Vlancio Shepherd was not having a good day.
In fact, he hadn't had a good anything in years. Day, week, month—hell, even his decades were starting to blur together in a spiral of bitterness.
There he sat, hunched forward in his oversized celestial chair, encased in a fresh, polished bubble suit that hissed with every tiny breath he took—not because he needed it, but because he needed people to see him in it.
That was how the world was supposed to work: he breathed rarefied air, and everyone else breathed whatever scraps were left over.
But even in his holy enclosure, he was not at peace.
The pain wasn't physical—that had long since faded. No, what made Vlancio's jaw twitch and his eye bulge slightly every time he remembered… was the shame.
The lost finger.
Gnash. Grind. Twitch.
He clenched his gilded cane hard enough for his knuckles to go white beneath the glove as he watched the auction. To think—to even imagine—that he, a god among men, had been mutilated by a pack of lowly dirt-breathers. Commoners. Filth.
Peasants!
And all because he tried to do what was perfectly within his rights—claim some peasant girl as a concubine. Just a pretty thing with pretty eyes, probably raised in a barn, unworthy of even standing in the shadow of his shadow.
And yet...
They had fought back. Violently. Unforgivably. That family of filth. That unruly girl. And most of all...
That dirty old man.
The one who took his finger.
He could still feel the phantom ache of it when he curled his hand. Could still feel the moment—sharp and wet—echoing in his mind, just before his screams filled the sky.
He burned them all. Hunted every last servant, every vassal, every cousin down to the third line. Just in case. He made sure that no one with their blood would walk this world again.
And for a while, it seemed like enough.
But when he returned to Mary Geoise, still bandaged and in pain, he found no sympathy waiting for him.
Only laughter.
Mockery.
A thousand whispered jabs behind polished masks.
He became a joke. A punchline. Not Vlancio Shepherd the Proud. Not Saint Vlancio the Wise. No, to his fellow Dragons, he was now just—
"The God with Nine Fingers."
For many years, he bore it. Plastered on a smile. Carried on his charade. Poured his inheritance into flesh-obsessed alchemists and failed clone projects in an effort to get back what was lost.
And just when the laughter had finally died down—just when he started to feel powerful again—
He was attacked. Again.
By another nobody. A filthy little rat of a revolutionary woman who stabbed him clean through the stomach like he was nothing but paper.
And worse still—he barely survived.
Apparently, the pampered life of a Celestial Dragon didn't prepare one for emergency surgery. Not when none of the so-called "doctors" on standby had ever done more than administer beauty injections and pretend to know anatomy beyond "don't pop the air bubble."
He could've died. Really, truly died.
Still, Vlancio didn't die.
At least, not in the way he probably deserved.
He liked to think he survived on sheer spite alone. A divine will. The indomitable soul of a god refusing to pass into the afterlife without dragging someone—anyone—down with him.
That's what he told himself.
The truth?
A marine doctor had been dragged out of bed and flown in last-minute to slice open his belly and keep the holy ichor from leaking out. But that part was conveniently redacted from the official report.
If word got out that a common marine saved a Celestial Dragon's life, Vlancio or other dragons might try to force the man into slavery.
So no. As far as Vlancio—and everyone else—was concerned?
He survived out of pure celestial tenacity.
But perhaps the real silver lining was this:
No one laughed this time.
There were no snickers, no jokes about his precious air bubble popping, no imitation limp-walks by his bastard cousins at dinner parties.
Because now they were afraid.
Vlancio losing a finger while gallivanting around the world like a spoiled child was one thing. That could be spun as stupidity. Arrogance. Recklessness.
But being stabbed in the heart of Mary Geoise itself?
That sent shockwaves through the gold-plated halls of power. And not the fun kind.
Now they were all scrambling, panicking in their alabaster thrones, trying to hire surgeons, alchemists, blood sorcerers—anything to keep their rotten little guts from spilling out should the same happen to them.
And Vlancio saw opportunity.
While they were throwing absurd sums at mediocre healers and quack doctors, he sold his prized slaves—an exotic dancer with three tongues, a painter who could draw from memory with his feet, and even his favorite personal barber who could shave your face with a butterfly knife while blindfolded. Tragic losses, truly.
But sacrifices had to be made.
Because Vlancio had a vision.
Instead of competing for scraps like the rest of those idiot saints, he'd save up. Wait for the perfect product. Commission the right brokers. Make the right threats.
And then he heard it—rumors whispered through the walls of the Holy Land.
A miracle surgeon. A pirate from the North Blue, captured and bound. Brilliant. Precise. Mysterious. Apparently known for stitching hearts and removing tumors as if he were plucking weeds from a garden.
And he was to be sold.
"Finally," Vlancio whispered to himself that day, hunched over a silk map of Sabaody with eyes like daggers, "finally something worthy of my divinity."
He wouldn't just buy the surgeon for himself.
Oh no.
He'd monetize the very opportunity and privilege to use him.Rent him out. One dragon gets poisoned? That'll be five hundred million berries per antidote. Another gets shot by a revolutionary? Call Vlancio and the Good Doctor.
He'd be indispensable. Invaluable.
Untouchable.
With that money, Vlancio would buy more doctors. More knowledge. Maybe build a hospital shaped like his own hand, with the missing finger replaced in shimmering gold.
He'd be respected again. Worshipped again. The days of snickering and side-eyes would be over.
And the next time someone tried to lay a hand on him, they'd find themselves eviscerated by the wrath of a man who not only healed—but knew exactly how to make you hurt forever.
Yes... this was it. This was his ascent back into glory.
And nothing, nothing, could ruin this moment.
Cue the sound of gunfire.
...
Duamante was genuinely, profoundly, utterly appalled.
He leaned forward in his seat like an insulted theater critic watching a stage play turn into a food fight.
Down below, the auction floor had turned into a battlefield. Gunfire, shouting, sabers flashing in the gaslight. Smoke filled the air. Screams filled the gaps.
And worst of all, those lowlife Sabaody thugs were right in the middle of it.
"What the hell do they think they're doing?" Diamante muttered, scowling.
Next to him, Magnon Frévall was halfway under his seat, arms wrapped around his precious briefcase of "insurance money" like it was his firstborn child.
"Th-they're insane!" Magnon babbled, sweat leaking from every pore in his gelatinous face. "They must be! Revenge maybe? I always said revenge makes people dumb!"
Diamante, ignoring him, rose from his seat, cape flicking dramatically as he reached for the hilt of his rapier.
"This auction has Celestial Dragons in it," he growled, tone low and lethal. "Are these idiots trying to get themselves erased from history?"
Revenge was one thing.
Mutually assured destruction was another.
Either way, he was going to put an end to this circus.
Cold fury slid into his gaze as he prepared to jump down into the fray. He'd cut through the thugs, pin down the organizers, and then have a nice, long chat with Disco about how the security detail for this "elite event" had the consistency of damp lettuce.
Then, another twist.
The crowd on the floor split again—Marines. Real ones. With uniforms and rifles and everything.
"What in the name of the Holy Land...?" Diamante muttered.
Were they here to stop the chaos?
Join it?
Supervise it?
He had no idea anymore.
But it didn't matter. His goal didn't change.
Neutralize threats. Secure the merchandise. Clean up the mess.
He crouched slightly, muscles tensing, sword gleaming under the chandelier.
Then the lights went out.
Diamante froze.
It was pitch black.
He felt it before he saw it—a prickle down the back of his neck, like cold steel pressed between his shoulder blades.
"...No," he hissed.
The lights snapped back on, bright and blinding. He immediately turned toward the stage—
Law was gone from his chains.
Not only that—his sword was in his hand, gleaming under the spotlight like a guillotine's blade.
And Law?
Law was staring at the Celestial Dragons like they were open heart surgeries just waiting to happen.
"Merde," Diamante muttered.
And then the worst thing possible happened.
"Room."
Diamante didn't even hear the word. He felt it—the shift in air pressure, the eerie silence that always came with that invisible bubble of control.
Law vanished.
Alarms started screeching inside Diamante's head.
He lunged, crossing the distance to the Celestial Dragon box like a cannonball with a bad attitude.
"GOT YOU!" he shouted, closing in right behind Law, who was mid-swing—katana aimed straight at the neck of a trembling, sniveling Vlancio Shepherd, who was trying to shield himself with a slave.
"You'll have to do better than that, brat," Diamante sneered, his sword snapping up like a striking snake.
He was fast—damn fast—and more than willing to take off one of Law's arms if that's what it took to protect the VIPs. His rapier gleamed with Armament Haki, its tip aimed at the inside of Law's elbow. A twitch of the wrist and—
CLANG!
His Observation Haki shrieked in his skull like a tea kettle from hell.
Incoming. Deadly. Fast.
Something was coming at him from the side, with speed and precision that felt surgical. And the intent behind it? Not just to wound or repel—but to split him clean in two.
Diamante turned.
Steel met steel.
A flash of white sparks as his sword collided with another, already swung with tremendous force.
And there he was.
A young man in a Marine captain's coat, grinning like someone who just caught a burglar trying to steal cookies and was about to press charges... violently.
Gale.
The grin faded as quickly as it appeared.
Because from behind Diamante came a wet squelch, followed by a noise that would haunt any decent man's dreams:
The scream of a Celestial Dragon.
High-pitched. Gargled. Wet.
Diamante's blood ran cold.
Gale's eyes widened. His mouth opened in a perfect expression of mock horror, an Oscar-worthy display of fabricated devastation.
"Oh no," he gasped, hand flying to his chest like a melodramatic housewife in a soap opera. "No, no, no…"
Then he pointed at Diamante, still locked blade-to-blade with him.
"Now look what you've done… you filthy pirate!"
His voice echoed over the chaos in the hall, just loud enough for nearby Marines and goons to hear.
A few heads turned.
Gale twisted the knife—figuratively, not literally, yet.
"To think that you would not only conspire with a slave to murder a Celestial Dragon…"
He shook his head with the world-weariness of a betrayed patriot. "You even stopped me, a noble, hardworking, absolutely law-abiding officer of the World Government, from saving a great and honorable saint...!"
At Gale's theatrical proclamation, a dead silence swept across the auction hall.
Not just quiet.
Dead. Silence.
Even the gangsters stopped shooting for a moment. Even the Marines mid-shout froze. Even a pirate mid-chair throw paused with the chair still above his head like a confused caveman.
All eyes locked on Vlancio Shepherd, sprawled on the stage floor in a rapidly expanding pool of noble blood. The once-divine figure now lay squirming like a fish in a bucket, sobbing, spasming, gurgling.
His powdered wig had fallen off. His stupid bubble helmet had popped. Snot and tears streamed down his face in an unholy mix as he pressed trembling fingers against the hole in his chest—the same hand missing a finger.
Somewhere in the audience, someone whispered, "...Is that a Celestial Dragon dying?"
Someone else whispered, "Are we allowed to look directly at him?"
Someone farther back coughed, "I'm not even sure we're allowed to breathe the same air as him."
Diamante's jaw slackened. His sword arm twitched.
That whole exchange—Gale's slash, Law's strike, the fake accusation—had lasted less than a second. A blink. And now?
He looked like he was protecting the guy who just stabbed a Celestial freaking Dragon.
He was crossing blades with a Marine.
His back was to Law.
And Law was standing over the dying dragon like he was posing for a "Revenge Taken" statue.
No one saw how it happened.
But everyone saw what it looked like.
In Diamante's head, panic went from a simmer to a full boil.
This wasn't just bad.
This was history-book bad. This was "conspiring with a slave to murder a god" bad. This was "you're going to need a fake mustache and a boat to the moon" bad.
And then the lights went out. Again.
"Nobody Moves!" Diamante screamed into the dark, just as chaos returned with a vengeance.
There was a crash. A scream. Someone fired blindly and hit a chandelier. Someone else yelled, "WHO STOLE MY SHOE?!"
Gale's voice whispered in the darkness.
"Ladies and gentlemen, we are now officially in act three."
...
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