Dressrosa, New World
"What is this supposed to be…?"
Shiki narrowed his eyes, eyeing the crystalline vial in Senor Pink's hand as if it were a venomous serpent. A faint shimmer danced across the pale blue liquid inside, refracting the warm lamplight of the medical chamber. His golden mane swayed as he tilted his head skeptically.
His peg leg had already been removed. He sat on the reinforced healing slab, waiting—tense, cautious—for the promised regeneration.
"It helps you sleep better," Senor said flatly.
Shiki's brow furrowed. "So you want to drug me?" His voice was sharp now, suspicious, the predator within him stirring. His eyes flicked toward the shadows—his instincts screaming not to let his guard down, not again.
But Señor didn't flinch. The heavy silence of the chamber remained undisturbed as he held out the vial. His expression was unreadable, his stance rigid with quiet conviction. It wasn't about Shiki causing trouble. It was about the truth. He couldn't know.
Mansherry's Heal-Heal Fruit was currently incapable of regenerating severed limbs, and that could only be achieved once Mansherry awakened her devil fruit. So it would be Giolla's long-lost and secretly awakened Devil Fruit—one twisted and broken with its rule-based ability—that would be used to regenerate Shiki, the restore-restore fruit.
We had already exposed Mansherry once to Shiki. We couldn't afford a second mistake by Giolla san's ability. Shiki wasn't one of our own, so no matter how friendly our two parties were, it was better to be cautious against someone like Shiki.
The Golden Lion had come for help, yes. He even trusted the Donquixote brothers—to an extent. But total vulnerability? Shiki had learned that lesson decades ago, carved into his soul by Rocks D. Xebec himself while he was part of the Rocks crew, the same man who had torn his leg off like it was driftwood in the last battle. Senor didn't push. He merely held the vial forward like a silent ultimatum.
"The young master was clear," he said. "If you're uncomfortable, you're free to leave. No one here is your jailer."
Shiki's frown deepened. His pride roared against the idea of submission. His fingers twitched. For a moment, it looked as if he would toss the vial back and storm out. But in his mind, the memory replayed—Rocks standing tall, his monstrous grin splitting across the battlefield as he ripped Shiki's limb free. The helplessness. The fury. The shame.
He clenched his jaw. He couldn't be half a lion if he was to face that man again. He needed to be whole.
"Fine..." Shiki snatched the vial with a growl. "Give me that damn thing."
Without hesitation, he threw the liquid down his throat. The effect was near-instantaneous. The serum—originally designed by Einstein to tranquilize supermassive Sea Kings—hit his bloodstream like liquid ice. Shiki's head swam, his vision blurring.
"Hah... potent little bastard..." he murmured, chuckling to himself as the weight of unconsciousness pulled him under. Despite decades of harsh conditioning and toxins refined to immunize his body, this drug slipped past his defenses like a master assassin.
Within minutes, the Golden Lion lay still—breathing slow, limbs relaxed. Senor walked calmly to the chamber door and pulled it open. Standing just outside were myself, Mansherry perched lightly on my shoulder, Giolla-san, and Einstein, the genius boy whose mind was sharp enough to shatter nations.
Einstein's eyes immediately lit up as he saw Shiki unconscious. "Fascinating... his metabolism is extraordinary. Even Sea Kings don't hold out that long against the dosage. May I extract a sample? Just blood—or perhaps a tissue biopsy?"
He took a step forward, scientific hunger in his eyes. But I moved faster. I grabbed the boy by his collar, yanking him back with a firm grip. "No."
His eyes widened. "But—"
"He trusted us, Einstein." My voice was calm, but the steel beneath it was unmistakable. "He came here of his own will and lowered his guard. You want a sample? You ask after he wakes. We don't take from our guests without consent."
The boy pouted, frustration etched across his face. Ethics and morality were still foreign concepts to him. To Einstein, knowledge was everything. Raised in the sterile cold of laboratories and test chambers, his sense of ethics hadn't been taught—only inherited from what fragmented humanity Vegapunk himself had left behind inside the little boy.
Still, he relented.
"Hmph. Fine. But I'm asking first thing when he opens his eyes."
I smirked, letting go of his collar. "You do that. Just don't ask if he's still growling."
Giolla stepped forward, placing her palm gently over Shiki's severed stump, her expression solemn as she began to channel the twisted power of her devil fruit. A soft golden shimmer began to envelop the stump.
Mansherry, ever the innocent, clung to my shoulder and whispered, "Will it hurt...?"
I shook my head. "No. Not for him. But for the world...? It might."
Because Shiki, whole once more, was not just a lion. He was a storm waiting to be reborn.
Giolla-san furrowed her brow as she channeled her Devil Fruit ability, the air around her fingers shimmering with ethereal golden strands. A soft hum filled the room as the restoration power began to pulse through Shiki's body.
But something was wrong.
Even before she could speak, I already understood—the faint tremor in her hands, the way her breath caught for just a moment. Though unconscious, Shiki's body was resisting—his instincts kicking in like an ancient beast rejecting a foreign force. His innate self-preservation, honed by decades of surviving the harshest seas, was fighting against the healing.
A body that had been shaped by endless conflict, loss, and war refused to be vulnerable—even in sleep.
"How long, Giolla-san?" I asked quietly, eyes narrowing.
Normally, a clean restoration like this should've taken only minutes. But now, with that monstrous resistance from Shiki's subconscious, it was clear that Giolla would have to push against the will of a man who, even sedated, refused to be healed without a fight.
She glanced at me, sweat beading her forehead as the golden energy flickered like a candle in a storm. "Young Master Ross... I'm afraid I might need a few hours. His body's fighting me every step of the way."
I nodded solemnly, then looked to the tiny figure on my shoulder. "Mansherry, make sure Giolla-san isn't overstrained. Stabilize her when needed. No risks."
The little fairy princess saluted with a bright smile. "Leave it to me, big brother!"
Then, turning to the corner of the room, I addressed the boy genius whose face was nearly pressed up against Shiki's slowly regenerating limb.
"Einstein… will the drug keep him under long enough?"
The limb was slowly taking shape—bone knitting together, muscle strands wrapping themselves like silk, tissue crawling over like ivy. It was almost unnatural to watch, as if time itself had reversed for that part of his body.
But Einstein didn't look up. His voice, calm and analytical, floated out as he scribbled notes on a slate and observed the regeneration through a lens he'd conjured from nowhere. "Based on my original estimate, the serum should have sedated him for at least six hours. However, factoring in the resistance he displayed earlier..."
He finally looked at me, eyes sharp behind his goggles. "I'd say we have a two-hour window. No more. But worry not—if he stirs before the procedure is complete, I'll sedate him again."
His tone was confident. Too confident. But it was better than panic. I nodded, setting Mansherry gently on Giolla-san's shoulder as she channeled her energy, her hands trembling slightly under the pressure of Shiki's monstrous will.
Then I quietly moved to the far corner of the chamber and sank into a chair. Senor Pink, ever silent and reliable, took the seat beside me, pulling his hat down slightly over his eyes in his own version of alert rest.
I exhaled slowly, closing my eyes. My Observation Haki unfurled from within me like a tidal wave, sweeping outward in every direction. I felt it wash over the chamber, over the palace, through the winding alleys of Dressrosa… across the docks and cliffs, past the underground chambers where secrets festered and power waited.
Every heartbeat. Every presence. Every disturbance. I felt it all.
Elsewhere within the heart of the Dressrosa Palace, behind walls laced with opulence and shadow, Donquixote Doflamingo sat deep in contemplation. The chamber was dim, lit only by the slanted light of the setting sun filtering through the stained-glass windows, casting crimson and gold patterns across the polished marble floor.
He reclined in his chair like a coiled serpent, fingers rhythmically tapping against the armrest, the sound echoing softly through the chamber.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Across from him stood two figures: Denjiro, the once-hidden retainer of the Kozuki clan, and the young girl at his side—Kozuki Hiyori. No longer the frightened child who had arrived broken and mourning years ago, she now carried herself with the quiet strength of royalty.
Years under the protection of the Donquixote family had shaped her, and with Issho himself as her personal mentor in swordsmanship and discipline, the transformation had been nothing short of miraculous. She was no longer a little girl. She was a flame waiting to reclaim her homeland.
Issho, calm and ever serene, poured tea with practiced grace, offering a steaming cup to Denjiro. The samurai, ever courteous, bowed his head in respect, but remained standing. His posture was straight, his spirit unyielding. Doflamingo finally broke the silence, his lips curling into a crooked grin.
"Fufufufu... So let me see if I've understood you correctly..." he said, his voice smooth, yet laced with sharp edges. "You want to use this opportunity—this brief moment of alliance—to meet with Whitebeard personally, in hopes of securing his aid when the time comes to reclaim Wano?"
Denjiro bowed his head slightly, then raised his eyes with unwavering resolve.
"Yes, Doflamingo-sama."
His voice was low but resolute, the weight of his purpose carried in every syllable.
"There was a time when I resented Whitebeard. I believed he had turned his back on Oden-sama... that he had allowed the tragedy of Wano to unfold in silence. But I was wrong."
His fists clenched slightly at his side, trembling not with fear, but with righteous fury and grief held too long.
"I know now that things moved in the shadows beyond our understanding... that powers greater than we imagined conspired in those dark days. And I am no longer foolish enough to believe that we samurai, noble as we are, can take back Wano alone."
He took a deep breath, his gaze flickering briefly to Hiyori beside him—calm, poised, her hand resting lightly on the hilt of her blade.
"Wano needs help. And though the Donquixote family has shown us nothing but grace and protection, I cannot... I will not ask you to bleed for a war that was never yours to begin with."
There was sincerity in his voice—an honorable restraint, not born of weakness but of conviction. He wasn't there to manipulate, nor to beg. Only to ask, as one warrior to another.
Doflamingo's fingers halted their tapping.
He leaned forward slightly, his grin never quite fading, but his eyes... his eyes burned with something else—interest. Chaos always fascinated him. But honor? That was a rarer, more curious thing.
"So the proud samurai comes not to drag us into his war..." he murmured, voice like silk dragged over a dagger, "...but to ask the old lion for aid, hoping to awaken an ancient roar?"
He laughed quietly to himself.
"Fufufufu... the world is moving far faster than I imagined." He leaned back again, stretching his legs out as he sipped from his own tea as he mused internally. "Rocks has returned. Whitebeard teeters between life and death. The balance shifts, the cracks widen... and Wano's fire still smolders in the shadows."
His gaze flicked to Hiyori.
"You've grown, little Hiyori. I see it in your stance. In your eyes. The fire of Kozuki burns in you, and that flame is not easily extinguished. And remember your little brother will need your support once he comes back."
Hiyori didn't reply. She simply bowed her head in acknowledgment, eyes unflinching. She didn't need to speak—her silence was as loud as thunder. After a long moment, Doflamingo finally spoke again, his tone more measured.
Over the years spent under the protection of the Donquixote family, Denjiro had grown used to their unsettling omniscience. It no longer fazed him—the way they always seemed to know everything. Whether it was military movements halfway across the world or whispered conspiracies in secluded corners of Wano, nothing seemed to escape their web.
What still lingered in the back of Denjiro's mind, however, was a specific detail—one he had never spoken aloud.
He could clearly recall how Toki-sama, in a final act of gambit, had used her mythical Devil Fruit power to send herself and a handful of Kozuki retainers and her son twenty years into the future. It was a truth known only to a few, yet somehow, Doflamingo had known. Not merely guessed—he had known.
There had never been an interrogation, nor a direct inquiry. Doflamingo had simply referenced it once in passing, as if it were common knowledge, with that ever-present grin curling at the edge of his lips. At the time, Denjiro had said nothing. He simply stared, understanding in that moment that trying to keep secrets from the Donquixote family was a fool's errand.
But surprisingly, he didn't feel threatened.
In fact, after all these years, Denjiro had come to view the Donquixote family not as cold manipulators of information—but as guardians of a certain order. Ruthless, yes. Calculated, without a doubt. But never once had they betrayed the trust that had been offered to them.
They had sheltered Hiyori without hesitation. They had given them safety, training, and freedom.
And in time, they had even given them something else—hope.
Denjiro no longer feared their reach. He respected it. And more importantly, he had come to believe something deeper: If he were to turn to Doflamingo and ask for help in bringing down Kaido, he was certain the family wouldn't hesitate to lend their strength.
Not out of sympathy. Not even for honor.
But simply because of the fact that the Donquixote family held a deep grudge against Kaido, a grudge that was similar to or much stronger than the one the Samurai held for the Yonko who currently ruled over Wano.
"Very well. I'll allow it." His fingers resumed tapping, once... twice... before stopping again.
"You may accompany Marco when he leaves for Sphinx Island. But be warned—the current Kaido is no longer the man he once was. And the world is no longer as it once was. Even with Whitebeard's help, you might not be able to take down Kaido without proper preparation."
Denjiro bowed deeply. "I understand. Thank you, Doflamingo-sama."
Doflamingo waved a hand casually, as if brushing aside formality. But his eyes glinted beneath his glasses. Schemes. Calculations. Possibilities. The chessboard of the world was becoming more complicated—and far more interesting.
And as the doors closed behind them, Doflamingo finally shifted on his chair, the light behind him forming a silhouette of a king—and a spider.
"Fufufufu..." he whispered to himself. "Let the world burn a little brighter. Let the pieces move. This game... just got far more interesting."
Issho, serene as ever, lifted his cup of steaming tea to his lips. The gentle clink of porcelain broke the stillness, followed by the soft sip that preceded his words—calm, but not without weight. His blind eyes, though unseeing, seemed to gaze straight into Doflamingo's back.
"I thought it was your goal to bring down Kaido with your own hands," he said quietly. "You even asked Rosinante to stay out of it. Are you truly fine with Whitebeard stepping into the fray now?"
The words lingered, thick in the air.
"No matter how far Kaido has come, no matter what power he has gathered—he may still not be a match for Whitebeard. Especially not if the old man is restored to his prime with our help." Issho's voice dropped ever so slightly. "Aren't you afraid he'll take your trophy?"
He wasn't asking as an outsider.
He had witnessed the inferno of hatred Doflamingo carried within him—the kind of burning vengeance that etched itself into a man's very soul. The kind that didn't dim with time. The kind that waited.
Doflamingo chuckled, his laugh low and sharp like broken glass.
"Fufufufu... You're mistaken, Issho."
He leaned forward, hands steepled beneath his chin as the light filtered in through the stained glass behind him, casting fractured colors across his face like war paint.
"The Kaido of today isn't the same beast we once knew—he's become more cunning than a serpent, even though he wears the skin of a dragon. Gone is the reckless brute who crushed islands just to feel alive."
His smile widened, but it was devoid of warmth.
"And as for Whitebeard…" he paused, fingers tapping against the armrest, slow and deliberate, "—the man once hailed as the strongest in the world… I don't think he has the luxury to chase vengeance anymore."
"He may want to help," Doflamingo said with a razor-thin edge in his voice, "but he's standing on shaky ground. He's fighting a larger war now, one against shadows the world forgot even existed. You think he'd cash in an old debt, risk the balance of his empire—for what? Sentiment?"
He scoffed.
"That's beneath him. And he knows it."
Issho set his teacup down with a soft clink, his sightless gaze still unflinching. "Do you really think this Rocks is as dangerous as Ross-kun claims? We know next to nothing about the man—Rayleigh himself avoids speaking of him. That silence troubles me more than his existence."
Doflamingo stood now, pacing slowly across the chamber like a predator in a gilded cage. His footsteps echoed lightly off the polished marble, his coat trailing behind him like the shadow of a forgotten king.
"Fufufufu…" His voice was airy but laced with venom. "When my brother tells me to tread carefully, I don't question it. You've seen what Ross has become. He doesn't throw warnings lightly."
He turned slightly, just enough for Issho to glimpse the manic gleam behind his sunglasses.
"And Rocks… isn't just another pirate from the past."
He raised a hand, fingers curling like claws.
"He knows the truth. The real truth. About who truly rules this world. He has seen the face that even the Celestial Dragons are ignorant about. Rocks will only strike when he knows he can win—not against Kaido, not against Whitebeard, but against the world itself."
He let the words hang in the room like a blade suspended above their heads.
"And that, Issho," Doflamingo finished with a grin that didn't reach his eyes, "is a kind of ambition I understand all too well."