Holy Land, Red Line
"Where is it…?" The voice rang out across the grand dining hall—high-pitched, petulant, and thick with entitlement.
A young Celestial Dragon, no older than ten, sat atop a towering, throne-like chair at the head of an impossibly long, gold-leafed table. His pudgy fingers clenched the edge of the silk-covered cloth as his eyes darted frantically over the sumptuous feast laid before him.
Silver trays glittered with steam, each bearing a masterpiece of the culinary arts—exotic meats, fruits that glowed faintly with unnatural color, and crystalline decanters filled with liquids rarer than gold.
The room itself was a gaudy cathedral of wealth: ivory pillars carved with scenes of World Nobles riding slaves like horses, chandeliers made of sea prism stone and pearl, and polished floors that reflected the ceiling mural of a Celestial Dragon standing atop the world.
Gilded cherubs lined the walls, holding trays of wine and scented oils that filled the air with cloying perfume. But none of it mattered.
"Where is my crawfish!?" the child shrieked, his tiny voice cracking with fury. "The crimson-backed crawfish from the New World! The one that SCREAMS when you boil it! I WANT IT!!"
He slammed his goblet down, splashing rare Sapphireberry juice across the silk tablecloth. Plates rattled. Several servants flinched. At the side of the room, the boy's father—the true master of the estate—rose slowly from his obsidian chair.
His presence alone was suffocating. Draped in a snow-white coat bearing the Celestial Dragon emblem, his face hidden behind the grotesque bubble of his personal atmosphere helmet, the man carried himself with the calm menace of a god surveying insects.
Saint Felgar Saturn. A name whispered with dread across the Holy Land. One of the most twisted and most feared Celestial Dragons by those who didn't carry the holy blood to ever grace the Holy Land of Mary Geoise. And unlike many of his idle peers, Felgar was cynical—he was cold, calculating, and utterly merciless.
He turned his helmeted gaze toward the line of trembling servants.
"Which one of you incompetent mongrels," he said in a smooth, oily tone, "is responsible for this grievous insult to my bloodline?"
A tall, thin butler stepped forward trembling, bowing low with practiced grace despite the tremor in his spine.
"My lord, I humbly beg your forgiveness," he said quickly. "The crimson-backed crawfish—there has been a disruption. All trade routes from the New World have ceased these past few months. Pirate activity, conflicts between the Emperors... even the merchants dare not cross those waters. We've exhausted the stock in our private stores. I tried to—"
"Bang."
The butler's skull exploded in a mist of blood and bone. Felgar hadn't moved from where he stood. Smoke curled from the ornate, custom-made pistol with seastone bullets. The scent of scorched flesh joined the perfume in the air, but none of the other servants moved. They had learned long ago: stillness meant survival.
"I did not ask for excuses," Felgar said calmly, brushing invisible dust from his sleeve. "I asked why my son's favorite dish was not served. That... was the only answer I required." His eyes—hidden behind the glass dome—settled on the corpse for a heartbeat, then turned to a trembling maid nearby.
"You." He pointed lazily. "Clean that up. I don't want the boy's appetite spoiled by gore. And prepare him something else from the emergency vault. Open the seventh freezer. No—eighth. The meat should still be twitching."
"Y-Yes, my lord!" the maid squeaked and fled with two others to drag the body away, blood staining their white uniforms. The boy, now smiling again, kicked his legs happily beneath the table.
"Can I have the blind slave chef cook it next time? The one who screams when he chops things. He makes it taste better."
"Of course, my jewel," Felgar replied without hesitation, already turning away. "You may have anything. Anyone. Just never scream again. It annoys me."
He glanced once at the doors leading out to the sun-drenched terrace—beyond which the capital of the world sprawled beneath the red line like an anthill. The people below lived in squalor, scraping by. And yet, here in Mary Geoise, a single missing dish had cost a man his life. Such was the will of the gods.
****
The room was silent, save for the rustle of parchment and the occasional scratch of quill on paper. The scent of incense wafted faintly in the air — a token effort to mask the cold, sterile stillness of the chamber. High above, golden chandeliers bathed the room in a soft, regal glow.
Fleet Admiral Sengoku stood at rigid attention, his posture unyielding despite the fatigue settling into his shoulders. For over five minutes he had been waiting, ignored like a servant, while the Five Elders, the most powerful men in the world, leafed through documents and whispered among themselves.
Finally, the voice of Saint Ethanbaron V. Nusjuro, the elder with the long white beard and samurai sword at his waist, broke the silence.
"The complaints are piling up," Nusjuro said without looking up. "Even the emergency reserves have dwindled. Doflamingo has cut off the underworld supply lines, and with New World trade routes in shambles, we're receiving nothing from the territories we once controlled. No crawfish, no jade wines, no storm-fruit, no scaled beef from the lava plains of Kuraigana."
He tossed the report onto the gilded table, the pages fluttering like dying leaves.
"Hundreds of grievances — in just one week," he added coldly. "And most concern luxuries the nobility considers non-negotiable."
Another Elder, Saint Topman Warcury, barely glanced at Sengoku. His face was like carved obsidian, emotionless and cold.
"It has been more than a year… and the World Government's name is beginning to rot," Warcury murmured. Then came the cutting voice of Saint Marcus Mars, laced with venom and reproach.
"Tell me, Sengoku," Mars said, folding his hands. "Is there still a reason for the Marines to exist if they can no longer keep the seas safe? If pirates continue to run rampant, if trade falters, if the world trembles in fear... then what use are you?"
His voice echoed with disdain, sharp enough to slice bone.
Sengoku's brow furrowed — just slightly. He had heard these words before, veiled or otherwise, but this time the tone was different. The weight of frustration, humiliation, and desperation hung in the air. Not because the world was starving — but because the Celestial Dragons weren't getting what they wanted.
He could have spoken then. He could have reminded them that the Marines had fought battles no one else dared to, that they had taken on Whitebeard, Kaido, and Blackbeard with blood and bone. That the Grand Line and Paradise still flowed with goods, that there was no shortage of essentials — only extravagance. That what they mourned was not necessity but indulgence.
But he said nothing. Not because he lacked the words, but because he knew what had already happened: the Marines had been sanctioned. Their budgets were slashed. Their requests were denied. Their hands were tied while the world crumbled, all because the Celestial Dragons were too preoccupied with crawfish and wine to see the tides turning.
So Sengoku bowed his head, masking the fire behind his glasses with a respectful tilt. "I understand, honored elders. The Marines will redouble our efforts."
Saint Saturn sneered from behind his folded arms, his eyes glowing faintly in the dim light.
"See that you do." A long pause followed. No words of thanks. No dismissal. Just the rustle of papers returning to motion, as if Sengoku was nothing more than a shadow in the corner of the room.
The chill in the Holy Room deepened. Sengoku didn't move, but a faint twitch of his brow betrayed the storm brewing beneath his calm exterior. The Five Elders sat like demigods carved in stone, their words carrying the weight of judgment itself. Then, from his seat carved of ebony and gold, Elder Mars spoke again — his tone sharp, deliberate, and laced with contempt.
"I hear that Garp has been away from duty for quite some time now…" Mars drawled, narrowing his eyes. "With the Marines already in such a pathetic state, can you really afford such luxury, Sengoku?"
The words dripped with venom. But he wasn't finished.
"Sometimes I wonder if it's even worth maintaining the Marines as a separate entity at all," he mused, as if discussing the weather. "Perhaps it would be more efficient to dissolve your command structure and bring all military operations directly under Cipher Pol."
The suggestion was sacrilege — a spit in the face of centuries of naval tradition. But Mars wasn't done twisting the blade.
"You were the one who stubbornly insisted on reinstating him, weren't you? Garp the Hero — our wasted relic. Is this what we brought him back for? So he could drain our resources while playing mentor and old man on the sidelines?"
A sneer curled his lips as he leaned forward, eyes glinting with mockery. Sengoku's hands tightened behind his back. He didn't rise to the bait — not openly. But his jaw clenched. The disrespect toward Garp wasn't just political. It was personal. They couldn't touch Garp directly, not with his legacy carved into the very foundation of the World Government's mythos. But Sengoku? Sengoku they could challenge without consequence.
Then, Elder Saturn spoke, his voice cold and absolute — the kind that made lesser men feel their blood freeze.
"That aside… we've made a decision. You, Sengoku, will lead efforts to broker a settlement — with Whitebeard, Doflamingo, and the girl Scarlett."
The room fell still. Sengoku slowly lifted his head, his brows drawn low as Saturn continued.
"We want a return to the previous status quo. Whatever… 'arrangement' had kept the balance of the seas. We expect you to fix what your military escalation destroyed."
It was an insult wrapped in a command. The same men who had demanded full-scale retaliation after the slight from the Donquixote family of blowing up the Holy Land during the last Reverie — the same Elders who had dismissed his every warning about the risk of waging war in the New World — now dared to call this his mess.
He remembered it well: sitting in this very room, advising caution. Telling them that if they must go after someone like Doflamingo, they needed to draw him into neutral waters — isolate him from his stronghold in Dressrosa, from the chaos of the Underworld, and from his allies.
He had warned them. Again and again. But their pride had drowned out his reason and had made them underestimate the power the so-called emperors wielded in the New World.
And now? After a year of blood-soaked stalemate, with hundreds of thousands of Marines lost, they wanted to negotiate. Not quietly behind closed doors, but by sending the Marines — the very arm they had crippled — to beg for peace.
Saturn's eyes flickered.
"You disapprove?"
Sengoku met the Elder's gaze, his voice composed, but his words cold as steel.
"I find it difficult to understand how we're expected to clean up a mess we weren't allowed to prevent. And there is no way someone like Doflamingo will come to the negotiation table after everything that has transpired.."
For a moment, the tension was razor-thin — taut enough to snap. But the Elders didn't rise to the challenge. They didn't need to. Because they held authority, not accountability. And the gears of power never slowed for regret.
"Do what you must," Warcury said dismissively, waving a hand. "But make sure that trade flows again, that complaints stop piling up… and that the world stops questioning our name."
Behind his glasses, Sengoku's eyes flashed. He bowed slightly, masking the loathing now burning through every muscle in his body.
"As you command."
And with that, he turned and walked out of the room. Not a word more. But in his silence, there was a vow. He would carry out the mission. He would do what was needed. But not for the Five Elders. He would do it for the men buried beneath the sea… and for the Marines who still lived.
A stillness hung in the air — not of peace, but of calculation. The towering windows bathed the marble chamber in filtered sunlight, casting long, sharp shadows across the ornate floors. The Five Elders sat in their eternal formation, silent titans of the World Government, rulers hidden behind masks of aged wisdom and cold reason.
It was Elder Ju Peter who finally broke the silence, his voice sharp, tinged with concern and veiled contempt.
"Do you truly believe we can trust Sengoku to handle a matter of such sensitivity...?" he asked, eyes narrowed as he leaned forward, fingers steepled beneath his chin. "He sees only the surface — nobles whining over luxuries, missing the deeper rot beneath. This isn't about exotic food or imported wine. This is about defiance."
He paused, the weight of his words sinking into the still air.
"Nations that once revered us — that traded with us unconditionally for centuries — are now questioning our authority. Some have dared to petition for fair trade prices," he scoffed, the very idea offensive to his centuries-old pride. "Others have even raised the audacity to request a revision of the Heavenly Tribute."
The room was still, but the tension was thick. Elder Ju Peter's voice dropped to a low growl.
"The longer this farce drags on, the more dangerous the precedent we set. We are the apex — we do not negotiate from weakness. This rebellion, however veiled, must be extinguished before the flames spread."
Elder Saturn nodded grimly, his fingers tapping rhythmically against the steel of his staff — each beat echoing like a war drum across the chamber.
"If Sengoku is able to convince Garp to return to active service, perhaps he can find a way to push back Whitebeard. That old relic still commands respect among the younger generation. As for Scarlett... she's only seizing the chaos to cement her claim as an emperor of the New World."
He exhaled, his gaze darkening.
"But if we cater to her ambitions — provide her with the recognition she seeks and a few tokens of legitimacy — she might be persuaded to join the negotiations. A Queen who believes she's winning is always more willing to talk."
But even Saturn's measured words soured when the final name was uttered. "...The true problem is Doflamingo."
A heavy silence followed. His name alone carried weight — a demon cloaked in silk, a fallen celestial dragon turned king of shadows.
"We've crossed a line with him," Saturn continued, his staff striking the marble once more. "And so has he. He no longer fears us, and there might be no more room for compromise, and that little bastard knows too much. And with that traitorous brother of his running interference and crawling back from the dead again and again , we've lost our clearest chance of driving a stake into the heart of the Donquixote family."
He scowled, the tapping slowing. "We know only fragments about the true extent of their reach. Rosinante is already a threat on par with Whitebeard, maybe even worse with how cunning he is. As for Doflamingo, he is worse; he deals in layers — in webs. Assassinations, trade, mercenaries, information—everything we can think of, he can do better. He's bled into every corner of the New World... and now, he's laughing at us."
None of them dared mention Imu-sama aloud. But the unspoken truth hung in the air — the sovereign above the Elders had shown little interest in dealing with the Donquixote situation even after he had dared to blow up the Holy Land.
Normally, Imu-sama, under such a situation, would have erased Dressrosa and anyone who had relationships with the Donquixote family, but their supreme ruler had chosen to maintain silence regarding the matter, instead turning their attention on the so-called God fruits, and it was not their place to question Imu-sama. And without that divine will, the hands of the Elders were... limited.
Then, a smirk curled at the corner of Ju Peter's mouth as he straightened in his seat.
"...What of Kaido?" The others turned to him, eyes narrowing in consideration.
"Our latest intelligence indicates he's successfully begun mass-producing artificial Zoan fruits with the help of that mad scientist, Caesar Clown. Initially, I considered recapturing the man and forcing him into our service alongside Vinsmoke Judge— but now I think we may have something better."
His voice sharpened with purpose."We let Kaido loose."
Saturn raised a brow. "You want to endorse the Beast...?"
"Why not?" Ju Peter replied smoothly. "He's already in conflict with both Whitebeard and Doflamingo. And he's desperate — clawing to reclaim his place as an Emperor. Give him the tools, give him the opportunity, and he will throw himself headfirst into the flames. All we need is chaos."
A long pause. Then Elder Mars chuckled darkly. "Let the monsters devour each other."
Saturn's grip tightened around his staff, the aged wood groaning under his pressure, as his cold eyes flicked toward the far window overlooking the marbled capital of the world.
"If Kaido can create a loud enough distraction," he said, voice low and deliberate, "we'll use the momentum. Push Doflamingo into a corner, pacify the nobles, quiet the restless kingdoms… and buy ourselves the most precious commodity in war—time. But..."
His eyes narrowed, and his voice dropped a note colder.
"We cannot—must not—allow Kaido to gain full access to the power of artificial Devil Fruits. Especially not the higher-tiered Zoans."
A beat of silence passed between them, heavy with implication.
"The basic Zoans are manageable, wild beasts with limited potential," Saturn continued, tapping his staff against the floor like a ticking clock. "But what happens when they evolve? What happens when someone unlocks the secret to creating Ancient or even Mythical variants?"
The thought alone was enough to twist the air in the room. A weaponized army of enhanced monsters under Kaido's absolute control was a scenario even the Five Elders would not tolerate. For a moment, even their timeless confidence was pierced by the weight of that possibility.
It was Elder Nusjuro who finally broke the silence, stroking the long line of his beard with a faint, amused huff. "We know exactly what sort of man Caesar Clown is—pathetic, brilliant, and above all else... greedy. He has no loyalty. No principles. Only ambition and desperation."
He smirked, eyes glinting with malice.
"All we need to do is make the fool realize who can offer him true benefits. Give him a better deal—more resources, fewer restrictions, recognition... and he'll sell Kaido out without blinking. Rats always abandon the ship first."
The others gave small, knowing nods. It wasn't the first time they'd corrupted a mind with gold and fear. And it wouldn't be the last.
"Let Kaido be the blunt instrument. Let him tear open the New World. Let him bathe in the blood of pirates and warlords and soak the sea in violence. All we need from him is chaos... just enough to buy space to maneuver."
Saturn's voice darkened further, now more steel than breath.
"But when the moment comes—when our plans are in place, when the world is aligned as it must be—we will move with finality."
The five figures sat in silence, each processing the vision of their endgame. There would be no hesitation. No diplomacy. No more games. Elder Nusjuro's tone dropped into a final, grim whisper, as if marking the prophecy of war with his very breath:
"You are right… Time is all we need. And when the balance finally tips in our favor... when the world grows too quiet and the shadows are just right... we will strike."
He leaned forward, his ancient eyes burning with cruel certainty.
"And when that time comes… there will be no need for mercy."