The venue was alive with activity, a chaotic symphony of servants and guests, all working to prepare for the tea party. Big Mom's crew had certainly outdone themselves.
The sheer grandeur of the setting was almost overwhelming—tables stretching as far as the eye could see, each draped in silken cloth and set with gleaming golden cutlery.
Special arrangements had been made for the more unique attendees. The giants' table, in particular, stood out, a massive structure that loomed over the others like a throne.
But it wasn't the giants' table, situated closest to the host's platform, that held the attention of the crowd.
No, all eyes kept drifting toward the far-right corner of the venue—my corner.
Dozens of tables in my section had been left conspicuously empty. The only one occupied was mine, and even here, the seats surrounding me were barren, save for my two companions. I could feel their eyes on me, the other guests, stealing glances and murmuring amongst themselves.
I leaned back in my chair, letting the tension in the air wash over me like a wave. The fear was palpable, and honestly? It amused me. These were some of the most powerful figures on the seas—pirates, rulers, merchants, and warlords—and yet, they avoided me as if my presence alone might summon the reaper.
I knew what they were thinking. They all knew the stories. The title.
The Shadow Emperor.
For years, rumors had swirled that Doflamingo's rise to power wasn't his alone, that his throne as one of the Yonko was secured because I was there, standing in the shadows. They weren't entirely wrong. Fear is a powerful tool, and today it was on full display.
"Look, Lucci," Dora grumbled from across the table, breaking the tension with her characteristically blunt voice. She barely paused before stuffing an entire meter-long cake into her mouth.
"I told you—you should've taken a shower after killing all those Sea Kings on the way here. Now look! Everyone's avoiding us!"
I couldn't help but chuckle at that, watching as Dora continued to shovel food into her mouth. She was so unbothered, so blissfully unaware of the weight our presence carried in this place.
Lucci turned to her slowly, his sharp eyes betraying no emotion. He didn't need to speak; the bland, unimpressed look on his face said everything.
Speak for yourself, it seemed to say.
Dora huffed and returned to her feast, muttering something about people being too sensitive. She had a point—although her interpretation of why we were being avoided was amusing, to say the least.
Katakuri, meanwhile, sat rigid at our table, his entire posture screaming discomfort. He'd planted himself here under the pretense of being a polite host, but I knew better. He was here to watch me, to ensure I didn't cause chaos before the tea party officially began.
He needn't have bothered. Chaos wasn't something I caused. It was something I brought with me. Like a storm.
Katakuri's gaze flicked nervously to the endless stream of food being delivered for Dora, a line of sweating kitchen staff struggling to keep up with her insatiable appetite. Every bite she took seemed to weigh on him, as if each crumb was a reminder of just how out of place we were.
I leaned forward slightly, resting my chin on my hand as I scanned the venue. The murmurs of the crowd were as loud as cannon fire to me, though I doubted most would dare to speak my name outright. Smart, I thought with a smirk.
The isolation was amusing, really. The empty tables, the averted gazes, the whispered fears. Did they really think staying away would protect them?
I knew perfectly well why we'd been assigned this table at the very edge of the venue, far from the host's platform. Perhaps Linlin thought isolating me might irritate me, expecting me to throw a tantrum. Or maybe she believed that my silence was a sign of submission or fear.
What Linlin failed to understand, however, was that this wasn't about placating or intimidating me. I was letting her enjoy her one last meal.
Amused, I sipped my wine and let my gaze wander over the venue. The hum of conversation filled the air, every table abuzz with schemes, pleasantries, and veiled threats.
It was almost comforting—these games of politics and power—but the sharp click, click of heels against the floor cut through the din like a blade. My attention snapped to the sound, and I saw her.
A young woman—no, a girl, barely out of her teenage years—approached our table with an air of poise that betrayed her youth. She was striking, with golden hair cascading in waves over her shoulders and an elegant, lithe figure dressed in a form-fitting gown that accentuated her confidence. She couldn't have been older than seventeen, but her presence was magnetic, her every move calculated for effect.
Buckingham Stussy.
I felt a slow smile curl across my lips. So this is where she began. The one who would become the future Queen of the Pleasure District, a double agent whose web of allegiances would entangle the underworld, the World Government, and even Dr. Vegapunk. A clone, created by MADS long before the World Government dismantled the organization.
Her current position in the canon timeline was nowhere near the legendary status she would one day achieve, but even now, the cunning, the confidence, and the dangerous allure were all there. It was intriguing, really. Did she even realize the potential simmering beneath her youthful exterior?
But there was something more—Stussy's approach wasn't just for show. She had come to me. Even if she wasn't yet aware, I already knew all her dirty little secrets.
She stopped just a few meters from the table. Not because she didn't want to come closer—oh, no—but because she couldn't. My mere presence suffocated her. The confidence she carried faltered for a moment, her resolve wavering before she quickly collected herself. To her credit, she recovered gracefully.
With a deep bow, she greeted me, her voice smooth and sweet like honey. "I have long since heard of you, young master Rosinante. But never did I expect to have the honor of meeting you in person."
As she straightened, her arms crossed subtly, drawing attention to her ample cleavage. Despite her youth, she had developed well beyond most girls her age, and her movements were practiced, deliberately sensual. She batted her lashes ever so slightly, her gaze lifting to gauge my reaction.
But instead of being met with appreciation or charm, she found herself staring into cold, lifeless eyes. Eyes as deep as the abyss itself.
The reaction was immediate. Despite all her training and discipline, Stussy's composure cracked. A shudder coursed through her, and she instinctively stepped back—once, twice—until she stumbled into a nearby table, tumbling to the floor in an undignified heap.
The venue stilled for a brief moment, a few heads turning toward the commotion before quickly looking away. No one wanted to get involved.
I rose slowly, taking my time as I walked toward her. The click of my shoes against the floor seemed to echo, each step deliberate. I crouched beside her, offering my hand with a practiced air of gentility.
"You need to be careful, Miss Stussy. We wouldn't want such a beautiful lady getting hurt, now, would we?" My voice was calm, polite even, but the cold edge remained.
Her wide eyes met mine, panic still etched into her delicate features. She didn't take my hand. She couldn't. For all her poise and training, she couldn't bring herself to bridge the gap between us.
So I acted.
Reaching out, I grasped her by the shoulder, lifting her effortlessly to her feet as though she weighed nothing. Her body was tense, trembling under my grip, and when I set her down, she stumbled before finding her balance.
"My apologies, young master," she stammered, her voice barely steady. "It seems I'm… under the weather. Please, excuse me." Without waiting for a reply, she turned and fled, her hurried steps carrying her toward the guest lounge.
I watched her go, a faint smirk tugging at the corners of my lips. She would gather herself quickly—she always did—and return stronger, more prepared.
But in that brief exchange, she had seen something that even she couldn't charm or manipulate. She had peered into the abyss.
And she knew, without question, that the abyss had looked back.
Katakuri, ever the perceptive one, managed to break the heavy silence after I returned to my seat. His voice was low, but his tension was unmistakable. "Do you know her, perhaps?" He was fishing, clearly trying to untangle the threads of familiarity he'd noticed between me and the young Stussy.
I leaned back, resting my elbow on the table, and shrugged as if it were the most trivial thing in the world. "Not at all," I said nonchalantly, though the gleam in Katakuri's eyes told me he wasn't buying it.
"You addressed her by name earlier," he pressed, his brow furrowing. "How do you know her name if you aren't acquainted?"
I smirked, the corners of my lips curling with amusement. "Ah, Katakuri, you're a little too curious for your own good. Did you think the Big Mom Pirates had the only vast information network in the world?" My tone was teasing, but the weight of my words wasn't lost on him.
He stiffened slightly, but I didn't let the moment linger too long. I leaned forward, letting my voice drop just enough to ensure the tension would twist just right. "She's someone who, in the near future, might topple one of the current Emperors of the Underworld."
Katakuri's gaze shifted briefly to where Stussy had disappeared moments ago. His sharp mind was no doubt trying to piece together the implications of my words, though I doubted he'd get far.
As time crawled forward, the venue steadily filled with an eclectic array of guests, each more colorful and dangerous than the last. The chatter grew louder, more vibrant, as everyone carried elaborately wrapped boxes—gifts, no doubt, for the host, Charlotte Linlin. Even we hadn't arrived empty-handed; Lucci carried our gift, a meticulously wrapped package that sat securely in his care.
The mood shifted subtly with each new arrival. The Charlotte siblings entered one by one, leading their entourages with an air of authority. Each of their gazes inevitably fell on Katakuri, who was seated at the very edge of the venue instead of beside Big Mom where he belonged.
Then their eyes would drift to me, and the understanding was instantaneous. They knew why their second-in-command was here, at the edge of it all, instead of at the host's table.
And that understanding brought unease.
The venue grew even more electric when the unmistakable form of Morgans, the avian Emperor of the Underworld, strutted through the entrance with his usual dramatic flair. His arrival turned heads, his larger-than-life persona stealing attention as expected.
But then Morgans' gaze landed on me.
The theatrical confidence drained from him as swiftly as water spilling from a broken dam. He froze, mid-motion, his rear just barely hovering above the chair he'd been about to claim. His eyes locked with mine, and I saw the telltale flicker of survival instinct kick in.
Morgans was no fool; he was a storm survivor. He'd weathered chaos time and again, not by strength but by the sharpness of his instincts.
He recognized me.
No longer was this a tea party. To Morgans, this was a disaster waiting to happen.
The bird shifted uncomfortably, turning to one of his subordinates with a sharp bark. "Did you bring the red parcel—the special one meant for the host?"
The subordinate blinked, caught off guard. "Sir, I thought we brought all the gifts—"
A sharp slap echoed through the room as Morgans struck him across the beak. The force sent the poor lackey stumbling.
"Imbecile!" Morgans hissed. "You think you'd know anything? That parcel is more important than your worthless feathers!"
His voice softened abruptly, realizing the eyes of the guests might be turning back toward him. With a clumsy laugh, he scratched his head and addressed Charlotte Counter, the sibling in charge of hosting the Underworld Emperors.
"My sincerest apologies," Morgans said with an exaggerated bow. "It seems my subordinate misplaced a very special gift meant for Big Mom. If it pleases you, I'll just step back to my ship to fetch it."
Counter waved dismissively. "There's no need for you to go yourself. I'll have a few Chess Soldiers escort your man to retrieve it. Mama values gifts like yours—she won't want delays."
Morgans, sensing the noose tightening, laughed awkwardly. "Ah, but you see, I wouldn't trust him to fetch it. He might ask me what gift I'm talking about once he gets there." He shot a venomous glare at the still-stunned subordinate.
Counter shrugged, clearly uninterested in prolonging the matter. "Fine. But make it quick. If you aren't seated before Mama arrives, there will be hell to pay."
Morgans nodded vigorously, pulling his subordinate along as he strode toward the exit, Chess Soldiers in tow. Just before he slipped out of sight, his beady eyes flicked in my direction. A subtle nod, barely perceptible, passed between us.
My smirk widened. Typical Morgans. Slippery as always.
With my Observation Haki, I'd caught the entire conversation, every word laced with his desperate attempt to flee the gathering storm. Of course, the poor fool thought he had options. What he didn't know was that he'd been bound to us ever since Doffy secured his vivre card.
In this world, there was nowhere for him to run.
Not from us.
Not from me.
*****
Lodestar Island, New World
The island loomed on the horizon, a jagged silhouette against the endless expanse of the New World's churning seas. Known only in hushed whispers and ancient sea tales, it was said to be the final destination on any map before the Grand Line's mysteries swallowed the world whole.
This was the fabled island closest to the edge of the unknown—the so-called "final island" before Gol D. Roger unraveled its mysteries and discovered that there was another island beyond this point. Here, however, the log pose lost all sense of direction, its needle spinning in maddening circles.
It bore the scars of a civilization long erased by time—crumbling ruins, shattered monuments, and the haunting remains of a bygone era. The winds howled through its abandoned structures, carrying the echoes of forgotten voices and secrets too dangerous to be remembered.
And now, against all odds, one man had arrived.
Dracule Mihawk, a young warrior yet to claim his future title, swam with relentless precision, his body cutting through the treacherous waves. The chaotic seas were a cacophony of roaring currents and towering swells, each one threatening to drag him to the abyss. His emerald eyes burned with unwavering focus, locking onto the faint outline of land in the distance.
Yoru, the colossal black blade, was strapped tightly to his back, an anchor of purpose in the chaos. It was no small feat that he'd kept it secure; weeks adrift had tested his will and ingenuity beyond anything he had ever faced.
The sea had been merciless. His boat had been torn asunder by a sudden storm, leaving him stranded with nothing but his strength, the leather bag at his waist, and Rosinante's cryptic yet invaluable guidance.
Now, after weeks of swimming, battling exhaustion, hunger, and the elements themselves, Mihawk's adrenaline surged at the sight of land. Each stroke brought him closer to the shores of the island. His body screamed for rest, his muscles burned, but his iron will refused to falter.
After half an hour of grueling effort, he reached the shoreline, dragging himself onto the coarse sand. The sun was at its zenith, its golden rays casting a harsh light on the desolate beach.
Mihawk paused, kneeling in the wet sand, his breath heaving as he took in his surroundings. The saltwater dripped from his lean yet powerful frame, his skin glistening under the midday sun.
Slowly, his hand moved to Yoru, instinctively ensuring the blade was still secure. It was.
Next, his attention shifted to the leather bag tied to his waist. He untied it carefully, his fingers swift and deliberate. The bag was his lifeline, containing rations he had managed to salvage and the most advanced log pose that had guided him here. The small device was unmistakable in its behavior—the needle spun wildly, confirming that this was indeed Lodestar.
Mihawk allowed himself the faintest smirk. Finally.
With deliberate precision, he returned the log pose to the bag. It would be useful only when he left this place—if he left this place. For now, it was unnecessary. He reached into the bag again, pulling out a long, dry coat he had painstakingly wrapped to keep safe from the sea's assault.
The coat billowed as he fastened it over his shoulders, a stark contrast to the ruined and silent island before him. He adjusted Yoru on his back, its immense weight a familiar presence.
Standing tall, Mihawk surveyed his surroundings, his observation haki spreading out for any signs of life. The island was a graveyard of a civilization that had once stood proud. Ruins stretched into the jungle beyond the beach, their architecture ancient and imposing despite their dilapidation.
Great stone statues, half-submerged and broken, watched over the land like silent sentinels. The air was thick with the scent of salt, decay, and mystery.
But Mihawk was not here for the island's secrets, nor was he here to uncover the treasures of Gol D. Roger. He cared not for the dreams of pirates or the pursuit of riches. No, Mihawk had come for a singular purpose, one that burned in his chest and sharpened his gaze.
A rumor. A single, tantalizing whisper carried on the winds of the New World.
The strongest swordsman in the world was said to be here.
That was why Mihawk had braved death itself to reach this place. He was not on a pilgrimage or a quest for glory—his purpose was a duel, one that would either cement his path to greatness or shatter him against the immovable will of a true master.
The stories of this swordsman's skill had reached even Rosinante, who had pushed Mihawk beyond his own limits in preparation for this moment.
Years of grueling training under the immense pressure of his friend Rosinante's swordsmanship had honed Mihawk's skills to an unimaginable extent, sharpening both his blade and his spirit to perfection. Now, standing on the shores of this forbidden land, Mihawk felt the culmination of that relentless preparation resonate in every fiber of his being—he was as sharp and unyielding as Yoru itself, perhaps even sharper.
Picking up his bag, he turned toward the ruins. His eyes narrowed as the jungle loomed before him, its shadowed paths an invitation and a warning. Each step he took felt deliberate, the weight of his purpose grounding him.
"I am ready," Mihawk muttered to himself, his voice low and firm.
And so, Dracule Mihawk, future bearer of the title of World's Strongest Swordsman, began his march into the unknown. The blade on his back and the fire in his heart were all he needed as he sought the challenge that would define his destiny.
The island, as if aware of his intentions, seemed to groan beneath his boots—a promise that only the worthy would leave its shores alive.