Compared to the turbulent seas, the pinnacle of world power, Mary Geoise, was immersed in an unusual kind of clamor.
Here, there were no choppy waves or the cries of battle. Instead, the palace hummed with a sickening frenzy, hidden beneath a thin veneer of civility. Servants hurried across the vast halls, bowing low, carrying trunks and cases packed with extravagant treasures: diamond-encrusted hunting rifles, golden goblets, silk garments, and luxuries beyond imagination.
"Father, did you bring my 'little darling'?" Saint Marcos, a ten-year-old Celestial Dragon boy with a sharply twisted topknot, tugged eagerly at his father's sleeve.
His "little darling" was no ordinary toy. It was a custom-made, ivory-and-Sea Stone pistol, designed entirely for one purpose: to kill.
"Of course, my dear Marcos," Saint Top replied, his large belly swaying, a doting smile spreading across his face. "This year's competition… you must win first prize. No more losing to that Musgard brat."
"Don't worry, Father!" Marcos beamed, raising his chubby fists. "This time, I'll hunt the fastest one! I'll bring him back for my collection!"
To the uninitiated, their conversation might have sounded like a discussion of a harmless game or a festival. To those surrounding them, it was anything but innocent. Servants and slaves cowered low, heads bowed to the floor, trembling. Not daring to breathe, they silently prayed to survive the words of these "gods."
The Celestial Dragons' so-called competition was a triennial event of horrifying spectacle. One country—completely random—was chosen from among the World Government's unaligned nations. That country would become the stage for the bloodiest "entertainment" imaginable.
And this year's "lucky" venue was God Valley, a peaceful land in the West Blue, known for its serene beauty and simple, quiet towns.
Soon, an enormous fleet emerged from the Red Line's port. Dozens of the Marines' most elite warships formed a protective steel wall, encircling a parade of lavishly decorated ships that looked like floating palaces.
Onboard, the Celestial Dragons, sealed inside transparent bubble helmets, observed the world below. Their noses wrinkled in disgust at the "dirty" air, yet their eyes shone with excitement. They pointed and squealed at the small towns beneath them, anticipating their impending "games."
Accompanying the fleet were elite agents from the CP organizations, moving like shadows, their eyes sharp and calculating. At the forefront sailed the God's Knights, the world's finest enforcers. Their leader, a man with a distinctive crescent-shaped hairstyle, maintained a calm, stern expression, emotionless as he fulfilled his duties.
The fleet tore through the clouds, crossed the Calm Belt, and descended upon God Valley—a land of gentle rivers, cascading waterfalls, and lush forests. The residents, unsuspecting, stepped outside to witness the approaching fleet, curiosity replacing caution.
What they witnessed, however, was not divine blessing, but the herald of annihilation.
"To ensure fairness and enjoyment…" a commander's voice boomed across the sky, "…clear the venue!"
In an instant, the tranquility of the valley was obliterated. God's Knights and CP agents descended like hawks. Without warning or mercy, the massacre began.
Explosions ripped through villages. Houses caught fire and collapsed into rubble. Sword flashes cut down men and women alike. Children screamed as their parents were struck down before them, blood pooling in the streets of what had been a peaceful community.
God Valley's local forces attempted resistance, but their proud swords and shields were like twigs before a storm of experienced killers. The Celestial Dragons, perched safely atop their luxurious vessels, drank fine wine, clinking goblets in delight as they watched the carnage unfold like a fireworks display.
"Look, Marcos!" Saint Top shouted, pointing at a leveled village. "What a splendid game!"
Marcos nodded vigorously, eyes shining with an almost unnatural fanaticism. Clutching his ivory pistol, he skipped toward the chaos, eager to personally take aim at fleeing targets.
In mere minutes, God Valley was transformed. Villages were reduced to smoldering ruins; thick smoke rose from every corner, and the air was heavy with the metallic scent of blood and the acrid tang of fire.
"Venue cleared," came the cold report from the commander. Only then did the Celestial Dragons descend, floating in bubble cable cars, their shoes stepping over charred corpses as though treading on nothing more than dust.
Slaves and servants, terrified beyond reason, rushed to erect luxurious tents amidst the devastation. Tables were set with delicate china, the finest wines uncorked, the stage ready for the grand feast. A celebration built entirely on death, destruction, and cruelty.
Saint Top handed the pistol to his son and caressed his head with a fatherly tenderness. "Go, my child," he said, voice soft, almost gentle, yet each word dripped venom. "The competition has not begun. Practice first."
"Yes, Father!" Marcos cried, already disappearing into the ruined forests, his small figure bounding over charred trees and scorched earth, hunting for imaginary "prey."
Above this hellish scene, a pair of eyes observed silently through a high-powered telescope.
"Kishishishi… Celestial Dragons, as nauseating as ever," a familiar voice hissed. Golden Lion Shiki stood on a distant ship, a cruel smile playing on his lips. "But that's what makes this interesting. Rocks wants more than just a tiny island. He wants the world to remember fear."
Far to the west, amidst the calm waters of Hachinosu Island, Rocks D. Xebec himself stood at the bow of his flagship. His face remained shrouded in shadow, though the glint of his eyes betrayed a depth of ambition darker than the abyss.
His gaze fixed on God Valley, piercing the distance as if he could see through the so-called divine authority of the Celestial Dragons.
"Revel as much as you like," he murmured, voice low and calm, yet carrying an ironclad promise.
"…Because your divine thrones… are about to change hands."
Even the waves seemed to pause as the weight of his words rolled across the sea. The stage was set. The Eve of Carnival was upon the world—a convergence of innocence, cruelty, and the looming power of pirates who would challenge gods themselves.
In that quiet moment before chaos would collide with ambition, the world seemed to hold its breath. And somewhere deep in the shadows, the first moves of destiny were being planned, ready to ignite a conflict that would shake the heavens.
---Ãdvåñçé çhàptêr àvàilàble óñ pàtreøn (Gk31)