself. And once again, those two words had returned.
ONLY DEAD.
"They've finally decided," Whitebeard rumbled, eyes narrowing. "That you're a greater threat than Roger ever was."
But I knew better. This number had nothing to do with the Five Elders—not truly. They were cautious, yes, but still bound by their rules, their traditions, and their fear of precedent. No. This bounty was Imu's judgment.
Somewhere above the clouds, upon the Empty Throne that was never meant to be occupied, a god had taken notice—and found me intolerable. My existence alone was a contradiction. A reminder of something Imu had once failed to erase.
I could almost picture it: the Elders being informed, their faces stiff with dread, the quiet but absolute command passed down.
He must die. Not captured. Not negotiated with. Not recruited. Dead. Any lingering interest in pulling me—or even Doffy—into their fold was gone. The line had been crossed, the enmity carved into stone. Imu would never allow another god to walk this world freely again. I folded the poster carefully, the paper crinkling softly beneath my fingers.
"So," Doffy said lightly, though his voice carried a sharp edge beneath the humor, "how does it feel?" I smiled—slow, calm, and utterly unbothered.
"Liberating," I replied.
Doffy let out a low chuckle as he flipped through the stack of posters, one after another, the paper rustling like whispers of war.
"It seems almost everyone in our family has been given special attention because of you, Ross…!" he mused, amusement laced with something far colder.
Nearly every cadre's bounty had risen—some modestly, others alarmingly so. It wasn't just inflation or reactionary fear. This was targeted. Deliberate. The World Government had finally stopped pretending. Then Doffy paused. Several posters bore a mark that needed no explanation.
ONLY DEAD.
His own. Issho's. Agana's. And Robin's. Doffy didn't need to think long to understand why. The moment Ross had inherited the power of a god, reconciliation between the two sides had ceased to exist. There would be no negotiations. No secret offers. No backroom compromises. The World Government had drawn a final line in blood.
Issho and Agana carried the mark because, beyond Doffy himself and Ross, they were the two most dangerous pillars within the family—warriors whose might rivaled Marine Admirals, men capable of clashing head-on with the God's Knights and walking away alive. As long as they breathed, the balance of power would never favor the throne.
And then there was Robin. Doffy's fingers lingered on her poster for a moment longer than the others. Her bounty wasn't about strength. It was about blood. To the world, she was no longer just Nico Robin. She was Donquixote Robin.
A name tied to an ancient lineage that had plagued the World Government ever since the two brothers were cast away—a bloodline that refused to stay buried, no matter how many times they had tried to erase it. They weren't going to take chances again. Not after everything that the Donquixote brothers had already cost them.
****
The tavern throbbed like a living thing.
Lanterns of stained glass swung from soot-darkened beams, casting warped halos of amber and crimson over a sea of bodies packed shoulder to shoulder. The air was thick with sweat, salt, cheap rum, and fried meat. Laughter clashed with shouted curses; tankards slammed against scarred oak tables while dice rattled and coins rang.
Marines in white coats crowded elbows with mercenaries bearing old scars and newer grudges, civilians trying to drink away tomorrow's hunger, and—here and there—shadowed figures wrapped in cloaks a little too heavy for the heat, their eyes always watching, never lingering. Pirates, most likely. This island sat far from the New World, but never far enough.
At the largest table near the center of the tavern sat a group of Marines already deep into their cups. Their coats were unbuttoned, insignia dulled by neglect, caps discarded like unwanted responsibilities. Empty bottles clustered around them like fallen soldiers.
"This is bullshit…" slurred one of them, his face flushed red with drink and resentment. He slammed his tankard onto the table, ale sloshing over the rim and onto the floor. "I thought I had it made. This island was supposed to be the end of the line—quiet, safe, forgotten. Far away from the New World's mess. And now Marine HQ wants to drag us all into that hell?"
A chorus of bitter agreement rose from the table. They laughed, but it was a brittle sound, sharp with fear they refused to name.
They had chosen G-30 precisely because it was irrelevant. An unimportant yet large base far from major pirate routes in the first half of the Grand Line. A place secured not by vigilance or valor, but by paperwork, favors, and bribes quietly passed through the right hands. G-30 was where the sons and daughters of Marine elites were sent to "serve"—though the word felt insulting to those who actually bled for it.
Here, power was inherited, not earned. The Marines at this table had spent years abusing that power. Civilians were harassed under the guise of inspections. Merchants were squeezed for "fees." As long as the excesses didn't grow too visible, the Rear Admiral in charge looked the other way. He had to. Too many of these officers had parents who sat in Marineford offices—or commanded fleets.
A fortress of nepotism, protected by names rather than walls.
"My old man tried to pull me off the list," muttered a lieutenant, his voice sharp with venom as he drained his drink. "Vice Admiral or not, even he couldn't save me this time." He spat onto the tavern floor.
"Maybe I should just quit," he sneered, though there was no conviction behind the words.
As his gaze wandered, it snagged on a middle-aged waitress weaving between tables with a tray of drinks balanced on one arm. Her face was tired, her movements practiced—someone who had learned long ago to keep her head down and her pace steady. She tried to pass their table without meeting their eyes.
The lieutenant's expression shifted. Fear gave way to something uglier.
"Hey," he called out, his tone thick with entitlement. Before she could react, he reached out and seized her wrist, yanking her off balance. The tray clattered to the floor as he hauled her onto his lap amid roaring laughter from his companions.
"Let go of me!" she protested, struggling, her voice nearly swallowed by the noise of the tavern. He didn't listen. His hands roamed with casual cruelty, his grin wide and unashamed, as though her resistance were nothing more than part of the entertainment. The other Marines jeered and laughed, some pounding the table, others turning away—not out of disgust, but disinterest.
To them, this was just another privilege. Another thing the uniform allowed. Around them, the tavern noise faltered. A few civilians looked away, jaws clenched. Others stared into their drinks. No one intervened. They all knew what happened to those who crossed Marines like these.
"Tch…!"
The lieutenant clicked his tongue, his patience finally gone. His grip tightened as the woman struggled in his arms, her fear no longer amusing him but irritating.
"We're the ones who stand between you and the monsters," he snarled loudly, his voice cutting through the tavern's din. "If not for us Marines, your homes would've been burned to the ground long ago. Your daughters raped. Your throats slit in the night." His eyes swept the room with naked contempt. "Consider this your gratitude."
He no longer cared to pretend. Normally, he would have exercised restraint—appearances mattered, even in places like this. But tonight was different. The orders from Marine HQ had shattered the illusion of safety he had clung to for years. Deployment to the New World. To the front lines. To places where names alone inspired terror.
Those whispered rumors—of pirate crews that slaughtered fleets, of commanders who crushed Vice Admirals like insects—had already decided his fate in his mind. He would not go. Better a prison cell than the New World. Better to rot on this island than be fed to monsters wearing smiles because at least if they were in prison, their influence would get them out sooner or later and they would still be alive.
The woman screamed as he dragged her toward the stairs to the upper floor, her heels scraping helplessly against the tavern floor.
The bartender stepped forward, hands raised, voice shaking but firm. "Sir—! This isn't that kind of establishment. There's a brothel down the street. Please—" The lieutenant didn't even slow down. He pulled a fistful of berries from his coat and hurled them into the bartender's chest, coins scattering across the floor.
"That's for the room," he said coldly. "Don't disturb me till morning." He yanked the woman away despite her desperate pleas, her cries echoing as the door slammed shut behind them. For a moment, the tavern stood frozen. Then the dam broke.
Emboldened by the first act—and the lack of consequence—other Marines rose from their seats. Laughter returned, uglier this time. Hands reached out. Women were grabbed. Patrons who had moments ago been drinking and talking now scrambled for the exits, overturning chairs in their haste to flee.
"Get your hands off her!" a civilian shouted.
A man lunged forward, throwing himself between a Marine and a young girl clutching his arm—his daughter. His voice cracked as he begged, pleaded, and raged. The Marine didn't hesitate. The gunshot was deafening. The man collapsed where he stood, blood blooming across his chest as he hit the floor. His daughter screamed, falling to her knees beside him, shaking him, and crying his name.
She was dragged away before he could even die. The Marines laughed as if it were sport. No orders were given. No justice was invoked. Only power—raw, inherited, and utterly unchecked.
"Fuck… you bastards didn't leave me anything."
The Marine lieutenant spat the words as he surveyed the tavern. Chairs lay overturned, tables splintered, lanterns swinging gently over a room that felt hollowed out—emptied of life, laughter, and dignity. Doors along the back hallway were shut tight, muffling sounds that made his lip curl in irritation rather than shame.
He clicked his tongue. Greedy fools. Always rushing ahead. A few Marines lingered near him—those who had arrived too late or hesitated too long. Their eyes swept the room, hungry and resentful, until one of them froze. In the far corner, at a small, forgotten table, sat a lone figure cloaked in dark fabric. Too still. Too quiet. The figure rose slowly, clearly intending to leave without drawing attention. Too late.
"You there," the captain barked, already moving. "Stop. Remove your hood."
A Marine casually stepped in front of the exit, resting a hand on his rifle. Others began to fan out, boots scraping against ale-soaked floorboards, smiles creeping onto their faces as they closed the distance. The cloaked figure did not turn. Did not answer.
Beneath the hood, Lily's eyes hardened to ice. She had watched everything. The threats. The screams. The gunshot. The laughter. Every excuse wrapped in the word justice. She had forced herself to remain still, to breathe, to wait. Barely.
"I'm talking to you," another Marine snarled. "Let's see what you're hiding. Man or woman—doesn't matter. You're not leaving."
They had already decided what she was. The lieutenant stepped closer, reaching out with casual entitlement, and yanked the hood back. For a fraction of a second, he registered a beautiful, breathtaking young woman. Sharp eyes. Calm fury.
Then— CRASH.
Glass shattered. Pain exploded through his back. His mouth opened, but no sound came out. Two blood-slicked hands burst from his back, shards of a broken bottle clenched tight, driven through flesh and bone with terrifying precision. His body locked, convulsed once, and then went limp.
Lily didn't even blink at the gruesome murder she had just committed but kept her attention trained on the remaining Marines and let the corpse fall. It hit the floor like trash. For a heartbeat, the tavern was silent. Then chaos erupted.
"What the—?!"
"She killed him!"
"You fucking bitch—!"
An ensign lunged forward, rage overriding fear, but the captain—suddenly sober, suddenly pale—snatched him back hard enough to nearly dislocate his shoulder.
"Are you blind?!" he roared. "Look at her! That wasn't normal!" His eyes locked onto Lily, wide with dawning terror. "She's a Devil Fruit user."
It took Lily only a heartbeat to understand. The Marine Captain was different. While the remaining Marines recoiled—hands shaking, boots edging backward, eyes fixed on the corpse at their feet—he did not flinch. Where the others saw terror in the unnatural way hands had erupted from their comrade's back, the captain saw confirmation.
Interest. He studied her now with sharp, calculating eyes, his earlier drunkenness burned away by adrenaline and greed. Unlike the others, he wasn't confused by what he had seen. He was already dissecting it—cataloging possibilities, counters, and weaknesses.
A Devil Fruit, his gaze said. But which kind?
Lily felt it immediately—the way his eyes crawled over her, slow and deliberate, stripping away layers of cloth and dignity alike. Not hurried like the others. No. This was possession imagined in advance, savored.
She suppressed the surge of anger boiling in her chest. She hadn't wanted this. She had hidden herself carefully and endured quietly. But she would not—would never—allow herself to be taken. Not again. Not after years of suffering under Crocodile's shadow, of being broken and rebuilt by cruelty. That part of her life was buried. Anyone who tried to dig it up would die.
"If you know what's good for you," Lily said, her voice steady despite the storm inside her, "you'll let me walk out of here."
For a moment, the Captain only stared. Then he laughed. A low, ugly sound that scraped against the walls.
"Walk out?" he repeated, sneering. "You really think you get to make demands?"
He stepped closer, boots crunching over broken glass, eyes never leaving her face—or the lines of her body beneath the cloak.
"So what if you have a Devil Fruit?" he continued mockingly. "You think there aren't ways to deal with your kind? You think you're special?"
He hooked his fingers into his coat and pulled it aside, revealing his uniform beneath—and the confidence of someone who had trained among Marine HQ's elite, who had crushed weaker Devil Fruit users before.
"And what makes you think," he added, voice dropping to a hungry murmur, "that you're the only one here?"
Lily's eyes narrowed. The captain's grin widened as his body began to change. Muscles bulged grotesquely beneath his skin, tearing seams as bone shifted and expanded. His spine cracked audibly as he grew taller, broader, and heavier. Fur erupted across his arms and chest, silver-gray and coarse, while his hands thickened into massive fists capable of crushing stone.
In seconds, the man was gone. In his place stood a towering silverback gorilla—massive, powerful, radiating brute force. His uniform hung in tatters around him, medals dangling uselessly against a chest built for domination rather than honor. He rolled his shoulders, the floor groaning beneath his weight.
"I'm going to enjoy this," he rumbled, his voice distorted but dripping with intent. "Breaking you. Piece by piece."
Glass began to tremble around her feet. Hands—dozens of them—started to bloom from the walls, the floor, the shattered tables, fingers flexing in silent readiness. The Captain's grin sharpened.
The floorboards screamed as the Captain lunged. The silverback Zoan crossed the distance in an instant, massive fists swinging with enough force to turn stone to rubble. The air detonated with the pressure of his punch, Armament Haki coating his knuckles in a dark sheen.
Lily's pupils contracted—Observation Haki flaring as the air split open before her eyes. She stepped aside at the last possible moment, the Captain's blow smashing through the tavern wall behind her. Wood, brick, and glass exploded outward into the night.
Before he could recover, hands bloomed across his forearm—then his shoulder—then his spine.
"Got you."
The Captain roared and flexed, muscles swelling grotesquely as his Armament surged. The hands shattered like porcelain, torn apart by raw power.
"Tch—parlor tricks!" he snarled, swinging backward blindly.
More hands erupted from the ceiling, grabbing his neck, his wrists, his legs—dozens, then hundreds, trying to bind him down. The Captain planted his feet and bellowed, Haki exploding outward in a shockwave that sent tables flying and pulverized Lily's constructs mid-motion. He charged again, faster now, instincts sharpened by Zoan ferocity.
Lily leapt backward, landing lightly atop the bar as his fist crashed where her head had been a heartbeat earlier. He's reading me, she realized. His Observation Haki wasn't refined—but it was brutal, animalistic, predicting motion through intent rather than finesse.
She quickly adapted. Lily clapped her hands together.
"Mil Fleur."
The tavern transformed into a nightmare. Arms burst from every surface—walls, floor, ceiling—layered atop one another like a living web. Legs followed, forming pillars that blocked his line of sight. Eyes opened on the palms, watching from every angle.
The Captain growled, smashing through them, but Lily was already moving—hands forming mid-air, grabbing his jaw, wrenching his head aside as her own Armament-coated limb slammed into his temple.
CRACK.
The blow sent him skidding across the floor, gouging trenches into the wood. He laughed as he rose, blood trickling from his brow.
"That all?" he taunted. "You'll have to hit harder than—"
Lily appeared behind him. He felt it a fraction of a second too late. Two massive arms erupted from his back—fully blackened with Armament Haki—locking around his throat and spine in a crushing vice.
"Clutch."
The Captain screamed as pressure mounted, bones creaking under merciless force. He slammed himself backward into a wall, again and again, trying to break her grip. Lily didn't relent. Her hands multiplied—reinforcing, tightening, precise, exploiting every weakness in his Zoan frame. But Zoans were monsters for a reason.
With a thunderous roar, the Captain surged with power, his muscles swelling beyond normal limits. He twisted violently, tearing free at the cost of shredded flesh, then swung an Armament-coated elbow straight toward Lily's head.
She blocked—barely. The impact sent her flying, crashing through the bar and into the far wall. She slid down, coughing, blood on her lip. The Captain advanced, towering, furious, but now wary.
"Still standing?" he sneered. "Good. Makes it more fun."
Lily wiped the blood away and stood. Her eyes were calm.
"You talk too much."
She inhaled. The tavern floor cracked. From beneath the Captain's feet, enormous arms erupted, blackened with Armament, grabbing his legs and slamming him face-first into the ground. Before he could react, giant hands formed above him—interlocking fingers into a massive crushing press.
"Gigantesco… Mano."
She brought it down. The impact shattered the floor, the shockwave ripping through the building as the Captain was driven into the foundation below. The tavern groaned, half-collapsing inward. Dust filled the air. Silence followed. For a moment, Lily stood still, watching—Observation Haki searching for movement.