The war proclaimed by the Earthly Executors spread across the world like a violent storm.
From the weakest backwater islands to the most prosperous kingdoms, their name ignited heated debate and boundless fear.
Some hailed them as messengers of justice—madmen perhaps, but madmen daring to challenge a rotten world order.
Others trembled at the thought of what they represented, fearing that whatever fragile order remained would be torn apart and replaced by unrestrained chaos.
Yet regardless of how the world judged them, the Earthly Executors never wavered.
In their eye's, purging evil was not a choice—it was destiny.
Bathed in the light of the Black Sun, they marched forward without hesitation, believing that even if their path led into darkness, it was still brighter than silent submission.
In the second half of the Grand Line, the pirates who stood at the very apex of the seas—the Four Emperors—received the news almost simultaneously.
Before massive projection screens, they stared at the figures clad in black, their eyes burning with an unfamiliar solar glow.
Each reacted differently.
Some fell into deep silence, calculating unseen futures.
Some laughed loudly, thrilled as though watching a long-awaited play unfold.
Others frowned, sensing danger creeping closer.
And a few—even admired them.
But every one of them reached the same conclusion:
A turbulent era had begun.
And a war capable of engulfing the entire world was inevitable.
The contradiction between the Celestial Dragons and the masses had already crossed the point of reconciliation.
The execution of a Celestial Dragon had shattered the illusion of divinity.
If the Celestial Dragons continued to cling to slavery and oppression, then more people would don black robes—and war would follow.
In the end, only two outcomes remained:
Either the Celestial Dragons would exterminate all rebels and reclaim their absolute rule—
Or their bloodline would be wiped from history, leaving no Celestial Dragons left in the world.
This was not politics.
It was a class war.
And in class war, compromise was a myth.
Inside the royal palace of Dressrosa, one of the Seven Warlords of the Sea watched the chaos unfold with burning eyes.
Donquixote Doflamingo.
His gaze was twisted with delight, madness, and long-festering hatred—as though the world itself were finally beginning to burn the way he had always wanted.
Whenever he thought of the Celestial Dragon who had been publicly executed, regret gnawed at him.
If only he had been there.
"Fufufufu… hahahaha!!!"
His laughter echoed sharply through the palace halls, chilling to the bone.
A bunch of lunatics, he thought.
And yet—how perfectly they aligned with his desires.
Yes.
Destroy the Celestial Dragons.
Drag those sanctimonious parasites down from their clouds.
Doflamingo had once been one of them.
A noble of the Donquixote family.
A Celestial Dragon.
Until his father abandoned that status and chose to live as a "human."
Young Doflamingo had been powerless to resist.
So, he carried his father's severed head back to Mariejois—begging.
Even if he were reduced to the lowest rank.
Even if he were merely a branch family.
He only wanted to return.
But the Celestial Dragons rejected him.
Worse—they tried to kill him.
If not for sheer cunning and ruthlessness, Doflamingo would have died in the Holy Land that day.
From then on, his path was sealed.
If he could not stand above the world—
Then no one deserved to.
For decades, Doflamingo became a calamity in human form.
He fueled wars.
Profited from suffering.
Amplified the greed of the Celestial Dragons themselves.
Even the infamous slave-hunting organization of the Sabaody Archipelago had him lurking in the shadows as its true benefactor.
Hatred accumulated for generations finally erupted—sparked by the Earthly Executors.
Watching it all burn, Doflamingo laughed with unrestrained joy.
Meanwhile, in the first half of the Grand Line—
The desert kingdom neighboring Drum Island, Alabasta, descended into chaos.
For years, the royal capital had secretly abused Dance Powder, plundering rainclouds from the surrounding regions.
The result was catastrophe.
Droughts ravaged the land.
Entire villages died of thirst.
At last, the exhausted populace could endure no more.
Under the instigation of a group calling themselves Earthly Executors, the people rose.
In mere days, over two million rebels surged together like a tidal wave.
They were poorly armed.
Poorly trained.
Many held nothing more than farm tools.
Yet they raised the Black Sun banners high.
They believed.
They believed that God had granted them strength to resist.
Clad in black robes and cold masks, they abandoned fear and became executioners.
Their target was clear—
King Cobra.
To them, his execution would end Alabasta's suffering.
Destroy the tyrant.
Destroy the Dance Powder.
And the rains would return.
So, they marched.
Toward the capital.
Toward the guillotine.
Toward a future drenched in blood—or salvation.
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