Chapter 408

SEA CALENDAR YEAR 1505

It had been several months since the unthinkable destruction of the Holy Land sent shockwaves across the world. The identities of those responsible were no longer a mystery—the infamous Donquixote Family had struck the heart of the World Government with an act of defiance unseen in history. What followed was an unprecedented retaliation from the World Government, swift and merciless.

The bounties issued for the Donquixote brothers were nothing short of astronomical. Each bore the dreaded "ONLY DEAD" tag, a testament to the sheer desperation of the World Government to see them eliminated.

But they weren't the only ones marked—every surviving member of the Donquixote Family saw their bounties skyrocket, solidifying them as some of the most dangerous individuals in the world.

But the World Government's vengeance did not stop at bounties. They launched a full-scale purge, tearing down every known establishment, business, and connection linked to the Donquixote family.

From the Four Blues to the first half of the Grand Line, every shred of their influence was uprooted. Banks were shut down, smuggling routes were severed, and entire criminal networks were dismantled. Yet, despite the overwhelming force of this global manhunt, the Donquixote family refused to be cowed. Instead, they answered with blood.

Whenever the World Government struck, the Donquixote Family struck back twice as hard. Marine bases, government-aligned merchants, and Cipher Pol informants were hunted down without mercy. The conflict was no longer confined to the shadows—it was open war.

Despite deploying the full might of Cipher Pol and their vast web of spies, the World Government failed to break the Donquixote Family's legendary information network. Even with captured operatives and seized documents, they found themselves grasping at shadows.

The few low-level members who had been taken alive remained fanatically loyal, refusing to break, even under the most brutal interrogations. The government threw everything they had at dismantling it, but every lead turned cold, every asset remained beyond their reach.

For all their power, they faced a chilling reality: they were blind. The Donquixote family always seemed to be one step ahead, anticipating every move, striking where they were weakest, and vanishing before reinforcements could arrive.

With their intelligence failing them, the World Government sought to reestablish its grip through sheer military might. They poured resources into the New World, attempting to stabilize their shattered influence, only to be met with disaster after disaster.

The Donquixote family spearheaded a merciless cleansing of World Government forces, with the Marines suffering the worst of the devastation. No outpost beyond the Red Line was safe, and what few strongholds remained were falling like dominoes.

The so-called balance of power was no more. The World Government had been completely eradicated from the New World.

While the Donquixote Family waged war on the World Government, another force rose from the chaos—Scarlett Lachlann and her Bloodsteel Pirates. Once a feared but distant force in the New World, the Bloodsteel Pirates were now an unstoppable hurricane, obliterating rival pirate crews and decimating the remnants of Marine strongholds.

There was no hesitation in their conquest, no opposition strong enough to slow them down. Scarlett was ascending the ranks of the Yonko, and she was doing so uncontested.

With the Marines too crippled to intervene and the World Government powerless beyond the Red Line, Scarlett's rise was met with no resistance. Her name spread like wildfire, whispered in fear and awe, as her crew swept through the seas like an unstoppable force of nature.

One by one, former Yonko affiliates either bent the knee or were wiped from existence. She was no mere warlord—she was staking her claim as the next Empress of the New World, and there was no one left to deny her.

Even as the New World fell into chaos, the World Government attempted to regroup and strike at the heart of their greatest adversary—Dressrosa. With their forces ravaged across the sea, the only way they could hope to turn the tide was by eliminating the Donquixote Family at its core.

But the attempt was doomed before it even began. Six times they launched sieges. Six times they suffered humiliating defeat. The waters surrounding Donquixote territory had rightfully earned the name "Graveyard of Ships."

Any fleet daring to approach was obliterated by the mysterious energy weapons the Donquixote Family possessed—technology so powerful that every major force in the world craved it.

Nearly a hundred Marine battleships had been sent to their doom, reduced to burning wreckage in the sea. Entire divisions were swallowed by the depths before they could even glimpse the shores of Dressrosa.

Cipher Pol's best tacticians devised plans, veteran vice admirals personally led assaults, and yet, each time, the result was the same—obliteration. What had once been an overwhelming force of justice was now a fragmented, desperate armada, battered and broken.

Yet, as the war raged on, another storm was brewing—one that had shaken even the most powerful of men. Edward Newgate, Whitebeard himself, had made his stance clear. The humiliation of Fishman Island's royalty, who had long been under his explicit protection, had lit a fire in the legendary pirate.

The World Government's actions, their disregard for those under his banner, had not gone unnoticed. The attack on Fishman Island had been more than an act of aggression—it had been an insult, a direct challenge to his authority.

Now, Whitebeard had positioned his entire fleet directly above Fishman Island, right next to the Red Line, an unmistakable declaration of silent defiance. No Marine ship, no World Government fleet, would be allowed passage. His message to the rulers of the world was simple: "Any fleet that dares to bypass Redport will sink."

Even the World Government, in all their arrogance, did not dare test his patience. They knew that provoking the Strongest Man in the World while already fighting a war in the New World was suicidal.

Every attempt to rally their forces had been stifled; every strategy fell apart in the face of the sheer impossibility of moving their top assets past Whitebeard's blockade. The Holy Land was trapped, its greatest champions shackled by fear, unable to leave lest they risk an all-out war with Whitebeard himself.

The world was in chaos. The Donquixote family's vengeance had left the World Government crippled in the New World. The Bloodsteel Pirates were rapidly cementing themselves as an undisputed empire of the seas. The Marines were broken, their fleets shattered, their commanders humiliated. And now, even Whitebeard had risen in silent opposition.

The so-called balance of power was no more. The age of the World Government's dominance was crumbling right before their eyes. And the new rulers of the sea were ready to claim their thrones.

****

Dressrosa, New World

Within the massive war chamber of the Dressrosa palace, the core power of the Donquixote Family sat in solemn assembly. The room, a grand hall of black marble and crimson banners, bore the scars of endless strategizing and warfare, its air thick with tension and the lingering scent of cigar smoke.

Maps and battle reports littered the vast obsidian table at the center, marking the grim reality of their ten-month-long war against the World Government.

All eyes were fixed on Scarlett Lachlann, the rising star of the New World, as she delivered her report with an icy precision that left no room for doubt. Each word carried weight, each statistic a brutal testament to the war they had waged—a war that had claimed everything the Donquixote Family once held beyond the New World, yet in turn had completely exorcised the World Government's influence from the most dangerous sea on the planet.

The numbers were staggering. The sheer scale of their expenditures, the unimaginable cost of war, and the price they had paid in both gold and blood were laid bare.

As Scarlett reached the final tally—down to the last single berry—a deep sigh cut through the silence. Diamante, a veteran of countless battles, leaned back in his chair, his fingers tapping against the table's polished surface. Despite hearing similar reports every month, the sheer loss of wealth, infrastructure, and resources still stung.

His lips curled into a smirk, though there was no humor in his voice when he finally spoke.

"War sure burns through a hell of a lot of money, doesn't it, Doffy?" His words carried a mixture of amusement and resignation as he shifted his gaze toward the man who had done the unthinkable.

At the head of the table, Donquixote Doflamingo sat in his throne-like chair, exuding an aura of absolute dominance. His mere presence was suffocating, overwhelming—even here, among his closest confidants.

The Heavenly Demon. The man who had slapped the World Government in the face and remained standing, not just surviving their wrath, but thriving in it.

His signature grin widened, a dark chuckle escaping his lips.

"Fufufufufu... If you aren't burning through enough berries, it just means you aren't waging war right, Diamante." His voice was laced with amusement, yet beneath it lay a deadly certainty.

His fingers idly twirled a goblet of wine, the crimson liquid within mirroring the oceans of blood that had been spilled in this conflict.

"The World Government thinks they can take us down?" He let out another low chuckle, shaking his head. "Then they are sorely mistaken."

Diamante snickered, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off the weight of endless battle.

"They sure have agents to spare. I've lost count of how many I've had to put down."

There was no exaggeration in his words. Hundreds upon hundreds of Cipher Pol agents had infiltrated their territory in the past months, desperate to uncover weaknesses, to sabotage, to assassinate key figures. Yet none had lived long enough to report back.

The World Government had vastly underestimated the true power hidden within the Donquixote Family's ranks.

At the heart of their impenetrable defense stood a figure whose abilities defied reason itself—Shyarly.

With her Devil Fruit, enhanced by her natural divining foresight, she had forged an unbreakable domain around the Donquixote territories. Even as the war raged, her abilities continued to evolve, her mastery over her powers expanding in range and precision.

No spy, no assassin, no fleet could move undetected. The moment a threat entered their waters, she knew. And before the enemy could act—they were already dead.

The World Government had sent its best. Cipher Pol elites, rogue mercenaries, highly trained infiltrators. None had succeeded. Their agents disappeared into the abyss, their bodies never found, their fates whispered in dread-filled voices across the underworld.

Giolla, seated with her arms crossed, smirked at Diamante's remark. "Perhaps they enjoy dying. We should be kind enough to grant them their wish."

Doflamingo tilted his head, his trademark grin never wavering. "Oh, they'll keep coming. That's what rats do." He leaned forward slightly, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. "But they still don't understand… the New World belongs to us now."

"So, is Young Master Ross coming back anytime soon?" Teenage Smoker grumbled, exhaling a thin wisp of smoke as he leaned back in his chair. "It's been more than a year. Sure seems like he's on an extended vacation."

The room, filled with the hardened veterans of the Donquixote Family, shared a quiet chuckle at his complaint. It had been a brutal year—a year of war, bloodshed, and survival. Constant clashes with the Marines, mercenaries, and World Government forces had forged them all into something sharper, deadlier. The weak had been weeded out long ago. Those who remained had grown stronger, harder.

But Smoker knew—no matter how much they had improved, there were some people who simply stood on another level.

He had spent the last year doing everything in his power to close the gap, pushing himself past his limits in battle after battle. Yet, deep down, he could feel it in his gut—Lucci and Dora must have grown at an even more terrifying pace. And wherever Young Master Ross was, he knew without a doubt that his strength had ascended to an entirely different plane.

His brow furrowed as he took another drag from his cigarette.

"I should have left with them on that adventure," he muttered under his breath, his voice carrying a hint of frustration.

Across the room, Señor Pink let out a low chuckle, tilting his sunglasses down just enough to give Smoker an amused glance. "You're not upset about missing the adventure," he said with a smirk. "You're upset because you know Lucci must have grown so much that he's left you in the dust."

The words hit their mark.

Smoker scowled, shooting a glare in Señor's direction, but before he could retort, Gladius chimed in, adjusting the sharp-edged visor of his mask.

"That's exactly it." His voice carried a teasing lilt. "You love showing off how much stronger you've become compared to me, but when it comes to Lucci… well, let's be real. You could spend years training, and he'd still be miles ahead."

A ripple of laughter echoed through the chamber.

Smoker gritted his teeth, irritation flashing across his face. He wanted to argue, to deny it—but he couldn't. Everyone in this room knew the truth.

Young Master Ross, Lucci, and Dora were simply different.

They were the kind of monsters who shattered limits, who rose above even the strongest with terrifying ease. Comparing themselves to them would only lead to disappointment.

Still, Smoker refused to accept it so easily. He took another slow drag, the ember at the tip of his cigarette glowing in the dimly lit war chamber.

"Tch. You lot sure love talking," he muttered, exhaling a cloud of smoke. His fists clenched beneath the table. "I'll prove you all wrong soon enough."

Before Smoker could complain any further, a calm yet imposing voice cut through the conversation.

"You're quite eager for Ross to return, aren't you?"

The words came from Issho, his blind gaze shifting slightly toward Smoker. His voice was steady, but there was an unmistakable edge to it—one that made the entire room instinctively pay attention.

"Have you considered what he'll do to you once he finds out about your little habit?"

Smoker froze mid-motion, the cigarette he had just lit hovering between his fingers. A bead of sweat rolled down his temple.

Of all the things Ross was known for—his unparalleled strength, his monstrous growth, his unshakable will—there was one thing about him that had always been absolute when it came to the younger members of the family: discipline.

Ross hated the idea of kids picking up the vices of adults.

Smoker, now very much aware of this looming doom, quickly snuffed out his cigar, trying (and failing) to do so casually. "I'm an adult," he grumbled, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. "I'm seventeen..."

But even as he said it, he couldn't ignore the slight flush of embarrassment creeping up his face. His body had moved on instinct, like a child caught sneaking sweets before dinner. He couldn't help it—memories of Ross catching him red-handed before flashed in his mind.

It wasn't like he was addicted or anything! He wasn't even sure it counted as real smoking, given that he could manipulate the smoke at will, making it completely harmless to his lungs. But that explanation had never worked before, and he doubted it would now.

Across the table, Issho calmly resumed his meal. "I hope you can tell Ross that same explanation when he returns," he said, a hint of amusement curling at the edge of his lips.

Smoker paled slightly, visions of his impending punishment flashing before his eyes.

A chorus of muffled snickers erupted around the table. Reiju, Robin, and a few others exchanged knowing glances, already imagining the disaster that awaited Smoker once Ross got back.

Robin, ever the observer, rested her chin on her palm and smirked. "You could always try running away before he gets here," she teased. "Though, given how that went last time..."

Reiju, with a playful smile, leaned toward him. "Maybe he'll just make you quit in the most 'Ross-like' way possible."

"Which means hell," another voice chimed in, prompting more laughter.

Smoker scowled, crossing his arms and huffing in frustration. "Tch. You guys act like I'm scared of him or something!"

Silence.

Then—uproarious laughter.

Even Issho let out a quiet chuckle.

Smoker gritted his teeth, but even he knew there was no point denying it. If Ross came back and caught him smoking again… well, the last time had been bad enough. This time? He might not survive.

*****

Marineford, Grand Line

The atmosphere in the Fleet Admiral's office was suffocating, thick with the weight of frustration and barely restrained fury. The source of this oppressive tension sat at his desk, his fingers steepled as he glared down at the latest reports.

Sengoku, the Fleet Admiral of the Marines, was a man renowned for his strategic brilliance, yet at this moment, even he felt the crushing burden of helplessness.

This past year had been, without a doubt, the most punishing of his entire career.

A hundred battleships—gone. Swallowed by the sea, their hulking remains now little more than grave markers in the waters surrounding Dressrosa. Along with them, countless Marines had perished, men and women who had dedicated their lives to the ideals of justice. It was a staggering loss, one that even the mighty World Government could not ignore.

Sengoku had long heard the question, whispered in arrogance by those who failed to grasp the sheer scale of power in the world.

"If the World Government is all-powerful, why don't they simply wipe out the pirates of the New World and bring it under control?"

For years, the ignorant masses clung to the illusion of the World Government's unquestionable supremacy—that with their fleets, their Cipher Pol agents, and their Admirals, they were untouchable.

But the Donquixote Family had answered that question in the most brutal, irrefutable way possible.

They had exposed a harsh, undeniable truth: Even the World Government and the Marines could not take on an Emperor's crew and walk away victorious.

If this war had been against Whitebeard or Shiki, the sheer size of their forces might have left them vulnerable to full-scale assault. A brutal, drawn-out war of attrition would have been costly, but ultimately, manageable.

Those crews were built on raw, overwhelming power, confronting enemies head-on in glorious combat. Their pride often led them into battles where the Marines could force an outcome.

But the Donquixote Pirates?

They were a different beast entirely.

Sengoku exhaled sharply, his grip tightening on the armrest of his chair.

They didn't fight head-on unless they had absolute confidence in victory. They didn't fall for provocations or taunts meant to lure them into disadvantageous battles. And most infuriatingly, they knew when to retreat. Unlike the other Yonko crews, they held no prideful delusions about standing their ground just to prove their strength.

They fought with precision, cunning, and mastery over warfare itself.

Even Sengoku—one of the most brilliant strategists in the Marines' history—had to admit a grudging respect for how Doflamingo had handled the war.

The moment the World Government retaliated, Doflamingo had made a decision so ruthless and efficient it left even Sengoku reeling—he had abandoned all power outside of the New World without hesitation. Every black market, every underworld connection, every foothold in the Blues and Paradise—gone in an instant.

It was a decision that no other emperor would have made.

Had it been someone like Charlotte Linlin, she would have dug in her heels, calling upon her endless army of children and soldiers to protect her holdings.

Had it been Kaido, he would have challenged the Marines head-on, reveling in the slaughter, no matter how much he lost in the process.

But Doflamingo?

He had understood something that no one else had.

There was no winning a war against the World Government by holding onto a crumbling empire.

So, instead of bleeding himself dry trying to defend the indefensible, he had cut his losses instantly and pulled all his forces back into the New World—the one place where the World Government's power was at its weakest.

And now, he was thriving.

Sengoku felt his jaw clench as he flipped through another intelligence report, only to find nothing.

That was another source of his frustration.

Despite dedicating the entire Cipher Pol organization and its vast network of spies to the sole purpose of dismantling Doflamingo's empire, they had almost nothing to show for it.

The Donquixote Family's information network was unbreakable.

Every attempt to infiltrate their ranks had ended in failure. The few low-level members they had captured? Loyal to the bitter end. Not a single one had cracked under torture, interrogation, or the promise of freedom.

The Donquixote Pirates operated like an impenetrable machine, and it was driving Sengoku to the brink.

His frustration only deepened as he thought back to the guerrilla warfare tactics the Donquixote family had employed throughout the conflict.

The Marines weren't losing battles. They were being hunted.

The New World, once an uncontrollable sea of chaos, had now become the Donquixote Family's personal warzone.

Every Marine base beyond the Red Line had been systematically targeted, one after another, with merciless efficiency. Every attempt to establish a stronghold had been met with ambushes, assassinations, and relentless skirmishes.

The textbook definition of perfect guerrilla warfare.

Sengoku rubbed his temples, feeling the weight of exhaustion creep in.

Even with the full might of the Marines at his disposal, there was nothing he could do.

Because no one knew what the Donquixote Family was truly planning.

And that was the most terrifying part of all.