"Fufufufu… You certainly took your time, little brother."
Doflamingo's unmistakable laughter echoed through the gilded halls of the palace as he strode forward, his flamboyant coat billowing behind him like a cape of flamingo feathers.
He passed both Shiki and Marco without a glance, his piercing gaze fixed solely on me. In a rare moment of warmth, he pulled me into a brief but solid embrace—an embrace that carried the weight of blood, shared history, and silent power.
"Let me get a good look at you." His sharp eyes studied me, lingering on the lines of my face, my frame. "Heh… so, you've finally managed to grow taller than me, huh?" Doffy chuckled, nudging my shoulder before straightening to compare our heights.
He stood at a towering three meters, a titan among men. But now, I edged him out—just slightly. The final growth spurt from my Devil Fruit's awakening had gifted me more than power; it had reshaped my body, reinforcing bone and sinew with unnatural strength. My old frame, once identical to Doflamingo's, now bore the unmistakable stature of someone ascending into legend.
"Well," I said, pushing my shades up with a glint in my eye, "I hope you haven't gone soft in my absence. Or skipped your training while I was away…"
Doffy's smirk widened, but then he waved a hand dismissively. "Forget that. We have plenty of time to catch up. First, let's entertain our guests. I am sure they must have travelled quite a long way to get to Dressrosa."
I turned slightly, gesturing toward the two figures who stood in stark contrast to one another.
Marco, the First Division Commander of the Whitebeard Pirates, stood poised and composed. His eyes, calm yet calculating, swept the room with the precision of a seasoned pirate who'd seen too many battles. His presence was regal but reserved—like an ocean kept still only by deep restraint.
Beside him, Golden Lion Shiki was the exact opposite. The madman of the skies, the pirate who once dared to challenge the World Government alone, wandered through the room like a child in a candy shop. He didn't bother hiding his fascination, admiring the opulent architecture and glimmering treasures lining the palace walls, completely unconcerned that he stood in the heart of a Yonko's territory.
"The once rival of the Pirate King himself, Golden Lion Shiki… and the first mate of the Whitebeard pirates, Marco the Phoenix."
Doffy gave a short, yet respectful bow of a host, his voice carrying across the grand hall. "Two legends of the New World gracing our domain… Truly, Dressrosa is honored."
Doflamingo's smile returned, razor-sharp and charming as ever. He extended an open arm, fingers glinting with jeweled rings.
"Let me offer you the finest hospitality Dressrosa can provide. A kingdom like none other—built by blood, held by power, and ruled with style."
For the briefest of moments, his eyes flicked to Shiki's peg legs, remnants of the most recent encounter, a situation he had yet to fully understand but knew was the reason Shiki had come all the way to Dressrosa. But his smirk didn't falter—it sharpened, acknowledging the man's legend without a word.
Soon after, the banquet hall was alight with motion.
Long tables sagged under the weight of a feast worthy of gods—boar glazed in spiced honey, golden oysters harvested from the Deep Belt, barrels of Seastone-aged wine, and fruits so rare even nobles would kill for a taste. Servants moved with mechanical grace, and music played softly in the background, string instruments weaving elegance into the air.
But neither Shiki nor Marco touched their food. Their eyes weren't on the gold-leaf platters or the sparkling crystal goblets. They were here for something else. Their appetites had long since shifted—from food… to purpose.
Even Marco—ever calm and composed—had to admit it silently: the Donquixote Family was unlike any other Yonko crew in the New World. Where most emperors built their forces on sheer numbers, Doflamingo's empire placed its bets on precision, talent, and terrifying potential.
Marco couldn't quite get a clear read on the dozens of young teens and children seated at the long table, but Shiki—a relic of the old era and one of the few living monsters from the Rocks crew—saw through the veil instantly.
None of them were normal. Not one.
Each child carried themselves with unnerving calm, some already exuding the killing intent of a battlefield veteran. They didn't laugh like children. They didn't tremble in the presence of titans. They observed, analyzed, and waited—like wolves in sheep's clothing.
Prodigies, every one of them. Weapons, being sharpened from the moment they could walk.
Shiki's thoughts drifted back to the chaotic days of the Rocks Pirates—a crew of apex predators and warlords, each carving their own legend into the sea. But those monsters had come together already seasoned, already infamous.
This… this was something different. The Donquixote Family wasn't collecting weapons.
They were forging them—from scratch.
And if anyone thought the Donquixote family's strength lay only in these future terrors, they'd be gravely mistaken. The present was just as dangerous.
The Heavenly Yaksha himself radiated menace wrapped in elegance. Shiki, though confident in his own power, wouldn't underestimate Doflamingo in a true battle. A fight to the death wouldn't be easy. He wasn't just flamboyance and cruelty—he was calculation, and worse, vision.
Then there was the blind swordsman seated silently to Doflamingo's left. Mid-thirties in appearance, his body relaxed, his expression unreadable—but every instinct in Shiki screamed: killer. One who had danced with death so often that stillness had become his weapon.
But none of them—none—gave Shiki pause like the younger Donquixote.
Rosinante.
The aura around him was unnerving, almost unnatural. Even Shiki, who had once challenged Roger and clashed with Garp, couldn't fully gauge the depth of Rosinante's strength. It was not the weight of power that alarmed him—but the unknown. A presence so calm, so unreadable, it bordered on celestial.
In Shiki's long and bloody life, only a few men had ever made him feel... Cautious. Rosinante was one of them. The tension was broken by a voice from the end of the table.
"Are you really the Golden Lion...? I expected something more from a man whose name once made the New World tremble."
Smoker, casually flipping open a cigar case, didn't even turn his head. "The man who stormed Marineford alone… and fought the current Fleet Admiral and the Marine Hero in a single day?"
Shiki's brow arched.
He scanned the room. None of the children or teens around the table even flinched. No awe. No fear. No gasps of recognition. They stared at him the way one might stare at a merchant's logbook.
Unimpressed. Calculating. Waiting.
"Jihahahaha... Little brat!" Shiki laughed, his golden mane swaying like a lion shaking its mane in the wind. "It's too early for you to indulge in such vices…"
He tapped his finger against the polished table. Instantly, the cigar case next to Smoker floated upward—spinning lazily in mid-air as if gravity itself bent to Shiki's will. It drifted across the banquet hall with casual arrogance until it settled neatly into the air above Shiki's open palm.
He caught it without even looking. Snapped it open. Lifted a cigar and gave it a long, slow sniff.
"Ahhhh… now that's the good stuff." His eyes gleamed with mischief. "But cigars are for men, boy. Not for little brats still wet behind the ears."
He lit the cigar with a flick of his finger as a candle from the table rose to light it for him, inhaling as smoke coiled around his wild grin.
All around him, the Donquixote youths said nothing. They watched. And waited. And Shiki—the Golden Lion—found himself, for the first time in decades, wondering if maybe, just maybe... the monsters of the old era were finally being outdone by what was coming next.
"Señor..."
Doflamingo's voice sliced through the air with the calm weight of command. Without needing a second word, Señor Pink gave a sharp nod. Within moments, the entire banquet hall emptied. The boisterous laughter, clinking glasses, and quiet murmurs of the younger Donquixote members faded, leaving only the inner circle.
Only Doflamingo, Issho, Senor, Marco, Shiki, and myself remained. A heavy stillness followed, like the calm just before a thunderstorm.
Doflamingo exhaled slowly, rolling his neck like a predator stretching its muscles. He turned, facing us not as a host—but as the Emperor of Dressrosa, the Heavenly Yaksha, the puppeteer whose strings reached deeper than most would ever comprehend.
"Rosinante told me everything," Doflamingo began, his tone unusually even. "Even in my most feverish delusions… I wouldn't have imagined that Rocks D. Xebec still draws breath."
A faint grin curled on his lips, one that never reached his eyes.
"Fufufu... But I suppose it makes the game all the more exciting. The more chaotic the board... the grander the game becomes."
He chuckled, not out of fear—but thrill. Chaos wasn't something Doflamingo feared. It was his element. The unknown wasn't a threat—it was an opportunity to seize control in a world where control was nothing but a comforting illusion.
He turned toward Marco, who waited with the composed patience of a man who had beside the strongest man in the world. Doflamingo's grin widened as he paced slowly across the lavishly decorated hall.
"I haven't forgotten," he said. "There was a time when the Whitebeard Pirates watched our backs—shielding us from vultures and rats. It's only fair we repay that debt."
Marco gave a subtle nod, relief flickering behind his sharp gaze. "Thank you, Doflamingo."
"But as for you..." Doffy turned now to Shiki, his eyes narrowing. "The Golden Lion. Tell me—why should we help you? As far as I recall... my brother has already saved your hide twice."
Shiki took a long drag of his cigar, silent. He wasn't the type to beg. He wasn't the type to grovel.
And he had nothing to offer—not anymore.
"Jihahaha... I suppose that was a good try, wasn't it?" Shiki's voice was relaxed, but the disappointment laced in his tone was impossible to miss. "Guess I'll just have to learn how to balance on one leg starting today."
He snubbed the cigar against the edge of the gilded table, stood, and adjusted his coat with the same pride he'd worn when he challenged the world government. Even broken, the Lion roared.
Doflamingo watched him with amused eyes. And then, just as Shiki turned to leave—
"Wait."
Shiki paused mid-step. Doflamingo stepped forward, eyes gleaming, mind flickering behind the lens of his amber shades—an endless maze of tangled threads and psychological warfare. His voice, though calm, dripped with something deeper—madness veiled in silk.
"It's not impossible, Shiki. You see, the Donquixote Family takes care of its own."
He smiled, but it was the smile of a man who once watched an entire country tear itself apart like it was opera.
"If you were willing to join us... we'd be obligated to heal you. We always protect our own."
The room held its breath. I couldn't help but glance at Doffy. That offer—that was unexpected. Even Rosinante blinked in quiet surprise. Offering Shiki a place within the family? That was no small gesture—it was either brilliance or lunacy.
Shiki snorted, turning slowly. His golden mane caught the candlelight like fire.
"Jihahaha... Brat." He pointed a finger toward Doflamingo. "The world may call you an Emperor, but you've still got a ways to go if you think you can recruit me like some greenhorn."
His voice rose with a fierce pride that echoed across the hall.
"I'm Shiki the Golden Lion. I don't join crews. I build them. It's always been me doing the recruiting. Not the other way around."
He cracked his neck, the tension rippling through his shoulders. "Well, I guess... I can't say I didn't try. I've overstayed my welcome."
He turned again to leave. But then—
"Fufufufu…"
Doflamingo's laughter returned—soft at first, like silk on steel.
"I would've been sorely disappointed if you'd accepted that offer."
He took a step forward, voice rising with manic glee.
"You and I, Shiki... we're too alike. Two mad beasts, too wild to ever be caged by anyone. Not even each other."
He waved a hand lazily.
"Fine. You win this round. We'll heal your leg. But—this is the last time. The last favor the Donquixote Family grants you."
Shiki paused, his back still to us, the silence heavy. He didn't look back. But his next words echoed with a weight only legends could carry.
"…Good. I don't plan on being weak again anyway."
"Good. I have no intention of helping weaklings either." Doflamingo's voice was cold, sharp, and full of malice. The words hung in the air like the flicker of a flame just before it consumed everything in its path.
With a lazy flick of his wrist, he turned to Senor Pink, who immediately stepped forward, his ever-present cigar held firmly between his lips. "Make the preparations to heal Shiki."
Senor nodded and, without a word, gestured for Shiki to follow him; the two left the dining hall while Shiki smiled at the quick turn of fates. Doflamingo, however, wasn't finished. His gaze shifted to Marco, the ever-composed First Division Commander of the Whitebeard Pirates, whose stoic demeanor couldn't completely mask the tension in his frame.
"So, Marco," Doflamingo continued, his voice smooth like velvet but carrying the weight of a venomous bite. "When can we expect Whitebeard here?"
Marco's brow furrowed. It was a simple question, yet it carried a complex weight—a decision that required more than just a yes or no. Doflamingo could already see the hesitation in Marco's eyes, the hesitation that spoke volumes.
Marco knew what Doflamingo was implying. The Heal-Heal Fruit user was valuable—priceless, even—but Marco was keenly aware of the risks of bringing Whitebeard, in his currently fragile state, into Donquixote territory. Despite the family's power and influence, despite the centuries of scheming and intrigue, Dressrosa was still a Yonkou's domain. It would be unwise to allow the old emperor to come to such a location, not with the power dynamics shifting like a storm on the horizon.
A tight frown spread across Marco's face, his gaze shifting uncomfortably. He knew this was not a simple trade of favors.
"Well..." Marco began slowly, his voice calm yet laced with underlying tension, "I was under the impression that I could take the Heal-Heal Fruit user along with me. Is that going to be a problem?"
He leaned forward, though his posture remained as composed as ever. It was a bold move—one that put everything on the line. There was a lot more behind his words than just a simple request for the Heal-Heal Fruit user. It was a trust issue, an issue of territory, an issue of authority between two emperor factions.
Marco knew what he was asking was out of the norm—unconventional, even by pirate standards. Normally, it was the recipient of the aid who would travel to the benefactor's territory, not the other way around. But Marco was no fool. The First Division Commander knew the risks of inviting Whitebeard into Doflamingo's domain. They could not afford to allow the Old Man to become a target—or worse, a pawn.
Doflamingo smiled, the twisted, chaotic smile of a man who saw the world like a puzzle to be rearranged for his own amusement. It was the smile of a man who could see the threads of control being pulled and manipulated.
"Fufufufu…" Doflamingo's voice dipped with mirth as his gaze sharpened, locking onto Marco. "It seems we have a bit of an issue, then, don't we, Marco?"
His words sliced through the air, and for a moment, everything seemed to freeze—like the calm before a storm.
"If you cannot trust having Whitebeard come here..." Doflamingo continued, his tone becoming darker, more deliberate, "then how do you expect us to trust sending one of my family members to your stronghold?"
The question was posed so casually, yet it was a strike to the heart of the matter—a calculated, elegant challenge.
Marco's posture stiffened, the weight of the implications settling on him. The members of the Whitebeard Pirates were far from helpless—but this was a game of balance nd he needed to take as few risks as possible. There were too many players on the board, and no matter how skilled Marco was at playing his hand, Doflamingo was the master of this particular chess game.
Doflamingo's eyes twinkled with dark amusement, his amber gaze practically glowing with the thrill of the game. Trust—the very thing that anchored this meeting—was in short supply on both sides. And though the Whitebeard Pirates were not strangers to negotiation, Doflamingo's family was known for its deceptive charm and sly manipulations.
Marco's lips pressed into a thin line. His mind worked furiously, calculating. He knew that the Donquixote Family, while offering a favor, also had a plan of their own in motion—always. They were a family built on manipulation and power games, and it was never just about the favor—it was about domination in the long run.
Yet, Marco had no choice but to respect Doflamingo's words. He couldn't risk Whitebeard in his weakened state. And Doflamingo knew this. They both understood the delicate dance they were engaged in.
Finally, Marco exhaled sharply, his gaze never leaving Doflamingo's.
"You're right," Marco conceded, his voice firm but tinged with frustration. He wasn't pleased, but he understood. "but if its the safety of the heal fruit user that you are worried about…"
"Fufufufu... Do you truly believe we lack the ability to safeguard our own, even in your territory?" Doflamingo's voice dripped with cold amusement, his golden glasses catching the light like twin slivers of flame. "You misunderstand, Marco. This isn't about security. It's about principle. There's a line—even among pirates—and you've crossed it."
He took a slow, deliberate step forward, the opulence of the Dressrosa palace casting regal shadows behind him. His coat fluttered behind him like the wings of some caged devil, and his tone turned sharper, icier.
"Yes, the Donquixote Family owes the Whitebeard Pirates a favor. That's not in dispute. But that doesn't mean you can walk into my kingdom and summon one of my family to your beck and call. We are not servants, Marco. We are not tools to be borrowed and returned."
The room fell silent, the tension coiling like a serpent ready to strike. Even the flickering candles lining the long obsidian dining table seemed to hesitate, their flames stuttering.
"But—" Marco began, only to stop short. The protest died on his lips. He knew it was futile. He had no argument strong enough to counter what Doflamingo had just laid bare. Trust, respect, principle—those were the currencies in play here, not mere debt.
Then, Doflamingo turned, his ever-present grin curling wider as he looked to me. "What do you think, little brother?" he asked with a chuckle, though there was a razor's edge behind the jest.
"Should we cast our pride aside... just this once? Bend to their request?"
The weight of the moment settled on me like a mantle of stone. All eyes turned, waiting. The room was silent save for the distant murmur of Dressrosa's sea breeze.
My thoughts churned like a maelstrom—Whitebeard's influence, the favor owed, the dangerous precedent this could set... and yet, in the end, only one answer felt right. I met Doffy's piercing gaze, my voice calm and resolute.
"The Donquixote Family always pays its debts. Let the world never say we turned our backs when it mattered most." I let the words settle before adding with a smirk, "Looks like I'll be taking a little trip to Sphinx Island."
Doflamingo's grin widened at my answer, something feral and satisfied glinting in his eyes. "Fufufufu... well then, Marco—it's your lucky day."
He turned to the Phoenix Commander with mock grandeur, arms outstretched. "Not only will we treat Whitebeard, but Rosinante himself will accompany you. A fitting gesture, wouldn't you say?"
Marco's shoulders loosened just slightly, though his eyes remained guarded. He understood what had just transpired—not just a favor granted, but a silent contract forged in mutual recognition.
Doflamingo leaned in one final time, voice barely above a whisper. "Once we're done tending to Shiki... my brother will be yours to escort. Treat this kindness with care, Marco. We don't offer it lightly."
The flames on the candles steadied once more, as if acknowledging the decision that had just reshaped the board.