Chapter 685

"Man... the seas have been unusually calm these past few days..." The marine exhaled slowly, a thin trail of smoke curling into the cold night air as he leaned lazily against the stone parapet. The faint orange glow of his cigarette flickered in the darkness, briefly illuminating the fatigue etched across his face.

Beside him, his fellow sentry let out a quiet hum of agreement, taking the cigarette for himself before bringing it to his lips.

"Too calm," he muttered, glancing out toward the endless stretch of black ocean. "Doesn’t feel right."

It was against protocol. Smoking on duty. Letting their guard slip. But rules had a way of loosening their grip when the nights grew this long... and this cold. And on this island, no one really cared. Because this wasn’t just any outpost. This was a World Government hub.

A heavily fortified transfer station, hidden away from the eyes of the world, where countless shipments passed through day and night. Crates of rare goods, tribute from allied kingdoms, weapons, luxuries—everything that fed the insatiable demands of those who lived above the world.

The Celestial Dragons of the Red Line. For them, this place existed. And because of that, it was considered untouchable. Secure. Absolute. The kind of place where danger didn’t dare show its face. Or so they believed. The marine on the left shifted slightly, resting his elbows on the cold stone as his eyes scanned the horizon again.

The sea stretched endlessly, dark and still beneath the pale moonlight. Not a single ship in sight. Not even the distant flicker of lanterns. Just silence.

"...You hear about the news?" he asked after a moment, his voice quieter now. "The paper?" the other replied, already knowing.

"Yeah... that one." A pause. The wind picked up slightly, carrying with it the faint scent of salt.

"They say the whole world’s going crazy over it," the first marine continued. "Kings scrambling, pirates moving, even the higher-ups are acting strange." The second marine scoffed, though there was no real confidence behind it. "Rumors," he said, taking another drag. "Stuff like that doesn’t concern us."

But his eyes lingered on the horizon just a little longer than before. Because even here—at the edge of the world—they could feel it. Something was changing. Something big. "...Still," the first one added, rubbing the back of his neck, "doesn’t explain this."

"This?" his companion asked.

"The sea." He gestured outward. "It’s like everything just... stopped." No waves crashing violently. No distant storms. No signs of life. Just a vast, unmoving expanse. Like the ocean itself was holding its breath. The second marine didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he flicked the cigarette over the edge, watching the ember fall into the darkness below before disappearing completely.

"...Yeah," he said finally, his voice lower now. "Too calm." For a moment, neither of them spoke. The silence stretched. Heavy. Unnatural. And then—far out on the horizon—something shifted. Barely noticeable. A distortion. Like a shadow moving where no shadow should be. The first marine squinted, leaning forward slightly.

"...Hey." No response. "Hey... you see that?" The second marine followed his gaze.

"Is that... a ship...?" The first marine’s voice wavered slightly as he raised his spyglass, squinting into the abyss of the horizon. The faint tremor in his hands betrayed the unease creeping into his chest.

Beside him, the second marine said nothing. Instead, he stepped toward the mounted searchlight fixed upon the parapet and turned it with a low mechanical groan, angling the beam toward the distant silhouette cutting through the darkness.

A harsh cone of light tore across the sea—but even then, the ship remained distant. Too distant. A shadow against shadows.

"There aren’t any ships scheduled for arrival..." the first marine muttered, adjusting the focus of his spyglass, trying to force clarity out of the void. "There shouldn’t be any... not with the Tenryubito currently staying here on the island..."

His voice trailed off. Because something was wrong. Because for the past 2 days all ships incoming and outgoing had been barred under the guise of security, and the island itself had been turned into a temporary stronghold to house the Tenryubito who were taking temporary respite on the island and whatever was happening was very wrong.

The ship—it wasn’t slowing. It wasn’t signaling. It wasn’t behaving like any vessel that had permission to approach this island.

"...What the hell is that...?" he whispered. Then—he saw it. A flicker. A Jolly Roger. A symbol etched into the sail, barely visible beneath the dim moonlight but recognized by any man who would have sailed the New World. But enough. Enough for recognition. Enough for terror. His eyes widened. His breath hitched.

"Quick—sound the alarm! It’s the Donqui—" His voice died. Not cut off—but stolen.

"Squelch—!" The sound was wet. Abrupt. Final. The blade slid cleanly through his throat, erupting from the front in a spray of dark crimson that caught the faint light for a split second before vanishing into the night. His body froze. Eyes wide. Uncomprehending.

"...You...?" The word barely formed, gurgling through blood as his strength collapsed beneath him. Behind him, the second marine stood still. Silent. Unmoved. His hand gripped the knife buried deep in his comrade’s neck, his expression devoid of hesitation... devoid of remorse.

Cold. Efficient. With a sharp pull, he yanked the blade free. Blood spilled freely now. The first marine’s body crumpled, twitching once before going limp. Without ceremony—without a second glance—the man shoved the corpse over the parapet. The body vanished into the darkness below. A distant splash. Then nothing. Swallowed whole by the black sea.

The wind carried the scent of iron for only a moment before it, too, disappeared. The second marine exhaled slowly. Then—he straightened. His posture changed. Subtly. But completely. Gone was the lax demeanor of a bored sentry. In its place stood something far more dangerous. Controlled. Deliberate.

He wiped the blade clean against his sleeve before slipping it away, his gaze now fixed on the approaching shadow in the distance. Then he reached for the searchlight. His fingers moved with precision, flicking the switch.

On...Off... On...Off... On...On...Off. A pattern. Deliberate. Intentional. A signal. Far out at sea—the shadow responded. The massive vessel surged forward, its speed increasing unnaturally as it cut through the water like a blade through silk. No waves. No resistance. As if the ocean itself parted to let it pass. The man watched. Silent. Unblinking.

Then—slowly—a faint smile crept onto his lips. Not wide. Not exaggerated. But enough to reveal the truth. He reached up, loosening the collar of his marine uniform just enough to reveal what lay hidden beneath—a mark. A symbol. One that did not belong to the Marines. The insignia of a far more dangerous power. The Donquixote Family.

"...Took you long enough," he muttered under his breath, his voice no longer carrying the tone of a marine—but something sharper. Colder. Loyal. Devoted. To an entirely different master. Behind him, the island still slept under the illusion of safety.

Ahead—Death approached. And the gates had already been opened. The marine did not have to wait long. The sea, once distant and ominous, had already delivered its harbingers. Without fanfare—without sound—they were simply there.

Half a dozen figures now stood upon the parapet, as though the night itself had shaped them into existence. No footsteps had echoed. No alarms had been raised. Only presence. Overwhelming. The marine felt it immediately. His throat went dry. A cold sweat crept down his spine as his instincts screamed at him to kneel, to flee, to disappear—but he did none of those things.

Because standing before him...was the man he had sworn himself to years ago. His knees bent slightly on their own, his head lowering in instinctive submission as his eyes locked onto the figure at the center. Tall. Lean. Wrapped in that unmistakable pink-feathered coat that seemed almost alive in the night breeze.

A predator cloaked in arrogance. One of the Four Emperors of the Sea. The ruler of the underworld. Donquixote Doflamingo. Beside him stood his right-hand man, Señor Pink, his broad frame unmoving, his expression shadowed beneath the dim moonlight. Even in stillness, there was something suffocating about his presence—like a blade waiting to fall.

"...How many?" Señor asked. His tone was calm. Measured. But beneath it—steel. The kind that did not tolerate error. The marine swallowed unconsciously before answering, forcing his voice to remain steady.

"Four Tenryubito are currently stationed on the island," he reported. "No Admiral escort... likely because this is the first half of the Grand Line. They must have deemed such protection unnecessary."

A dangerous assumption. One that would cost them everything. For a moment, silence. The wind shifted slightly, rustling the feathers of Doflamingo’s coat. Then he moved. Just a tilt of the head. A subtle glance toward Señor. But in that small motion, authority roared. Unquestioned. Absolute.

Señor straightened ever so slightly, awaiting the command he already knew would come. Because this was not a mission of stealth. Not one of negotiation. This was a declaration. Doflamingo’s lips curled—not into his usual mocking grin, but into something far colder. Something... restrained.

"Four..." he murmured, as if tasting the number. Then his voice rose. Calm. Clear. And filled with a quiet, burning fury that made the air itself feel heavy. "I want all four of them captured alive and then executed by beheading."

The words landed like a hammer. Final. Irrevocable. "At dawn." The marine’s breath hitched. But Doflamingo wasn’t finished. His gaze shifted toward the distant horizon—the vast world beyond this island.

"I want the entire world to witness it," he continued, his tone sharpening. "Broadcast it. Spread it through every channel we have, every port, every den of pirates, and palace of kings."

A pause. Then his voice dropped. Lower. Darker. "I want them to watch." The wind died. "I want them to understand..." A faint tremor of rage bled through his words now—raw, unfiltered. "...that the so-called gods of this world..." His fingers flexed slightly at his side. "...are nothing but flesh."

Another step forward. His shadow stretched long across the stone. "They bleed just like the rest of us." The final word fell like a guillotine. And for a moment, even the sea seemed to recoil. This wasn’t just vengeance. This wasn’t just defiance. This was war. A line drawn so deeply that it could never be erased. No more shadows. No more games. No more underworld whispers.

The Donquixote name—after dawn—would now stand openly against the heavens themselves. And as the marine stood there, trembling despite his allegiance, one truth became terrifyingly clear—by dawn...the world would never be the same again.

"Master Doffy... there appears to be a substantial number of Marine and World Government forces stationed on the island. Cipher Pol units as well." Señor Pink’s voice cut through the stillness, low and controlled, yet edged with caution. His eyes swept the distant fortress below—the layered defenses, the patrol routes, the flicker of torches and searchlights that dotted the coastline like a net waiting to tighten.

"This won’t be a light resistance," he added. "How do you want us to proceed?" For a brief moment, silence. The wind brushed past, stirring the feathers of Doflamingo’s coat, yet the man himself did not move. Did not hesitate. Did not even blink.

Then—"Kill them." The words fell softly. Almost too softly. But the weight behind them was absolute. "Kill every last one of them."

Now there was no mistaking it. No room for interpretation. Doflamingo turned slightly, his gaze drifting toward the island below—not as a battlefield... But as a graveyard waiting to be filled.

"Before the first rays of sunlight touch this island..." he continued, his tone eerily calm, stripped of the manic amusement he was known for. "...the only ones left breathing..." A pause. "...will be us."

Even the air seemed to tighten around those words. No rage. No shouting. No laughter. Just certainty. Cold. Unyielding. "Everyone else..." he added, almost as an afterthought, "...will be an offering." His voice dipped lower. Darker. "For Dora."

That name—hung in the air. Heavy. Sacred. Something had changed in him. The loss had not broken him—it had hollowed something out. And filled it with something far worse.

"...It’s only fitting," Doflamingo murmured, his eyes narrowing slightly as he looked toward the distant sea. "That they accompany her across the Styx." A faint curl tugged at his lips. Not a smile. Not quite. But something... unsettling. Because this wasn’t strategy anymore. This wasn’t politics. This was a ritual. Retribution. A requiem written in blood.

Behind them, the massive silhouette of their fleet loomed closer to the shore. Ships cut silently through the water, their presence masked until now, their decks filled with elite members of the Donquixote family.

And then—movement. Ropes dropped. Hooks latched. Shadows began to spill onto the island like a rising tide. At the forefront, figures stepped forward. Diamante, draped in his flowing cape, his grin sharp as ever despite the somber air. Other cadres followed, silent and deadly, each one a force capable of tearing through battalions alone. Señor Pink gave a single nod.

"Understood... Master Doffy." No hesitation. No doubt. He turned slightly, already signaling. Orders were passed without words—through gestures, through presence, through years of absolute loyalty. The Donquixote pirates began to move. Not like a disorganized horde—but like an execution squad. Precise. Relentless.

Unstoppable. From the shadows of the shore, they advanced inward, fanning out across the island, their targets already marked in their minds. Barracks. Watchtowers. Cipher Pol outposts. Every stronghold—every living soul not belonging to them—was now a name on a list.

Doflamingo remained where he stood, watching. Waiting. As the first screams began to echo faintly from the distance. He did not react. Did not flinch. Because to him, this was not slaughter.

This was his justice. Twisted. Absolute. And by the time the sun rose, the island would no longer belong to the World Government. It would belong to grief. To vengeance. To the Don Quixote name.

The island never saw it coming. One moment, it slept beneath the illusion of safety—guarded by the authority of the World Government, shielded by its reputation, its power, its supposed invincibility. The next— It became a slaughterhouse.

****

Inside one of the Marine barracks deep within the heart of the island, rows upon rows of Marine soldiers lay asleep. Boots by their beds. Rifles stacked neatly against the walls. The low hum of snores and shifting bodies filled the dimly lit hall. Peaceful. Unaware. The doors never creaked. They never slammed open.

They simply... parted. And shadows poured in. Silent. Dozens of them. The first blade fell before a single eye opened. A marine twitched in his sleep—then stilled. Another. Then another. Steel met flesh in quiet succession, precise and efficient. Throats were slit before voices could rise. Hands instinctively reached for weapons that would never be grasped.

But silence could not hold forever. A gasp. A choked cry. A body falling too loudly. "—What the—?!" That was all one soldier managed before a blade pierced through his chest, pinning him to his bed.

Then—chaos. "INTRUDERS—!"

The shout never finished. Gunfire erupted, flashes of light breaking the darkness as a handful of marines managed to fire blindly into the shadows. But they were too late. Far too late. The Donquixote pirates descended like wolves among sheep. Blades cut through the air. Gunshots rang out—not in panic, but in execution. A marine stumbled backward, hands raised.

"W-WAIT—!" A bullet tore through his skull. Another tried to crawl, dragging himself toward the exit, leaving a streak of blood behind him. He didn’t make it three steps. Within minutes, the barracks fell silent again. Only this time, it was not peaceful. Bodies lay scattered, lifeless, the scent of iron thick in the air. Not a single survivor.

****

High above, the sentries barely had time to register the shift. "Did you hear that—?" A blur of motion. A flash of steel. The first guard’s head snapped back, his voice cut short as he collapsed against the railing.

The second reached for the alarm bell—too slow. A hand gripped his wrist. Another forced his jaw shut. A dagger slid cleanly beneath his ribs. His body convulsed once before going limp. Across the island, one by one, the watchtowers went dark. Signals died. Lights vanished. And with them, any chance of warning.

****

Unlike the marines, the Cipher Pol agents reacted faster. They felt it. The shift in the air. The unnatural silence. A figure moved through a narrow alley, his footsteps light, controlled. His mask hid his expression, but his body was tense, alert. He stopped.

"...Who’s there?" No response. Then—a ripple. Not in the air. In the ground. Too late. A hand burst from beneath, gripping his ankle, dragging him down violently. He twisted, attempting to counter, his fingers reaching for his weapon—then a heel slammed into his throat. Another into his ribs. A final strike—and he went still.

Further down, another agent dashed across rooftops, moving to regroup—a thread caught the moonlight. Too thin to notice. Too sharp to forgive. He never even realized his body had been severed until it was too late. Across the island, Cipher Pol fought. They resisted. They struck back. But they were scattered. Isolated. Hunted. And tonight—they were prey.

****

At the island’s harbor the ships burned. The jamming transponder snails made absolutely sure that no distress signal left the island; even the cipher Pol’s selectively bred transponder snails seemed ineffective. Flames climbed high into the night sky as docked vessels were set ablaze one after another. The fire reflected against the dark sea, turning it into a shifting mirror of orange and red.

Marines rushed to respond—only to be cut down before they reached the shore. "Hold the line—!" A commanding officer rallied his men, sword drawn.

"Form ranks! We can—" A massive figure crashed into them. The formation shattered instantly.

Bodies were thrown aside like ragdolls as one of the Donquixote cadres tore through their defenses without slowing. Gunfire peppered his body—he didn’t stop. Didn’t even flinch. Within seconds—the line was gone.

Not all fought. Most died in their slumber. Some ran. Some hid. Some begged. A young marine, barely more than a recruit, dropped his rifle, hands raised as he backed into a corner.

"Please... I—I surrender...!" His voice trembled. Desperate. "I don’t want to die—!" A Donquixote pirate stood before him. Silent. Watching. For a brief moment, hope flickered. Then the blade fell.

Clean. Merciless. Because tonight there were no prisoners.

Screams echoed throughout the island. Then faded. One by one. Until there were none left. The fighting didn’t last long. It couldn’t. Not against overwhelming force. Not against enemies who came not to conquer—but to erase. By the time the eastern horizon began to lighten, the island was unrecognizable.

Barracks destroyed. Watchtowers silent. Alleys soaked in blood. The harbor still burning. Bodies lay where they had fallen, untouched, unburied. Because this was never meant to be hidden. This was a message. A warning. A declaration.

Deep within the heart of the island—far removed from the burning barracks, the slaughtered watchtowers, and the blood-soaked streets—lay a chamber untouched by the chaos outside. Or so it seemed.

Lavish beyond reason, the room was a monument to excess. Gold-lined pillars held up a ceiling painted with scenes of false divinity. Silk drapes cascaded from every corner, and a massive bed—large enough to dwarf ordinary men—sat at the center, its sheets crumpled in careless indulgence.

Scattered goblets. Spilled wine. The lingering stench of arrogance. Upon that bed lay one of the so-called "gods" of the world—a Tenryubito. Lost in drunken stupor. Oblivious. Even as the island died around him.

He stirred slightly, groaning under his breath as his body shifted against the silken sheets. Dawn had yet to arrive, and instinctively, he sought to return to sleep, his mind still drowning in the remnants of last night’s excess. His hand drifted lazily across the bed.

Then paused. Something wet. His fingers pressed into it. Sticky. Warm. Half-asleep, he frowned, bringing his hand closer to his face beneath the dim glow of the chandelier above. Crimson. Thick. Dark. For a moment, his dulled mind refused to process it.

"...Wine..." he muttered groggily, brushing it aside with irritation. Then—a sound. Low. Amused. A chuckle that did not belong.

"Fufufufu..." It slithered through the room. Cold. Mocking. Alive. The Tenryubito froze. Slowly his head turned. And whatever haze remained in his mind was shattered. "...you surely are a pig, aren’t you?" The voice was soft. Almost playful. But beneath it—something monstrous lurked.

"An entire island burns to ashes around you..." A pause. "...and you still sleep like this." There seated casually upon a lavish chair beside the bed, was him. Donquixote Doflamingo. Bathed in blood. Not splattered. Not stained. Drenched. From head to toe.

His once flamboyant feathered coat now hung heavy, soaked deep crimson. The feathers clung together, dripping slowly onto the marble floor below. His hands, his face, his very presence reeked of death.

And yet he smiled. "Oye... oye..." He leaned forward slightly, resting his chin against his hand, eyes gleaming with twisted amusement. "Wake up, you bastard." The Tenryubito scrambled backward on the bed, panic flooding his veins, his heart hammering violently against his chest.

"You—YOU—!" His voice cracked. His gaze darted wildly—and then he saw it. The source of the blood. Not wine. Not spilled drink. But bodies. The figures that had once occupied the room—

Now lay strewn across the floor. Still. Broken. Their lifeless forms painted into the grotesque scene like discarded dolls, the sheets soaked through with their blood. True to his words, Doflamingo had spared no one; even the slaves belonging to the Tenryubito were not spared. A choked scream tore from his throat.

"GUARDS—! GUARDS—!!"

Doflamingo laughed. Not loudly. Not wildly. But with something far worse—cruel enjoyment. He lifted his hand lazily and gestured toward the far corner of the room.

"Looking for them...?" The Tenryubito’s eyes followed. And froze. A body sat slumped in a chair.

Perfectly still. The CP0 uniform intact. Posture straight. Too straight. Because there was no head.

It had been cleanly removed. Placed neatly on the table beside it. Eyes still open. Frozen in terror.

"Don’t bother," Doflamingo said lightly, tapping the flat side of a blood-slick knife against the tenryubito’s cheek with a soft clink... clink... "I made sure to take care of every last one of them." The Tenryubito’s breathing turned erratic, his body trembling violently as reality crashed down upon him.

"No... no... this isn’t—this isn’t possible—!" His voice broke into hysteria. "You—do you know who I am?!"

Doflamingo tilted his head. "Of course I do, and I am sure you also recognize who I am, don’t you...?" A grin spread slowly across his face. Wide. Twisted. Unhinged.

"I’m here exactly because I know who you are, little pig..." He rose. Slowly. Deliberately. Each step he took left faint, wet prints of blood upon the marble floor. "You’ve lived your whole life believing you were untouchable..."

He stopped at the edge of the bed. Towering. Smiling. "...that you were above everything."

The knife spun once in his hand before settling into a reverse grip. "Above consequence." The Tenryubito tried to crawl back further—there was nowhere left to go.

"...Above death." Doflamingo leaned in. Close enough for the man to smell the iron, to feel the suffocating weight of his presence. Then—he whispered. "But today..." His grin sharpened.

"...you and the whole world will get to learn something new." A beat. "Gods bleed too."