The night was a shroud pierced by embers. Dressrosa, once alive with music and color, was now a field of smoldering ruins and muffled cries.
The fires, starved of fuel or doused by tears, had dwindled to glowing rasps in the skeletons of buildings. A bitter smoke, laced with the metallic tang of dried blood and concrete dust, hung heavy, making the air thick and unbreathable.
In the rubble, trembling shadows searched desperately for other shadows. The sobs of children told the scale of the carnage better than anything else. Small faces smeared with soot and tears, dazed, calling names that no longer answered, alone amid a chaos even adults couldn't grasp.
"Dad…? Where are you?"
"Mom, I'm scared…"
"My arm… it hurts… it hurts so much…"
Confusion reigned. The collective memory was a ruin as chaotic as the city. Hazy, conflicting recollections surfaced, tinged with a dull dread. Loved faces faded in a mental fog, replaced by an inexplicable, aching void.
Then, the impossible happened.
At first, it was a faint golden glow, like a spark of life bursting from the debris. A porcelain doll, abandoned near a shattered fountain, began to tremble. Its cracked paint seemed to melt, its wooden limbs swelled, stretched. In seconds, where a toy had lain, a middle-aged man in tattered rags appeared, gasping, his eyes filled with absolute terror and bewilderment. He raised a shaking hand to his face, feeling warm, living flesh.
"I… I'm…?" His voice was hoarse, choked by ten years of silence.
It wasn't an isolated case. Like a chain reaction, hundreds, thousands of identical glimmers flared across the city. Tin soldiers turned into disoriented royal guards. Rocking horses became skittish stallions.
Elegant dolls reclaimed their forms as young women, horrified, suddenly screaming the names of children they'd been forced to forget.
Everywhere, it was the chaos of reunions and the storm of recovered memories. Spouses recognized each other after years of oblivion, embracing in sobs of joy mixed with pain. Parents found the children who'd searched for them in tears, clutching them like resurrected treasures. But with these reunions came the terrible truth, sharp and clear as a blade.
"Doflamingo…" The name was whispered at first, like a curse, then repeated, amplified, growing into a collective roar of hatred. "It's him! Him and his band of monsters who did this! They stole our memories! They made us their slaves! They destroyed our kingdom!"
Gratitude toward whoever broke the spell was eclipsed by the horror of the devastation and the revelation of betrayal. And in that seething anger, another name was hurled like a stone.
"And that other one! That Pirate!" shouted a man whose home was now a pile of rocks, cradling his injured wife. "It's his fault! His fight destroyed everything! Look! Look at what he did!"
"He brought disaster on us!" a woman added, clutching her children, her eyes burning with accusation. "These pirates… all the same! They fight each other, and we pay the price! We've lost too much! Too much!"
The crowd, still scattered but swollen by former toys regaining humanity, became a turbulent sea of pain, anger, and a thirst for vengeance. The tension rose, ready to erupt into a blind riot against anyone branded a pirate.
Then a figure stood on the crumbled steps of what was once Flower Square.
Dressed in simple peasant clothes, stained with dust and the blood of those he'd helped, King Riku III looked infinitely old, yet his bearing held unshakable dignity. Beside him, Rebecca, her light armor dented, her face streaked with tears and soot. Slightly behind, protective and massive despite his single leg, Kyros. His presence alone, the legendary hero returned, imposed a fragile silence.
"People of Dressrosa!" Riku's voice, though weary, carried with surprising clarity, cutting through hostile murmurs. "I see your pain. I share it. I see your anger. It is just." He raised a calm, soothing hand to fiery glares. "But look around you!" His gesture swept the expanse of rubble, groaning wounded, terrified children. "Our kingdom bleeds. Our brothers, sisters, children are hurt, lost, dying under these stones. Vengeance, however righteous, won't save them. Anger won't rebuild their homes."
He paused, letting his words sink into broken hearts.
"Our duty, now, at the dawn of this night of horror, is not to hunt more culprits in the shadows. It is to aid. To clear debris. To tend wounds. To find the missing. To protect the weakest." His gaze met that of several accusing the former swordsman corsair. "We must first assess the damage, gather our strength, and survive. Dressrosa isn't dead. It still breathes, in every one of your hearts. Act for her, now."
His speech, steeped in wisdom forged by humiliation and loss, began to calm the most heated spirits. The crowd murmured, hesitant, the urgent need to help overtaking destructive fury.
Rebecca gripped Kyros's sword, a fragile hope stirring in her. Kyros scanned the surroundings, vigilant, sensing the peace was tenuous.
It shattered instantly.
"GATHER! TO THE CENTRAL SQUARE! NOW!"
The shrill, hysterical shouts tore through the air.
Baby 5 and Buffalo burst from a side alley, shoving Violet ahead, her face pale.
Baby 5 shook violently, her wild eyes rolling, pointing a trembling finger toward the city's heart. "The square! Go to the square! Master's orders! NOW!"
Buffalo, foaming with fear, sniffled loudly, echoing: "Central square! Gather! Quick! Quick!"
The reaction was immediate and fierce. Cries of hatred erupted.
"Doflamingo's lackeys!"
"You dare give orders, monsters?"
"Death to the traitors!"
The crowd, briefly calmed by Riku, surged forward, menacing.
Baby 5 shrieked and hid behind Violet. Buffalo stumbled back. Violet stood firm, arms spread, facing the raging human tide.
"STOP!" Riku thundered, reclaiming royal authority. He stepped forward, his face etched with cold fury. "How dare you? After all you've done? After propping up that tyrant?"
Violet met his eyes unflinchingly. "It's not us giving orders, Your Majesty," she said clearly, her voice carrying despite the uproar. "It's him. Dracule Mihawk." She let a heavy silence hang before driving the point home. "And there's no Doflamingo to protect us anymore. No Donquixote Family to defy anyone."
A chilling shiver ran through the crowd. Even the fiercest cries died out. Riku felt his blood freeze. "What… what are you saying?"
"Donquixote Doflamingo is dead," Violet declared, each word falling like a gravestone in the sudden hush. "Killed by the former Corsair, Dracule Mihawk. Several of his top officers are also gone." She shot a pointed glance at Baby 5 and Buffalo, who nodded frantically, tears of fear streaming down their faces. "This Pirate now controls Dressrosa. He ordered all surviving citizens to gather at the central square. Now."
She locked eyes with Riku, her gaze filled with silent pain and defiance. "We have no choice, Majesty. You haven't seen him. You haven't felt… his power. Resisting is a death sentence for us all. We must obey. To survive. For Dressrosa to have a chance to rise again."
King Riku closed his eyes. His fists clenched until his knuckles whitened.
Rebecca pressed against him, feeling his trembling. Kyros placed a massive hand on his king's shoulder, a silent gesture of support, but his steely eyes betrayed the same helplessness against the invoked power.
A long, heavy silence settled. Then Riku's shoulders sagged slightly, not in submission but under a crushing burden accepted. He opened his eyes, filled with painful but pragmatic resignation.
"…Very well," he murmured, his voice hoarse. Then, louder, to his people: "Follow… follow their instructions. Gather at the central square. Help the wounded move. Stay calm."
The order was given.
Under Violet's forced lead, with Baby 5 and Buffalo—both visibly relieved but still shaking like leaves—the crowd began to move.
It was a somber, silent procession. No more cries of hatred, no children's sobs for now, only the sound of footsteps on rubble, the stifled groans of the wounded being carried, the creak of Kyros's prosthetic leg. Riku walked at the front, upright. Behind, Violet held a dignified posture, while Baby 5 and Buffalo cast furtive, terrified glances at the shadows, as if Mihawk could appear anywhere.
They skirted the smoldering ruins of the SMILE factory, a lunar landscape of twisted metal and pulverized concrete that chilled the blood. Then they emerged onto the vast central square, or what remained of it.
The ground was cracked, littered with debris and a strange grayish snow of steel threads reduced to dust. At the center, where a monument might once have stood, a massive boulder, likely torn free by some titanic impact, loomed.
And there the procession halted. A collective shiver, colder than the night, ran through the ranks. Murmurs died in constricted throats.
Seated on the boulder, as impassive as a statue carved from darkness, Mihawk watched their arrival. His long black coat was pristine, stark against the surrounding chaos. Yoru, the legendary black sword, rested simply beside him, seemingly harmless, but its mere presence radiated tangible menace. His eyes swept the crowd with chilling indifference.
But it wasn't his presence, however overwhelming, that rooted the people of Dressrosa in place, drawing gasps of horror and disbelief from the boldest.
It was what lay at his feet.
Sprawled on his back, arms splayed in a grotesque, lifeless pose, eyes wide but empty, staring at the starry sky with a frozen look of shock and agony, his flamboyant suit shredded and stained, lay the lifeless body of Donquixote Doflamingo.
The Usurper. The Tyrant. The Architect of ten years of horror and oblivion.
Dead. Reduced to a discarded corpse at the Hawk's feet.