Mary Geoise, Red Line
At the far edge of the Donquixote family estate within the Holy Land stood a palace that did not belong. Not in design. Not in spirit. Not in the way it felt.
From a distance, it matched the grandeur expected of the Celestial Dragons—its ivory walls gleaming under the ever-pristine sky of the Red Line, its towering spires adorned with gold filigree and rare gemstones that caught the light like captive stars. Marble columns lined its façade, each carved with intricate patterns that spoke of wealth beyond imagination.
And yet there was a dissonance. A quiet estrangement. Where other palaces radiated indulgence and arrogance, this one stood… restrained. Almost withdrawn. It was as if the structure itself had been placed at the edge not by accident, but by design—kept apart, distanced from the rest of the estate like an unspoken rejection. This was the residence of Donquixote Mjosgard. An outcast among gods.
The palace grounds stretched into a vast garden that seemed untouched by the excesses typical of the Holy Land. Instead of gaudy displays meant to flaunt status, there was an odd sense of order here—carefully pruned hedges, stone pathways laid with intention, and flowering trees that swayed gently in the breeze.
It was quiet. Too quiet for a place that belonged to a Tenryubito. At the heart of the garden, beneath the shade of a pale, blossoming tree, stood an ornate table of polished white stone. Beside it, seated in a finely crafted garden chair, was Mjosgard himself. His posture was composed, though not relaxed.
One sleeve of his robe hung empty, fluttering faintly in the wind—a silent testament to a past that had reshaped him. Spread across the table before him were documents—scrolls, ledgers, and reports stacked with meticulous care. His gaze moved across them steadily, sharp and calculating, a far cry from the careless decadence expected of his kind.
This was not a man idling away eternity. This was a man working. Thinking. Planning. Around him, positioned at the four cardinal directions, stood his guards. Four figures. Silent. Unmoving. Deadly.
They did not wear the flamboyant uniforms of the Holy Land's enforcers, nor did they carry themselves with the exaggerated arrogance of typical Celestial Dragon retainers. These were not ornamental protectors meant to intimidate the weak. They were weapons.
Each one radiated a quiet lethality that even seasoned warriors would recognize at a glance. Their eyes were alert, their stances grounded, their presence unwavering. Unlike the disposable slaves that surrounded other Tenryubito, these four were different. Chosen. Refined. Dangerous.
Many among the Celestial Dragons had taken notice. And many had tried to take them. Offers had been made—lavish, excessive, bordering on absurd. But every time, Mjosgard had refused.
Without hesitation.
For a long time, that defiance had cost him. Because in the Holy Land, standing apart was not tolerated. Especially not by those who carried the title of traitor. Even within the Donquixote lineage—a name already stained by past betrayal—Mjosgard had found no refuge. He had been mocked, sidelined, and quietly stripped of influence. The actions of his father had cast a shadow too deep to escape, and for years, he had lived under it.
An outcast among the divine. A name spoken with derision. But that had changed. Abruptly. Violently. Without warning. In the span of mere months, the world itself had shifted. The New World had become a black zone—unpredictable, uncontrollable, slipping further from the grasp of the World Government with each passing day. Supply lines had fractured. Trade routes had collapsed. The steady flow of rare goods, luxury materials, and exotic resources—the lifeblood of Celestial Dragon indulgence—had been severed.
And the Tenryubito—Spoiled. Demanding. Insatiable—Refused to adapt. They wanted what they always had. And they wanted it now. That was when the Gorosei stepped in. And that was when they chose him. Without ceremony, without explanation, a responsibility had been placed upon Mjosgard's shoulders.
Logistics. Resource allocation. Control over the distribution of rare and luxury commodities within the Holy Land. On paper, it was insignificant. A bureaucratic role. Beneath the dignity of most Celestial Dragons. But in the current world—It was power.
Just then, a Tenryūbito arrived as only they ever did—encased in a gleaming glass bubble, chin tilted skyward as though the very air of the world were unworthy of his lungs. His steps were slow, exaggerated, every movement dripping with the arrogance of one born above consequences. Behind him trailed a retinue of armed soldiers and shackled slaves, their heads bowed, their existence reduced to shadows orbiting a false sun.
"Let me through, you little filth… how dare you stop me?" The outburst shattered the quiet dignity of the estate's entrance. The butler, a man of measured composure despite the chains of his station, stood firm at the gates, bowing just enough to remain respectful, yet not enough to surrender his duty.
"Tenryūbito-sama," he said, voice steady despite the danger, "my master has given explicit instructions not to be disturbed. If you would allow me, I shall inform him of your—"
"Silence!" The word cracked like a whip. "You lowly creature dare delay me? You expect me to turn back?" In one fluid, petulant motion, the Celestial Dragon drew an ornate pistol—golden, embellished, absurdly excessive—and fired.
BANG.
The shot rang through the estate like a declaration of ownership over life itself. The butler collapsed, blood spreading across the pristine pathway. Yet to a trained eye, there had been something subtle in that fall—a shift at the final instant, a calculated movement that spared his vitals. Even wounded, the man had preserved his life with quiet skill.
The Tenryūbito sneered, lowering the smoking barrel. "Not so grand now, are you?" He raised the pistol again—and stopped. A hand had seized the weapon. Not hurried. Not frantic. Simply there. Cold fingers wrapped around the barrel, halting it mid-motion, as though the authority of a god had just been casually denied. For a moment, silence reigned.
The Tenryūbito blinked, confusion struggling against outrage as his mind caught up with reality.
"You… you… you bastard…!" His voice cracked into hysteria. "Let go! I said… LET GOOO!" The man holding the gun did not respond. He didn't need to. One of Donquixote Mjosgard's four guards stood before him—expressionless, unmoved, eyes devoid of fear or reverence. To him, this "god" was nothing more than an obstacle.
"Kill him! I said kill the bastard!" the Tenryūbito shrieked, turning desperately toward his soldiers.
They hesitated. That brief hesitation saved more than one life.
"Put your weapons away…" The voice came from deeper within the garden—calm, measured, carrying an authority that needed no volume. "…unless you want to die a miserable death."
Mjosgard had spoken as he stepped into the pathway followed by his remaining guards. Unlike the shrill, chaotic rage of the other noble, his tone was absolute. It did not plead. It did not threaten loudly. It simply was like a verdict already passed. Most of the soldiers froze.
One did not. Driven by conditioning rather than thought, he raised his rifle, aiming at the guard restraining his master. He never pulled the trigger. A blur moved behind him. Hands—precise, efficient—took hold. One stripped the rifle from his grip. The other coiled around his neck. There was no struggle. No wasted motion.
Crack.
The sound was clean. Final. The soldier's body went limp before he even realized he was dead. The guard released him without ceremony, letting the corpse collapse onto the stone path like discarded refuse. Silence fell once more—but this time it was heavy, suffocating. The remaining soldiers lowered their weapons.
Not out of loyalty. Out of understanding. These men… these four shadows surrounding Mjosgard… they did not belong to the fragile hierarchy of the Celestial Dragons. They did not fear titles, nor did they value their own lives enough to hesitate. They served one man. And one man alone. The Tenryūbito trembled now—not with indignation, but with something far more unfamiliar. Rage.
"Donquixote… is this how you raise your mutts?" the Tenryūbito snarled, his voice dripping with venom. "I'll kill these bastards today—no matter what excuse you come up with." The air turned brittle. Without raising his voice, Donquixote Mjosgard stepped forward, closing the distance with measured calm. His presence alone seemed to steady the chaos around him.
"Let him go." The command was quiet—but absolute. The guard obeyed instantly, releasing the writhing noble. Not before wrenching the ornate pistol from his grasp with brutal finality. The Tenryūbito stumbled back, clutching his wrist, fury boiling over as curses spilled from his lips—until they died in his throat.
Mjosgard's hand had settled on his shoulder. What seemed like a casual gesture tightened—slowly, deliberately. Bone creaked. The Tenryūbito froze.
"It seems," Mjosgard began, his tone almost conversational, "the JuPeter family has been lacking in manners lately." His grip tightened further, forcing the man to bend ever so slightly under the pressure.
"You enter my residence unannounced… you shoot my servant in front of me…" His voice remained level, but each word carried a razor's edge. "And even after I grant you face and let that slide, you threaten another one of my men." A pause. "Tell me… isn't that you slapping my face? Tarnishing my dignity?"
For a heartbeat, the world seemed to hold its breath. Then the Tenryūbito scoffed. The disdain in his eyes was unmistakable. To him, Mjosgard was still the same outcast—an embarrassment who had dared to cast aside the "purity" of their kind.
"So what if I killed a few of your dogs?" he sneered, straightening as much as Mjosgard's grip allowed. "What are you going to do about it? Have you forgotten your place, Mjos—" He never finished.
THUD.
The punch landed like a cannon blast. Mjosgard's fist drove deep into the man's abdomen, bypassing the protection of the suit with sheer, overwhelming force. The Tenryūbito's body folded instantly, the air blasted from his lungs as he gagged, knees buckling beneath him.
A strangled retch escaped him as he collapsed onto the ground, clutching his stomach, his bubble helmet fogging with his labored breaths. For the first time in his life—he had been struck. Not by a slave. Not by an equal. But by someone he believed beneath him.
Mjosgard stood over him, unmoved. Gone was the meek outcast they had grown accustomed to trampling over. In his place stood something colder. Sharper. Someone who understood power—and wielded it without hesitation. He crouched slowly, bringing himself level with the groveling noble. With two fingers, he tapped lightly against the glass of the man's helmet.
Tap. Tap.
"Say that again… my dear brethren," he murmured, almost amused. "I didn't quite hear you the first time." The Tenryūbito tried to speak—but all that came out was a broken wheeze. Pain had replaced arrogance. Mjosgard's eyes hardened.
"Disciplining my men… punishing them… that is not your concern." His voice dropped—low, lethal."But listen carefully." His grip returned—this time not to the shoulder, but to the collar of the man's attire, dragging him slightly upward, forcing him to meet his gaze.
"The next time you dare to barge into my home like this…" A faint, chilling smile touched his lips. "I will break every limb in your body… and throw you out like the trash you are." He leaned closer. "Is that understood?" The Tenryūbito trembled, his pride warring with the raw, instinctive fear clawing up his spine.
"…I said—" Mjosgard's grip tightened once more, just enough to make the threat real. "—is that understood?"
"You dare strike me, Mjosgard…?" the Tenryūbito rasped, his voice trembling between fury and disbelief. "Do you have any idea what will happen when my family hears of this—"
SMACK.
The slap cracked through the garden like thunder. Mjosgard didn't just hit him—he sent him rolling across the stone pathway, the man's bubble helmet scraping and bouncing as his body tumbled helplessly. The retinue froze, horror etched across their faces. No one—no one—laid hands on a Celestial Dragon like this. And yet, here it was.
"I asked you…" Donquixote Mjosgard stepped forward again, unhurried, his shadow falling over the broken noble. "Is that understood?"
There was no rage in his voice now—only cold authority. The kind that came not from birthright, but from knowing exactly where one stood in the hierarchy of monsters that ruled the Holy Land. To Mjosgard, this man… was nothing. A name. A lineage. But no real weight.
Even if he broke every bone in his body here and now, it would barely ripple through the upper echelons of power—especially given the disgraceful manner in which this fool had stormed into his residence. The Tenryūbito coughed, struggling to push himself up, his earlier arrogance cracking under the sheer force of reality. Mjosgard didn't wait.
"Now listen carefully," he continued, his tone sharpening. "If you have complaints regarding the resources allocated to your household, you may address them through the proper channels."
A step closer. "Or—" his lips curved faintly, though there was no warmth in it, "—you're welcome to crawl to the higher-ups and whine about it."
His gaze hardened, the air itself seeming to grow heavier. "But never again…" Each word landed like a hammer. "Will you barge into my home like this." A pause. "Never again." Then, almost casually—as if dealing with nothing more than refuse—Mjosgard lifted his foot and drove it into the tenryubito's side.
THUD.
The Tenryūbito's body skidded across the ground, a broken gasp escaping him as he curled in on himself, completely stripped of the godlike arrogance he had walked in with. Mjosgard didn't even spare him another glance. Instead, he turned to the stunned retinue, his presence towering over them.
"Take your master," he said, his voice calm but laced with an edge that brooked no disobedience. A brief pause. "I have a rather important guest to attend to." His gaze flicked briefly toward the bleeding butler, then back to the guards. "And clean this trash up."
Mjosgard did not spare the fallen Tenryūbito another glance. To him, the man had already ceased to matter. With measured steps, Donquixote Mjosgard turned and walked back toward the inner garden, his robes swaying softly with each stride. The four guards instinctively moved to follow—but he raised a single hand.
A silent command. They stopped. Because Mjosgard had already sensed it. A presence. Ancient. Immovable. Waiting. Someone who did not need an introduction.
The garden lay quiet, untouched by the chaos that had just unfolded beyond its stone paths. The faint rustle of leaves and the distant cry of birds created an illusion of peace—but the air itself felt heavier here, as though it bent in deference to the figure seated at the table.
Saint Jaygarcia Saturn. One of the Five Elders. One of the true rulers of the world. He sat with composed stillness, his cane resting beside him, flipping through thick folders detailing shipments, inventories, and the lifelines of the Holy Land. His eyes moved slowly, deliberately—missing nothing.
Mjosgard approached. "Gorosei-sama… you could have simply sent word. I would have come to you." He bowed deeply, not as a subordinate but as one who understood power. He did not sit. Instead, he stood beside the table, posture straight, gaze lowered—not in submission, but in acknowledgment. Saturn didn't look up immediately.
"It seems you are settling into your new role rather well," he said at last, voice calm and measured. "I must admit… you have exceeded expectations." A faint pause as he turned a page. "Your handling of resource allocation… and the aftermath of recent disruptions… has been… commendable."
It was genuine praise. Something the Elders did not give lightly. Mjosgard allowed himself a faint, restrained smile.
"If I were truly doing well," he replied, tone modest, "my brethren wouldn't be flooding your chambers with complaints daily." A dry edge crept into his voice. "I hear at least half a dozen of them bypass protocol every morning." Saturn exhaled faintly—something almost resembling amusement.
"Even if you fulfilled every one of their demands today," he said, finally closing the folder, "they would find something else to complain about tomorrow." A servant appeared silently, placing a tray of freshly brewed tea before vanishing just as quickly.
"They are fools," Saturn continued. "Creatures who mistake privilege for power." His gaze lifted—sharp, ancient. "But you… have begun to understand the difference." Mjosgard stepped forward, pouring tea with practiced precision despite his missing arm. Every movement was controlled, deliberate—flawless.
"You are acting," Saturn added quietly, "in a way befitting the blood of a god." Mjosgard set the cup down. Then straightened. "I assume you did not come here to discuss logistics, Gorosei-sama." A beat. "If there are new instructions… I am ready to hear them."
A faint smile curled at Saturn's lips. Sharp. Perceptive. Efficient. The outcast had become… useful.
"Sit." The command was soft but carried weight. Saturn poured a second cup himself and nudged it forward. This time, Mjosgard obeyed. He sat across from the elder, posture rigid—like a student before a master. The garden fell into a deeper silence.
"Have there been any developments regarding the task we assigned you?" Saturn took a slow sip. His gaze never left Mjosgard. "Have you managed… to earn Donquixote Doflamingo's trust yet?"
The question lingered in the air. Heavy. Dangerous. Because this—this was the truth buried beneath layers of deception. Mjosgard. The disgraced noble. The logistics overseer. The outcast. Was also a weapon. A blade carefully positioned within the heart of the Holy Land—meant to turn against one of the most dangerous men alive.
A mole. Placed not among pirates but among gods. Mjosgard shook his head slowly. There was no need to lie. Not here. "...If only it were that simple, Gorosei-sama." His voice remained calm—but there was an edge beneath it.
"Doflamingo is not a man who trusts easily." A faint pause. "He wouldn't trust his own shadow… let alone a cousin who lives among his enemies." His gaze lifted slightly. Measured. Careful. "I am certain that even now… he suspects I am acting under your command." Saturn listened in silence. Mjosgard continued. "To earn his genuine trust… will require time."
His fingers rested lightly against the teacup. "Rushing the process would expose me." A subtle shift in tone. "And you are already aware… that he has eyes and ears within the Holy Land itself."
A dangerous admission. But a necessary one. Saturn's expression didn't change. But the weight in the air deepened. Because both men understood what that meant. Saturn leaned back slightly in his chair, fingers resting against the rim of his teacup as his gaze drifted toward the distant horizon beyond the garden walls.
"Hmm… true," Saint Jaygarcia Saturn murmured, his voice carrying a rare note of acknowledgment. "Donquixote Doflamingo is no ordinary opponent." He tapped the porcelain lightly, the faint clink echoing in the stillness.
"As cunning as he is ruthless… to push the World Government almost entirely out of the New World…" His eyes narrowed ever so slightly. "That is not something any force has achieved since our inception." There was no exaggeration in his words. Only fact.
"And yet…" Saturn continued, turning his gaze back toward Donquixote Mjosgard, "even after everything we have allowed you to offer him… he still does not trust you completely." The implication hung heavy. Because what had been "allowed"… was nothing short of sacrilege.
"Even selling the locations of Tenryūbito who venture outside the Holy Land…" Saturn said calmly, as though discussing the movement of goods rather than lives. "And yet, it wasn't enough."
Had anyone else in Mary Geoise heard those words—panic would have erupted like wildfire. Because for months now, the Elders themselves had sanctioned it. Expendable nobles. Insignificant bloodlines. Fed, one by one, into the jaws of Doflamingo. Knowing full well what fate awaited them. Execution. Spectacle. A message carved into the world.
Mjosgard did not react. Not outwardly. "That information has… lowered his guard," he replied evenly. "But not enough." A faint pause. "I can tell he still watches me."
Saturn nodded, unsurprised. "As he should." He exhaled slowly, something almost akin to regret flickering through his ancient eyes. "It is… unfortunate." His voice dropped. "If we had recognized the potential of those two brothers back then…" A rare moment of reflection. "…perhaps we would not have driven them out of the Holy Land."
The past lingered between them—heavy, irreversible. Saturn's gaze sharpened again. "As things stand now… I wonder…" A quiet, dangerous thought. "Would Doflamingo ever truly trust anyone from here?" Mjosgard allowed himself a faint, dry chuckle.
"Perhaps," he said lightly, "he would ask me to present one of the Elders' heads to him… personally." Silence. The temperature in the garden seemed to drop. Saturn's eyes shifted. Slowly. Deliberately. They locked onto Mjosgard with a weight that pressed down like the sky itself.
"Careful, Mjosgard." His voice was no longer calm. It was absolute. "There are certain thoughts that should not exist… even as a jest." The warning was not loud. But it was unmistakable. Mjosgard bowed his head immediately.
"I sincerely apologize, Gorosei-sama. I misspoke." A beat. "I will see to it that I am… properly disciplined."
Saturn watched him for a long moment. Then—a slight wave of the hand. Forgiveness. This time. But the message was clear. There would not be another. The tension eased—but did not vanish. Because between men like them, it never truly did. Saturn took another sip of his tea, studying Mjosgard more closely now. Not as a subordinate. But as a piece on the board.
"You have something on your mind," he said at last, voice returning to its earlier calm. "Something you wish to ask." A faint, knowing look. "Speak." The garden fell silent once more. Even the wind seemed to still.