A black lance of lightning tore across the sea. The ocean did not merely ripple beneath it— It parted. A tunnel of violently displaced water carved itself through the surface as the pressure of my passage split waves in two. Walls of seawater rose high on either side, spiraling upward in foaming arcs before crashing back down in my wake. Thunder rolled endlessly above, chasing the streak of darkness that cut toward Elbaf like a spear thrown by a wrathful god.
I had received the news too late. By the time I dragged Bonbori's corpse out of the Forbidden Zone, my hands still stained with blood and ash, Issho had already relayed the message from Dressrosa. Shyarly had forced a divination. And it had nearly killed her.
She lay unconscious from the backlash, her body unable to bear the strain of peering too far into fate. But before she fainted, she delivered one final message: Someone in the family was in mortal danger.
Coincidentally, Dora had slipped out of Dressrosa alone. Without telling anyone. The moment I heard that, something inside my chest tightened. Instinct. Not fear. Not yet. But something close. I handed Bonbori's corpse over without hesitation. Issho offered to accompany me—his presence alone would have doubled our force that could crush Elbaf.
I refused. We didn't know the full scope of what the World Government was planning or if they had anything planned at all, but the only entity who could harm the current Donquixote family was the World Government alone. Dressrosa held too much to be left unguarded; even with Doffy and the rest there, it was better to recall all our forces. And also currently aboard Issho's ship was the Red Poneglyph we retrieved from Wano and Bonbori's corpse itself. If this were a diversion, I would not leave our hearts exposed.
So I went alone. Even at my speed—faster than lightning, faster than most could perceive—it would still take hours to reach Elbaf. Hours. Too long.
The black current of energy around my body intensified as I pushed harder, compressing the air beneath my feet and launching myself forward again and again in violent bursts. Each step in midair detonated like a cannon blast, accelerating me further.
The sea below screamed. The pressure of my movement forced a widening corridor through the water. Fish were thrown skyward in spirals. Entire sections of the ocean split apart, revealing the dark abyss beneath before crashing back together in titanic explosions of foam. A storm formed behind me.
But it wasn't fast enough. My gut twisted. The unease grew stronger the closer I got. I glanced down at the small square of paper clenched in my hand. Dora's Vivre card. It was intact. No burning edges. No crumbling. Still perfect.
And yet, the closer I came to Elbaf, the louder the warning in my chest became. As if the world itself were whispering that something was wrong.
"Just hang in there, Dora…" I muttered through gritted teeth. I planted my foot against the air again. The shockwave tore a sonic boom across the horizon as my speed exploded further. Black lightning flared around my limbs, not wild like hers—controlled, compressed, sharpened.
The ocean beneath me did not merely part now. It was pierced. A continuous tunnel formed as I streaked forward, water spiraling violently outward from the pressure field around my body. The surface of the sea caved inward beneath the lance of energy, forming a long corridor that trailed for miles before collapsing behind me in a thunderous roar.
Clouds above split in my path. Wind could not keep pace. My mind replayed every possibility. The pieces did not align cleanly, but my instincts rarely screamed without reason. And they were screaming now.
"Harald…" My voice darkened as Elbaf's King's memory brushed past my mind. My eyes narrowed. "You better not have harmed her." The sea behind me detonated as I accelerated again, pushing past the limits of air resistance itself.
"If you lay a hand on someone from my family…" My jaw tightened, killing intent bleeding into the storm around me, darkening the very world around me. "I will drown Elbaf in blood."
The black lance of lightning roared toward the island—and whatever awaited there would soon learn what it meant to provoke me.
*****
Upper Yard, Skypeia
More than a thousand Birkian soldiers marched in rigid formation, their white wings fluttering in disciplined unison as they advanced through the layered cloud roads toward Upper Yard—the so-called "Sacred God's Abode."
The sound of their movement rolled like distant thunder across the sky. Spears tipped with gleaming dials caught the sun. Polished breastplates reflected the pale blue of the heavens. War drums beat at measured intervals, their deep rhythm echoing between drifting cloudbanks and towering sky-islands. The air itself seemed to tense as the army advanced, a serpent of white and gold winding its way toward sacred ground.
At the head of the column swayed a massive golden palanquin. It was less a carriage and more a floating monument to excess—engraved with divine sigils, studded with sky-crystals, and draped in silk banners bearing the crest of Birka: the haloed eye. Gold chains hung from its edges, chiming softly with each step.
The palanquin was carried not by proud warriors— But by children. More than two dozen frail youths staggered beneath its weight, their small wings trembling with exhaustion. They were branded wastes—children born with deformities, twisted wings, clouded eyes, or frail bodies deemed unfit for "divine purpose." In Birka, such births were whispered to be curses from God, punishment for ancestral sins. They were not given names. Only numbers.
They were treated worse than slaves. Their backs were scarred from past punishments. Ankles bound in decorative chains that were far heavier than necessary. Each labored breath was a quiet plea for mercy that would never come.
And inside the golden palanquin, reclining upon embroidered cushions, sat a towering Birkian noble—broad-shouldered, heavy-winged, and adorned in layered gold and pearl ornaments. His face bore the arrogant stillness of someone who had never been denied anything in his life. A direct descendant of Birka's current God.
In Birka, hierarchy was absolute. Blood defined worth. Those who claimed divine lineage enjoyed privileges so obscene that even the Celestial Dragons of the Blue Sea might have raised an eyebrow. But unlike the Tenryūbito, whose dominion stretched across oceans, Birka's so-called gods ruled only the sky—and they guarded that dominion jealously.
Behind the palanquin marched captains and officers, their expressions stern, their eyes constantly scanning the cloudscape ahead. One captain, younger and visibly uneasy, leaned closer to his senior.
"The God of Skypiea ordered his people not to intervene in this matter… so why are we even doing this?" he murmured under his breath. The senior captain's eyes snapped sideways.
"Shhh… lower your voice," he hissed. "If His Lordship hears you, losing your head will be the least of your worries."
He subtly gestured toward the massive figure lounging in the golden palanquin. "It was Skypiea's own elders who approached us. They begged for help reclaiming their ancestral ground from those barbarians. We are merely… responding."
The younger captain frowned. "It still feels strange. Our God agreeing to help anyone? Especially Skypieans?"
He trailed off, because they both knew the truth of their ruler. Greed defined him more than divinity ever had. The senior captain glanced around carefully before leaning closer.
"You think this is charity?" he whispered. "No. Our God plans to claim Upper Yard for himself." The younger captain stiffened.
"What?"
"Upper Yard is the only place in all the Sky Islands where true earth—Vearth—exists. Real soil. Fertile, sacred, coveted. Our God believes it is his divine right to possess it."
The captain's voice lowered even further. "He has waited years for an excuse. And now the elders of Skypiea have handed him one."
The realization settled heavily. "So once we drive out the barbarians… we won't be giving it back?"
The senior captain's lips curled faintly. "Giving it back? No. Once Birka plants its banner there, Upper Yard will belong to us."
"But will the Skypieans allow it?" the younger pressed. "Once the barbarians are gone, won't they demand the land? And what about their God? I've heard he's strong. Stronger than ours, some say."
A flicker of tension crossed the senior captain's face. "That may have mattered before." He adjusted his gauntlet, watching the cloud-horizon ahead. "But things have changed in Skypiea. Many among their nobility resent their God."
"Resent him?"
"He maintained peace with the Shandians. Worse—he relinquished claim to Upper Yard without war. To traditionalists, that was weakness. Betrayal." The drums continued to beat as they marched. "The Council of Skypeian Elders is already plotting. They plan to remove him and install someone more… aligned with their beliefs."
The younger captain swallowed. "So we're not just marching to reclaim land."
"No," the senior replied quietly. "We're marching into a political storm." Ahead, Upper Yard loomed—its massive canopy rising above the clouds like a green continent suspended in heaven. Sacred. Desired. Fought over for centuries.
"HALT! Who goes there?!" The command cracked across the sky like a thunderclap.
From above the cloud-road, a dozen figures descended in disciplined formation—wings cutting through the mist, bodies silhouetted against the sun. They hovered in a crescent, perfectly positioned to block the path leading toward Upper Yard.
Shandian warriors.
Their attire was unmistakable—war paint streaked across bronzed skin, braided hair adorned with beads and bone, muscular frames clad in layered hides and woven armor reinforced with impact dials. Each carried weapons carved from Vearth itself—spears tipped with sharpened metal, axes etched with ancestral markings, and shields embedded with shells that hummed faintly with stored force.
They did not waver. Below them, the Birkian army slowed. Drums fell silent. The golden palanquin creaked as the exhausted children struggled to hold it steady, their small bodies trembling beneath its immense weight. Officers barked quiet orders, ranks tightening instinctively. The Shandian patrol captain drifted slightly forward, eyes sharp and unyielding.
Though Upper Yard now stood under complete Shandian control, it was not closed to outsiders. Years earlier, after bloodshed that had stained both cloud and soil, an agreement had been forged—witnessed and sanctioned by Gan Fall, the one who once bore the mantle of Skypeian God and Donquixote Rosinante, the living god that the Shandians worshipped.
Pilgrimage would be allowed. The people of the Sky Islands could enter Upper Yard—but only under Shandian law. It had not been an easy compromise.
Many among the Shandians had demanded absolute sovereignty. Upper Yard was their ancestral land, torn from them centuries ago. Its earth—Vearth—was sacred beyond measure. To share it felt like surrender.
But their living god had spoken. The earth does not belong to anyone. Those words had stilled the war drums. And so, against their instincts, they had agreed. As long as visitors respected the rules laid down by the Shandians, they would not be denied entry.
That was the only reason the patrol had not attacked. Because what approached was not a small group of pilgrims. It was an army. Over a thousand Birkian soldiers stood massed upon the cloud path, armor gleaming, weapons ready, formation unmistakably military. Their presence alone disrupted the wind currents around them.
The Shandian captain's gaze shifted past the front ranks and landed on the golden palanquin. His jaw tightened. He saw the children beneath it. Saw the chains. The scars. The trembling legs barely holding. Disgust flickered across his features.
"You approach Upper Yard with a war host," he called out, his voice carrying easily across the open sky. "State your purpose."
For a long moment, no one answered. Then a senior Birkian captain stepped forward, wings spreading slightly in a gesture of formal authority.
"We come at the request of Skypiea's Council of Elders," he declared smoothly. "To assist in restoring order and reclaiming ancestral ground from… unlawful occupants."
A ripple of tension passed through the Shandian formation. Unlawful occupants. The words hung in the air like poison. One of the younger Shandian warriors shifted, grip tightening around his spear. But the captain raised a hand subtly, restraining him.
"Upper Yard is under Shandian stewardship," the captain replied evenly. "Recognized by treaty. Witnessed by the leader of Skypeia himself." His eyes hardened. "Pilgrims are welcome. An army is not."
Behind the Birkian ranks, a faint laugh drifted from the palanquin. The massive noble inside parted the silk curtain just enough for his shadowed face to be seen. His eyes scanned the hovering Shandians with detached amusement. The wind stirred uneasily.
"You speak boldly," he said lazily, his voice deep and resonant. "For vermin crawling on borrowed land."
The Shandian captain's expression did not change. "Turn back," he warned. "Or approach in peace. Those are your choices."
The air between them grew heavy. The Birkian soldiers subtly shifted stance. Spears angled upward. Dial mechanisms clicked softly as they primed.
"Get rid of these pests… Wake me when we reach Upper Yard. And capture some of those barbaric women." The noble's laughter oozed from within the golden palanquin—slow, indulgent, vile. The silk curtain fell shut. To him, the Shandians were already conquered.
Below, the Birkian captains did not hesitate. With sharp clicks, they activated the dials embedded in their boots. Jets of compressed air detonated beneath their feet— BOOM!
In an instant, they shot skyward like white comets, blades drawn, spears poised to impale. Their formation was precise, drilled to perfection. They aimed to decapitate the patrol in a single overwhelming strike. But the Shandian captain did not move. A faint smirk tugged at his lips.
"If they land the first strike," he said calmly, eyes gleaming with quiet amusement, "you are free to retaliate."
The Birkian spearhead descended. Steel screamed through the air. And then— A black sheen spread across the Shandians' bodies. Not cloth. Not armor. Haki.
It coated their skin like forged obsidian, dense and unyielding. Every warrior in the patrol bore it—some thicker, some thinner—but present all the same. The air around them seemed to tighten under the weight of their will.
Clang—!
The Birkian captain's spear struck directly at the Shandian captain's heart. Instead of flesh giving way, it felt like stabbing a mountain of iron. Sparks exploded outward. The impact rattled his arms to the bone.
"What—?!"
Across the sky, similar clashes rang out. Blades that should have severed wings scraped uselessly. Spears bent. Edges chipped. Not a single Shandian fell. The Birkian captains instinctively disengaged, wings beating hard as they retreated a dozen meters back.
"Mantra…" one whispered.
One by one, they activated their divine perception. The world sharpened. Heartbeats echoed. Breathing patterns surfaced in their minds. And what they saw was wrong. Every Shandian radiated a dense, blackened aura, their bodies encased in invisible armor.
"What in God's name is that—" The Shandian captain's smile widened. His aura flared. Predatory. Oppressive.
"Soru." He vanished. The sound that followed was not a boom—but a vacuum snap, as though the air itself had been displaced too violently to scream. The other Shandians moved simultaneously. They had not only learned Haki. They had inherited Rokushiki.
Rosinante's brutal methods had forged them into something else entirely. The tribe of Shandia had always embraced pain if it meant strength. Now, they wielded power without a ceiling. Every drop of blood spilled in training had fed their will.
And Haki responded to will. The Birkian captain's mantra screamed warnings—but too late. A whisper brushed his ear.
"You should have stayed in Birka… Now your corpse will nourish the soil of Upper Yard."
Cold. Final. Then—THUKK.
The sound was wet and violent. A spear, coated in hardened Armament Haki, punched clean through his back. The tip burst from his chest in a spray of crimson. For a fraction of a second, the world froze. The captain looked down. Blackened steel protruded from where his heart had been. Then pain erupted.
Blood flooded his mouth. His Mantra flickered. His wings spasmed uselessly. Desperation overrode reason. With shaking hands, he tore a Reject Dial from his belt and slammed his palm against it.
"DIE WITH ME—!" A thunderous blast detonated midair. "BOOM…!"
The sky fractured in white light. A shockwave ripped outward, shredding clouds and sending bodies spiraling. Blood and fragments rained down like macabre petals. Below, the Birkian ranks staggered in shock. Smoke churned where their captain had been. Then the wind shifted. The smoke parted. The Shandian warrior stood there.
Bruised. Singed. But standing. His armament Haki still coated his body like black steel, cracked slightly at the surface but unbroken. Where the Birkian captain had been—nothing remained. Only drifting ash. Silence consumed the battlefield for half a heartbeat. Then the Shandian captain's voice descended like a verdict.
"Kill everyone who resists." He dropped. Like a hawk diving for prey. The rest of the patrol followed. They tore into the thousand-strong army like a pride of lions descending upon sheep. Soru bursts echoed one after another, bodies blinking in and out of sight as they appeared amidst Birkian formations.
Spears pierced through armored chests. Haki-coated fists shattered ribs with blunt explosions. Rank after rank collapsed before they could reorganize. Mantra screamed warnings—but the Shandians moved too fast. Too decisively. Their presence vanished between heartbeats, their attacks landing before intent could be fully formed.
Cloud paths fractured under the chaos. Wings were torn from backs. Dial weapons misfired in panic. The once-proud Birkian formation dissolved into confusion.
And at the front—the golden palanquin swayed violently as the children beneath it trembled, unsure whether to run or remain chained to their burden. Inside the swaying golden palanquin, irritation twisted the noble's face as the sounds of chaos bled through silk curtains.
Steel clashing. Men screaming. Explosions ripping through clouds. He clicked his tongue in annoyance and violently tore the curtains open.
"Keep it down! Didn't I say I wanted to—" The rest of his words died in his throat. His expression froze. Because what he saw was not what he had expected. It was not Birkian steel cutting down a handful of tribal barbarians. It was slaughter.
Systematic. Brutal. His soldiers—his elite captains—were being torn apart in midair while the soldiers panicked and ran. Wings severed. Armor shattered. Bodies plummeting through the clouds like broken dolls. A Shandian warrior took a Reject Dial blast point-blank to the face— and kept moving.
The noble's breath hitched. He knew what a reject dial did. He had seen it countless times during training drills and punishments. The recoil alone had once blown off a soldier's entire arm and half his torso. The dial did not discriminate. It destroyed everything in its path.
So how—how were these barbarians still standing? How were they fighting? His gaze sharpened, and, through the haze of smoke and drifting feathers, he saw it. A black sheen coating their bodies. Not armor. Something else. Something terrifying.
Fear gripped his chest like a claw. This was wrong. Terribly wrong. They weren't fighting warriors. They were fighting monsters.
"I–Impossible…" he muttered.
Another Birkian captain was impaled midair, his scream cut short as a Haki-coated blade cleaved through him. Blood misted across the sky like a crimson halo. The noble's composure shattered.
He staggered backward inside the palanquin, panic overtaking entitlement.
"Move! MOVE, you worthless bastards!" he shrieked. "Take me back to Birka! I command you!"
His voice cracked. For all his gold and divine lineage, for all his inherited privilege—he was a coward. Beneath the palanquin, the enslaved youths stood frozen for a split second. Shock rippled through their thin frames. Emotions they had long buried—fear, anger, disbelief—flickered dangerously close to the surface.
Among them, one boy did not look away. Enel.
Unlike the others, whose eyes had dulled into resignation, something still burned deep within his gaze. He watched. Watched as Shandian warriors dismantled the Birkian captains like they were nothing. The same captains who had once been described as divine elites.
Enel was labeled a waste. But he possessed a gift. His Mantra was exceptional. Even now, his senses stretched outward instinctively, mapping the battlefield in crisp detail. He could feel heartbeats faltering. Hear the intent before attacks landed.
And he saw it. The black armor around the Shandians. Dense. Impenetrable. Unyielding. He didn't understand what it was. But he wanted it.
"If I learn that… maybe… maybe I can have my revenge…" he whispered under his breath.
CRACK!
Agony exploded across his back. A barbed whip tore through skin and flesh, ripping crimson lines into his small frame. He buckled forward, nearly losing his grip. The noble, red-faced and trembling atop the palanquin, had turned his fear into cruelty.
"How dare you hesitate? MOVE!"
The whip rose again. The other youths instinctively adjusted, absorbing the weight to prevent the palanquin from tipping. If it fell, they would all be executed. Gritting his teeth through the pain, Enel forced himself upright and took the weight once more.
The whip descended—but a scream tore through the sky. "Aaaaarghhhhh—!"
Wet, shrill. Like a slaughtered pig. Enel felt it before he saw it. His mantra sharpened. The noble did not. A spear burst through the air— THUNK.
It pierced clean through the noble's arm at the shoulder, severing it completely. Flesh and bone separated in a violent spray as the arm—still clutching the whip—spun away into the clouds. The noble collapsed backward onto the silk cushions, shrieking in agony. Blood soaked the gold embroidery.
"Retreat! Retreat! Take me away from these monsters!" he squealed, his voice breaking into pathetic sobs. And this time—the youths moved. Chains clattered as they staggered into motion, turning the palanquin around. Enel, still shackled, had no choice but to follow.
Yet even as he retreated, his eyes never left the battlefield. He watched the Shandians. Watched their discipline. Their speed. Their power. Every Birkian soldier who resisted was cut down without mercy. Cloud paths were stained red.
Soon the thousand-strong host was a scattered mess, each one trying to run faster than the one beside them to escape the monsters.
"Are we letting him go?" one Shandian warrior asked, wiping blood from his blade with a strip torn from a fallen soldier's uniform. His gaze lingered on the fleeing palanquin.
They had killed perhaps a hundred. That alone had shattered the thousand-strong host. Panic had done the rest. They could pursue. They could slaughter them all. The Shandian captain remained still.
"No," he said calmly. "Let them leave." His gaze followed the retreating figure briefly, then shifted to the wound on his comrade's shoulder—a shallow but visible burn from a close-range Reject Dial blast.
"You're injured."
"It's nothing but a scratch," the warrior replied nonchalantly.
The captain's expression hardened—not in anger, but in resolve. "It's not enough," he said quietly. "None of us are strong enough yet." He looked toward Upper Yard, where sacred earth gleamed beneath the sun. "You remember the kind of monsters we will face for our God."
The warriors fell silent. They had seen glimpses of what true power was like when their go fought the monsters of the blue sea below. Felt presences far greater than this Birkian rabble. The Blue Sea below bred horrors beyond imagination.
"We are destined to become our God's army; that is our life's purpose," the captain continued. "If a reject dial can wound us, we are still too weak." There was no mockery in his tone. Only determination.
Further away, the surviving Birkian soldiers fled in disarray, wings beating desperately. And among the retreating slaves, a youth named Enel stared back at the warriors of Shandia one last time, imprinting everything into his heart. Not with fear. But with desperate hunger for power.