Icarus Kingdom, Grand Line
The veteran Cipher Pol agent stumbled back, his boot slipping slightly on the blood-slick concrete as an involuntary step betrayed his composure. His breath caught in his throat—he had witnessed horrors, buried bodies, ordered executions, and waded through more death than most men could imagine. But this… this was different.
The warehouse was a graveyard.
Corpses, twisted and broken, lay strewn both inside and outside the shattered structure like discarded marionettes—thousands of them. The air was thick with the acrid stench of blood and smoke, the walls painted in arterial spray like some deranged mural of violence. Flames licked hungrily at splintered crates and charred beams, casting long, flickering shadows across the scene of carnage.
And through the chaos walked a boy. No older than fifteen, the young Cipher Pol agent strode forward with a calmness that defied reason. His uniform, once pristine, was now tattered and soaked in crimson—drenched from head to toe in blood, not all of it his own. The liquid clung to his skin, dripping from his fingertips, matting his hair to his forehead, painting him like a war-god born of massacre.
In one hand, he casually carried a severed head.
The expression frozen on the decapitated face was one of pure disbelief—eyes wide, mouth agape in a silent scream, as though the prince's soul had yet to accept its fate. His once-regal features, so often seen in the papers and broadcasted across the kingdom's screens, were now slack and lifeless. His headless body, still warm and twitching, lay shattered among the other bodies within the warehouse like a broken promise.
The boy's eyes were cold. Not vacant—no, worse than that. They were focused. Calculating. Alive with something terrifyingly lucid. He walked without hesitation, each step deliberate, as if stepping across corpses was as mundane as strolling a palace garden.
The veteran agent wanted—needed—to look away, to tear his gaze from the child-shaped horror advancing toward him. But he couldn't. He was rooted in place, his years of training, missions, and mental conditioning crumbling like ash beneath the sheer gravity of what stood before him.
The boy stopped a few feet away. The silence between them was deafening. The head thudded wetly to the floor, rolling to a stop beside the agent's boot. And then the boy gestured, his hand signs slow and calm—eerily detached.
"Mission complete."
In that moment, the veteran Cipher Pol agent understood something he wished he never had:
This wasn't merely a weapon forged for the Aegis Division. This was a cold-blooded agent who embodied the very essence of Cipher Pol—a living testament to the brutal efficiency the World Government demanded, and the terrifying cost of loyalty.
"You could've taken him alive…" the veteran said quietly, voice tight with restrained emotion. "We needed to be absolutely sure—whatever information he uncovered hadn't been shared."
He exhaled slowly, trying to ground himself, but the sight before him made it nearly impossible. His eyes drifted to the severed head lying at his feet, blood still pooling in a halo beneath it. The prince's frozen expression—shock, disbelief, terror—was now eternal. The mission objective had been clear: take him alive. Not out of mercy, nor for political leverage.
No. It was to ensure whatever dark secrets about the World Government the king and the prince had unearthed… remained buried.
Zero made no apology. The young operative simply lifted one blood-drenched hand and responded in calm, deliberate hand signals, his lips barely moving as he translated thought into gesture.
"The information has not been compromised. Neutralizing the target was the most logical course. A dead man can't negotiate or leak what he knows. Our next step is eliminating the monarch before he learns of the prince's fate."
He delivered it like a weather report—detached, clinical, unquestioning. There was no reverence in his posture, no acknowledgment of the senior agent's authority beyond what the hierarchy demanded. If the man in front of him hadn't been assigned command of the mission, Zero would have walked past him without a word.
The veteran studied him carefully, his seasoned eyes searching for any hint of emotion beneath the gore-soaked face. But there was nothing—no regret, no satisfaction. Just an emptiness wrapped in purpose.
He'd seen this kind of cold, ruthless efficiency before… but only in the elite monsters of Cipher Pol Aegis 0. Those agents were legends—products of decades of training, indoctrination, and propaganda so intense it rewrote the soul.
And yet, this one was a teenager. A child by age, but in presence… a ghost in flesh. The silence stretched between them like a wire about to snap.
"…Well," the veteran finally said, voice low, almost bitter, "I suppose you did a good job."
There was no point in pushing further. The warehouse was a slaughterhouse. Every soldier, guard, and servant within reach of the prince had been exterminated with surgical precision. Even if he had managed to share what he learned, there was no one left alive to pass it on.
Dead men tell no tales.
He reached into the inner pocket of his coat, pulling out a transponder snail. Its eyes blinked awake with a dull glow, and after a brief ring, the other end picked up. The veteran spoke with the chilling calm of a man discussing business over breakfast.
"The prince has been secured. Proceed to the next phase of the operation. Eliminate the Icarus Kingdom monarchy. Every last member of the bloodline—erase them. No heirs, no cousins, no distant branches. Not a single seed must remain."
"The rest of the agents will sweep through the countryside and neutralize the remaining pirate elements wreaking havoc. Once HQ gives the green light, we'll begin preparations to install a new royal family loyal to the World Government."
It sounded procedural. Not like the systematic annihilation of an entire ruling lineage.
Not like the death sentence of a kingdom. He ended the call without another word.
The wind howled through the ruined warehouse, tugging at cloaks and stirring ash from the smoldering remains. The flames crackled behind them, still devouring evidence, history, life. Zero stood perfectly still—an unmoving silhouette against the inferno. The veteran glanced at him once more, unease settling in his bones.
He wasn't just watching a future CP0 agent in the making… He was looking at the kind of monster they'd stopped making… because they were too afraid of what they'd become.
****
Sphinx Island, New World
"Gurararara... you little bastards, why the long faces?" Whitebeard's voice thundered across the open courtyard of his home on Sphinx Island, the sea breeze rustling the banner of his once-mighty pirate crew. "The way you're looking at me, it's like you're expecting me to drop dead any second!"
He let out a boisterous laugh, but the few division commanders gathered around him didn't join in. They merely exchanged uneasy glances. Their smiles were thin, their eyes hollow with worry.
Dozens of IV lines snaked into Whitebeard's arms, pulsing with medication and nutrients. Though his towering frame still cast an imposing shadow, and his voice retained its old strength, those closest to him could see the truth: Edward Newgate was putting on a show.
He was still their captain. Still their "Pops." But behind the laughter and false bravado, he was hurting.
"Thatch! Bring me some sake!" Whitebeard roared, slamming a massive fist on the wooden table, nearly knocking over the empty bowls and chopsticks from lunch. At the far end of the open-air dining area, Thatch was busy clearing dishes. He didn't flinch, didn't even look up from the plates.
"Brother Marco gave strict orders—not even a drop. You know that, Pops," Thatch muttered, annoyance lacing his voice.
Whitebeard scowled. He was a pirate, not some bedridden invalid. His pride ached more than his wounds. Being treated like a fragile relic by his own sons—it was an insult, even if it came from love.
He began to rise, the massive bench groaning under his weight as he stood. The earth seemed to tremble beneath his boots.
"Fine! Then I'll get it myself—!"
But Thatch only chuckled as he wiped his hands dry, not making the slightest move to stop him.
"No use, Pops," he grinned. "I cleared every last bottle on the island."
Whitebeard grunted, somewhere between amusement and irritation. The crew had anticipated him too well. He was being caged in his own home, and worst of all—it was working.
A little farther off, overlooking the scene from the shade of a nearby tree, stood Vista. His arms were crossed, his expression tight with worry. Jozu, his hulking form as solid as ever, stood beside him, while Rakuyo leaned quietly on the hilt of his sword, all three watching the drama unfold.
"He's putting on a front for us," Vista said grimly. "For the crew. For the island. For the world."
His voice was low, but it carried the weight of frustration, guilt… and shame.
"I should've been stronger," he added, almost to himself. "We all should've been. If we were, Pops wouldn't have to pretend he's still the monster the world fears."
No one replied immediately.
Then Rakuyo asked the question that had haunted them all for weeks. "Do you think the Donquixote Family will agree to send the Heal-Heal Fruit user to help?"
It had been nearly a month since Marco had departed, alone, to negotiate with the Donquixote family. The last message they received had come two weeks ago—before he'd even entered Donquixote territory. Since then: silence.
"We shouldn't have let him go alone!" Jozu burst out. "We should've gone in force—show them we're serious."
Vista didn't even turn. "And then what? Start a war? With what strength, Jozu?"
"We're not weak! I alone could—"
"Enough!" Vista cut him off, his voice sharp with rare fury. "That pride… that stubbornness is exactly what dragged us into this mess."
He turned now, eyes burning. "You still don't get it, do you?"
Jozu clenched his fists, saying nothing.
Vista's voice dropped, but the venom remained. "Tell me Jozu—if even one of us could fight at Pops' level, do you think he'd be in this condition? Do you think he'd have had to carry the full weight of our crew, battle after battle, decade after decade?"
Jozu looked away, jaw tight.
Vista pressed on, ruthless. "You think we could just roll up to Dressrosa and demand what we want like we're still the top dogs of the New World? Do you even remember who we're dealing with?"
His eyes swept across the other two commanders. "The Donquixote Family didn't become Emperors by accident. Doflamingo's not just some flamboyant tyrant—he's the only Yonko with a bounty that reads 'ONLY DEAD'. Even Pops' bounty doesn't say that."
The silence was suffocating.
"You know what kind of monster you have to be… for the World Government to refuse the option of capture?" Vista's voice cracked slightly. "And now look at us. Pops is down. Marco's gone. The fleet's been recalled. We've turtled back to our home island like a wounded animal. We're exposed. Vulnerable. And worst of all… we're not strong enough to do anything about it."
Rakuyo looked at the ground, guilt etched into every line of his face.
"I'm not saying we're weaklings," Vista said more quietly. "But we're not ready. Not anymore. Only Marco has the power to fight on equal footing with the Admirals—and even then, it's thanks to his mythical Zoan. Me? You? Jozu? We're strong, yeah—but Admiral-level? Maybe at the threshold. Maybe. But nowhere near enough to command the seas."
He paused.
"The Donquixote Family might not have our numbers… but they've got more than three confirmed Admiral-level fighters. And each of them is loyal, fanatical, and willing to die on Doflamingo's word."
Vista's voice was iron now. "Compared to them… we're just a shadow of what we used to be."
A heavy silence followed. From afar, Whitebeard's laughter boomed again—loud, forced, and defiant. But those who had stood beside him the longest… could hear the truth behind it.
The laugh of a man fighting to stay larger than life, even as time and pain threatened to pull him down. Vista turned back toward the sea, the wind carrying the scent of salt and distant storms.
"We need to change, or we'll fade. The era's moving on without us… and we're the only ones still pretending we're the kings."
Vista's jaw tightened as the sea wind whipped against his face. His grip on the hilt of his sword trembled—not from fear, but from rage. Not at the world.
At himself. At all of them.
His eyes, sharp and bloodshot, bore into Jozu with an intensity that silenced even the wind for a moment.
"Have you forgotten why we left the island in the first place?" he growled, voice low but rising with every word. "We set out to avenge our brothers and sisters—our family—who were butchered and hung like trophies for the world to see. Their bodies strung from the gallows on a pier, their names now ridiculed by the same bastards we once protected the seas from."
His voice cracked with emotion, the fury no longer restrained.
"And what did we do…? The moment Pops got hurt, we tucked our tails between our legs and came crawling back home!"
He took a step forward, his cape whipping behind him.
"We forgot them! Every damn one of them! We forgot why we set sail; we forgot the territory that flew our banners. Forgot the blood that was spilled. The justice we swore we'd deliver! All it took was one unknown battle—one blow to Pops—and suddenly we're running scared like some ragtag crew of rookies."
Vista turned away for a moment, staring out at the sea that once sang their praises, his voice hollow.
"Is this… what the Whitebeard Pirates truly amount to without him? Is this all we are without Pops standing at the helm?"
He wheeled back around, fire blazing in his eyes.
"This is a wake-up call, Jozu. For all of us. We are not untouchable. Not anymore. There's an enemy out there right now who can bring Pops to his knees—and if that doesn't terrify you, then you're either blind or a fool."
The words hit like cannonballs. Jozu looked like he'd been struck. Rakuyo stared at the ground, fists clenched. Vista didn't stop. He couldn't.
"If you still aren't willing to admit that we've been lying to ourselves—pretending we're the same crew we were ten years ago—then maybe it's better we disband now."
He stepped forward again, his voice rising into a roar that echoed across the courtyard.
"Because this delusion—this fantasy—that we're still kings of the New World, still untouchable, still feared… it's going to be the very thing that gets Pops killed!"
Silence. Heavy. Crippling.
The courtyard was still. Even Whitebeard's booming laughter in the distance had faded. The crewmates nearby, the few who had overheard, dared not speak.
Vista's chest heaved as he breathed deeply, trying to steady himself. His eyes were red, not just from anger—but from guilt. From the crushing weight of watching his family drift into denial.
"No one's saying we give up," he said, quieter now, voice raw. "But we've got to change. We've got to accept where we are—and what we've become."
He looked at Jozu once more, this time with a pleading edge in his tone.
"If we want to protect Pops... if we want to be worthy of carrying the Whitebeard name into the next era, then we can't keep pretending we're what we used to be. We have to rebuild. Train. Evolve. Or else…"
He looked out to sea again.
"…one day, someone's going to come, and Pops won't be able to save us. And when that day comes, we'll lose everything. Not because we were weak… but because we were too proud to admit we weren't strong enough."
Further away, Whitebeard's laughter had long faded into silence.
He sat still beneath the open sky, eyes half-lidded, as if napping peacefully. But anyone who truly knew Edward Newgate would recognize that look—a storm raging behind closed lids.
He'd heard everything. Every word Vista had roared in bitter honesty.
His hearing, even dulled by age and battle, was still sharp enough to catch whispers from a ship's deck. Pretending not to hear it was a choice—a small mercy for sons trying to sort out the truths he had long ignored. Perhaps years ago, when he roamed the seas unchallenged, he would've stood and berated Vista for daring to speak so harshly about his brothers, for daring to question the might of the Whitebeard Pirates.
But now? Now, every word stung with truth. He wasn't untouchable. Not anymore.
The loss to Rocks still echoed through his bones, not just physically, but in the shame that followed—the shame of having to watch his sons look to him for a miracle… and finding a man who could no longer promise one.
Perhaps… this was his fault. Had he made them too reliant on him? Too comfortable under his shadow? He'd wanted to shield them. Instead, he may have caged them—keeping them safe, but stunting their growth.
Vista's words about their fallen sons, strung up as trophies by Rocks, cut the deepest. He hadn't shown it, but their loss haunted him. And the thought of it happening again—of failing them again—it shook him more than he cared to admit.
What if next time, he couldn't pretend it would all be alright?
Just as the mood among the division commanders was turning suffocating with reflection and regret, the tense silence shattered. A crewmember from the Third Division came sprinting up the hillside, nearly tumbling over as he skidded to a stop before the table where Whitebeard sat.
"POPS!" he gasped, sweat streaming down his face. "Pops—a giant ship flying the Donquixote flag has been sighted by one of our patrol ships! It's closing in fast—will be on the island in just a few hours at most!"
The announcement hit like thunder. The breath caught in everyone's throats. For a moment, no one spoke. Then—a collective exhale. Relief. The Donquixote Family had honored their word.
They had come.
Even Vista, who had moments ago spat the bitter truth, allowed himself to unclench. The tension in his shoulders eased just slightly. Around him, murmurs rose as realization spread—they were going to make it through this.
A couple hundred nautical miles from Sphinx Island, a colossal ship cut through the treacherous seas of the New World with the poise of a seasoned predator.
Originally constructed to ferry giants under the Marine flag, the vessel had since been claimed and reforged by the Donquixote Family, transformed into something far greater: a floating fortress, a testament to power.
Its hull, plated with marine-grade seastone alloy and fortified with layered armor, gleamed under the fractured sunlight. Lining its flanks were railgun cannons the size of sea kings' bones—each capable of leveling islands. The ship was one of the Donquixote Family's flagships, codenamed Leviathan, and few dared approach it without intent or invitation.
I stood atop the ship's massive sea dragon figurehead, its coiled body carved from the bones of a real serpent sea king from the Calm Belt—a tribute to the ship's original purpose, and to the giants who once commanded it. The craftsmanship blended reverence with menace, as if even the ship itself stared down the sea with contempt.
Beside me, Marco stood silently, his eyes fixed on the far-off horizon where Sphinx Island lay hidden among clouds and mist. The wind tousled his golden hair, and though his face was calm, I could see the tension in his clenched jaw and stiff shoulders.
"Contrary to your fears," I said quietly, "this ship isn't just big—it's built to dominate the sea." Marco gave a slow nod, gaze still locked ahead.
He had doubted the voyage at first—had wanted to leave Dressrosa airborne with the help of his phoenix powers, with only the Tontatta princess in tow, desperate to return to Whitebeard's side. But one look from me, and he had abandoned that idea. Now, after just two weeks, we had traversed waters that would've taken a month or more on even the sturdiest New World galleon.
Storms had come. Maelstroms howled. Rogue waves as tall as castles slammed against us.
But nothing slowed the Leviathan.
Now Marco understood. Giants weren't just great warriors—they were unmatched sailors. Not simply for their physical prowess and unparalleled seamanship, but because they built ships like this, behemoths that cleaved through nature's fury like a hot blade through wax.
But the ship alone wasn't the only reason for our speed.
"You know," I added, almost absently, "our intelligence network has detailed every current, every reef, every eddy in these waters. Including routes even the Whitebeard Pirates no longer remember."
That made Marco glance sideways at me. He hadn't known.
"How do you—?"
"Information, Marco-san," I said, a grin tugging at the edge of my lips, "is the currency of survival. The sea may shift, but secrets never change."
The Donquixote Family's network spanned continents, crawling through the underground, the merchant lanes, the noble courts, and even Marine intelligence bureaus; even the world government was helpless against the Donquixote family's information network. In some ways, it was our most dangerous weapon—more than any fruit, any cannon, or any warship.
As my Observation Haki unfurled, I scanned the nearby sea. Compared to the rigid and strict routes of our territory, Whitebeard's territory waters were chaotic—teeming with life and trade, fishing vessels, independent traders, and shadowy patrols. It was less a kingdom, more a free-spirited haven.
I felt two dozen vessels in our immediate range. Most harmless. Except one.
A ship tucked into the edge of the horizon, small, unobtrusive… too perfect. Its disguise was flawless—a humble merchant schooner flying neutral colors. But its movements were precise, its silence too disciplined. Its radio hum pulsed like a beacon in the dark.
My eyes narrowed.
"Marco-san," I said, letting a trace of amusement slip into my tone, "I didn't realize things were so dire that you'd let a Marine scout ship wander this deep into your home waters."
That got his attention. He turned sharply toward me, eyes wide with alarm. "A Marine ship? Here?"
He stared into the distance, but the disguised vessel was too far for his range of Haki.
"Where?" he demanded.
I simply raised an arm and pointed—my forefinger cutting across the wind.
"They're listening. Recording. Transmitting," I said casually. "That ship has advanced reconnaissance tech, likely from G-5 or a Cipher Pol detachment. They've already spotted the Leviathan and reported its signature to Marine HQ."
The change in Marco was immediate. The tension in his face twisted into anger. His wings exploded from his back in a burst of blue flame, the mythical phoenix form manifesting in all its glory. The very air around him shimmered with heat and fury.
"Rosinante," he growled, "maintain course. I'll handle this."
And without another word, he took to the skies, his wings carving through the air with devastating force. Wind whipped across the deck as the former First Division Commander of the Whitebeard Pirates became a streak of light and flame, soaring toward the horizon.
Even from here, I could feel his fury—the audacity of the Marines to send a surveillance vessel so close to Sphinx Island, especially while Whitebeard was vulnerable, was a clear message: We're watching. We know you're weak.
But they had forgotten something. Even if the Whitebeard Pirates were cornered... A cornered phoenix doesn't die—it burns brighter.