Chapter 407

The morning after the catastrophe, the world awoke to chaos.

News of the Holy Land's devastation spread like wildfire, reaching the farthest corners of the seas. The once untouchable heart of the World Government, the very symbol of divine authority and absolute power, had been reduced to ruin.

Not a soul alive could remember a time when Mariejois had suffered so much as a blemish—let alone an attack of this magnitude. And now, for the first time in history, more than half of the Holy Land had been obliterated, countless Celestial Dragons reduced to ashes, and the world was left shaken to its core.

The World Government had desperately tried to suppress the news, deploying its vast network of spies, assassins, and enforcers to silence any whispers. But they failed.

They could not hide the truth.

The explosion had not just torn through Mariejois—it had rippled through the Reverie itself. Delegates from the world's greatest kingdoms—kings, queens, and nobles—had perished in the blast. Others, barely clinging to life, returned home with tales of a realm in flames.

The World Government had long ensured that their authority was absolute—but now, for the first time, the world saw them bleed.

And blood invites sharks.

Deep within the Holy Land, in the only estate left unscathed by the disaster, a council of wrath convened.

The Five Elders sat within Elder Saturn's residence, their expressions dark and unreadable. The once undisputed rulers of the world, whose very names struck terror into kings, now sat in disgrace.

The air was suffocating with tension.

Elder Mars, his fists trembling with barely contained fury, slammed his hand onto the table, splitting the ancient mahogany surface in two.

"We need to get that bastard—NOW!" he roared, his voice shaking the very room.

But anger could not mask the unease simmering beneath their skin.

Because there was one unspoken truth gnawing at them—one that none of them dared to utter.

Imu-sama had yet to speak.

The immortal sovereign, the one who had ruled from the shadows for over a thousand years, had retreated into silence.

Not a single order had been given. Not a single word spoken.

And none among them—not even the Five Elders, the highest authority beneath Imu—dared to disturb them. Because they knew.

One wrong word—one wrong move—and even they would not be spared.

The silence in the chamber was broken by the arrival of one more figure.

A man whose presence commanded both respect and fear in equal measure.

Saint Figarland Garling—the Supreme Commander of the God's Knights.

The warrior who once led Mariejois' greatest enforcers. A legend whose strength was second only to the Elders and Imu themselves.

He strode forward, his crimson cloak trailing behind him, his sharp gaze piercing through the room.

"Do you intend to declare an all-out war against Doflamingo and his ilk?" he asked, his tone casual—too casual as he sat on the empty chair.

Despite his words, Garling knew exactly what was at stake. The Five Elders had allowed Doflamingo into the Holy Land.

And now?

Mariejois lay in ruins. It was a monumental failure, one that the world would never forget.

Had it been any other time, Garling might have seized this moment to strike, to undermine their authority and claim greater power for himself.

But even he—ambitious as he was—knew that now was not the time.

Because there was one absolute truth in this world: Imu's wrath was unpredictable.

And right now, even the Five Elders were walking on a knife's edge.

Elder Saturn's gaze sharpened, his patience fraying.

"Do you have a better suggestion, Saint Figarland? If so, now is the time to speak."

The room fell into silence.

Garling met Saturn's glare, his own expression unwavering. A dangerous tension lingered between them, the weight of unspoken threats hanging heavy in the air.

Then—he looked away. His attention turned to the desk before them.Two freshly printed bounty posters lay atop the table. With a smirk, Garling picked them up.

He scoffed.

"This is meaningless."

He tossed one onto the table.

[WANTED]

[DONQUIXOTE DOFLAMINGO]

[ONLY DEAD]

[4,506,890,000 BERRY]

Then, the second.

[WANTED]

[DONQUIXOTE ROSINANTE]

[ONLY DEAD]

[4,699,900,000 BERRY]

A cold, humorless chuckle escaped his lips.

"Little brats—who you all once considered insignificant—have dealt us the greatest insult in history."

Not a single Elder spoke. Because they knew it was true.

For centuries, they had ruled uncontested. For centuries, they had crushed rebellions before they could ever rise. And yet—two men barely entering adulthood.

Two fallen nobles, two exiled brothers, had wounded the heart of the Gods themselves.

This was not an insult they could ever forgive. Garling leaned back, his eyes narrowing.

"Why not deploy the Ancient Weapon?" he suggested, his voice cold and calculating.

The air shifted. A dangerous suggestion.

"The world already knows that we possess it now. Why not erase Dressrosa from the map? Burn the entire Donquixote territory to ash and end this problem before it festers further?"

For a moment—a long, chilling moment—no one responded. Because the weight of that decision was immeasurable.

To use an Ancient Weapon would be to unleash a force capable of leveling an entire nation in an instant.

The last time such power had been used without restraint —the world had lost an entire century of history.

To use it now would mean openly declaring to the world that the Gods had abandoned all pretense of restraint.

It would mean ruling not through fear—but through annihilation.

Elder Saturn's grip tightened. The room stood on the precipice of a choice that would forever alter history.

A heavy silence hung over the room.

Saint Figarland Garling sat still, his fingers tapping against the polished table in a slow, measured rhythm. His once casual smirk had faded, replaced with a look of quiet scrutiny.

The Five Elders remained composed, but the atmosphere in the chamber was tense, the weight of their predicament suffocating.

Finally, Elder Nusjuro exhaled, shaking his head.

"Sigh… It's not that we don't want to deploy the Ancient Weapon to end this mess once and for all," he admitted, his voice carrying the exhaustion of a man who had spent centuries keeping the world in check. "It's that we simply cannot anymore."

For the first time in the meeting, Figarland's eyes widened—ever so slightly. That was not the answer he had expected.

The Grand Commander of the God's Knights prided himself on his knowledge of the inner workings of the World Government, but this…

This was something he had not been told. And that only meant one thing. They had kept it from him.

Elder Nusjuro, noticing Figarland's stunned expression, sighed once more. There was no point in keeping this secret any longer.

"The power source of the Ancient Weapon we control has already been drained," Nusjuro revealed, his voice clipped with reluctant admission. "The last time it was used—in North Blue—it exhausted the final remnants of its reserves. Now, unless we find a new power source to fuel it…"

He trailed off, but the implication was clear.

The great weapon of the Gods was nothing more than a hollow shell. A relic of a bygone age. Figarland's fingers stopped tapping. The tension in the room thickened.Then came the second revelation.

It was Elder Mars who delivered the next bombshell, his tone void of hesitation.

"From what we have gathered, there is a high probability that the Donquixote brothers have access to at least one of the Ancient Weapons."

Figarland's gaze snapped toward him.

"And should they discover that our own weapon is no longer operational…" Mars continued, his expression grim, "there is a very real possibility that they will unleash it upon the Holy Land."

A silence unlike any before settled in the chamber. This was not the sort of silence born from contemplation. This was the silence of understanding.

The silence of men who had just realized they were no longer in control.

Figarland remained motionless for a moment. Then—he laughed.

A low chuckle at first. Then a full-bodied laugh.

It was so unexpected that even Elder Saturn's expression shifted slightly.

"You expect me to believe that?" Figarland smirked, shaking his head. "The Donquixote brothers? In possession of an Ancient Weapon? What is this, a child's bedtime story?"

It was preposterous.

Sure, he had never met Doflamingo or Rosinante personally, but he had spent decades studying the movements of powerful figures in the world.

Doflamingo was cunning, ambitious beyond measure—but reckless.

If he had access to an Ancient Weapon, would he really still be bluffing?

Would he have willingly walked into Mariejois, knowing it was a trap, only to rely on bombs to wipe out half the Holy Land?

It didn't add up. Yet, as Figarland's laughter died down, he noticed something peculiar—

None of the Elders were laughing.

Their expressions remained unreadable, their gazes fixated on him.

For the first time in the meeting, Figarland realized something far more unsettling.

"They actually believe it."

His amusement vanished. The Elders saw the mockery in Figarland's eyes.

"Then why don't you deploy the God's Knights and deal with this matter once and for all?" Elder Warcury snapped, his patience thinning.

Figarland met his glare with a calm, unreadable expression. He could see it clearly now—the desperation in their eyes.

They were losing control. He leaned forward slightly, lacing his fingers together.

"Elders," he began smoothly, "as much as I would love to assist you in this matter—bring you the heads of those 'scum'—you seem to be forgetting one simple fact."

His smirk returned, sharper this time.

"The God's Knights exist solely to serve as Imu-sama's sword and shield."

The temperature in the room seemed to drop.

"And with Imu-sama currently in seclusion," Figarland continued, his voice carrying a deliberate weight, "only I decide when and where they are deployed."

A clear line had been drawn. A message laid bare.

"This mess," he smiled, "is one you created. So, by all means—fix it."

The Elders stared at him, their expressions unreadable, but he knew he had struck a nerve.

The room was suffocating with unspoken truths.

And the greatest truth of all was this—

A calamity of this magnitude could not have been orchestrated without help from within.

Someone—someone with power, with influence, with access to the deepest layers of the World Government—had betrayed them. And the world was starting to notice. The attack had not been random.

Certain estates were completely obliterated. Others remained untouched. Certain noble bloodlines were hunted down with technical precision. Others did not suffer a single casualty.

The Celestial Dragons had always pretended to be united. But the truth?

They were riddled with bitterness, with resentment, with silent rivalries that had lasted for centuries.

And now, as whispers of conspiracy spread across the world—whispers published by the one newspaper that the people now fully trusted—doubt festered.

Many of the affiliated kingdoms had lost their monarchs in the blast. And rather than mourn, they questioned. They whispered in dark chambers. They speculated in hidden meetings.

What if the World Government had orchestrated this attack themselves?

What if they had used this as an excuse to cull the power of the allied nations?

The fact that Doflamingo himself had mentioned the Pacifista project before his departure only deepened the paranoia.

The Five Elders had ruled the world undisputed for centuries.

But for the first time, they could feel the very foundation of their empire beginning to crack.

And if those cracks spread any further…

Even the Gods would fall.

Saint Figarland Garling leaned back in his seat, his arms crossed, his expression unreadable. The Five Elders had laid out their predicament before him, their desperation thinly veiled beneath their usual air of authority.

And yet—

"If this is the matter you invited me here to discuss," he said coolly, rising from his chair with deliberate ease, "then I am afraid I am simply unable to assist you."

His voice was calm, almost indifferent—like a king addressing his subjects, not equals.

The chamber fell deathly silent.

A sharp contrast to the raging storm beneath the surface.

Elder Warcury's eyes burned with anger at the blatant disregard, his fists clenching against the table. The nerve of this insolent snake.

"You—!"

His fury threatened to boil over, but before he could lash out—

"Warcury. That's enough."

Elder Saturn's voice cut through the tension, stern and absolute.

Figarland didn't even spare Warcury a glance. He wasn't worth his time.

Saturn's tired, yet piercing gaze settled on Figarland instead.

"As for you, I hope you know what you are doing," Saturn said, his tone neither a warning nor a plea—simply an observation. Then, with an almost dismissive wave of his hand, he added, "Go. We have nothing else to discuss."

It was a gesture meant to belittle. To remind Figarland of his place.

But it only made him sneer.

"Tch."

Why did they act so high and mighty? Was it simply because they were born before him, because they had climbed to their positions before him?

They underestimated him. That was their first mistake. That which they had achieved over centuries—he had accomplished in decades.

And unlike them, whose ambitions had long stagnated, his own heart would never rest until he reached the true pinnacle of power.

Until he became a true god.

Without another word, he turned on his heel and strode out of the chamber, his heavy cloak billowing behind him.

As the great doors closed behind him, he was greeted with an almost pathetic sight.

The Commander-in-Chief of the World Government, Kong, was pacing anxiously outside, his massive frame moving with restless energy. His face—usually stern and unreadable—was etched with deep lines of worry.

The moment he saw Figarland, he stopped abruptly, his posture straightening with practiced discipline before offering a deep, reverent bow.

Figarland did not even acknowledge him.

To most, Kong was the highest military authority within the World Government's vast structure.

A man who commanded armies, fleets, and weapons capable of annihilating entire nations.

But to Figarland? He was a puppet. A nobody.

A mere dog, leashed by the Elders—trained to obey, to execute their will without question.

And Figarland had no respect for men who bowed to others.

With a smirk, he walked past Kong without so much as a glance, leaving the once-mighty warrior standing there—left to stew in his own impotence.

****

Upper Yard, Skypeia

"Clack..."

The soft, lingering echo of the transponder snail disconnecting faded into the night air, leaving behind a deafening silence. I exhaled slowly, my fingers still resting on the receiver, my mind absorbing every detail of the devastation that had unfolded in Mary Geoise.

Doflamingo's actions had done more than merely scar the World Government—they had humiliated it. A wound cut so deep, it would never heal.

And now, thanks to Morgans and his relentless propaganda machine, the world was ablaze with unrest.

The flames of revolution smoldered in the hearts of the oppressed, stoked by the echoes of the Holy Land's destruction. The tides of uncertainty and rebellion surged through every sea, especially in the New World.

Even as I stood here, removed from the eye of the storm, I could feel the weight of change pressing down on this world.

But I was not a fool.

Only an idiot would underestimate the full might of the World Government, and despite my knowledge of a "fictional canon" from another life, I had long since abandoned the arrogance of believing that the World Government's true strength was bound to the limits of a mere story.

"They will come for us."

Of that, I was certain.

Retribution would be swift, merciless, and absolute. So I had already acted.

The most vital members of our family—our strategists, commanders, and financiers—had already begun retreating from the Four Blues and the first half of the Grand Line, consolidating within the New World, our stronghold.

This wasn't fear. This was strategy. The battlefield was shifting, and I refused to let the World Government dictate where the next battle would be fought.

As I stared out at the darkened horizon, Little Lucci's voice broke my thoughts.

Seated cross-legged on the soft grass terrain, his sharp gaze held an uncharacteristic trace of worry.

"Master, should we head back home?" he asked.

Even Dora, usually indifferent to most matters, had a rare, serious expression—waiting for my decision.

There was a moment of silence. I considered it. Truly. Then, I shook my head.

"No."

I turned to them, my gaze steady.

"I trust Doffy to handle this."

Lucci's eyes widened slightly, and I saw the silent questions forming in his mind.

I smiled faintly.

"My brother is no paper tiger."

"If it's a game of power and manipulation, no one in this world can match his cunning. He doesn't need me hovering over his shoulder. And, more importantly..."

I exhaled, my eyes reflecting the stars above.

"We cannot always be by each other's side."

It was a harsh truth—one that neither of us wanted to acknowledge for a long time.

Doflamingo and I had always fought as one, but that interdependence, that unshakable bond, had begun to morph into a shackle.

A chain that kept us from taking the risks necessary to truly transcend our limits.

And we both knew it. This wasn't just a test for Doflamingo.

It was a test for me, too. If we clung to each other as a crutch, we would never truly become the monsters we were meant to be.

Originally, I had intended to return. But Doffy had been firm—almost ruthless—when he told me to stay out of it.

"If things spiral beyond control, then and only then will you intervene," he had said.

Not as a request. As an order. And for the first time, I had obeyed without argument.

I took a deep breath, allowing the uncertainty of tomorrow to fade into the background.

For now, I would cast aside distractions—set aside the turmoil, the chaos, the whispers of vengeance.

For now, I would train.

Because if my estimation was correct, the world was on the precipice of its next great shift.

And soon, the true protagonist of this world would be born.

When that moment arrived—

The tides of the world would change forever.