-Real World-
Across Dressrosa and the wider world, millions of viewers watched Elsa's ice and snow spectacle with varying degrees of awe, envy, and horror. The power she'd displayed—the architectural mastery, the living constructs, the sheer creative versatility—made identification of her Devil Fruit trivially easy.
"That's the Yuki Yuki no Mi (Snow-Snow Fruit)," observers muttered to each other, recognition dawning. "Has to be. Nothing else creates snow and ice like that."
The timing clicked into place with disturbing precision. Monet—the Donquixote Family officer who'd been killed by Nico Robin in the Sky Screen's broadcast—had been the previous wielder of that Logia-type fruit. When a Devil Fruit user died, their power was reborn in the nearest compatible fruit. The Snow-Snow Fruit had manifested mere meters from where Elsa had been hiding, in ruins no ordinary person would have noticed or explored.
Too convenient, some thought. Almost like the fruit chose her.
The five elders realize the comparison to the Hito Hito no Mi, Model: Nika. That fruit had supposedly evaded the World Government for eight hundred years, actively avoiding capture. Could other Devil Fruits possess similar will? Could they select their wielders based on compatibility rather than random chance?
But the real shock wasn't the fruit's reappearance—it was the mastery.
Monet had possessed the Yuki Yuki no Mi for years, using it competently in combat. She could fly using wings of snow, create blizzards for area denial, freeze opponents with targeted strikes. A solid, professional application of a Logia's versatile toolkit.
Elsa had eaten the fruit hours ago and was already doing things Monet had never conceived of.
The ice clothing that perfectly mimicked fabric. The living constructs with apparent consciousness and loyalty. The architectural genius of the mausoleum's design. The temperature control that let her exist comfortably in subzero environments while her creations maintained structural integrity.
The gap between people, one commentator observed with dark humor, is sometimes greater than the gap between people and animals.
-Real World: Dressrosa, Present Timeline-
In a private room within Doflamingo's palace, Monet stared at the Sky Screen with an expression caught somewhere between fascination and existential crisis.
She hadn't yet become Caesar Clown's secretary—that assignment was still years in the future. Admiral Kizaru's attack had been survived through luck and quick thinking. Trafalgar Law hadn't yet transformed her into a harpy through surgical modification. She was still fully human, still one of Doflamingo's trusted officers, still competent and valued.
Yet watching a five-year-old girl casually outperform everything she'd ever accomplished with the same Devil Fruit made Monet feel profoundly inadequate.
"I don't understand," she whispered, her hands clenching in her lap. "We have the same power. The exact same fruit. How is she doing things I didn't even know were possible?"
She'd known Doffy's childhood story—the torture, the awakening of Conqueror's Haki in a moment of life-or-death desperation, the subsequent rise from victim to predator. Seeing his daughter follow the same trajectory five years in the future carried a poetic symmetry that should have been touching.
But all Monet could focus on was the Snow-Snow Fruit comparison.
"She makes me look like a complete amateur."
"Monet-nee," Sugar said from her seat nearby, munching grapes with the casual cruelty only a little sister could muster. "Remove the word 'look.' You are an amateur compared to her. Elsa could do more with that fruit in one day than you've managed in years."
The loli's tone carried no malice—just brutal, factual assessment delivered with childish bluntness. She kicked her legs idly, still wearing her signature bear cloak. "I've never seen you make a dress out of snow. Never seen you create living servants. That ice horse could fly! When have you ever made something that beautiful?"
Monet's jaw tightened. She'd dedicated years to mastering the Yuki Yuki no Mi, pushing its capabilities in combat applications. Aerial mobility. Offensive freezing. Defensive barriers. She'd thought herself competent—perhaps even skilled.
"I refuse to believe it," Monet said suddenly, standing up with determination burning in her eyes. "She's a child. I've been training for years. If she can do it, so can I. Watch."
She reached for the power residing in her core, channeling it outward with focused intent. Snow began manifesting around her body, swirling in response to her will. The temperature in the room dropped noticeably, making Sugar pull her cloak tighter.
Clothing, Monet thought, visualizing Elsa's elegant blue gown. If a five-year-old can create fabric from ice, I can too.
The snow compressed and shaped itself, wrapping around Monet's torso and legs in the approximate form of a dress. She opened her eyes, expecting to see something comparable to what Elsa had created.
Instead, she saw exactly what she'd always made: snow. Just snow. Compacted and shaped, yes, but still recognizably frozen water crystals without any structural transformation. The "dress" looked like someone had sculpted snow into dress-shaped mounds rather than creating actual fabric.
Sugar reached out and grabbed a handful of the "dress." The snow crumbled immediately, falling apart like any snowball would when squeezed. She let the fragments fall through her fingers, then looked up at her sister with an expression of profound disappointment.
"This is just snow," Sugar said flatly. "I wouldn't wear this even if you paid me. I'd freeze to death in minutes."
"But... but in the Sky Screen, Elsa's dress looked like real fabric!" Monet protested, dispelling her failed creation with a gesture. "How did she make it solid? How did she change the fundamental structure?"
She tried again. And again. Each attempt produced the same result—shaped snow that looked vaguely dress-like but remained unmistakably frozen water. No textile quality. No comfort against skin. Just decorative ice sculpture in the approximate shape of clothing.
"Why can't I do it?!" Monet's voice cracked with genuine distress. "Why?!"
The realization settled over her like a shroud: the starting point a not-yet-six-year-old had reached intuitively was something Monet might never achieve in her lifetime. Talent existed beyond training, beyond experience, beyond dedication. Some people were simply better—blessed with natural genius that rendered hard work almost irrelevant.
Sugar watched her sister's breakdown with mixed emotions. Schadenfreude was human nature, after all—even between siblings. The grapes she'd been eating suddenly tasted sweeter, her own failures less significant by comparison.
But beneath the amusement lurked a darker thought.
"One day," Sugar said quietly, her playful expression fading into something more contemplative, "this fruit will belong to Doffy's actual daughter. When that happens... when Elsa is born and old enough... someone will need to die first."
The words hung in the air like an executioner's blade.
Monet froze mid-gesture, her latest failed dress-attempt crumbling forgotten. She turned slowly to face her sister, horror dawning in her eyes as she processed the implication.
For Elsa to inherit the Yuki Yuki no Mi, Monet would need to be dead first. Not retired. Not reassigned. Dead. And knowing Doflamingo's pragmatic ruthlessness, if he decided the Donquixote Family would benefit more from Elsa wielding the Snow-Snow Fruit than Monet...
He'd kill me himself, she realized with ice-cold certainty. He'd smile that terrifying smile, make some comment about 'family sacrifices,' and put a bullet in my brain without a moment's hesitation.
Sugar saw the realization dawn on her sister's face and immediately regretted speaking. "Monet-nee, I didn't mean—"
"No," Monet interrupted, her voice hollow. "You're right. That's exactly what would happen. If Doffy could produce an heir with Elsa's potential..." She laughed bitterly. "I'd be obsolete. Expendable. A stepping stone for the next generation."
The two sisters sat in uncomfortable silence, the Sky Screen's continuing broadcast suddenly feeling less like entertainment and more like a preview of Monet's execution order.
-Real World: Dressrosa, Violet's Chambers-
In another part of the palace, Violet sat motionless before her own Sky Screen display, her expression unreadable as she watched her future daughters' tragedy unfold.
The princess of a fallen kingdom served dual roles—publicly as a Donquixote Family officer utilizing her Giro Giro no Mi (Glare-Glare Fruit) for intelligence gathering, privately as Doflamingo's occasional bedmate. Not through love or even affection, but through calculated survival and the slim hope that maintaining some value to him would protect what remained of her family.
She'd always taken contraceptive measures. Always. The thought of bearing that monster's children had seemed like the ultimate degradation—creating new life from a union built on conquest and submission.
"Maybe you were right, Elsa," Violet whispered to the screen, watching the silver-haired girl create her ice mausoleum. "Some children shouldn't be born. Not into this world. Not into this suffering."
Yet she couldn't deny the flicker of something when she watched Anna and Elsa interact in earlier broadcasts. The genuine love. The sisterly bond. The moments of innocent joy despite their circumstances. For a heartbeat, Violet had genuinely considered it—allowing herself to conceive, giving Doflamingo the heir he'd never explicitly demanded but might secretly want.
Then King Riku murdered them both, and the fantasy shattered.
This is what happens to children born into this life, she reminded herself firmly. They suffer. They die. They're used as pawns in games played by monsters.
But her traitorous heart noticed something else: Elsa's power. That prodigious, terrifying, magnificent power. Conqueror's Haki awakening at five years old. Mastery of the Yuki Yuki no Mi within hours. The potential to become something truly extraordinary—perhaps even surpassing Doflamingo himself someday.
She could be an Empress, Violet thought, remembering the only other woman she knew who wielded Conqueror's Haki. Boa Hancock, the Pirate Empress, commanded respect and fear in equal measure. Or at minimum, a Shichibukai like her father. The Celestial Dragon bloodline would guarantee consideration.
The thought was seductive and horrible in equal measure. Her hypothetical daughter would be powerful, influential, capable of carving out her own destiny rather than being crushed by circumstance. But that same daughter would also be hunted, hated, traumatized—forced to build monuments to dead loved ones before even reaching kindergarten age.
"I don't know whether to be relieved or heartbroken," Violet admitted to her empty room. "Relieved that this future can still be prevented... or heartbroken that such potential will never exist."
The complexity of human emotion refused simple resolution. She simultaneously wanted desperately to prevent Elsa's birth and mourned the loss of the daughter she'd never have. Rationality warred with maternal instinct that had no right to exist for children who didn't yet—might never—come to be.
A soft knock interrupted her contemplation.
"Come in," she called, already knowing who it would be through her Devil Fruit's perception.
Trebol oozed into the room—there was no better word for how the slimy executive moved. His perpetually dripping nose and slobbering enthusiasm made Violet's skin crawl, but she maintained her composed expression through years of practice.
"Violet-chan," Trebol said with that horrible wet giggle. "The Young Master wanted me to check on you. Making sure you're comfortable, ne?"
The lie was transparent. Doflamingo hadn't sent him—Trebol had come of his own volition, motivated by ambitions that aligned with his master's interests but originated from his own calculations.
"I'm fine," Violet replied coolly. "Just watching the broadcast like everyone else."
"Fascinating stuff, ne? That little Elsa—who would've thought!" Trebol's eyes gleamed with poorly concealed greed behind his sunglasses. "Such power from one so young! The Donquixote bloodline combined with your own... truly magnificent potential!"
There it was. The real reason for his visit.
"The Young Master's schedule is quite demanding," Trebol continued, his tone taking on a wheedling quality. "But perhaps when he returns from his current obligations, you might make yourself... available? For the family's future, of course. Someone must ensure the next generation rises to meet the challenges ahead, ne?"
Violet's hands clenched in her lap, hidden beneath the table. The implication was crystal clear: Trebol had decided Elsa and Anna needed to be born, and he would personally manipulate circumstances to ensure Doflamingo impregnated her.
For the family's benefit, she thought bitterly. For Trebol's own ambitions, more like. He wants to secure his position by ensuring powerful heirs exist to carry forward his master's legacy.
"I'll consider it," she said neutrally, giving nothing away.
Trebol smiled—a wet, unpleasant expression. "Wonderful! I'm sure the Young Master will be pleased to hear of your... enthusiasm."
After he left, Violet returned her attention to the Sky Screen, watching Elsa sleep in her ice palace while constructs stood eternal guard.
I'm sorry, she thought toward the daughter who didn't yet exist. I'm sorry for even considering bringing you into this nightmare. And I'm sorry for the part of me that wishes you could be real.
The future remained unwritten. But Trebol's machinations had begun, and Violet knew from bitter experience that when the Donquixote Family decided something should happen, fighting it was like trying to hold back the tide.