A crimson blade-slashed arc tore through the training hall, cutting the very air with a hiss sharp enough to rattle the lanterns overhead. The force of the swing rippled outward, thinning into shimmering motes before dissolving like embers in a breeze.

Agana exhaled slowly. Her new arm moved without hesitation now—the muscles, sinew, and artistry forged from Giolla’s power blending seamlessly into her will. It felt hers, no longer a foreign weight but an extension of her own pride. She pivoted, slashing twice more.

Crimson trails followed each strike—blurs of killing intent and discipline interwoven.

"Fufufufu..." The familiar laugh rolled across the chamber like silk hiding a blade. "It seems you’ve finally adapted to your new arm."

Doflamingo stepped into the light, his pink coat billowing behind him in languid waves. His smirk was carved with satisfaction—not fondness, but recognition. Behind him, Señor Pink walked in quiet precision, dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit, every movement steeped in the solemn dignity of an elite attendant. Without a word, he carried himself to the small table beside the practice floor.

Agana’s blade paused mid-swing. She turned, eyes cool and unreadable as always—but the faintest flick of acknowledgment crossed her face upon seeing her captain. Once, long ago, she had bowed only to a god.

Now she bowed to no one—but she stood with this family.

"Well," she said, sheathing her blade in one fluid motion, "it seems my concerns were unnecessary. Giolla’s devil fruit really is wondrous."

She crossed the room without hurry, confident, almost regal in posture, and sat in the chair beside Doflamingo as if she had always belonged there. And in a way, she finally did.

Senor poured chilled tea into the porcelain glasses with absolute silence, stepping back afterward—far enough not to intrude, close enough to serve. The perfect butler in a pirate empire that strutted like nobility. Agana lifted her glass, the ice clinking faintly.

"So," she said, staring ahead rather than at him, "have I finally gained your trust?"

She knew the answer mattered less than hearing it spoken. For years she had served the Donquixote Family—lived with them, fought beside them, bled for them— and yet there had been a thin, unspoken veil between her and true belonging.

A veil carved into her skin by a mark she once bore—the Shallows Covenant, a brand of Imu’s choosing. Doflamingo crossed one leg over the other, his grin widening like a predator acknowledging another.

"Fufufufu... You can’t blame me," he replied. "You carried the mark of a god. An unknown variable... and I do not tolerate unknowns. You never know what kind of secrets a god might carve into your flesh."

He didn’t sugarcoat it. He never did with her. That was why she respected him. Agana’s fingertips brushed the smooth skin of her new arm—skin unscarred, unmarked, free.

"I thought as much," she said. "I would’ve been truly disappointed if you hadn’t shown caution." 𝙛𝓻𝒆𝒆𝒘𝙚𝓫𝙣𝙤𝒗𝙚𝓵.𝙘𝙤𝙢

In the polished metal of her blade, she saw a faint reflection of the person she once was—

a Celestial Dragon, a God’s Knight prospect, raised to look down from the clouds with arrogance older than the sun. That arrogance still lived in her bones. But its direction had changed.

The arm she had lost in Water 7... carried the curse that chained her to a world she had already abandoned. Rosinante had warned her back then. Told her—cryptically—that sacrifice was the only freedom. She hadn’t understood. Not until the limb was gone. Not until she felt the weight leave her soul.

Now, with Giolla’s artistry rebuilding what the sea had taken, she felt lighter than she had in her entire life.

Free.

A former Celestial Dragon, stripped of divine privilege, now sharing a table as an equal with a man who had clawed his way out of the same heavenly rot. Their pride was the same. Their arrogance the same. Their rage at the gods the same. She was no longer an ornament of the Holy Land. She was of the Donquixote family. And for the first time since she severed her past... she truly felt whole.

"So tell me, Doffy..." Agana leaned back in her chair, the faint clink of ice settling in her glass. "You wouldn’t walk in here personally just to ask about my health. You’re not the type to waste your time... or anyone else’s. So—what is it you need?"

Her tone wasn’t insolent. Just direct—precisely the way Doflamingo preferred from those he valued. Behind them, Señor Pink hid a small, knowing smirk beneath the rim of his glasses.

Finally, after all these years, she had called him Doffy. In this family, that name wasn’t casual— it was a rite of passage. A recognition. An acceptance given and received. Most people outside of the family who tried to use it died before finishing the word.

But Agana? He allowed it. He wanted it. Doflamingo’s sunglasses caught the light, the faint reflection of her crimson practice-slashes still flickering in the lenses.

"Fufufufu... Sharp as ever," he said, voice dripping with satisfaction. "No, I didn’t come here because of sentiment. Now that the last hurdle keeping you from truly being one of us has finally been removed..." His gaze drifted to her new arm, then higher—meeting her eyes with a clarity that was rare for him. "It’s time you learned a few secrets you were never allowed to know."

The air shifted. Not ominous. Not threatening. Just heavy— the kind of heaviness that came before a door opened that could never be closed again.

"And," he continued, crossing one long leg over the other, "in addition to that... I have something I need you to take care of."

The faint tremor in the room wasn’t haki—it was anticipation. Agana set down her glass with deliberate calm. Her heartbeat was steady. Her posture relaxed. But her eyes were sharp, burning faintly with the pride of someone who had once stood among the so-called gods—and now sat shoulder to shoulder with a man who aimed to dethrone them.

"Then speak," she said quietly. "I’m listening." The Donquixote Family’s threads hummed in the air, pulled taut by purpose. Whatever came next— she was ready.

"I want you to be the guardian of an ancient weapon." Doflamingo’s voice was flat. Too flat. Too casual for the enormity of the words he had just spoken.

Agana blinked, the meaning not quite settling at first... but when it did, her hand froze halfway to her glass, breath stilled in her throat. An Ancient Weapon. The very words could tilt the world.

"So the rumors back then... had substance after all." Her brow lifted, genuine surprise cracking through her usual cool veneer. "So the family really managed to obtain Pluton...? Even the World Government has never been able to track it since the Great War nine centuries ago."

It made sense—Pluton was the only logical assumption. A dreadnought the size of an island.

A weapon even the World Government feared and coveted.

"But even then..." she murmured, reasoning aloud, "I doubt you’d need just one person as a guardian for a weapon that big. Pluton isn’t something a single blade—"

"Fufufufu..." Doflamingo tilted his head, amusement rippling through the air like invisible strings. "Whoever said I was talking about that ancient ship?"

Her thoughts cut off instantly.

"No," he continued, voice lowering. "What I want you to guard... is the newborn Poseidon. She will soon become a part of the Donquixote family."

Agana shot to her feet so fast her chair skidded across the marble. The composure she always carried—the icy calm of a former Celestial Knight—fractured like glass.

"Poseidon—!? Doffy, that’s—" Her eyes widened, pupils tightening in shock and dread. "A Poseidon has already been born...?"

Her mind raced. A flood of knowledge, indoctrination, and secret doctrine she once served surged like a tidal wave.

"If the World Government even suspects this, they’ll annihilate the island without hesitation. They’ve butchered every royal mermaid for centuries—just for the possibility of inheriting Poseidon’s will. If they confirm a true Poseidon exists—" Her breath caught. "—they will bury Fishman Island beneath the sea."

The weight of her words hung heavy. And then—Doflamingo spoke. Calmly, softly...too softly.

"Well, you’re right about that thing." He leaned back, crossing his legs, his smile devoid of mirth.

"Fishman Island is gone. The World Government did bury it beneath the sea."

The room froze. Even the air stilled. Agana’s pulse slammed in her ears. Gone? Not threatened. Not endangered. But gone. A cold, visceral chill crawled down her spine—a sensation she had not felt since the day she abandoned the throne of the so-called gods. Doflamingo tapped a finger against his glass, the sound echoing like a death knell.

"Wiped out," he said, as if announcing the weather. "Crushed. Shattered. The ocean swallowed everything. Only ruins remain... and a single survivor that matters."

"And I want you to be the personal guardian of the newborn child... until the day she can wield her power without fear."

Doflamingo said it almost lazily, as though he were discussing the weather, not entrusting a former Celestial Dragon—and daughter of the Supreme Commander of the God Knights—with the protection of an Ancient Weapon, which would very well decide the future course of history.

For Agana, the words hit harder than any blade. Not because of the mission. Not because of the gravity of guarding Poseidon. But because of what it meant. This was trust—true, unreserved trust—bestowed upon someone who had once been a symbol of the very gods who destroyed his life.

And from Doflamingo, of all people, that was monumental. Fishman Island being razed was not something she doubted for even a second. If a genuine Poseidon had been born, then extermination would have been inevitable. The World Government had done it before—to the Lunarians, to the Buccaneers, to any race or lineage that threatened their dominion.

The merfolk would have simply been next on the list. But what warmed her—a rare warmth she had long forgotten—was the pride swelling quietly in her chest. They chose her. He chose her.

"You’re sure you won’t regret this, Doffy...?" She asked softly, though her gaze was sharp. "Do you trust me that much? Enough to place the future of an ancient weapon in my hands? What if I betray you—"

She didn’t finish. Because the air changed. Suddenly. Violently. The temperature plummeted. The atmosphere tightened like a noose. Even the walls seemed to shudder. Doflamingo was still smiling. But the warmth was gone— stripped away, leaving only a hollow, frozen grin.

"My trust isn’t easily earned, Agana..." His tone was calm. Too calm. The kind of calm that precedes a storm that swallows entire fleets. "...but if someone were to betray that trust—"

He stopped.

He didn’t need to finish. Every unsaid word slammed through the chamber like thunder. A heavy, malignant wave of Conqueror’s Haki surged out, blackening the air. The marble quivered.

The chandeliers rattled violently. Senor Pink, who had stood stoically behind them, unconsciously stepped several paces back—his instincts screaming.

Because he knew this side of Doflamingo. The side born from the ashes of a childhood stripped away. The side that remembered every loss carved into his bones.

Trebol, melting into sludge with a final, loyal laugh, giving his life saving the young ones. Pica, crushed beneath the claws of Kaido the Beast—his body and his life shattered. Lao G, bones broken, body spent in one final stance for the family.

Jora, Machvise—each face flickered in the distorted reflection of Doflamingo’s glasses. People he trusted. People he led. People he failed to protect—because he trusted the wrong person once. A traitor who nearly shattered his world. A betrayal that still festered like an old scar that refused to fade. When Doflamingo spoke again, his smile returned—sharp, elegant, and predatory.

"But if someone were foolish enough to betray me again..." His flames hummed in the air, invisible but unmistakably lethal. "...they would not live long enough to regret it."

Agana held his gaze. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t waver. And that, more than anything, made his Haki slowly recede. Quietly. Deliberately. Like a beast retreating back into its cage.

"I don’t plan to betray you," she said, voice steady. "If I did... then be assured that my body and mind must be under control, and feel free to drive a blade through my heart."

Doflamingo’s smile twitched—just slightly. Satisfaction. Acknowledgment. A silent pact forming between monsters shaped by the same cruel heavens.

"Good," he murmured.

Because between them, trust was not a gentle thing. It was a blade. Blood-bound. Never given lightly. Never forgiven if broken. And now, that blade had been placed in Agana’s hands.

****

A dozen miles away from Dressrosa, across a stretch of shimmering blue-green sea, the tranquil shores of Green Bit held a sight of quiet devastation. The first prince of the Ryugu Kingdom—Fukaboshi, barely more than a boy—sat trembling on the pale sand, refusing to move even an inch.

His arms were wrapped protectively around the tiny form of his baby sister, Shirahoshi. Her soft breathing was the only sound keeping him tethered to sanity. Every time he blinked, he saw it again—Fishman Island collapsing. The screams. The blood. The wrath of men swallowing their home.

His heart thrashed in his chest like a trapped creature, but he could not allow himself to break. Not while Shirahoshi slept against him. Not while she needed him.

The monstrous seabeast that had carried them through the ruins—a beast commanded by the mysterious man who saved them—had vanished back into the depths, leaving them safely on the shore.

Fukaboshi only stayed because of that man. He trusted no one else. Tiny forms moved around him—the Tontatta, peeking from behind mushrooms and tree roots, eyes wide with pity and sorrow. They whispered but dared not come close; the boy had threatened to throw himself and his sister back into the sea at the slightest approach.

The humans waiting a distance away had also learned to keep still, watching with a mixture of confusion and helplessness. None of them wanted to startle him—the haunted look in his eyes made even adults hesitate.

The only one allowed near was Princess Mansherry. Her gentle light had washed over Shirahoshi, mending her bruises and knitting her tiny injuries. She had healed some of Fukaboshi’s wounds too, but not the ones carved into his soul.

He didn’t trust her. He didn’t trust anyone. But her small hands and unthreatening aura had been allowed near Shirahoshi—and for that alone, he tolerated her presence. He sat like a sentinel guarding a newborn star, every muscle taut, every breath shallow.

He waited. Waited for the man who saved them. Waited for the only person he believed would return. And then—the forest trembled. Leaves shook. Birds scattered. The ground thudded with heavy, rapid steps. A shape burst through the foliage in a blur of teal skin, black stripes, and raw desperation.

A bull shark fishman. Massive. Fast. Eyes wild.

"Fukaboshi—!!" The voice cracked like thunder, filled with disbelief, relief, and dread. Fukaboshi’s head snapped up. That face—that familiar, gruff, dependable face—"...Uncle Arnold?"

His voice was weak, uncertain, trembling with both hope and terror. For a moment he thought he was hallucinating, trapped in yet another nightmare replaying his memories. But as the bull shark fishman sprinted closer, the truth dawned.

Arnold was real. Alive. Here. Arnold—his father’s friend, the fishman who lifted him up as a child, who laughed with Neptune over sake, who taught him how to throw his first punch. Now that man was staring down at him as if his very soul had been torn apart.

Fukaboshi’s throat tightened. Tears, hot and unwanted, pooled in his eyes. He clutched Shirahoshi tighter.

"Uncle Arnold... Is it really you...?"

Arnold dropped to his knees in front of him, hands shaking, chest heaving, sea spray dripping from his fins. He had seen countless battles, survived the worst depths of the ocean—but nothing prepared him for the sight of the prince he loved like family: battered and broken.

Eyes hollow with witnessing his entire race nearly wiped out.

"Fukaboshi..." Arnold whispered, voice cracking. "You’re alive..." The boy didn’t answer. He only bowed his head over Shirahoshi, shielding her with his whole body—a prince clinging desperately to the last fragment of his destroyed world.

And Arnold, seeing that instinct—that fierce will to protect despite unimaginable trauma—

felt something collapse in his chest. Neptune’s son had survived. But the child who once laughed freely under the coral lights of Fishman Island— was gone forever.

For a long moment, Arnold just stared at the boy. Fukaboshi sat half-buried in the sand, arms locked around the tiny bundle that was his sleeping sister. His fingers were white from how tightly he held her. His shoulders shook—not from cold, but from the kind of terror that carved itself into the bones. Saltwater still clung to his scales, but the tears had long since run dry. His eyes looked too wide, too hollow, and too old for someone so young.

Arnold’s massive frame halted a few steps away. His heart hammered painfully against his ribs. Memories flashed—Fukaboshi’s first swim, his clumsy attempts at martial training, his proud declarations that he would be a "strong prince like Father!" Now the boy looked like a shipwreck given flesh.

"...Nep—" Arnold’s throat constricted. He couldn’t force the word out. The mere shape of it tasted like denial and dread. He wanted to ask everything.

Where is Neptune? Otohime? The palace guard? The royal family? The island?

Who attacked? Why are you here alone? How did you survive? What happened to everyone else?

He wanted answers. He wanted clarity. He wanted hope. But every time he opened his mouth, his eyes fell back onto Fukaboshi’s trembling arms wrapped around his sister, to the way the boy flinched whenever a human on the beach shifted their stance or breathed too loudly. To the way he positioned himself between Shirahoshi and anyone who might come within reach.

That wasn’t the posture of a prince. That was the posture of a survivor—one who had watched the world burn. Arnold’s fins drooped as the internal struggle clawed through him. One part of him screamed to demand answers. Another—stronger, older, gentler—knew he couldn’t. Not now. Not like this.

Arnold’s chest tightened. This wasn’t the proud first prince of the Ryugu Kingdom. This was a child who had lost his world. And Arnold—who had sworn long ago to never again shoulder the burdens of Fishman politics, who had left Fishman Island behind with every intention of never returning—felt the old loyalties roar back to life like a beast awakening.

But he still did not ask. Not about Neptune. Not about the island. Not about the horrors that carved those haunted shadows into the boy’s eyes. He simply reached out and placed a massive, gentle hand on the child’s shoulder.

"You’re safe now," Arnold murmured, forcing his voice steady even as his own heart threatened to crack. "As long as I’m here... nothing will touch you. And nothing will touch your sister."

Fukaboshi trembled again—but this time, not from fear. Relief—though small, fragile, and flickering—bloomed in his gaze. Arnold swallowed the lump in his throat. His questions could wait. Rosinante would bring the truth soon enough.

For now, what this boy needed was not answers. He needed a pillar that wouldn’t break.

Arnold pulled Fukaboshi gently into a careful embrace—mindful of Shirahoshi sleeping in his arms—and the prince finally let go, burying his face against the shark-fishman’s shoulder as silent tears soaked into Arnold’s skin.

The bull shark closed his eyes, fighting the sting behind them. Whatever had happened beneath the sea... Whatever unspeakable tragedy had driven this child to the brink... He would not make him relive it. Not tonight.

"Rest, little prince," Arnold whispered, voice low, steady, and unshakable. "You’ve endured enough."

And as Fukaboshi’s trembling eased, and Shirahoshi slept peacefully against his chest, Arnold made a silent vow—until Rosinante returned... he would be the shield these two children needed.