Sunlight filtered through gauzy clouds, casting a soft golden glow over the temple's solemn, ancient floor—its bricks worn smooth by centuries of prayer and conflict.
A meeting that could reshape the fate of Skypiea was underway: quiet, weighty, bristling with unspoken tension.
At the head of the assembly stood Ronan, cloaked in the crisp, immaculate uniform of a Marine officer, hands clasped behind his back. An invisible pressure radiated from him—calm, yet unshakable—turning the golden hall into something akin to a courtroom, with him as its undisputed arbiter.
To his right stood Gan Fall, former God of Skypiea, clad in silver-white armor that caught the light like a blade unsheathed. His expression was unreadable, but his bearing spoke volumes—a knight unbent, unbroken.
Below them, gathered beneath the vaulted arches of the temple, sat the elders of Angel Island, representatives of the Shandian warriors, and civilian delegates from across Skypiea. The air hung thick with anticipation, silence pressing down like a storm yet to break.
Only one voice dared cut through it.
Ronan spoke.
His voice was calm, measured—but it struck the chamber like a gavel upon stone, resonating through marble and bone alike:
"I propose three reforms."
He raised his right hand slowly, fingers poised as though reaching for the heavens themselves.
"First—abolish the Belly Tax."
"From this day forward, no land in Skypiea shall belong to self-proclaimed 'gods.' It belongs to those who live upon it."
Boom!
Outrage erupted.
Conservative elders shot to their feet, faces flushed with fury.
"Blasphemy!"
"You defy the divine order!"
"Without the tax, how will Upper Yard be sustained? Angel Island will fall!"
An elder trembled, voice cracking with fear.
Gan Fall's eyes narrowed. In a voice low but resolute, he declared:
"Skypiea no longer needs a god who rules through fear and falsehood."
With a sharp motion, he slammed the butt of his lance against the floor—clang!—the sound silencing the hall like a thunderclap.
The conservatives blanched, stepping back as if struck.
Unmoved, Ronan continued.
"Second—abolish the title of 'God' itself."
"Establish a United Skypiean Council, composed equally of Angel Islanders and Shandians."
"No more hierarchy. No more division. Only shared stewardship."
A hush fell—then a gasp rippled through the Shandian delegation. Tears welled in the eyes of hardened warriors.
"At last…" one whispered. "Our ancestors' oath… remembered."
Many Angel Island civilians bowed their heads, shoulders trembling—not in fear, but in relief. The lie of divine punishment, the weight of generations of mistrust, was finally being laid to rest.
Ronan's gaze swept the room one last time, cold and unyielding.
"Third—locate the Golden Belfry Bell of Shandora."
"To vindicate the Shandians."
"They are not invaders."
"They are guardians—of history, of civilization, of the last truth their ancestors left behind."
Silence—absolute, reverent.
Then Gan Fall knelt.
One knee touched the golden floor. He raised his lance high, voice ringing clear and solemn:
"I, Gan Fall—former God of Angel Island—acknowledge the justice of the Shandian people."
"And I pledge my full support to every reform proposed by Commodore Ronan."
Boom!
The temple erupted—not in chaos, but in thunderous acclaim.
Shandian warriors wept openly. Angel Island civilians raised their hands in solidarity. Even neutral factions joined the chorus.
—The old era had ended.
—A new Skypiea was being born.
[Warship Observation Deck]
High above, Rett leaned against the railing, arms crossed, watching the celebration below with dry amusement. He clapped slowly, a smirk playing on his lips.
"Tch… Took them long enough to stop playing god and start acting human."
"Still… not a bad outcome. Saves us the trouble of cleaning up their mess."
Beside him, Enel stood with arms folded, golden earrings glinting in the wind. He sneered.
"Pathetic. Mortal politics—squabbling over scraps while the heavens laugh."
"How could such insects comprehend the divine vision of—"
Swoosh.
A gaze—sharp as a blade, colder than the void—cut through his words.
Enel's spine stiffened. His head turned, slow and reluctant.
Across the deck, Ronan stood with one eyebrow arched, eyes calm… but laden with quiet warning.
Enel felt a chill run down his spine—cold sweat beaded on his brow.
A heartbeat later, the so-called "God" dropped to one knee, bowing so low his forehead nearly kissed the deck. His grin was stiff, forced, his voice unnaturally bright:
"Yes, sir! Boss! Your wisdom is divine, your brilliance unmatched! The Divine Council should take you as their sole exemplar! Hehehe…"
Rett doubled over, clutching his stomach and wheezing with laughter.
"Hahahaha! You switched sides faster than a storm cloud changes direction! No wonder they call you the God of Lightning—you've got the fastest turnaround in the sky!"
Enel's jaw clenched. Steam practically hissed from his ears.
"You insolent mortal! Laugh at your god one more time, and I'll—"
SMACK!
Rett cracked him on the back of the head with a sharp slap. "Shut it. Boss is talking."
Enel seethed—but didn't move. Instead, he pinched the edge of his earring, muttering under his breath:
"…One day… this god will rise… as Vice-God…"
Rett shot him a sidelong glance, barely containing a smirk. "Sure thing, Vice-God."
Laughter rippled through the crew as the warship sailed on, carried by the white sea breeze.
[Sky Island – Core of the Appayado Ruins]
The setting sun stained the sea of clouds in molten gold and crimson.
Deep within the ruins of the ancient city, Ronan led a tense but cooperative procession: Shandian warriors, scholars from Angel Island, Rett, and even Enel's reluctant entourage. Together, they combed through the crumbling stone corridors—guided not by conquest, but by shared curiosity.
As Ronan pressed deeper, long-buried truths surfaced—truths buried for four hundred years.
The Shandians and the Sky Islanders… were never enemies by blood.
They were two branches of the same tree—descendants of the Great Migration, torn apart not by hatred, but by disaster, distance, and dwindling resources.
The war that followed wasn't born of racial animosity—it was born of fear. Of scarcity. Of lies dressed as doctrine.
Theocracy. The oppressive "Belly" tax. Enel's reign of divine terror—none of it was the root. It was all a symptom… of a deeper wound: forgetting.
When this truth reached the ears of the people, Sky Island trembled—not from thunder, but from revelation.
[Temple Hall – Temporary Council Chamber]
Gan Fall knelt in the center of the hall. Before him stood the elders of both peoples—Shandian and Sky Islander alike.
He laid his lance across the stone floor with a hollow clack. His voice, heavy with centuries of regret, echoed softly:
"The loss of this island… was born of our arrogance."
"For four hundred years, we believed we were chosen. That the sky belonged to us alone."
He bowed his head.
"Today… in the name of those who once called themselves 'gods'… I offer my deepest apology—to the Shandian people, to their warriors, to their children."
Silence.
Then—sniffling. A single tear traced down the weathered cheek of a Shandian elder.
At the back of the hall, Rett scratched his head and muttered, "Tch… all this bloodshed… over a misunderstanding? What a waste."
Enel crossed his arms with a scoff. "The folly of mortals never ceases to amuse."
Ronan shot him a sharp, silencing look. Enel cleared his throat and pretended to examine the ceiling tiles with sudden, intense interest.
[Shandora Ruins – Golden Bell Plaza]
Ronan led the group to the heart of the ruins—where legend said Noland and Calgara once swore their oath beneath a golden bell.
And there, beneath a fissure carved by time and tectonic grief, it reemerged.
The Lamp of Shandora—The Golden Bell.
Sunlight struck its surface, igniting it in a blaze of sacred gold. The wind stirred, and dust spiraled like spirits returning home.
Ronan stood before it, cloak snapping in the high-altitude gale. His voice, calm but resonant, carried across the ruins:
"For four hundred years, we fought because we forgot—"
"This land was never owned."
"It was shared."
"By all who look up… and see the same sky."
A profound silence followed.
Then—Rett stepped forward.
With a roar, he coated his fist in black, crackling Armament Haki and drove it into the ancient boundary stone—the one that once split Shandora in two.
BOOM!
Stone shattered like glass.
The dividing line was gone.
And as if in response, the Golden Bell trembled—then rang.
DONG—!
DONG—!
The sound surged upward, piercing clouds, rolling across the White Sea like a long-lost heartbeat.
On Angel Island and in the Shandian camps, men and women paused. Weapons lowered. Then—raised… not in threat, but in salute.
Voices, young and old, rose in unison:
"From this day forward—"
"We protect this home—together!"
"We honor the oath of Noland and Calgara—forever!"
Flags snapped in the wind. Tears streamed freely. Old enemies clasped hands amid the echoing chimes.
—The bloodshed ended.
—The sky, at last, belonged to everyone.
Several days later…
Under Ronan's guidance, the Sky Islands held their first-ever Joint Sky Festival.
Angel Island's traditional musicians and Shandian warriors stood shoulder to shoulder, weaving new harmonies with wind conches, sound shells, and thunderous war drums.
Shandian maidens, clad in feathered battle skirts, danced with grace; Angel Island youths blew into conch shells and brass horns, their melodies spiraling into the heavens.
Flames leapt, feet stamped, voices rose in song, and laughter echoed through the clouds.
For the first time in centuries, the Sky Islands truly felt like one home.
Rett, cradling a clay wine jar, threw his head back with a booming laugh:
"Now this is what the world should be like! All that fighting's just boring!"
Enel, arms crossed, turned his head away with a disdainful smirk.
"Mortal revelry is trivial. I'm only here out of… divine indulgence."
But when a wide-eyed Shandian child tugged at his sleeve and offered a shy smile, Enel paused—then, with a flick of his fingers, shaped a tiny bolt of lightning into a sparkling firework. He placed it gently in the child's palm.
Rett nearly dropped his jar from laughing.
"Whoa! The 'God' of Skypiea's gone soft—handing out lightning candies to toddlers now?"
Enel's earlobes twitched. His jaw clenched—but he said nothing.
When the celebration faded and night draped the temple in silver and shadow, Ronan leaned against the tower's railing, eyes fixed on the colossal silhouette drifting far below in the sea of clouds. A faint smile touched his lips.
"Hey, Enel," he called lazily. "That thing out there… you didn't sneakily build it yourself, did you?"
Enel joined him, golden earrings glinting in the moonlight, arms folded with practiced arrogance.
"Hmph. Your eyes aren't as dull as your reputation. That's the Ark: Proverb—a masterpiece forged by this god's own hands."
Ronan arched a brow. "Oh? Planning to sail it off into the void… or blow the sky islands to smithereens?"
Enel's eye twitched. "Don't mock the will of a god with that flippant tongue!"
Ronan chuckled and clapped a hand on Enel's shoulder.
"Relax. I'm not stealing your toy."
He glanced back at the ark, expression turning calm but firm. "But starting today… it needs a new name."
Enel narrowed his eyes. "What are you talking about?"
"'Ark: Proverb' is now the flagship of the Sky Island Federation—and a liaison station for allied naval forces."
Ronan shrugged. "You'll still pilot it. But the course? That's mine to set."
Enel's golden pupils burned with indignation—yet after a long silence, he turned away with a sharp exhale through his nose.
"…Whatever."
Ronan grinned. "That's more like it."
A cool wind swept across the tower, rippling through the endless clouds below.
—And so, the Ark was officially commissioned into Ronan's fleet.
The Skypiea conflict had ended—not with destruction, but with unity.
Next stop: the Grand Line. Where blood and fire would truly ignite.