At the far edge of Dressrosa, in a quiet cottage, a tall, broad-shouldered man sat staring at his own hands—disbelieving.
"…I've… turned back?"
He was strong, noble, every inch a warrior—
except for the single leg missing below his right knee.
It was Kyros, once a hero of the colosseum, long cursed to live as a toy.
And now, for the first time in years, he felt the warmth of skin and blood.
But the realization hit him almost immediately.
"The curse is broken… which means something's happened to Sugar. She must've been attacked. And the only one capable of doing that is—"
The image flashed across his mind: White Flame.
"He really went after Doflamingo…"
Kyros clenched his fists.
"If every toy in Dressrosa has regained their bodies, the whole kingdom will erupt. Doflamingo's crimes—his entire deception—will finally be exposed to the world."
"He's going to destroy the Donquixote Family."
But even as he said it, Kyros felt no relief.
Doflamingo wasn't an enemy one could topple so easily.
Even thinking back to the "stolen kingdom" filled him with dread.
"No… I can't let him face the Donquixote army alone. Even if it costs me my life—I'll fight beside him!"
He remembered the countless lives his hands had taken in the colosseum—
the same hands that once trembled to hold a baby Rebecca, gloved in shame, terrified of staining her with his blood-soaked past.
But now those hands found purpose again.
"Doflamingo… I'll take this kingdom back from your hands. And I'll return it to King Riku with my own."
Kyros turned toward the night, his single leg pounding against the cobblestone.
He began his run toward the House of Toys.
Meanwhile—
Inside the collapsing factory, White Flame flicked open what looked like a handkerchief.
With a faint metallic ring, it unfolded into a gleaming rapier.
Trebol's pupils shrank. "The Flag-Flag Fruit…?! You—! That's Diamante's ability!"
He staggered back, disbelief twisting his face.
"What did you do to him?! How can you steal someone's Devil Fruit power?!"
White Flame's tone was flat. "The dead don't need explanations."
He raised his sword. "Just understand what killed you—that's enough."
[Flag Field – Army of the Land!]
White Flame pressed his palm to the floor.
Instantly, the ground beneath them began to undulate and twist, rippling like a sheet of fabric.
Trebol reacted fast, spewing out glue from his body and anchoring himself to the floor to stay balanced.
White Flame moved.
In a single bound, he vanished—reappearing right in front of him like a ghost of smoke and fire.
"You think having Diamante's tricks makes you my equal?" Trebol bellowed, veins bulging. "Dream on! Die and rot in hell!"
[Sticky Chains!]
Thick strands of tar-like slime shot toward White Flame, each link solidifying midair.
White Flame's eyes flashed.
He twisted, a streak of black and crimson, the chains whipping through empty space as he slipped past them effortlessly.
The rapier in his hand shimmered, its edge expanding—
stretching, lengthening—
until it was nearly four meters long.
Trebol's face darkened. "Don't come any closer!"
[Sticky Cannon!]
A tidal wave of slime erupted from his body, splattering across the chamber like molten pitch.
"You really only have these same few tricks," White Flame said quietly.
His voice was calm, but every word dripped disdain.
"No wonder Doflamingo kept you around—you're not strong, you're useful. A pathetic sycophant propping up a false king."
"Little Black. Little Two Black. Tear it all apart."
Two shadows materialized at his sides, claws extended.
The black wraiths ripped through the air, shredding the oncoming wave of slime like tissue paper.
White Flame's sword began to twist, its blade coiling into a serpent.
[Blade Form – Serpent Sword!]
The living steel slithered through the gaps in Trebol's defenses, curving past every sticky tendril—
and drove straight into his chest.
"NO—!"
The sound of steel piercing flesh was quiet, almost gentle.
And then—silence.
The earth stilled.
The slime stopped flowing.
The House of Toys fell into an eerie calm.
White Flame withdrew his blade, his expression cold.
"Trebol," he murmured, "you're so weak… I don't even have the appetite to eat you."
He flicked the blood from his sword.
The weapon folded back into a handkerchief, fluttering down into his palm.
Behind him, Trebol's body began to dissolve—
the slime evaporating, leaving behind a frail, skeletal frame that collapsed with a thud.
His eyes stared blankly upward—full of disbelief, fear, and despair.
"Delicious… master… delicious…"
Little Black and Little Two Black stepped closer, claws twitching.
White Flame waved a hand dismissively. "Forget him. He's filthy. Eat the others instead."
He turned toward the doorway, tucking the folded blade into his coat.
"The toys are free, the top officer's dead… all that's left—"
"—is Doflamingo himself."
A faint smirk curved his lips as he walked away, his two invisible shadows trailing behind.
Ten minutes later—
Two figures arrived with a squad of soldiers: Jora, wielder of the Art-Art Fruit, and Senor Pink, user of the Swim-Swim Fruit.
"Too late," Senor muttered around his pacifier. "He's gone."
"Lord Trebol is dead!" Jora gasped, trembling. "The Young Master will lose his mind!"
Senor's brow furrowed. His head turned slightly. "…He's already here."
The air grew heavy.
Doflamingo's silhouette drifted through the shattered entrance, descending like a vengeful god.
He landed beside Trebol's corpse, silent.
The sunglasses hid his eyes—but his twisted smile said enough.
His jaw tightened. His teeth ground audibly.
When he finally spoke, his voice shook the walls.
"I'LL KILL THAT BASTARD MYSELF!"
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