"Young master Ross, don't you think Dora's been unusually quiet today?" Monet's voice carried that teasing lilt only a younger sibling-like figure could manage. She glanced over from where she leaned against the ship's railing, her emerald eyes glinting mischievously in the afternoon sun. "It's almost… unsettling."
The giantess in question sat cross-legged on the deck, her massive arms folded, chin buried between her shoulders. Dora—usually the very embodiment of chaos aboard a ship—wasn't flipping barrels, wasn't dangling crewmen over the rail by their boots, wasn't even throwing half-playful insults at the Donquixote sailors. Instead, she sat there like a sulking mountain, gazing out toward the distant horizon.
For Monet, who had never known the girl to go more than five minutes without causing some form of commotion, it was too good an opportunity to pass up.
Ever since Doffy had plucked Monet and her younger sister Sugar out of the gutter years ago, the Donquixote Family had been their home. And in those years, Monet had grown from a streetwise orphan into a sharp, calculating prodigy—one whose mind could juggle smuggling routes, trade contracts, and underworld alliances with the precision of a seasoned quartermaster. Only recently, with her assistance, the Family had even closed a lucrative deal with the Whitebeard Pirates.
But today wasn't about ledgers or logistics. Today was about having a bit of fun at Dora's expense.
"You're not… nervous, are you?" Monet said, her smirk widening as she straightened up. "Afraid of seeing your mother again?"
Dora's enormous shoulders twitched, but she didn't look up.
"Oh-ho… you are." Monet leaned in conspiratorially toward me—her voice dropping to a mock whisper that was loud enough for Dora to hear. "Young master… She's probably imagining all the stories I'll tell her mother. All the trouble she's caused since she snuck out of Elbaf without permission… every prank, every bar fight, every ship she 'accidentally' dented with a single finger."
A low groan rumbled from the giantess, and her head sank even lower, as if she could somehow disappear into her own torso. The deckhands nearby tried—and failed—to hide their grins, even Mansherry and Leo were enjoying the rare calm aboard the ship.
We were sailing aboard one of the largest ships in the Donquixote fleet, The Leviathan, a true behemoth built to withstand both the Grand Line's tempests and the sheer mass of giant passengers. The sea stretched endlessly in every direction, but ahead, just beyond the shimmering curtain of mist on the horizon, lay our destination: Elbaf, land of giants.
Only a few weeks earlier, Doffy had surprised me with a revelation—the discovery of an entire frozen chamber of titanic corpses, fossils of a giant kind he believed to be none other than the Gallelia, the legendary ancient shipwrights. My mission was now clear: go to Elbaf, dig into the tribe's history, and confirm their identity.
And yet… here we were, with one of the few Elbaf natives we knew, reduced to a sulking child at the thought of going home. I looked at her and couldn't resist.
"Come now, Dora… Don't tell me you're actually scared of your mother. I thought the warriors of Elbaf feared nothing."
Her reply came in a deep, muffled grumble, her massive frame shifting as she turned toward me, pulling the ugliest face she could muster.
"You don't know about Mother Ida…" Dora muttered darkly, voice low as though even speaking the name might summon the woman herself. "Even big brother Loki is scared of her. And Loki's not afraid of anything—not even the King."
She wasn't wrong. Loki, towering even among giants, was a warrior whose temper and skill on the battlefield were enough to make most of Elbaf give him a wide berth. And yet… according to Dora, even he couldn't stand before Mother Ida without fidgeting like a child caught stealing sweets.
But the real kicker? Dora herself—who had once challenged a sea king to a screaming contest—looked ready to faint at the mere thought.
"She's not scared of King Harald, not scared of Loki," Dora mumbled, cursing her fate under her breath. "But me? Oh, she's always been able to catch me in my mischief. Always. And the punishments—" She trailed off, shivering visibly before her massive hand crept unconsciously to her backside, rubbing at phantom pains from punishments past.
Monet's laughter rang out across the deck, bright and merciless. She nearly doubled over, clutching her stomach, her spectacles slipping halfway down her nose. "So let me get this straight… the only person in all of Elbaf who can keep you in line is your mother? This—" she gasped for breath—"this makes me want to meet her more and more."
Her emerald eyes lit up wickedly as she adjusted her glasses. "Oh no… if that's the case, I need to make sure I remember all the little incidents you've caused since leaving. Every single one."
Dora's eyes went wide, almost shimmering with desperation. "No! No, Monet, please—don't tell her! She'll… she'll kill me! She'll lock me on the island forever!"
Monet pretended to ponder this as though weighing a great diplomatic decision. "Mmm… tempting."
From where I stood, the scene was almost absurd—two teenagers, one in human years and the other in giant years, locked in a comedic game of verbal cat and mouse. Monet, with her sly smirk and sharp wit, circling Dora like a hunter. Dora, a massive warrior-in-training who could throw a battle ship one-handed, now reduced to wringing her hands and bargaining for mercy like a child caught stealing cookies.
The nearby crew was doing a poor job hiding their laughter. Even I had to fight the tug of a grin at the ridiculousness of it. Then, from my shoulder, a softer voice broke through the banter.
"Brother Ross," Mansherry said, her delicate hands gripping my collar as she leaned slightly to the side to watch the waves, "is what you told me about Elbaf true? That the whole island is one massive tree?"
I turned my head slightly to meet her bright, curious eyes. "Well… not exactly," I said, lowering my voice so it felt more like sharing a secret. "But it's close enough. The Treasure Tree Adam is so huge it dwarfs the entire island. Its roots run deep into Elbaf, its branches are said to stretch into the clouds. You'll see soon enough."
Her small tail fluttered in excitement, and I couldn't help but smile. Mansherry and Leo would likely be the first dwarves in centuries to set foot on the land of giants. Whatever awaited us there—be it answers to the mystery of the frozen Gallelia tribe, political tension, or something far stranger—it would be a meeting of legends.
"Ross… look, look—the mist is getting thicker."
The call was soft, almost casual, yet steady enough to carry over the steady crash of waves against the hull. It came from the ship's massive dragon figurehead, where Leo sat perched like a speck of dust atop a mountain. The little warrior's cloak fluttered furiously in the wind, and seated behind him—broad, hulking, and unshakable—was Buffalo. One of his massive arms shielded Leo from the brunt of the sea breeze, the other resting casually on the figurehead as though he were carved from the same wood.
Buffalo was… odd. Not in a bad way—just Buffalo. Despite having been given a proper name—Brock—he stubbornly insisted on keeping his old North Blue nickname. His mind worked in straight lines: there was loyalty, there was family, and there was Doffy. Anything outside of that was, to him, secondary.
I remembered the time Doffy, in one of his more curious moods, had wanted to test the weight Buffalo gave to his words. He had told Buffalo, almost offhandedly, "Don't move from here until I say so." For two whole weeks, Buffalo didn't so much as twitch from that spot. Through sun, rain, and hunger, he sat there unmoving, an immovable statue of loyalty.
If Senor hadn't eventually brought it to Issho's attention, Buffalo might still be sitting there to this day. To his simple, steadfast mind, the head of the family had spoken—and that was law.
Now, Buffalo's young eyes were fixed ahead, the way a guard dog might stare into the distance at an approaching stranger. And there it was—the sea before us changing as if the world had taken a deep breath.
The mist came without warning. One moment, the horizon was clear save for the occasional scatter of clouds; the next, a pale, silvery veil descended upon the waters as though some unseen hand had draped the ocean in shrouds. It wasn't the slow, lazy creep of morning fog—it was sudden, enveloping, alive.
The wind shifted, carrying with it a sharp bite of cold that cut deeper than the sea's usual chill. The sky dimmed unnaturally, the sunlight smothered into a muted glow that barely reached the deck. The sound of waves grew muffled, swallowed by the thickening white. Even the ship's creak and groan seemed quieter here, as if the mist itself didn't like noise.
We had already sailed past Egghead waters a day prior, and I'd instructed both Leo and Buffalo to keep watch for this moment. Every crew that sailed these routes knew of the mists that guarded Elbaf—their reputation stretched across seas. They were the first layer of the land of warriors' natural defenses, an unyielding barrier to the unprepared.
Sail into it without knowing the danger, and the mist would lull your crew into an unnatural slumber, a deep, dreamless void from which they might never wake. Without strong enough Haki to pierce its depths, you could wander in circles for days, weeks—forever—until the sea claimed you.
Now, as the veil closed around us, I could feel its weight. It wasn't just weather—it was will.
Buffalo's arm closed in slightly around Leo, his gaze steady, unblinking. For all his simplicity, the teen was unshakable. In a world of shifting seas and treacherous skies, Buffalo was a fixed point—loyal, immovable, and utterly convinced that whatever lay ahead, the family would face it together.
I turned my gaze toward the elderly navigator—our helmsman and, in truth, the heart of this vessel's guidance. The man was not one for idle talk. His words were few, his tone measured, but his hands spoke in the way they gripped the great wheel, each movement a note in an old, wordless song only the sea could understand.
Whenever I required a ship from the family, he was my first choice without question. Leaving the Leviathan under his control was like arming a giant with a masterwork blade—the perfect marriage of raw power and seasoned precision. Under his guidance, the largest ship in the Donquixote fleet cut through waters that would see most human ships smashed into splinters, her massive hull gliding with the poise of a predator in its own domain.
Despite his years, the fire in the old man's eyes burned bright, each spark fanned by decades of storms weathered, battles fought, and horizons claimed. His back might be bowed with age, but it was the bend of tempered steel, not brittle wood. There was a quiet strength to him—the kind that came not from brute force, but from a lifetime of wrestling with the moods of the sea and living to tell the tale.
And he took pride in that role—immense pride. To him, being the navigator of the Donquixote fleet's greatest ship was not a job. It was a calling, a badge of honor worn as surely as the salt stains on his weathered coat. As for serving under a pirate flag, he bore no hesitation. Like most of the original citizens of Dressrosa, he knew the truth the outside world refused to see: without the Donquixote family, Dressrosa would not stand as one of the safest, wealthiest, and most unshakable strongholds in the New World.
The loyalty of men like him—men forged in the same fires that forged our nation—wasn't bought with coin or stolen with fear. It was earned, hard and slow, until it set like iron. Once you had it, it was yours until death.
"Make sure all those without proper Haki control return to their cabins," I commanded, my voice carrying over the groan of the timbers and the muted crash of waves through the mist. "Leave only the bare minimum needed to man the ship."
The old man gave a single nod, and then he moved. When he barked his orders, his voice cut clean through the thick air—steady, sharp, and utterly certain. There was no quaver of age in it, only the unyielding cadence of someone who had given commands to men at sea for longer than some of them had been alive.
"Aye, back to your stations! You heard the command! Below deck, now!"
The crew obeyed instantly—not out of fear, but because his word was law here, just as Doffy's was to the family. Boots pounded the deck in perfect rhythm, not a single shout of protest among them. They moved with the discipline of men and women who had weathered tempests and bloodshed together, bound by the same flag, the same island, the same debt to the family that had raised them up.
Every face on that deck was Dressrosan. They were fishermen turned sailors, merchants turned warriors, street kids turned deckhands. The sea had changed them, the family had bound them, and now nothing could break them.
As the last of the less-seasoned crew disappeared below deck, the old man's hands returned to the wheel. His gaze never left the mist ahead, the faintest of grins tugging at his weathered face. He lived for this—the challenge, the danger, the dance between ship and sea. And I knew, with him at the helm, the Leviathan would not falter.
****
Sabaody Archipelago, Grand Line
The new Sabaody Archipelago was a far cry from the glittering den of sin it once had been—yet, in a way, it was more dangerous now than ever.
It had been more than a year since the island was all but erased from the face of the world, a casualty of the mad clash between two monsters whose whims had scarred the very ocean.
Even now, the wound they left refused to heal. Out on the horizon, a yawning, abyssal void marred the sea—a gaping hole more than a dozen miles wide, its depths swallowing all light. Sailors called it The Devil's Maw, and even the most hardened crews gave it a wide berth, whispering tales of ships that vanished into its endless dark without so much as a scream.
Yet, ruin was merely fertile ground for ambition. The Sabaody Reconstruction Project was not funded by kings or marines, but by the vultures of the underworld. Crime syndicates, smuggling rings, arms dealers—every leech and predator who had once thrived here poured their coin into rebuilding the island. Not for charity. Never for charity.
Because Sabaody, no matter how scarred, was the island closest to Marineford and the Holy Land of Mary Geoise—a place where shadows and gold could dance in plain sight of the so-called "center of justice." It was the best hunting ground for anyone who lived on the wrong side of the law. And the sharks of the underworld weren't about to let it rot away simply because two madmen had reduced it to rubble.
The new Sabaody was no paradise. It was a slum—rickety docks, half-built shanties, muddy alleys—but beneath the grime, the outline of its future could already be seen. And that future belonged not to the World Government, but to the pirates and criminals who were shaping it coin by coin, blade by blade.
One of those shanties was a tavern—if you could even call it that. A broken skeleton of wood and rusted nails, walls patched with mismatched planks, and a roof that leaked in six different places. The air was thick with the stench of rum, sweat, and suspicion.
Inside, the gathering was a powder keg with a lit fuse. Every pirate in the cramped room eyed the others like predators forced into the same cage. Some leaned against the walls, hands resting on hilts; others sat at crooked tables with fingers drumming impatiently beside loaded pistols. If someone dropped a glass, it wouldn't just shatter—it would ignite a bloodbath.
None of them knew exactly why they'd been summoned. Nearly every pirate in Sabaody had received the same nameless invitation. Most had tossed it aside, suspecting a trap. This wasn't the first time someone had tried to gather the local predators only to cull them for their own profit. Sabaody's pie was only so big, and everyone wanted a slice. The brutal truth was simple: there were only so many mouths that could feed before the table flipped.
The ones here tonight were either too reckless, too desperate, or too curious to stay away.
"Fuck this…" a burly pirate with a milky white eye growled, rising from his chair. "If no one's gonna show their face, I'm leaving—"
He turned toward the door—and froze. A shadow filled the tavern's entrance. A man—no, a giant—stood there, blocking the exit completely. Even hunched, his head scraped the low rafters, his broad shoulders stretching from doorframe to doorframe. The would-be deserter was nearly four meters tall himself, yet this man dwarfed him, standing over six meters, a living wall of muscle and scarred flesh.
"Hodor," came a soft, almost amused voice from behind the colossus. "If the man wants to leave… let him leave."
The speaker stepped into view, slipping past the giant's immovable frame. He looked utterly out of place among the stained leather coats, torn shirts, and sweat-streaked bandanas. He was dressed like an aristocrat who'd wandered into a thieves' den—gold-plated shoes that caught the lantern light, a long coat of fine fabric, chains of pure gold hanging at his neck, even his shades rimmed with precious metal. Every inch of him screamed wealth… and temptation.
Several pirates' eyes flashed with greed. They could almost feel the weight of his coat in their hands, hear the clink of gold chains sliding into their pockets. But then their gazes drifted back to the towering wall of muscle behind him, and the hunger in their eyes dimmed. Almost all of them knew better than to make the attempt.
Almost. Two didn't.
The first moved like a snake, knife flashing toward the young man's ribs. The second swung a rusted cutlass toward his neck. They never made it.
Hodor stepped forward with surprising speed for something so massive. His hands—each the size of a small barrel—shot out, seizing both attackers by their skulls. There was a sickening crack as bone gave way under his grip, skulls splintering like melons under a sledgehammer. Blood sprayed in hot arcs, spattering across the floor, the walls… and a single crimson drop landed on the young man's pristine white coat.
He sighed.
"Look what you've done, Hodor," he said, almost pouting. "That was brand new."
His tone was casual, even lighthearted, as though two men hadn't just died screaming inches away. Stepping over their twitching bodies, he sauntered toward the bar, every step deliberate, unhurried, claiming the room without a single drawn blade.
"And here I was hoping we could talk business," he continued, brushing an invisible speck from his shoulder. "Not start a massacre."
With a lazy smile, he hopped onto the bar counter, ignoring the filth and stains, and made himself comfortable as if he owned the place. The room was silent, every eye locked on him. The tension hadn't broken. It had simply shifted—coiling tighter around the man who had just walked in and stolen the air from the room.
"Well, let's not stand on ceremony," the young man said, his voice smooth as polished marble.
"Please… sit. And do not worry—so long as we can hold a civil conversation, I can guarantee the safety of everyone here until the meeting is over." His eyes flicked briefly to the sprawled corpses cooling on the tavern floor. The faintest smirk tugged at his lips.
"Well… perhaps everyone except those two."
He let the moment linger before continuing, his tone turning almost hospitable.
"As the one who invited you all here, it is only fair that I introduce myself first. My name… is Tesoro. Gild Tesoro."
A ripple of murmurs passed through the room. Faces frowned, brows furrowed. They searched their memories for the name—any mention of a notorious captain, a feared bounty, a whispered legend. Nothing.
Tesoro's smile widened as if he could read their thoughts.
"There is no need to strain yourselves. I am… merely an upstart."
The moment the word left his lips, the air soured. A few pirates scoffed outright. Others let out disappointed grumbles. A handful rose to their feet, shaking their heads. An upstart was a fool's gamble. In Sabaody, new names didn't last long enough to be worth learning.
Hodor didn't move to stop them as they made for the door. He simply shifted his massive frame aside, letting them leave. Even so, more than a dozen remained—perhaps out of curiosity, perhaps out of hunger for whatever game this man was playing.
Tesoro's gaze lingered on those who stayed. "Well, it seems the ones who remain are either truly reckless… or truly brave. I'll take either."
He turned toward the bartender, who still stood behind the counter clutching a rifle like a lifeline. Tesoro's smirk returned as he reached into his coat and, with a flick of his wrist, tossed something that landed with a solid clink at the man's feet.
A gold bar. Not dull, tarnished gold, but a perfect, lustrous ingot—its surface catching the dim lantern light and throwing it back in molten gleams.
"For tonight's drinks," Tesoro said. "I trust that should cover the tab."
The bartender's eyes widened. His rifle was forgotten as he bent down, scooping up the bar with trembling fingers. He bit into it hard, his teeth leaving a faint mark in the buttery-soft metal.
Pure gold yields under pressure—not like cheap alloys that resist and crack. It gives way with a muted crunch, leaving a perfect, clean indentation, a sensation both strangely satisfying and heavy with the weight of its worth.
The man's breathing quickened. Without a word, he stuffed the ingot into his apron and disappeared into the back room. Moments later, he returned, dragging out crates of the cheapest rum the tavern owned. Bottles clattered onto tables, their contents spilling into mugs as the liquor began to flow.
The conversation that followed was muffled by the clinking of glasses, but when the scene shifted again, the words in the air were sharp and incredulous.
****
"You're truly mad if you think you can take on a behemoth like the Donquixote Family," one pirate spat, his voice cutting through the room. "Do you even begin to understand how vast their reach is? Half the underworld bends the knee to them. They're rulers of the New World, and not even the World Government could dismantle them. You expect to topple that?"
Tesoro, lounging with a mug of rum in hand, chuckled as if he'd just been told a charming joke.
"Everything has a price, my friend," he said, lifting the mug in a lazy salute. "If someone tells you they cannot be bought… it simply means you haven't offered enough. And the one thing I will never lack…" He leaned forward, eyes gleaming. "…is price."
His gaze slid to Hodor, who had been standing silent as a monolith at the door.
"Would you?" Tesoro asked.
Without a word, the giant vanished outside. The room was filled with the scrape of chairs and muttered speculation. Moments later, Hodor returned—hauling a massive sack slung over one shoulder.
He strode to the center of the tavern, the floor groaning under his weight. The pirates watched, frowning, until Hodor loosened the sack's mouth and upended it. The sound came first—a low, metallic roar as the contents spilled free. Then came the sight.
Gold.
Bars of it. Hundreds—no, thousands—of tiny ingots poured onto the warped wooden floor, cascading in gleaming waves. They piled high, higher still, until they reached Tesoro's knees, where he sat atop the counter. The flickering lanterns caught the mountain of precious metal and threw their light in dazzling golden reflections, painting every wall, every face, in molten sunlight.
For a moment, the entire tavern forgot to breathe. The air was thick with the weight of what lay before them—not just wealth, but power. Tesoro let the silence stretch until it was nearly unbearable, then spoke, his voice as smooth as silk over steel.
"Well," he said, lips curling into a predator's smile, "do you think this is enough to buy a few… loyal friends? Enough to build smuggling channels that we control—without bowing to anyone else?"
No one answered. They didn't have to. Every man in that room understood it in the pit of his gut. This man might be an upstart, but he had something no other upstart had—unlimited wealth.
And in that moment, whether they realized it or not, the first seed of Gild Tesoro's empire was sown—right there, in a shabby tavern on the ragged edges of the new Sabaody Archipelago, under the watchful shadow of The Devil's Maw.