Room of Authority, Mary Geoise
"So… you are telling me King Harald rejected our proposal?"
Elder Saturn's voice was heavy, each word sinking into the dim chamber like lead. His fingers drummed against the polished stone table, the sound echoing faintly as if marking the heartbeat of the room. His plan—a dagger meant to pierce the Donquixote family through borrowed hands—had shattered before it could even draw blood.
"Did you make it clear what we offered in return for Rosinante's capture?" Saturn's eyes narrowed into slits, gleaming like a predator's in the gloom.
Elder Ju Peter exhaled slowly, weariness etched across his face. He set down a thick folder—the record of his conversation with the King of Elbaph—its weight seeming to press the air around it.
"I spelled it out to him word for word. Alliance. Recognition. Favor from the World Government itself. But he didn't even consider it. It was as if he had no interest in standing under our banner anymore."
A silence settled, thick and charged, broken only by the faint creak of Elder Warcury's chair as he leaned forward, fury radiating from him like heat.
"The Giants… growing bolder by the day," Warcury growled, his voice dripping venom. "First, they refused our summons to hunt Rocks. Now, we extend our hand—open, generous—and in exchange for nothing more than Rosinante's head, they still cast it aside. Do they take us for weaklings? For fools? Perhaps it's time we stop entertaining their arrogance. Perhaps it's time Elbaph learns what it means to defy the World Government."
The table seemed to shudder under the weight of his rage, his fingers flexing as though they longed to crush a kingdom themselves.
Warcury's eyes gleamed with warlust. "Their fall is overdue. The Kingdom of War has always been an obstacle, the last bastion of defiance. Tear them from their roots, scatter their bones across the sea, and the rest of the world will know—there is no sanctuary, no rebellion, no defiance. There is only us."
The chamber darkened as his words fell, but then Saturn's voice cut through, calm yet sharp as a blade unsheathed in the night.
"Patience, Warcury."
The words hung like frost, stilling the air. Saturn's gaze swept across his fellow Elders, lingering on Warcury. "Do you believe Elbaph can be broken as easily as sending a fleet and setting their forests ablaze? Do you think the Giants are children, who will bow at the sight of steel and cannon?"
His voice deepened, his tone edged with something rarely heard from him: memory.
"The Giants have endured since before our order even drew its first breath. They are ancient—older than nations, older than the seas we claim to rule. Their roots stretch into ages we barely comprehend. And do not forget…" Saturn's eyes gleamed, and for a fleeting moment, the flicker of an era long buried seemed to pass across his face. "Eight centuries ago, it took everything we had to subdue them. Every weapon, every method, every sin in our arsenal. We clawed for victory with bloodied hands, and even then, it was not triumph—it was survival. We nearly broke."
The chamber grew colder, the other Elders glancing at Saturn with unease. Even among them, there were shadows of history that remained unspoken.
"Some of you were not yet alive in those days," Saturn continued, his voice grave, ancient, weighted with scars unseen. "But I was there. I remember the strength of the Giants—not just their bodies, but their will, their secrets. Do not mistake their quiet under Harald's rule for weakness. He has steered them toward trade, toward coexistence. But beneath that, they are still the same race who nearly tore the world apart when provoked. They are not meek lambs."
His eyes flickered toward Warcury, sharp as daggers. "You crave a war, but war with Elbaph is not the same as crushing pirates or silencing kingdoms of men. Strike them carelessly, and we may awaken something we buried long ago. And this time… it may not be so easily bound."
The silence that followed was heavy, suffocating. Even Warcury, though still seething, did not immediately retort.
The image lingered in the chamber: the Giants, towering under the shadow of the Treasure Tree, their roots tangled in the forgotten truths of the Void Century. A force older than the Government itself, one that had been forced into stillness, but never truly broken.
"But you are right…" Elder Nusjuro's voice was low, yet edged with steel as his hand drifted to the hilt of his katana. The polished sheath caught the faint light, gleaming like a promise of violence.
"As long as the Giants do not bow to us, as long as Elbaph stands beyond our reach, we cannot truly claim dominion over the world. Perhaps… it is time we accelerated the plan. Should we initiate it?"
The air grew taut. The eyes of the Elders shifted as one toward Elder Saturn, their unspoken leader, the arbiter of their long-laid designs. For decades—no, centuries—the matter of Elbaph had remained dormant, sealed until the time was ripe. Now Nusjuro's question dragged it back into the open like an ancient weapon being unsheathed.
Saturn did not answer immediately. He sat still, his staff gently tapping against the marble floor, each strike echoing through the chamber like the slow tolling of a funeral bell. His gaze drifted downward, but his mind was elsewhere—circling the name that haunted every recent council:
Rosinante.
Finally, Saturn's voice cut through the silence, deep and deliberate.
"Rosinante is a variable," he said. "One we cannot underestimate. You speak of Elbaph, Nusjuro, but do not forget what we face with him. He fought Garp and lived. That alone should give you pause. His mastery of Haoshoku—his ability to project will as a weapon—has already reached the point where it could threaten even the God's Knights. He has not yet slain one who bears the true mark… but the blood of our chosen has already stained his hands. The distance between killing prospects and killing a Knight is not so great as you would believe."
His words weighed on the chamber. Warcury scowled, but said nothing.
Saturn continued, his tone darker still. "If we commit the Knights against him, we must accept the possibility of loss. Unless, of course, we are prepared to commit greater force toward Elbaph—to risk turning a test into a war."
For a moment, the room was quiet save for the faint scrape of Saturn's staff against the floor. But behind his steady words, his thoughts churned. He remembered Imu-sama's voice. He remembered the pause—the hesitation—when Rosinante's name first crossed their lips.
In centuries of servitude, Saturn could scarcely recall another time Imu-sama had lingered so long on a single man's fate. Normally, their will was swift and absolute—command and judgment in the same breath. But with the Donquixote brothers, it was different.
"Strange…" Saturn's eyes narrowed as he thought to himself. "In all these long ages, never once have I seen Imu-sama so… intrigued. The boy Rosinante, and even that wretched brother of his—Doflamingo. Why do they stir something in Imu sama? Why does their very existence call to something forgotten?"
He remembered Imu sama's suggestion, delivered in that hushed, ageless tone.
Domi Reversi.
A technique so potent, so extreme, that it needed one's own lifespan to be offered to initiate the technique, it was a technique whose existence was known to a few among the oldest of the Elders. To strip a will, a soul, and bind it eternally to Imu-sama's service. In all his centuries, Saturn could not even recall a handful of occasions when Imu had even considered such a thing. And now—now, they were willing to use it on these two brothers.
The thought unsettled him in a way nothing else did.
"To think…" Saturn muttered, his staff tapping once more against the stone. "Imu-sama spoke of making them eternal servants. Eternal tools. I cannot remember the last time those words were uttered. It was… another era, before even this council took its current form."
The other Elders watched him in silence. Nusjuro's grip tightened on his katana. Warcury's jaw flexed, unspoken rage coiling within him. Ju Peter's eyes darted toward the folder on the table, as though the ink of Harald's rejection had poisoned everything around it.
At last, Saturn looked up fully, his voice once again the steady anchor of the chamber.
"Elbaph's time will come. But Rosinante is not to be treated as an afterthought, we will not act while he is still within Elbaph. He is a piece Imu-sama has not chosen to remove from the board. Until they do, neither should we."
The staff struck the marble one final time, sharp and final, like the gavel of judgment.
"Phew…" Elder Mars exhaled slowly, his heavy frame shifting against the chair as he leaned back with something resembling relief. "That aside, at least the news from Fishman Island is one to rejoice in. The latest intelligence from Cipher Pol confirms the fracture between the Fishmen and the Donquixote family was no rumor."
For the first time in weeks, a rare smile crept across Mars' usually severe face. "And more than that—it's not a mere fracture. The ties have been severed completely. Doflamingo has withdrawn his hand from Fishman Island altogether. He's abandoned them."
The words hung in the chamber like a bell tolling victory.
The rest of the Elders eased ever so slightly, the tension in their bodies loosening. In recent years, they had endured blow after blow, watching plans unravel and enemies multiply in places they once believed secure. To hear of a fracture that demanded no effort from their side—a collapse that had come about without them lifting a finger—was a luxury too rare to ignore.
"A welcome turn," Nusjuro mused, his fingers absently brushing the hilt of his sheathed katana.
"But tell me, Elder Mars… do we know why? Why would allies so closely bound suddenly fall apart?"
The curiosity was not idle. For men like the Five Elders, a victory unexplained was as dangerous as a defeat.
Mars' fleeting smile faded. His brows furrowed into a deep scowl. "That… is the troubling part. Cipher Pol's initial reports suggest the fracture stems from an offer—an offer supposedly extended from the World Government to the Fishmen."
A wave of confusion rippled through the chamber. Faces that had been momentarily lightened with relief now hardened.
Mars continued, his voice slow, deliberate. "But as far as I can recall, no such offer has ever been authorized. Not by this council. And yet… the intelligence is clear. Someone, acting under the banner of the Government, approached them with a deal strong enough to sever their ties with Doflamingo."
The silence was heavy. None of them moved, but the weight of their stares filled the room with tension. Then Saturn's voice cut through, low and venomous:
"Garling."
The name slithered across the marble chamber like poison.
"It must be him," Saturn growled, eyes narrowing with cold fury. "Moving his own pieces behind our backs. Who else among us would dare?"
The image was clear in Saturn's mind. Saint Figarland Garling—the commander of the God's Knights, a man revered by some, loathed by others. A zealot of his own twisted plans and ambition. And more importantly, a man who used every instance as an opportunity, including the matter regarding the Donquixote exiles. Of course it would be him.
"He has never hidden his plans for those brothers," Saturn continued, his tone dripping with disdain. "To him, they are an unbound opportunity to further his ambitions. He has pestered us time and again to remove them, to wipe them from existence, despite knowing Imu-sama's interest in the two brothers. This… reeks of his hand."
Ju Peter adjusted his glasses, frowning. "If we confront him, he will feign ignorance. He'll claim he knew nothing. Perhaps he will even argue that the Donquixote family acted without sanction, twisting the narrative to his convenience."
Nusjuro clicked his tongue. "And technically, he would not be wrong. By blood and law, the Donquixote family still has cause to pursue their exiled kin for causing them all the loss of face. To deny them that right outright would only sour their ties with the rest of the Celestial Dragon families."
Warcury's fists clenched, his booming voice breaking through. "Hmph! Were it any other matter, I would relish the chance to put Garling in his place. But here… it seems his meddling has played to our advantage."
Elder Mars nodded reluctantly. "Perhaps so. Whatever the truth of his motives, the result is undeniable. Fishman Island is fractured. The Donquixote family has abandoned them. One less stone tied to their necks, one less alliance we must concern ourselves with."
Saturn's staff struck the marble floor with a resounding crack. All eyes turned to him.
"Monitor the situation closely," Saturn declared, his tone absolute. "Whatever game Garling thinks he is playing, for now, it has worked in our favor. Even he could not have foreseen things aligning so neatly. Let us use it."
The other Elders nodded, their earlier doubts tucked away—if only for the moment. They had greater matters to wrestle with, and if Garling's scheming had carved away one problem, then so be it. But Saturn's eyes lingered, cold and calculating. He knew better than to mistake Garling's ambition for loyalty.
The Fishmen, the Donquixote, the Dragons—all of them were pieces on the board. And Garling… Garling was a piece that often tried to move itself. For now, they would allow it. But Saturn knew: in time, they would have to decide whether Garling was still a servant of the throne… or a threat to it.
****
"Aaaargh…!"
Fisher Tiger's fist crashed down onto the empty crate beside him, splintering the wood with a thunderous crack. He sat by the mast, his broad frame trembling with rage and grief, every pore leaking frustration. The letter in Jinbei's hand had confirmed what he had feared all along: the unthinkable had happened.
The ties between Fishman Island and the Donquixote family—the lifeline he had exiled himself to protect—were broken. Irrevocably.
Tiger had left the kingdom years ago, cutting himself off, taking on the burden of piracy so that Doflamingo would never blame the Fishmen for his sins. He knew what those ties meant. They weren't just trade agreements—they were survival itself. Liberation from poverty. A fragile thread that tethered Fishman Island to security in a hostile world. And now… Queen Otohime's actions had severed that thread in a single stroke.
Tiger could already see the consequences spiraling. Doflamingo was a man of extremes—loyal beyond reason to those he called allies, but merciless once trust was betrayed. To him, betrayal was death. No apology, no plea, no sacrifice could rebuild it. Tiger was grateful—grateful—that Dressrosa's king hadn't unleashed his wrath upon Fishman Island already. But deep in his chest, he knew the truth. That door was closed forever.
"I told you…"
Arlong's guttural voice slithered across the deck, his sharp teeth glinting in the lantern-light. His eyes burned with that all-too-familiar hatred. "I told you we could never trust those human bastards. And now? Now look! They've cut us loose. They've left us to rot in the depths like the garbage they think we are! Is this why we—"
"Shut up, Arlong!"
Tiger's roar shook the mast itself. The crew froze. Arlong flinched but pressed on, his bitterness too deeply ingrained to silence itself.
"Why should we bow to them, Brother Tiger? Why should we grovel before a human king like dogs waiting for scraps—"
The sound of flesh meeting flesh cracked through the air.
Arlong staggered back, one hand clutching his cheek, blood oozing from where Fisher Tiger's massive hand had struck him. He crashed into another stack of crates, sending splinters scattering across the deck. The Sun Pirates went dead silent.
Even those who privately nursed hatred for humans—the ones who took particular cruelty in tormenting human captives during raids—fell silent. They had been waiting, watching, eager for Arlong to give voice to their resentment. But Tiger's slap rang louder than any words. His burning gaze swept across the deck, and they averted their eyes.
Jinbei, still holding the letter, exhaled slowly. His eyes flicked between Arlong, slumped among broken wood, and Tiger, whose chest rose and fell like an enraged beast. He had been quietly rereading the message, each word driving the nail deeper: Arnold—the linchpin who had bridged the Donquixote family and Fishman Island, their greatest advocate—had severed all ties. He had taken his family and followers and left for Dressrosa, abandoning the island he once supported.
There was nothing left to salvage.
"What do you think, Jinbei?" Tiger finally asked, his voice low but laced with the weight of desperation. He trusted Jinbei's judgment, often more than his own, in moments clouded by anger.
But Jinbei only shook his head, solemn. "There is no path forward, brother Tiger. Not anymore. Even Arnold-san has abandoned us. He has chosen his future under Doflamingo's wing. And those who followed him… they will never return."
Tiger's jaw clenched. The air grew heavier. "Do you think…" His voice faltered, the words bitter even to his own ears. "Do you think Doflamingo will grant us an audience? To speak—"
"Brother Tiger!" Arlong's voice cut in again, hoarse but defiant. He wiped the blood from his mouth and sneered through swollen lips. "You don't mean to beg, do you? You'd have us crawl to those humans like worms? You'd humiliate our kind in front of the very man who just spat us out—"
The crew stiffened. They could feel the storm brewing in their captain again. But Jinbei's calm voice carried over the deck, cold and precise.
"Enough, Arlong."
Arlong snapped his gaze toward Jinbei, but the whale shark fishman's one eye was sharp as a blade, unflinching.
"You think this is about pride? About licking boots or standing tall? You're blind; the survival of Fishman Island depends on our link to Dressrosa. But now…. If we set foot in Dressrosa's waters now, they will not grant us an audience. They will not listen. They will hunt us down. Skin us alive. To Doflamingo, we are no longer allies. We are hostiles. Every last fishman not sworn to his banner is already an enemy."
JInbei's words sank into the crew like ice water.
Arlong gritted his teeth, his rage shaking his frame, but for once he had no retort. Not because he had no hatred left to spit, but because Jinbei's truth was undeniable.
Fisher Tiger closed his eyes for a moment, breathing deeply, forcing down the boiling frustration threatening to consume him. His crew—his brothers—they could not see it clearly. But he did. The Fishmen had lost something far greater than trade. They had lost their protector. Their one human ally who had treated them not as tools, not as slaves, but as equals—so long as trust was intact.
And now that trust was ash. The sea seemed darker than ever.
"Brother Tiger…! Do we really need the Donquixote family's support?"
The question came hesitantly, almost trembling, but loud enough to carry across the deck. One of the younger fishmen—Willy—had finally dared to voice what many silently thought. "Can't we get by on our own? We've survived before they came… surely we can survive again."
The deck went still. All eyes shifted to Tiger.
He didn't lash out. He didn't roar. Instead, a long, weary sigh escaped his lips, the sound of a man carrying the weight of his people on his shoulders. His gaze lifted toward the sea, then slowly fell upon Willy.
"…Have you already forgotten?" Tiger's voice was heavy, his words low but sharp enough to cut through the silence. "Have you all forgotten how our kind lived before the Donquixote family reached out their hand? Especially those in the Fishman District…?"
His tone wavered with sorrow, not anger. He stood tall, but his eyes glistened with the memories he could never erase.
"Those days…" His voice darkened. "When our kin tore at each other for scraps. When brothers clawed at brothers just so their family could have one more mouthful. Do you remember? Because I do. Every damn night."
Tiger's gaze locked onto Willy. His words were not venom but truth that burned worse than any blade.
"Tell me, Willy. Before the Donquixote family came… were you truly able to feed your siblings? No—you weren't. You stole from the communal stores, food meant for all of us. And it wasn't just me who knew. Everyone here knew."
A murmur rippled through the crew, shameful and subdued. Willy's face flushed, his eyes darting away.
"But we looked the other way," Tiger continued, his voice breaking with both sadness and fury.
"Do you know why? Because we understood. Because each of us knew that same pain. The hunger. The despair. Watching your brothers and sisters fight each other like animals just to stay alive."
He took a step forward, his towering figure casting a shadow that swallowed Willy whole.
"Touch your heart and answer me truthfully: since the Donquixote family extended their hand, have your siblings ever gone hungry again? Have you once seen a child from the District begging for food? Tell me! Have you seen a single fishman forced to crawl in the dirt for scraps since those ties were forged?"
The silence that followed was suffocating. Willy's lips trembled, but no words came.
Tiger's voice softened, but the pain within it only deepened. "…Don't let your hatred for humans blind you to the truth. We've been given lifelines before, and each time we spat on them. Time after time, they helped us… and time after time, we betrayed that trust."
He turned away then, shoulders heavy, his back seeming older than his years. "Now their support is gone. How long, my brothers, do you think it will take before Fishman Island falls back to what it once was? How long before children fight over scraps again? Weeks? Months?"
The words struck deeper than any slap could. Willy bowed his head. His voice was gone, smothered by guilt. And it wasn't just him. One by one, the rest of the crew lowered their gazes in shame. They had lived through those days. They knew the truth of Tiger's words. But blinded by prejudice, they had forgotten what it meant.
Tiger closed his eyes. For all his strength, for all his sacrifices, this was what tore him apart the most—not the betrayal of humans, but the blindness of his own brothers.
Jinbei's voice cut through the heavy silence that had settled over the deck. His tone was steady, calm, but carried the weight of determination.
"Brother Tiger… perhaps not all hope is lost. There may still be a way."
The words landed like a gust of fresh wind against Tiger's storm-laden heart. He looked up sharply, eyes narrowing, a flicker of something long-dormant—hope—igniting behind his weary gaze.
"What do you mean, Jinbei?" Tiger asked, his voice rough, layered with the exhaustion and despair of someone who had carried the burden of an entire people.
Jinbei stepped closer, placing a firm hand on Tiger's shoulder, grounding him. "We can try… to reach out to the younger Donquixote brother. He may very well be the only one capable of convincing Doflamingo to reconsider his stance toward Fishman Island. From what we've heard, Rosinante was last seen around Whitebeard-san's territory."
Tiger's eyes widened slightly, the tension in his chest loosening ever so slightly. He could already feel the faint pulse of possibility—a chance, however slim, to repair the trust that had been shattered.
Jinbei continued, his voice unwavering. "If we can contact Whitebeard-san, he might be willing to mediate a meeting with Rosinante. And for someone like Whitebeard, who has always cared for the well-being of Fishman Island and its people, arranging such a meeting would not be difficult. He has always looked out for us."
Tiger exhaled slowly, letting the words sink in. For the first time in days, the weight pressing on his shoulders felt a little lighter. Jinbei's reasoning was sound; there was a path forward, however narrow. The slightest thread of hope could be enough to pull Fishman Island back from the brink of despair.
"And if we succeed…" Tiger's voice trailed, almost whispering to himself, as he looked out over the restless waves, "perhaps… just perhaps… our people can once again see a future without hunger. A future where no child has to fight for scraps, where no family has to claw for survival."
Jinbei nodded solemnly, his eyes reflecting both resolve and empathy. "It won't be easy, Brother Tiger. Rebuilding trust is never simple. But this… this is the chance we have. And we owe it to the Fishmen who have sacrificed, who have endured, to take it."