"I say… Imu's ability is…" Saint Saturn's trembling voice faltered as his eyes darted toward Thorne Ashveil. Unease clouded his aged features.
At that same moment, within the sacred halls of the Holy Land—Mary Geoise, home of the Celestial Dragons—an ominous aura filled a throne room draped in gold and silence.
Upon a grand throne sat a woman whose gaze could pierce the soul. Her eyes, similar to Dracule Mihawk's, but sharper, slowly opened, releasing an icy pressure that caused the entire palace to quiver.
"The Gorosei… those fools," Imu muttered, her tone frigid and venomous. "They've failed me—and now they dare betray me?"
Her fury rippled through the room.
"Damn it!"
The outburst sent a tremor through the air, the impact shattering glass and shaking the marble beneath her feet. Servants and steel-armored guards immediately dropped to their knees, their heads pressed low, trembling in terror.
Imu's slender fingers clenched the armrest of her throne, her voice dripping with rage. "How dare they betray me? They have no right to live!"
As her words echoed, a tall figure stepped out from the shadows—a man in his early thirties, his expression sharp, his aura like a blade honed to perfection. His very presence radiated killing intent.
He knelt before Imu, lowering his head with reverence. "Imu-sama, the Gorosei have rebelled. Do you require me to execute them?"
This was the Sword Saint, known among the Celestial Dragons as their most gifted warrior—a man whose swordsmanship rivaled even the greatest masters of the world.
Imu's anger simmered as she regarded him. After a long moment, she spoke coldly, "No… not yet. Even you, the mightiest among my descendants, cannot kill that man right now, can you?"
The Sword Saint bowed his head even lower, his voice filled with reluctant respect. "Yes, great Imu. Even I, with all my strength, cannot defeat him."
He performed the ancient Celestial Dragon salute before stepping back.
"You may leave," Imu commanded, her tone slicing through the air like a knife. "As for those pests—see that they are executed at once!"
The veins on her forehead stood out, her fury unrestrained. It was clear she was enraged that Saturn had dared to speak of her abilities before Ashveil.
As the Sword Saint exited the hall, the golden doors shut behind him with a heavy thud. Imu leaned back into her throne, closing her eyes once more. The entire palace seemed to darken with a suffocating presence, as though the air itself feared her wrath.
---
Meanwhile, back on the battlefield, Saint Saturn struggled to continue his confession. "Imu-sama's ability is—"
Before he could finish, a sudden sound escaped his throat—a wet, violent puff.
A burst of purple blood splattered from his mouth. His eyes widened in horror as veins bulged across his face.
"Imu… Imu actually knows what's happening here!"
His voice broke as his body convulsed. In a terrifying display, his own hands rose against him, clutching his neck, strangling himself as if controlled by an unseen force.
"Kill me… quickly, Ashveil! End it!"
The man's desperate plea was cut short as black veins crawled up from his legs, spreading rapidly. His body began to dissolve into black smoke, his flesh evaporating under some unseen curse.
Moments later, he fell from the sky—his form half-melted, screaming as he tumbled through the clouds, trailing black mist. His cries echoed through the air until, finally, they faded into silence.
He was dead.
Watching the gruesome spectacle, even Thorne Ashveil's expression hardened.
"So, Imu did that…" he muttered quietly. "To kill her servant from across the sea… such power…"
The method of death was horrifyingly unique—an invisible force, executed from afar, defying all logic. It seemed Imu's abilities were even more mysterious and fearsome than he had imagined.
Cruel and merciless. To erase a loyal subordinate in such a way proved just how dangerous she truly was.
As he considered this, an ancient voice suddenly rolled across the sky, shaking the air itself.
It was neither male nor female—a tone that seemed eternal, transcending the boundaries of life and death.
"Thorne Ashveil," the voice echoed, vast and cold, "your existence excites me… hahaha!"
"Eight hundred years," it continued, dripping with amusement, "and finally, someone worthy of my attention appears!"
Ashveil raised his head, eyes narrowing. "… Imu?"
Her voice carried effortlessly across ten thousand kilometers, from the Holy Land to his location on the battlefield. The sound resonated like a divine command. Even the sea breeze trembled.
All across the Grand Line, the world stopped to listen.
On the deck of the Moby Dick, the Whitebeard Pirates froze mid-battle, their gazes turning skyward.
Marco frowned deeply. "That voice… it said eight hundred years? Does that mean this person's been alive since before the Void Century?"
The thought alone sent chills down his spine.
"This person, who is it?"
Whitebeard's expression darkened. "It must be her," he rumbled, his voice grave. "Imu… the true sovereign of the world. The one even the Elders fear."
The crew exchanged uneasy looks, their usual confidence giving way to dread.
"So there really is an immortal monster ruling from the shadows…" murmured Jozu, his fists tightening.
"And how can someone speak across the entire ocean like that?" another pirate muttered, trembling. "What kind of power is that?"
The crew's chatter grew uneasy. Even Doflamingo, who stood among them with a forced grin, could not hide the cold sweat trailing down his temple.
Memories from his childhood surfaced—whispers from his father about the one true ruler above all Celestial Dragons.
Imu—the eternal god among men.
He had dismissed those stories as myths back then. But now, hearing that voice again after so many years, he felt the same crushing fear he'd known as a child.
Empress Boa Hancock stood silently, her beautiful face shadowed by worry. Her usual regal poise softened slightly as her gaze turned distant.
No one knew what the outcome of such a battle would be. But one thing was clear—if Imu truly possessed the powers she claimed, the entire world would soon tremble under the clash of two godlike forces.
The air itself seemed to grow heavy as the sky dimmed.
A faint rumble rolled across the ocean, as if the very waters sensed the presence of a force beyond comprehension. Birds scattered from the skies, and distant islands shivered under the invisible weight of authority.
Even the Sun seemed to falter behind thin, dark clouds, casting a cold, unnatural light across the Grand Line. The battlefield, once alive with energy, fell into a tense, almost sacred silence.
Thorne Ashveil's hand brushed against the hilt of his sword, not in preparation for attack, but in respect for a power that dwarfed even his own. He knew, in that instant, that this confrontation would not merely be a battle—it would be a test of existence itself.
_______
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