-Real World-
The Buddhist Kingdom's existence sparked surprisingly little controversy among those watching the Sky Screen broadcasts. In a world where individual islands remained isolated by vast, dangerous oceans—where some retained ecosystems featuring living dinosaurs and others developed cultures completely divorced from global norms—a nation composed entirely of warrior-monks wasn't particularly outlandish.
What did raise eyebrows was the connection between that mysterious nation and the Marines' highest ranks.
Fleet Admiral Sengoku possessed the Hito Hito no Mi, Model: Daibutsu (Human-Human Fruit, Great Buddha)—a Mythical Zoan that granted him transformation into a massive golden Buddha. The correlation seemed too obvious to ignore. Had Sengoku originated from the Buddhist Kingdom? Did he maintain ties to that isolated nation? And if so, what did that mean for the Marines' supposed neutrality?
In the future, Helmeppo would pass the monks' rigorous trials and receive the Hito Hito no Mi, Model: Arhat—a related but distinct Mythical Zoan. The fact that such a fruit was available for bestowal rather than random discovery suggested the Buddhist Kingdom controlled access to these specific powers. That level of Devil Fruit management was unprecedented.
But the real shock wasn't political intrigue—it was Helmeppo's combat performance.
The Golden Body Arhat's ability to ignore seawater's weakening effect defied fundamental laws every Devil Fruit user had internalized since childhood. The ocean was supposed to be absolute weakness, an inescapable vulnerability that balanced the immense power granted by the fruits. Yet Helmeppo had fought underwater at full strength, protected by nothing more than golden light.
Vice Admiral Tsuru sat in her office at Marine Headquarters, replaying the recorded footage for the fifth time. Her analytical mind—honed over decades of military strategy and Devil Fruit research—couldn't reconcile what she was seeing with established theory.
"The Buddha-light creates a barrier," she muttered, freezing the frame where Helmeppo descended into darkness like a falling star. "Not immunity to the ocean's effect, but... insulation? Preventing direct contact with seawater while still allowing the user to function?"
The implications were staggering. If this technique could be replicated or taught to other Devil Fruit users, it would fundamentally shift naval warfare. Logia users could fight beneath the waves. Zoan users could pursue enemies into the depths. The ocean would cease being a guaranteed sanctuary from Devil Fruit powers.
Tsuru rubbed her temples, feeling every one of her years weighing down on her shoulders. "Perhaps I'm simply too old to keep up with these developments. Maybe it's time to step down as Chief of Staff and let someone with a more flexible mind take over."
The thought was only half-serious, but the exhaustion behind it was entirely genuine.]
In a different corner of Marine Headquarters, far from the strategic planning rooms and command centers, Captain Hina had cornered her favorite target for harassment.
"Hina is very disappointed in you," she said, circling Smoker like a predator assessing prey. Her critical gaze swept over him from head to toe, cataloging perceived flaws with the thoroughness of a drill sergeant inspecting a recruit. "Hina does not see admiral material here at all. Just an arrogant man who got promoted too fast."
Smoker, characteristically, ignored her commentary in favor of the two cigars clenched between his teeth. Smoke curled around his face in lazy spirals as he continued studying tactical reports rather than engaging with Hina's provocation.
"And your negligence gets Hina killed," she continued, her voice taking on a theatrical edge. "The 'Iron and Blood Massacre' five years from now—Hina's beautiful head gets separated from Hina's beautiful body because you were too busy chasing glory to properly support your team. How exactly do you plan to compensate Hina for this tremendous injustice?"
She reached out and pinched Smoker's cheek with surprising force, stretching the skin like she was testing dough. "Hina demands reparations. Hina wants you to buy drinks tonight. Many drinks. Expensive drinks."
Tashigi stood nearby, adjusting her glasses nervously as she watched the exchange. The female swordsman's role as Smoker's adjutant often placed her in these awkward situations where Hina's aggressive flirting—if it could even be called that—made everyone involved uncomfortable. Not that Tashigi fully recognized the dynamic; her mind was too preoccupied with darker concerns.
Dismembered by Buggy the Clown, she thought, the Sky Screen's revelation haunting her waking moments. Cut into pieces while still conscious. What a horrible way to die.
The fear was visceral and consuming. Tashigi had always known death was a possibility in her profession—Marines died regularly, and everyone accepted that reality when they signed up. But there was a difference between abstract acknowledgment and seeing your specific death broadcast to the entire world.
I need to stay close to Smoker-taichou, she decided, her grip tightening on Shigure's hilt. Solo missions are out of the question. At least near him, I have better odds of survival. The Sky Screen showed him as an Admiral in the future—that means he's alive. If I stick with him, maybe I can be alive too.
It was cowardly logic, perhaps, but survival instinct overrode pride.
"Drinking again?" Smoker finally responded to Hina's demands, his voice carrying long-suffering patience. "I bought you drinks yesterday. And the day before. You've consumed my entire monthly salary in alcohol. At this rate, I'll be filing for bankruptcy before the year ends."
He pulled one cigar from his mouth, gesturing at her with the smoldering end. "And can you possibly come up with a different excuse? You always use events that haven't happened yet—that might never happen—to manipulate me. It's getting old, Hina."
"Hina doesn't care," Hina shot back, her pout exaggerated but her eyes showing genuine irritation. "Smoker is a dense, unromantic man who doesn't understand anything. Fine. If you won't buy Hina drinks, then Hina will fight you instead. Hina is very angry right now."
Smoker sighed—a long, resigned exhalation that sent twin streams of smoke from his nostrils. "The training ground?"
"The training ground," Hina confirmed with satisfaction.
They relocated to the Marines' standard sparring arena, a reinforced space designed to withstand Devil Fruit battles without collapsing. Tashigi followed, claiming a position along the sidelines where she could observe while continuing to monitor the Sky Screen's ongoing broadcast.
Hina's strategy is sound, the female swordsman thought, watching them take fighting stances. Right now, she can still compete with Smoker. But once he fully masters the Moku Moku no Mi (Smoke-Smoke Fruit) and develops counters to her Ori Ori no Mi (Cage-Cage Fruit), the gap will become insurmountable. She's capitalizing on the window while she still can.
Tashigi's gaze drifted back to the Sky Screen, where Helmeppo's golden form continued making news. He looks normal. But he ate the right Devil Fruit and suddenly he's fighting at near-Admiral level.
Her hand touched Shigure's hilt again, a habitual gesture when she was thinking about power. If I could find a Devil Fruit suited for swordsmen... something that would enhance my blade techniques without compromising my style... I would do anything to obtain it. Anything to avoid that future where Buggy cuts me apart like meat on a butcher's block.
The sparring match began in earnest, Hina's cage-forming abilities clashing against Smoker's intangible smoke body. Neither was fighting seriously—this was clearly a routine they'd established over years of friendship and rivalry. But beneath the casual violence, genuine respect and understanding flowed between them.
Tashigi watched, occasionally glancing at the Sky Screen, her mind spinning with calculations of survival and power and the desperate need to change a future that seemed increasingly inevitable with each passing day.
-Broadcast-
The Golden Body Arhat's single strike had been devastatingly efficient. Where Derringer's transformed fish body had been, now only rapidly dissolving organic matter remained. The Beast Titan's power faded with its user's death, causing the constructed flesh to vaporize at visible speed—scales melting like wax, muscle tissue sublimating into vapor, until only a skeletal framework remained suspended in the water.
Helmeppo's glowing eyes swept across the carnage, locating his secondary objective with practiced ease. Inside what had been the fish's stomach cavity, a figure struggled against the ocean's pressure—a man in a purple jumpsuit with seastone restraints still locked around his wrists.
"Don't struggle if you value your life," Helmeppo commanded, his voice carrying authority enhanced by the Buddha-light's resonance. "Without my assistance, you'll sink to the bottom and stay there forever."
Caesar Clown's eyes were wild with panic as he fought against the inevitable pull of gravity and his Devil Fruit-imposed weakness. The seastone handcuffs rendered him completely powerless, unable to activate his Gasu Gasu no Mi (Gas-Gas Fruit) to create buoyancy or breathing apparatus. In this environment, he was just a fragile human at the mercy of crushing depths and oxygen deprivation.
"Uncle Marine!" Caesar shrieked, his voice distorted by water and desperation. "You must save me! I'm valuable! Essential! Don't underestimate the power of science! The Marines need me! Don't leave me to die down here!"
Just as Caesar's lungs began filling with saltwater, the golden figure swam closer. Helmeppo's massive hand gripped the scientist's hair—not gently, but with enough force to maintain control—and suddenly the Buddha-light expanded to encompass them both. The protective barrier that had kept seawater from touching Helmeppo's skin now extended to include Caesar, creating a pocket of breathable space.
"Hold still," Helmeppo instructed, then began ascending.
The journey upward was excruciating for Caesar. Helmeppo maintained his grip on the scientist's hair throughout the entire thousand-meter ascent, using it like a handle to drag his unwilling cargo toward the surface. Each powerful stroke of the Arhat's swim technique sent jolts of pain through Caesar's scalp, and he was convinced entire patches of hair were being ripped out by the roots.
This is torture! Caesar thought hysterically, tears streaming down his face to mix with the surrounding water. I'm going to be bald after this! My beautiful hair! My magnificent appearance! Ruined by this barbaric ape!
But he didn't dare complain aloud. The alternative to temporary pain was permanent death, and Caesar valued his life far more than his vanity.
When they finally broke the surface, Caesar gasped in desperate, heaving breaths of fresh air. The sensation of oxygen filling his lungs felt transcendent after the near-drowning experience. He coughed violently, expelling seawater while his body trembled with the aftershocks of survival.
Helmeppo released his hair in favor of grabbing Caesar's collar—marginally more dignified but still treating him like cargo rather than a person. The golden warrior began swimming toward Dressrosa's shattered coastline with strong, steady strokes that ate up the distance efficiently.
Five minutes of swimming brought them to shallow water where Helmeppo's feet found purchase on the ocean floor. He waded onto the beach and unceremoniously dropped Caesar onto the sand, the scientist collapsing in a soaking wet heap of exhausted relief.
I survived, Caesar thought, staring up at the smoke-filled sky with a mixture of gratitude and despair. After everything—the arrest, the prison ship, the titans, the fish, the ocean—I actually survived.
But survival came with a price. His three proudest creations—SpongeBob, Patrick, and Squidward, the pseudo-Admirals who represented years of research and development—had returned to the sea without attempting rescue. Perfect test subjects, irreplaceable experimental data, all lost to the depths.
"Your test subjects," Helmeppo said, his golden transformation fading as he conserved energy. His body shrank back to normal human proportions, the Buddha-light dimming to nothing. "You sank into the ocean together. Why didn't they save their creator? Did the Devil Fruit weakness affect them as well?"
Caesar wrung water from his jumpsuit, the motion automatic as his mind processed the question. There was no point hiding the truth—the Marines would investigate regardless, and cooperation might earn him better treatment.
"They retain fishman characteristics," Caesar explained, his voice still hoarse from coughing up seawater. "The bloodline factors I injected came from the three Admirals, yes, but the base subjects were fishmen of a unique subspecies. The Devil Fruit powers I granted them aren't pure—they're hybridized with the fishmen's natural abilities. They can fight underwater without the standard weaknesses."
He looked toward the ocean with an expression mixing regret and scientific curiosity. "I suspect they've decided to return home. To Fishman Island. Where else would enhanced fishmen with stolen Admiral powers go?"
Helmeppo's expression darkened at the implication. Fishman Island—the underwater kingdom located directly beneath the Holy Land of Marijoa. Home to a population that had suffered centuries of slavery and discrimination at the hands of Celestial Dragons and their proxies.
And now three individuals with Admiral-level combat capabilities were heading straight there, potentially armed with grievances and the power to act on them.
"The Celestial Dragons won't tolerate a threat beneath their city," Helmeppo said quietly, more to himself than Caesar. "They'll demand intervention. Marines will be sent to 'pacify' the situation. And when that happens..."
He didn't finish the thought. Didn't need to. Everyone with basic geopolitical awareness understood what military intervention in Fishman Island would trigger—escalation, bloodshed, and the potential destruction of a kingdom that had barely maintained peace with the surface world for centuries.
But that's a problem for Fleet Admiral Sengoku and the upper ranks, Helmeppo thought, forcing himself to focus on immediate concerns. My job is securing the prisoner and reporting what I know. Let the people who get paid for strategic thinking handle the political nightmare.
He glanced toward the interior of Dressrosa, where Colossal Titans still marched in formation, each one a walking natural disaster. And pray that Admiral Gin can stop Doflamingo before even more damage accumulates.