The world heaved and stilled, restless and vast.
Yet upon the Scarlet Continent, calm reigned.
The Red Line cleaved the Grand Line in two, a thousand meters of sheer, weather-slick cliff turning the continent into a natural citadel. With Marineford not far across the inner sea, elite reinforcements could be summoned at a moment's notice, and Mary Geoise—perched atop the red wall—had grown fat and complacent behind layers of human vigilance and nature's bulwark. The Celestial Dragons' terror of death ensured a fortress within a fortress: the Holy Land Guard, a hundred thousand strong on paper, sealed the city tight. Even Marine Headquarters' ships faced multiple inspections by CP and the Guard before entry.
For eight hundred years, no one had ever breached the blood-red crown of the world.
Now, a tall, hooded figure stood at the Red Line's brink, staring at the distant "City of the Gods." Seawater dripped from a charcoal-gray cowl and bled into the crimson soil. His webbed, blood-slick hands shook.
"That… is the Celestial Dragons' Holy Land. Mary Geoise."
He drew the hood back with scarred fingers and revealed a rough-hewn face and thick lips; blood-red skin stretched over a broad frame; a dorsal fin rose from his back. Thick limbs were braided with cable-hard muscle.
Fisher Tiger—the newly named Shichibukai, the "Blood Dragon."
"Can I truly infiltrate it, Darren-san?" he murmured, a hard shadow passing through his eyes.
The towering walls reared from the red earth. Pacing silhouettes traced the ramparts. Even after a thousand dreams and rehearsals, only the city's cold grandeur could press the weight of despair upon his chest.
Fish-men torn raw on the climb, facing a garrison formidable in number and steel.
Small bodies before a wall built to dwarf hope.
Silence lowered with the dusk. The horizon's fire guttered and the sun slid beneath the sea; the Red Line's wind turned to knives against Sea Bream skin.
In that stillness, lights pricked the high walls. Laughter drifted down with bawdy songs. With his keen sight, Fisher Tiger caught the outline of soldiers squatting over hot pots and grills, chopsticks tapping. Others lingered in the shadows to smoke, embers flaring and dying.
It's… actually true.
His hands steadied.
Darren-san had told the truth. The Holy Land Guard's fearsome discipline was a threadbare cloak.
If that's the case…
He crouched and, using the last sliver of light, sketched on the weathered ground. In moments, a concise map took shape. He circled points Darren-san had described during their brief exchange:
The Land of the Gods—the Celestial Dragons' quarter.
Armories 1 through 4.
The largest slave auction houses.
Maybe… I can do this.
Resolve returned to his gaze. A cold gust swept the escarpment and erased his lines. Night fell at last.
The Sea Bream fish-man rose and let out a long, rough breath.
He flooded his senses with Observation Haki.
Voices crashed in: soldiers gaming, nobles sneering, officials toasting. Then a louder sound swallowed all the rest—
A colossal wail.
Countless cries, echoing the agony of slaves branded with the blood-red Hoof of the Flying Dragon—the same mark that had seared his flesh.
Wait for me.
Faces flashed—blood-streaked, grinning through pain—then blurred.
This time, let me lead you out. Let me carry you to life.
Fisher Tiger's eyes burned crimson. He clenched a fist and—
He ran.
Swift, silent, a shadow against the red rock. Wind and sand cloaked him, the night folded him away.
Faster.
Ten minutes later—
BOOM!!
Fire blossomed in the Holy Land's northeast corner, a rage long suppressed hurling itself into the heavens as a pillar of crimson flame.
The sacred city's glossy illusion cracked. Silence fell like a dropped shroud.
Across the walls, in barracks and gatehouses, the Holy Land Guard jolted awake, turned as one toward the blast, and shook.
The earth burned. The white and blue of Mary Geoise wavered in a sea of fire.
On a blue-tiled, white-walled roof, a crimson figure held a Celestial Dragon by the throat. His rough hand squeezed; skull and mask burst in a red spray.
"In the name of Rogers Darren," the blood-drenched figure roared to the sky, "I liberate all slaves in the Holy Land!"
His tattoo seethed as if ink had turned to blood.
Fire climbed toward the stars behind him. Around him, ragged slaves raised stolen weapons and shouted until their throats tore, voices lifting the crimson man on a tide of sound.
In the deepest night, the blood-red fish-man stood among the freed—and shone.
Like a blazing sun.
To be continued...