The stratosphere above Dressrosa did not merely echo with the sounds of battle; it was being systematically torn apart.
At twenty-two years old, Donquixote Doflamingo was a man accustomed to pulling the strings of fate, but right now, he was drowning in a sea of monsters.
His signature pink feather coat was ragged, its edges scorched black by stray cinders. Heavy beads of sweat mixed with crimson droplets ran down his forehead, obscuring the view behind his tinted sunglasses.
Hovering a few hundred meters above the fractured cloud line, Doflamingo frantically swung his arms, his fingers dancing like a manic conductor.
"Spider's Web!" he roared.
A thick, interlocking mesh of razor-sharp monofilament strings crystallized in the air, spanning the gap between two condensing thunderclouds. It was a defensive barrier meant to halt a battleship.
It lasted less than a second.
A massive, soaring crescent of concentrated magma-like fire tore through the sky, vaporizing the strings instantly. The sheer thermal radiation singed Doflamingo's exposed chest, forcing him to abort his position and swing violently backward via a temporary thread anchored to a higher cloud.
"Out of the way, insect," a booming, filtered voice echoed through the gale.
King, the All-Star of the Beast Pirates, hovered in his imposing human-pteranodon hybrid form. At twenty-eight years old, his physical prime was terrifying. His massive, obsidian-black Lunarian wings beat with rhythmic, deafening thuds, generating localized vacuum pockets.
On his back, a roaring, primordial flame burned with the intensity of a localized volcano, casting a hellish orange glow across his leather-clad visage.
Clutched tightly beneath his left arm was a reinforced, sea-stone alloy case. Inside sat the prize that had turned the skies of the New World into a slaughterhouse: the Mythical Zoan, Dog-Dog Fruit, Model: Fenrir.
"That fruit belongs to the Whitebeard Pirates-yoi!"
A streak of brilliant azure and gold cut through the smoke. Marco, the twenty-six-year-old First Division Commander, materialized from a slipstream of ethereal energy. His arms were completely transformed into magnificent wings of blue flame. Fire that did not burn, but instead rippled with the absolute law of regeneration.
Marco spun mid-air, shifting his lower body back into human form as his legs coated themselves in a dense layer of invisible, hardened Armament Haki.
"Hoo-in!"
Marco delivered a savage, two-legged talon kick aimed directly at King's skull.
King didn't flinch. He didn't even raise his sword. He simply allowed the flame on his back to burn brighter, relying on the absolute, god-like durability of his Lunarian heritage.
*BOOM!*
The impact generated a circular shockwave that blew away the surrounding cloud deck for three miles in every direction.
Marco's reinforced talons dug into King's masked face, but the Lunarian's neck didn't even bend. The shockwave rattled King's armor, but his flesh remained entirely unyielding.
"Soft," King grunted.
With a brutal, sweeping motion of his giant pteranodon wing, King swatted Marco away like a nuisance.
The blunt force of the wing-blade sent Marco spiraling through the air, though the blue flames instantly knitted together the bruised tissue on his forearms before any real damage could settle.
Seeing an opening, Doflamingo dropped from above, his face contorted into a snarl of pure malice. He dropped his hands, extending five razor-thin lines from his fingertips that gleamed with a purple, toxic hue.
"Five-Color Strings!"
The lines whipped downward, aiming to bisect King's exposed arm and force him to drop the fruit case.
King didn't even look up. He reached back with his right hand, grabbing his giant head crest and pulling it backward with immense physical force. His face flattened, his beak retracting into his skull like a compressed spring.
"Imperial Deep Pride Stake!"
King released the crest. His head catapulted forward at a speed that completely bypassed Doflamingo's perception.
The pteranodon beak struck with the force of a falling meteor, shattering Doflamingo's *Five-Color Strings* before they could even tauten. The displacement of air alone smashed into Doflamingo's ribs, sending the young pirate coughing up blood as he rocketed toward the lower atmosphere, his pink coat flapping like a broken bird.
Doflamingo managed to catch himself on a stray strand, hovering hundreds of feet below them, gasping for air, against these two flying powerhouses, he was being thoroughly outclassed in raw physical metrics.
"Two monsters..." Doflamingo spat, wiping a thick smear of blood from his chin. "Is everyone from the Emperors' crews a freak?"
Suddenly, the roaring wind died.
It did not fade out; it was forcibly suppressed. A suffocating, crushing weight descended upon the sky, so dense that the air itself seemed to turn into liquid lead. Down below, the raging, storm-tossed waters of Dressrosa instantly flattened out, the waves crushed into a glassy mirror by an invisible, downward gravity.
*Crackle... Snap...*
Arcs of thick, crimson-black lightning began to splinter the open air, weaving through the clouds like a nest of hunting vipers.
King's eyes widened behind his slits. The primordial flame on his back violently flickered, its height halving as if bowing to a superior king.
Marco felt his breath catch, his blue phoenix flames wavering as his internal stamina took a sudden, massive drain. Down below, Doflamingo's knees buckled against his own string-path, a cold, instinctual sweat drenching his spine.
"What... is this...?" Doflamingo hissed, his teeth grinding together so hard they threatened to splinter.
From the center of the crimson lightning storm, a lone figure walked. He wasn't flying by the grace of a Devil Fruit, nor was he propelled by a giant set of ancient wings. He was simply stepping on the air itself, his boots detonating small, precise pockets of atmospheric pressure beneath his heels to maintain high-altitude stance.
It was Red-Haired Shanks.
He wore a simple, unbuttoned white shirt, loose trousers, and a straw hat resting securely on his back. But the presence he radiated was absolute. In his left hand, he loosely gripped the hilt of Gryphon.
The blade wasn't even unsheathed, yet the Conqueror's Haki leaking from its guard was enough to distort the literal fabric of reality.
"I believe," Shanks said, his voice carrying a calm, melodic tone that somehow cut perfectly through the high-altitude gale, "that fruit belongs to a very dear friend of mine."
"Red Hair..." King growled, his hand tightening around the hilt of his katana. "A rookie who traveled on Roger's ship thinks he can command the All-Stars of Onigashima?"
"You're strong, Shanks," Marco said, shaking his head as his wings flared back into brilliant azure life, his body stabilizing despite the crushing pressure. "But the Whitebeard Pirates aren't backing down from a lone swordsman."
Shanks didn't answer with words. He merely closed his eyes for a fraction of a second.
Within the dark theater of Shanks' mind, the world shifted. The colors inverted into a pale, monochromatic blue.
He saw it perfectly.
Three seconds into the future: King would drop his flames for a burst of speed, drawing his blade to unleash a high-speed magma dragon from the left. Simultaneously, Marco would loop around his blind spot from the right, utilizing a single-legged *Ongle* talon slash to pin his arms.
Shanks opened his eyes. The real world caught up to his vision.
"Let's see if you can keep up," Shanks murmured.
King erupted. Just as the vision foretold, the flame on his back went out, his speed multiplying instantly as he became a black blur. His katana flashed, coated in pitch-black Armament Haki and wrapped in white-hot fire.
"Imperial Flaming Wings!" King roared, swinging a massive, serpentine dragon of pure magma directly at Shanks' torso.
At the exact same millisecond, Marco materialized on Shanks' right, his talons gleaming with a sharp, metallic sheen as he dove inward.
Shanks didn't draw his sword defensively. He didn't even look at the incoming attacks.
With a fluid, casual tilt of his upper body, Shanks stepped to the left, exactly two inches outside the trajectory of King's magma dragon. The roaring inferno brushed past his white shirt, singeing not a single thread.
Before King could even realize his attack had missed, Shanks pivoted on his heel, his left hand flashing outward.
He didn't strike King with his blade. He hit him with a simple, open-palm strike to the center of his chest.
*Advanced Busoshoku: Emission.*
An invisible wave of hyper-compressed Haki detonated outward before Shanks' palm even made physical contact with King's armor. The shockwave bypassed King's outer leather, exploding directly within his internal organs.
*BOOM!*
King's eyes bulged beneath his mask. A spray of blood erupted from his mouth, staining the interior of his visor. The sheer force of the internal explosion sent the 28-year-old Lunarian flying backward through three separate cloud layers like a broken cannonball, his grip on the sea-stone case completely failing.
The reinforced case tumbled into the open air, spinning rapidly as it fell toward the ocean below.
"The fruit!" Marco yelled, instantly aborting his talon strike to dive straight down after the falling container.
But Shanks was already there.
Marco's eyes widened in sheer disbelief. He hadn't seen Shanks move. It wasn't just speed. It was perfect anticipation. Shanks had already positioned himself beneath the falling case before Marco had even altered his trajectory.
Shanks caught the strap of the case with his right hand, swinging it casually over his shoulder. With his left hand, he finally drew his saber by a mere three inches.
A concentrated wave of pure Conqueror's Haki erupted from the exposed steel. It wasn't an area-of-effect blast; it was a localized, razor-thin line of spiritual intent.
The invisible pressure slammed directly into Marco's chest. The First Division Commander felt as if an entire island had been dropped onto his sternum.
His azure flames sputtered and died out entirely, his transformation forcefully unraveled as he was swatted out of the sky, tumbling down toward the lower cloud decks like a stone.
Shanks snapped his sword back into its scabbard with a clean, metallic *clink*. He stood alone in the center of the cleared sky, the case resting securely against his back. He looked down at the three young powerhouses. King coughing up blood in the distance, Marco gasping for air as his flames slowly fought to retake his body, and Doflamingo watching from afar in absolute, terrified silence.
At twenty years old, Shanks wasn't just competing with them. He was miles above them.
---
Miles away from the chaotic airspace of Dressrosa, the sea was remarkably calm. A pristine, triple-masted Marine warship cut through the deep blue waves, its massive white sails bearing the stark, blue insignia of justice.
Standing at the absolute apex of the ship's bow was Admiral Kizaru.
He wore a sharp, yellow-and-white pinstriped suit with a matching admiral coat draped loosely over his shoulders like a cape. His hands were tucked deep into his trousers pockets, and his signature amber-tinted sunglasses reflected the distant, chaotic flashes of light originating from Dressrosa.
Even from this immense distance, the sky over the island looked like a broken canvas. Bursts of blue flame, eruptions of red magma, and violent streaks of crimson lightning dancing across the horizon.
"My, my..." Borsalino drawled, his voice carrying that slow, lazy, and mildly mocking cadence that infuriated allies and enemies alike. "What a terrifying ruckus they're making over there. Young people these days certainly have far too much energy~"
"Admiral Kizaru, sir!"
A Marine lieutenant came scrambling across the wooden deck, his boots clicking frantically. He was panting heavily, his face pale with an anxious sweat. In his outstretched hands, he held a highly unique Transponder Snail.
Unlike the standard communication snails, this one was encased in a dark, polished mahogany shell with golden trim. Most noticeably, the snail sported a distinct, molded black beard around its lower jaw and wore a tiny, white flat hat. It radiated an aura of absolute, terrifying authority.
"An urgent transmission from Mary Geoise, sir!" the lieutenant stammered, his arms shaking so violently the snail nearly slid from his grip. "It's... it's a direct line from one of the Gorosei!"
Borsalino didn't turn around. He slowly slid his right hand out of his pocket, turning around with deliberate, agonizing slowness. He took the receiver from the trembling officer, holding it up to his ear.
"Moshi moshi~ This is Borsalino," he drawled into the mouthpiece.
The transponder snail's eyes immediately narrowed, its features contorting into a deeply wrinkled, cold, and utterly humorless expression.
When the voice spoke through the shell's speaker, the ambient temperature on the deck seemed to plummet.
"Borsalino."
The voice was heavy, carrying the gravelly weight of a man who had ruled the world from the shadows for centuries. It was Saint Jaygarcia Saturn.
"Ah, Lord Saturn," Borsalino replied, his tone remaining entirely unchanged, though his eyes sharpened significantly behind his yellow lenses. "To what do I owe the pleasure of a direct call? The sea breeze out here is quite lovely~"
"Save your idle chatter, Admiral," Saturn interrupted, his voice dropping into a stern, menacing rasp. "Report your current position. Have you secured the perimeter around Dressrosa?"
"Well..." Borsalino looked back over his shoulder at the distant island, where a massive circular shockwave had just punched a clean hole through a massive layer of storm clouds. "I can see the shoreline from here. But the situation looks rather... complicated. The Beast Pirates' All-Star is there, Whitebeard's little phoenix is flying around, and it seems the Red Hair brat has just crashed the party quite spectacularly~"
"The target asset. The Mythical Zoan fruit must not leave that island in pirate hands," Saturn commanded, the transponder snail's face mimicking a harsh, unyielding scowl. "The balance of the world cannot tolerate a rogue factor of that magnitude falling into the wrong bloodlines."
"Oh? Is it really that important?" Borsalino tilted his head, a faint, lazy smirk playing on his lips. "The Red Hair brat is putting on quite a show with his Haki. If I go in there blindly, I might get quite a nasty boo-boo~"
"Listen to me carefully, Borsalino," Saturn's voice came through with absolute, chilling clarity. "I am currently en route. My personal vessel will breach the sector shortly. Your sole directive until my arrival is containment."
The transponder snail's eyes flashed with a dark, authoritarian malice.
"Do not engage them in a decisive battle to destroy them yet. Simply seal the waters. Blockade every escape route. Hold them off until I get there."
Saturn paused, the sound of a cane tapping against stone faintly echoing through the transmission before his final words left the speaker.
"Do not let a single one of those brats leave that island alive."
*Clack.*
The line went completely dead.
Borsalino stared at the receiver for a moment before tossing it back to the terrified lieutenant, who caught it with a frantic gasp. The young Admiral slid his hand back into his pocket, a sudden flare of bright, golden light particles beginning to manifest around his leather boots, humming with the volatile energy of pure light.
"Hold off three monsters of the New World all by myself...?" Borsalino sighed, shaking his head with a slow, dramatic pout. "The Gorosei really do give the most troublesome orders. How scary~"
---
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