Mary Geoise, Red Line
The silence within the Room of Authority was suffocating. The great chamber—once a sanctum of composure and control—now felt like a tomb sealed in unease. Only the faint hiss of burning incense and the soft hum of the den den mushi receivers broke the stillness.
Heavy curtains of gold-threaded velvet muted the sunlight that struggled to pierce through the stained glass. The room smelled faintly of parchment, blood, and smoke—remnants of reports delivered faster than they could be buried.
Four of the Five Elders sat beneath the sprawling mural of the celestial world order, its painted heavens now cracked by age and irony. The air was dense with restrained fury.
The chaos in Mary Geoise had finally been quelled, though the scent of charred marble still lingered in the upper courts. Outside, slaves whispered of rebellion, nobles whispered of betrayal, and marines whispered of fear. Inside, within this sacred chamber, power itself festered.
Papers lay scattered across the polished obsidian table—reports written in trembling hands, stamped with urgency and failure. Among them, the same words repeated like an infection:
"Water 7."
"Fishmen."
"Attack."
"Escape."
Elder Mars—broad-shouldered, his beard like coiled steel—gripped one such folder in his gnarled hands. His eyes, sharp and seething, scanned the pages for a final time before the paper gave a brittle snap under his tightening fist.
"Fishmen…" he growled, voice rumbling low and venomous. "Just days ago, the Ryugu Kingdom sent a formal petition to attend the Reverie—groveling for a seat among us." His tone twisted with disdain. "And now they dare raise their hands against the gods themselves?"
The folder crumpled, his knuckles whitening. Two of the elders exchanged silent glances, but none dared interrupt his tirade.
Mars continued, each word heavier than iron. "First, Water 7—a fishman bearing the blueprint to Pluton, the ancient weapon that belongs, by divine right, to the World Government. Then, this…" He gestured toward the scattered reports. "…this insult in our own Holy Land. A fishman dares to breach Mary Geoise, to set fire to our sanctum, to release the prisoners of our divine city."
The room darkened as his voice deepened, his fury like a gathering storm.
"We have become a laughing stock!" he roared, slamming his palm down. The obsidian table cracked beneath his strength, the sound echoing through the chamber like a cannon blast. "The world will soon know about all this because of that damned newspaper, and questions will arise as to who truly rules!"
His voice lingered in the silence that followed—a silence thick enough to choke on. For a long moment, no one moved. Even the eternal calm of Elder Nusjuro faltered slightly, his fingers tightening around the ancient sword he carried. The flicker of candlelight reflected in his eyes—cold, unreadable, patient.
Finally, Mars stood, his long jacket whispering across the floor as he rose to his full, imperious height. His tone lowered, colder than before.
"No… this cannot stand. We will not allow rebellion to bloom unchecked beneath our divine rule. We will make an example of them. The seas themselves will remember what happens to those who defy Heaven's will."
His voice dripped with finality—a sentence, not a suggestion. But no order could yet be given. Not until the fifth of their number returned.
Before any of the others could answer, a voice—smooth, mocking—cut through the tension like a blade.
"Patience, Elder Mars…"
Every head turned toward the high window overlooking the Holy Land's endless horizon.
There, framed against the crimson twilight, stood Saint Figarland Garling—the Supreme Commander of the God's Knights.
He didn't bother to face them at first, his silver hair catching the dying light, the holy insignia on his immaculate uniform glinting faintly. He stared out at the sprawling city of the gods, the smoke still rising faintly from distant ruins. His tone was casual, but laced with venomous arrogance.
"Hasn't Elder Saturn been summoned by Imu-sama themselves?" Figarland said, almost lazily.
"We will have our answers soon enough. Or…" His lips curved into a faint smirk. "…do you intend to act without their will, Elder Mars?"
The mockery was light, almost polite—but the insult was unmistakable. Mars's gaze sharpened like drawn steel. For a heartbeat, the air itself seemed to hum with restrained Conqueror's Haki.
Elder Warcury's gravelly voice rumbled next, irritation clear in his tone. "Saint Figarland… this isn't the time or place for your petty provocations. And do not forget—it was your knights who failed to retrieve the ancient weapon's blueprints from Water 7."
That earned a visible twitch from Figarland's jaw, though his grin didn't falter. Before the argument could ignite, Elder Nusjuro leaned forward, his voice calm but laced with authority.
"Enough." His sharp eyes moved from Figarland to Mars. "The walls have ears in this place, and we all know whose they are." His glance drifted to the sealed archway behind them—the one that led to Imu's hidden sanctum. The silence that followed said everything.
With a sigh, Nusjuro continued, "We have no room for infighting now. Instead, tell us—what news from Water 7? Are Whitebeard and Garp still locked in combat? Has the island been erased as ordered?"
That, at least, seemed to draw Figarland's attention fully. He turned from the window at last, boots clicking against the marble floor, his crimson cloak trailing like liquid flame. His expression shifted from amusement to thinly veiled disdain.
"Tch… no. I'm afraid we've suffered yet another setback." He clasped his hands behind his back, pacing slowly around the table like a predator circling its prey. "The Marines failed to complete the destruction of Water 7. They were forced to retreat—else the entire armada would have been wiped out."
Elder Warcury's patience snapped. "Those incompetent fools!" he snarled, slamming a meaty hand against the table, cracking the edge. "First they allow Whitebeard to breach the Justice Gate like some common thief, and now they can't even sink a dying island?!"
"Indeed," Figarland replied dryly, "if you'd let me finish, you might know why."
Warcury glared but said nothing. Figarland's smirk returned—cool and poisonous. "It wasn't pirates or revolutionaries that forced the retreat. It was Aqua Laguna."
Four pairs of ancient eyes turned toward him at once.
"The annual superstorm?" Nusjuro muttered, brows furrowing. "That's impossible. The seasonal cycles are still months away."
"Exactly," Figarland said, his tone turning grave. "This wasn't nature's timing. This was nature's reaction. Whitebeard's and Garp's clash—it tore the skies apart. The sheer release of energy triggered the storm prematurely. A maelstrom beyond comprehension. The Buster Call fleet didn't stand a chance of holding formation."
He paused, letting the weight of that sink in before continuing. "With the storm's onset, Whitebeard withdrew. Garp—ever the foolhardy hero—countermanded the Buster Call. Reports indicate that when Admiral Sakazuki tried to override him, the good admiral was flattened with a single punch."
The statement landed like thunder. Even Warcury fell silent.
Elder Ju Peter leaned forward, steepling his fingers. "So… Garp now defies direct orders from us?" His tone was calm, but the undercurrent was dangerous. "He grows more unstable by the day."
Mars let out a bitter laugh. "Unstable? The man's gone feral. Even the World Government can't leash its own dog anymore."
"Perhaps," Figarland drawled, "that dog simply remembers he was once a wolf."
For a moment, even the ancient Elders didn't reply. The thought hung there, heavy and unspoken: If the Marine Hero, the symbol of their justice, began to act against their will… what would that mean for the balance of power? The tension built, coiling tighter with every passing heartbeat. Then, suddenly—
Click.
The heavy doors at the end of the hall groaned open. Every Elder straightened. Even Figarland stopped his pacing, the smirk wiped clean from his face. A figure entered slowly—Elder Saturn, his expression shadowed, his white robes faintly singed at the edges, as though brushed by divine fire. Behind his ancient eyes, something cold and absolute lingered.
Elder Saturn slid onto the long, lacquered couch with the slow, exhausted movement of a man who has come back from the mouth of death and still carries its echo in his bones. Every time he met Imu-sama, he left feeling as if it might have been his last day; the throne's favors were as fickle as they were absolute.
Today, at least, the blame had not been laid at his feet—some other business had occupied Imu-sama's final ire—and a brittle relief softened his shoulders. He drew a slow breath, the sound small in the grand silence of the chamber. The other elders watched him like weathered statues, waiting for the verdict frozen in his eyes.
"So… are there any orders from Imu-sama?" Elder Ju Peter asked at last, voice even but edged with hunger. Everyone in the room knew the type of retribution that followed a challenge to heaven's order. The fishmen's brazen assault on the Holy Land would not go unanswered. Imu-sama rarely tolerated such insolence for long.
Saturn did not answer immediately. He closed his eyes for a moment—a brief, private resignation—and then spoke, not to the question but to the room's thudding curiosity.
"Queen Otohime has given birth to a princess," he said.
The casual calm in his tone made the news land like a bomb anyway. Saint Figarland, who had lounged near the window with that practiced air of nonchalance, was suddenly all attention. The amusement drained from his face; the commander's posture snapped into the alert, predatory poise of a man who smelled opportunity.
If this child were truly Poseidon, Figarland's mind raced with the possibilities: a Sea King whisperer sworn under his command, a living engine to tilt fleets and empires. The God's Knights needed new lions; this child could be claimed, trained, raised—and placed forever beneath his banner.
"Is it her?" Figarland's voice was low, the question raw with avarice. "Is it Poseidon? Has Imu-sama confirmed?"
Saturn's hands tightened around the staff he had brought with him, knuckles whitening. He had expected this question. "We are not certain," he admitted. "There have been no abnormal tidal phenomena reported at the time of birth. No convergence of the great Sea Kings—the omens the old texts say accompany a Poseidon's first cry. Our spies on Ryugu report nothing of that nature."
A ripple of calculated disappointment slid through the elders. The world had expected signs; their absence complicated Imu-sama's calculus.
"But," Saturn continued, and his voice dropped so everyone leaned in, "a mermaid princess of that bloodline is a threat in any event. Imu-sama has decreed that the child must be removed from the board." He said the words plainly; there was no need for rhetorical flourish. The decree was a blade with Imu's signature on its hilt.
A cold hush fell heavier than before. The implication was clear—not only suppression, but prevention. Saturn's face betrayed the residue of a memory: centuries, he said, in which newborn girls of that royal line had been quietly gone. The policy had been a cruel calculus of risk, he explained, born of a time when Poseidon's return had been unthinkable and the balance of power too precarious to allow chance.
"Normally," he went on, "when a Poseidon is born, the sea answers. Sea Kings converge; currents change; the world notices. None of that happened—yet Imu-sama will not leave such a variable to chance. There is always the possibility that the child could manifest power at a later date. Imu-sama will not risk such a contingency."
Saint Figarland's mouth twitched with the sort of smile that never reached his eyes. "So the child must be… removed," he said softly, as if tasting the phrase aloud for approval.
"Imu-sama wants an example to be made of Fishman Island," Saturn added, voice iron. "Not merely punishment for their attack on the Holy Land, but a message. A lesson that reinforces who rules the world. The sentence must reverberate—across oceans, islands, and into every court that might one day think to defy us."
Elder Nusjuro broke his silence at last, the question pushed up by a thinness of hope and dread in equal measure. "Is Imu-sama personally going to act?" he asked. The thought of Imu-sama descending in force made even these elders steel themselves. If Imu intervened directly, it meant the matter had leapt far beyond the ordinary reach of the Gorosei.
Warcury, always quick to the scorched edge of bravado, scoffed. "We are more than capable of handling one island on our own. Why does Imu-sama concern themself directly? What purpose is there for the throne to dirty its own hands?" His disdain for any show of humility toward Imu-sama's direct action shimmered like heat.
Saturn's reply was the kind that did not dress itself up. "Imu-sama's decree carries more than punishment, and who are we to question divine will…?" he said.
"There are threads moving beneath the surface. There are considerations we do not see, and for that reason Imu-sama insisted on careful obedience. I was summoned to hear it directly. I do not know all of the reasoning; that is above me. I only know the command: Fishman Island must be made an example, and any child of that line must be extinguished as a potential future variable to be denied."
The room bristled. The logic was brutal but coldly coherent: neutralize a possible future threat now, make an example of dissent, and reassure the rest of the world with spectacle.
A different sound threaded in then: the faint clack of a staff as Saturn shifted his weight, the air around his knuckles settling back into the rounded shadow of the staff's shape. Underneath his resignation, there was a hint of something harder—a man who had made peace with terrible instruction before and survived, who had learned to fold his conscience into the machinery of power.
Figarland, eyes glittering now with the double promise of cruelty and career, inclined his head. "Then let us proceed with Imu-sama's will," he said smoothly. "I will order the God's Knights to prepare. Let the lesson be swift and decisive."
Warcury cracked his knuckles, savoring the thought. Nusjuro's expression tightened into a map of duty. Ju Peter merely nodded, older and less surprised than the rest.
Saturn rose slowly, shouldering the weight of what he had been asked to carry. "Imu-sama has spoken," he said at last. "The God's Knights will remain in the Holy Land; this matter will be handled by the Elders' council."
Elder Saturn's eyes narrowed, and his voice cut the chamber like a blade. He turned on Figarland slowly, every movement deliberate, as if weighing the man's soul on the scale of Imu-sama's patience.
"Did you think your little gambit with the Ryugu King went unnoticed by Imu-sama?" Saturn asked, the sneer in his words colder than a winter tide. He did not shout; he barely needed to. The implication was enough. Figarland's private dealings — the subtle favors, the whispered promises of a throne earned through cunning — were childish games before Imu-sama.
The only reason the commander had not already been called to account was the outcome: his meddling had driven a permanent wedge between Ryugu and the Donquixote family, and that schism pleased those on high. For now, the mistake was excused. For now.
"Let me give you one piece of advice, Saint Figarland," Saturn continued, and the room leaned closer. "Keep your schemes within bounds. This world belongs to Imu-sama. As long as you remember that, you may play at ambition. Overstep it — once — and one snap is all it would take to erase you."
Figarland's jaw tightened. Once, in the corner of his mind, the plan had been simple and intoxicating: capture the child, present her to Imu-sama as a ward, have the throne itself sanctify his claim to a new order of power. With Imu's blessing, a mortal could be elevated into the ranks of the Celestial Dragons; a single nod would make the world kneel. He had imagined it and smiled to himself at the simple brilliance. Now the taste of that illusion curdled. Saturn's words were not a threat but a promise — the old, absolute mandate by which they all lived.
"Elder Saturn," Figarland tried, forcing politeness into his tone, "are we to rely on the Marines alone to take Fishman Island? Have you forgotten the geography of that place? We cannot simply drop an army in the way we would on a surface island."
Saturn's reply was immediate and clinical. "Are you questioning Imu-sama's will, Garling?" His voice was flat, an accusation wrapped in frost. The question echoed in the vaulted chamber. Elder Mars could not help but sneer — the same words had been the fuel for his earlier rage.
"No, I am not," Figarland said too quickly. He could feel the room closing in; the maneuvering he'd hoped to finesse here had evaporated. With Imu's decree as the ironbound law, he had no space left to maneuver.
Saturn's face hardened into the expression of a man who had twice learned to swallow his own opinions. "You need not worry," he said, turning to the others. "We will not deploy the Marines for this operation. This matter will be handled by the World Government's forces and Cipher Pol." He gave a look at Warcury and Mars that left no room for argument.
"Both of you will personally oversee the mission. Make no mistake: Imu-sama wants Fishman Island made an example of. Strike deep—destroy the island, raze their homes and their livelihoods, and make their ports unusable. Make sure that every household within Fishman Island loses at least one life so the entire island can wail at their loss. But leave them living. Ensure their survival is a waking nightmare."
A hush, heavier than any before, fell upon them. Saturn's words were precise and monstrous in their cruelty: not annihilation, not mercy—punishment that would gnaw at the soul of a people for generations. The logic was perverse and strategic. Extinction would erase the spectacle; survival under torment would be a perpetual lesson for every race that might dream of defiance.
Warcury's lips curled. Mars' hands clenched. Both nodded, eager in the grim way of men who had learned to enjoy the taste of retribution. Saturn continued, colder still.
"Ju Peter," he said, meeting the elder's gaze, "you will go to Marineford and keep the Marines in check. Ensure that any fishman who surfaces in the aftermath is captured and executed by the marines— unless they can be delivered to us alive, bound, so that we can make an example out of them here on the Holy Land. From now on, any fishman on the surface becomes an enemy of the world government. Hunt them. Imprison them inside their own nation. No escape."
Nusjuro's concern, voiced quietly, cut into the plan like a splinter. "And the New World? There are protectors, allies—powerful factions who would defy such hunts. We cannot simply sweep the second half of the Grand Line as we do the first."
Saturn allowed a small, dry chuckle. It had no warmth. "With how vengeful Doflamingo is, I trust he will root out any fishmen who intrude on his territory. As for the rest—consider them lucky. Imu-sama specifically forbids complete extermination. She would not have us erase an entire race as she once did others. This is deliberate: they must live with the memory of their subjugation."
The elders absorbed the calculus. It was diabolic in its elegance: break the fishmen's will without granting them the pity of oblivion. Make them a breathing reminder that the heavens own jurisdiction over every shore. Imu-sama's decree was not merely a punishment—it was pedagogy by terror.
"What about Whitebeard?" Elder Warcury asked, voice tight with the worry that had been gnawing at him since the reports began. Even here, in the gilded calm of the chamber, the name carried weight like a thunderhead. There was no denying it: among all the forces that could threaten the World Government, the man called Whitebeard stood at the summit.
Elder Mars tapped the table impatiently. "Perhaps we strike after he crosses into the New World," he offered, the calculation clinical. "He will surely move to protect Ryugu—that is his way. Wait until he is away from his anchors of support, then act. Simple and tidy."
Saturn's answer came without surprise—but with a chill that put an edge on the room. He shook his head slowly. "We will do no such thing," he said, voice low and final. The murmurs died. Even Figarland's smirk thinned.
"This decree is Imu-sama's," Saturn continued. Each word was deliberate, absolute. "When the Throne commands, the calculus of convenience ends. Whether Whitebeard moves to defend the island or not, Imu-sama's will takes precedence. We carry out the order now."
There was a silence heavy enough to break. The elders had tolerated great things in the past to maintain the fragile balance of the seas — reluctant truces with Yonko, careful de-escalations when empires tilted. Whitebeard's protection had been one such inconvenient restraint: bother him and the cost to the world might outstrip any advantage. But when the hand that issued a command belonged to Imu-sama, restraint became dereliction.
"We tolerated him because it preserved order," Saturn said, looking each of them in the eyes.
"We tolerated him because the world cannot sustain simultaneous storms. That prudence is no longer necessary. Imu-sama has chosen a path. If the Throne wants a living lesson carved into the flesh of a people, then it will be so—regardless of who stands in the waves."
Elder Warcury's jaw worked; Elder Mars' fingers drummed the table, a brittle rhythm. Figarland's posture shifted from predator to conspirator, calculating how to turn even this absolutism to advantage. Nusjuro tried another angle—caution, geography, alliances in the New World—but Saturn cut him short with the same cold economy he'd used before.
"There are considerations the rest of you do not see," Saturn said, and for the first time a faint, unreadable smile ghosted over his face. "Imu-sama has plans that move beyond our immediate comprehension. We do not question. We obey. That is all."
He let the meaning hang there: obedience made absolute by the knowledge that the Throne's designs were deeper than any single elder's imagination. Even Whitebeard, even the Yonko, became a variable to be readjusted—not a veto.
"If Whitebeard interferes and tears himself to the island's defense," Saturn went on, voice almost clinical, "so be it. His might will burn and be recorded. If he does not, the spectacle of our retribution remains unchanged. Either way, the message is the same."
He turned his palm upward, as if presenting the inevitable. "Prepare the operations. Cipher Pol will marshal assets; Warcury and Mars will oversee the field. Let the world watch what happens when the Throne deems it necessary to remind the peoples of this globe who holds dominion."
When Saturn finished, the decision hung in the air like a guillotine's shadow. Preparations would begin. Orders would flow down like poisoned rain. Fishman Island would be broken and left breathing—a living lesson carved into flesh and memory.