Sabaody Archipelago, Grand Line
The underground broker stood tall and lean, a shadowy figure of sharp angles and sharper intentions. His impeccably tailored black suit clung to him like a second skin, the silk tie knotted so precisely it could cut through the air. The dim light of the underground exchange flickered across his face, accentuating the cold gleam in his narrow eyes.
His gloved hands delicately turned over the melon-sized chunk of seastone ore, the raw mineral shimmering faintly with a faint bluish-green aura, like captured starlight.
His lips curled into a smirk as he addressed the assembled crowd. "You weren't kidding," he said, his voice smooth and measured, with a hint of mockery. "When you told me you had high-quality seastone to trade, I figured it'd be scavenged scraps from sunken Marine vessels. But this…"
He held the chunk aloft, letting it catch the flickering lantern light. "This might as well be the purest seastone ore I've ever laid my hands on. Trust me, I've dealt in Wano-sourced stones, and this?" He let out a low whistle. "This is in a league of its own."
Behind him, a dozen shadowy figures stood silently, their forms blending into the oppressive atmosphere of the black-market cavern. Each was cloaked in darkness, their faces obscured, yet their presence radiated menace.
These were men and women of the underworld, enforcers and dealers who thrived in the gaps between law and chaos. Their collective gaze flicked momentarily to the dozen large crates stacked neatly behind the broker—crates that likely held more of the precious ore.
The broker's calculating eyes, however, shifted to the party standing opposite him. Nearly a dozen figures towered beneath rugged, salt-streaked cloaks, the ragged fabric doing little to hide their imposing stature or their powerful frames.
These were pirates from the fishmen island, their webbed hands barely concealed beneath the folds of their garments, their gills visible in the faint light. Despite their disguises, their presence was unmistakable. Their leader, Fisher Tiger, stood at the forefront, his hulking frame slightly hunched yet brimming with barely restrained tension.
The broker's smirk deepened as his eyes met Fisher Tiger's. Unlike the other fishmen, the Fish-Man who seemed to lead this was a face he didn't recognize—a curious anomaly in a world where reputations traveled faster than ships.
Yet the way Tiger stood, shoulders squared, gaze like steel, made it clear that this was no ordinary Fish-Man. Around him, the other Fish-Men shifted uneasily, their instincts honed for danger. Their unease was not misplaced, for the broker had come here not just for the seastone. He had other ambitions, darker ones.
"Well," the broker began, tossing the ore from hand to hand with an air of nonchalance. "I'm not going to lie. This is an impressive haul. And since this is our first deal, I'm willing to give you a… special price."
His gaze sharpened, his words laced with a subtle edge. "What do you say?"
The broker leaned forward, his smirk widening as he caught the faint flicker of wariness in Tiger's eyes. He didn't just want the seastone; no, his appetite was far more insidious. Fish-Men, especially ones as strong as these, were worth a fortune on the black market. Whether as slaves or tools for the underworld's most dangerous schemes, their value was incalculable.
But he needed to tread carefully. Fisher Tiger was no ordinary Fish-Man; the aura of command he exuded made that clear. And his crew? They weren't the desperate scavengers the broker usually dealt with. These were warriors, their presence crackling with the kind of silent danger that made even hardened men uneasy.
"What's wrong?" the broker asked, tilting his head mockingly. "You look like you don't trust me. I assure you, this deal will benefit us both. Pure seastone like this is worth more than its weight in gold. Think of what you could do with that kind of wealth…"
Tiger, however, did not waver. His deep voice cut through the broker's theatrics like a blade. "We're not here to play games. No tricks, no schemes. We trade and leave."
The broker chuckled softly, the sound a mix of amusement and derision. "Direct and to the point. I respect that." His gaze shifted back to the crates behind Tiger, then lingered on the cloaked Fish-Men.
"But you know, it's not just the seastone that's valuable here. Fish-Men of your caliber? Let's just say there's a market for talents like yours."
Everyone in the room stiffened, their instincts finally catching up to the danger. Several shifted subtly, their hands drifting toward hidden weapons beneath their cloaks. Fisher Tiger's gaze darkened, his posture coiling with the tension of a predator ready to strike.
"I'll say it once," Tiger said, his voice low but filled with a commanding presence. "We are not here to bargain with lives. This ends now—clean, or not at all."
The broker's smirk widened, and his enforcers moved ever so slightly, the faint sound of weapons being unsheathed echoing in the chamber. He raised a gloved hand, as if to calm the room, but the intent behind his movements was anything but peace.
The room's already charged atmosphere turned electric as the broker chuckled, his gloved fingers drumming lazily on the chunk of seastone ore. His gaze shifted from Fisher Tiger to the Fish-Men pirates lurking behind him, and the smirk that played on his lips sent an unmistakable signal.
"Maybe you're not the target… but what about the company you keep? You see, I was promised more than just seastone for this trade."
The subtle mockery in his tone was enough to confirm what Fisher Tiger had suspected the moment he'd stepped into this underground den. His instincts screamed at him, the weight of betrayal hanging heavy in the stale air.
Tiger's sharp eyes darted back toward the pirates who had accompanied him, their previously silent forms now visibly tensing. The faint sound of weapons being unsheathed echoed softly, like whispers of treachery carried on the wind. The Fish-Men pirates, who had stood behind him moments ago, shifted forward—now their weapons gleamed in the dim light, pointed squarely at his back.
Tiger's broad shoulders straightened, his immense form radiating an almost palpable tension. He clenched his fists, his voice low but steady. "Why?" The single word was cold, cutting through the room like a blade.
The pirate captain, a towering Fish-Man with jagged scars etched across his scaled face, stepped forward, his curved scimitar held loosely but menacingly at his side. His grin was wide, predatory, and unapologetic.
"Why? Because, Tiger, you've been a thorn in our side for far too long." The captain's voice was laced with disdain, a growl rumbling from deep within his chest. "Since you and your little band of idealists started strutting around Fish-Man District, you've made life hell for us realists."
Tiger's piercing gaze locked onto the captain, but the betrayal stung deeper than any weapon could. He had come here against the warnings of his comrades—Jinbei's voice echoed in his mind, urging him not to trust these pirates. But Tiger had believed that even these outcasts, these desperate souls, wouldn't turn on one of their own.
The captain chuckled darkly, gesturing with his scimitar as he spoke. "You think you're some sort of savior, don't you? Enforcing your rules in Fish-Man District, making sure no one trades mermaids, banning what you call 'exploitation.' But who are you to dictate our lives? You think scraps from the royal family make you some kind of hero?"
His voice grew louder, emboldened by the broker's amused gaze and the presence of his own crew. "You've forgotten, Tiger. While you sit on your high horse, Fish-Men like us suffer every day. Outcasts. Freaks. The world has spat on us for generations. Why shouldn't we take what we can, the same way they've taken from us?"
Tiger's jaw tightened, his fists clenched at his sides. The captain's words weren't just bitter—they were venomous, filled with the rage of a people who had been cast aside by the world. But their actions, their betrayal, twisted that rage into something vile.
The captain took another step forward, his scimitar gleaming as it caught the faint light. "And then you come along, preaching unity and pride, making things harder for us. No more capturing mermaids? No more human trades? You made us weak, Tiger. We're just taking back what's ours."
The broker leaned against the table, watching the exchange with a faint smile playing on his lips. This was better than he could have hoped. Not only would he leave with the pure seastone and a handful of Fish-Men to sell to the highest bidder, but he'd also rid himself of the imposing figure of Fisher Tiger—a man whose growing reputation had even begun to ripple through the human underworld.
"Well, this is turning into quite the show," the broker drawled, his tone oozing mockery. "I don't usually mix business with pleasure, but I have to admit, watching you lot tear each other apart is… entertaining."
Fisher Tiger exhaled slowly, his body taut as he prepared for the inevitable. He glanced over his shoulder at the Fish-Men pirates, their stances hostile, their eyes filled with greed and resentment. He had believed, foolishly, that they wouldn't betray him simply because they shared the same blood, the same struggles.
But now, staring at the gleaming blades pointed at his back and the smug expression of the pirate captain, Tiger knew he'd made a grave mistake. His deep voice resonated with quiet fury.
"You talk about suffering," he said, his tone calm but heavy with restrained power. "You talk about being outcasts, being oppressed. But what you're doing now? Selling out your own kind? That's no better than the humans you claim to despise."
The captain sneered, but a flicker of unease crossed his face. "Spare me your speeches, Tiger. You won't leave here alive."
Tiger's lips curled into a grim smile. "Perhaps. But if I fall here today, it won't be without a fight. You want my life? Come and take it."
The captain's laughter echoed through the dimly lit underground chamber, dripping with mockery and cruelty. His jagged, sharp-toothed grin was the epitome of malice as he pointed his scimitar toward Fisher Tiger.
"Did you think it would end so easily, Tiger?" His voice carried the venom of decades of resentment. "No, no… slaves like you fetch a pretty price. Especially one as strong as the mighty Fisher Tiger. You've made quite the name for yourself, haven't you? Let's see how that strength holds up when there's a collar around your neck."
Before Tiger could respond, a commotion stirred at the entrance to the room. More Fish-Men entered, draped in ragged cloaks that did little to hide the gleam of malice in their eyes. Each carried a large, reinforced crate, and the sight of them sent a cold, sinking feeling through Tiger's chest.
The crates were roughly set down, and the sound of metal rattling against metal followed. When the lids were thrown open, Tiger's blood ran cold. Inside, huddled in cramped cages, were mermaids—their wide, tearful eyes filled with terror as they clutched the bars of their prisons.
Tiger's hands shook as fury overtook him. His crimson eyes glowed with unbridled rage, bloodshot and filled with an intensity that made even the room's seasoned criminals step back instinctively.
"You…" His voice was a low, dangerous growl that rumbled like a storm about to break. "You traitorous scum… how could you?"
His roar shook the room, and in one fluid motion, Tiger unsheathed his blade. It sang through the air, a blur of deadly intent, as he swung it down toward the pirate captain.
The captain, a burly Fish-Man with the features of a bull shark, was ready. He raised his scimitar just in time to block Tiger's strike, but the sheer force of the blow sent him skidding back a dozen meters. His boots scraped against the stone floor, leaving trails of shattered debris in his wake.
Panting, the captain adjusted his grip on his weapon, his grin faltering for the briefest of moments. "You're stronger than I thought," he muttered under his breath, before chuckling to mask his unease. "Good thing I called for reinforcements. Without them, taking you down would've been a fool's errand."
The captain's grin widened as he saw the barely contained fury in Tiger's eyes. He thrived on it, feeding off the anguish of betrayal that radiated from the once-proud warrior.
"Oh, and about those mermaids…" he said, gesturing casually toward the cages. "I suppose I should thank you for them. After all, it was your good name we used to lure them into our little trap. 'Trust Fisher Tiger,' they said. 'He'll protect us,' they said. Isn't it ironic? Your reputation did all the work for us."
Tiger's eyes blazed like twin suns as he took a step forward, his grip tightening around his blade. His voice, now barely above a whisper, carried the weight of his outrage. "You… bastards… have you no honor? They are your brethren!"
The captain threw his head back in laughter, a hollow, bitter sound. "Honor? Tiger, you should be the last one to speak of honor. You want to talk betrayal? Let's talk about you. Wasn't there a deal between Fish-Men and the Donquixote family? A fragile peace, brokered in good faith and trust. But then you show up on my doorstep, thinking yourself a savior, and shatter it all with your self-righteous crusade, calling it all for the greater good."
The words hit Tiger like a blow to the chest, but the captain wasn't finished. He stepped closer, his scimitar pointed accusingly at the towering Fish-Man.
"You call me a traitor? At least I'm honest about my greed. You, on the other hand… You put on this façade of heroism, but all you've done is paint a target on our backs. You're the reason they will hunt us more than ever. You're the reason Fish-Men like us suffer even more. So tell me, Tiger… what makes you better than me?"
*****
Dressrosa, New World
Agana jolted upright with a guttural cry, pain lancing through her back like a thousand knives. Her breaths came in short, ragged bursts as her muscles screamed in protest, every movement a reminder of her vulnerability.
The memories of the night before came in hazy fragments—she had been enjoying dinner, her guard lowered in a rare moment of peace. Then, blackness. A cruel trick played by the Donquixote Family, the so-called freedom they'd granted her was nothing more than a gilded cage.
"You... f***ing bastards..." she spat through gritted teeth, her voice hoarse with fury as she tried to steady herself. The effort to summon her strength was met with an unsettling void. Her power, once so potent and reliable, felt distant—locked away, or worse, stripped from her entirely. A surge of rage burned in her chest, but she bit it back, forcing herself to take stock of her surroundings.
The room was lavish, almost insultingly so, with its opulent drapes, polished floors, and gold accents mocking her plight. And then, her eyes settled on a figure on the balcony.
A towering figure loomed against the horizon, the fading sunlight casting his silhouette in an eerie glow. Donquixote Doflamingo, the emperor of the seas, stood like a king surveying his domain.
His infamous feathered pink coat billowed slightly in the breeze, each plume catching the light like a predator's shimmering scales. His golden-blonde hair gleamed in the dimness, meticulously styled and as sharp as the smirk that played on his lips.
Even with his back turned, Doflamingo radiated authority and danger. His tall frame exuded a natural arrogance, and the air around him felt heavy, as if his mere presence bent reality to his will.
His sunglasses reflected the dying rays of the sun, their black lenses hiding eyes that were said to pierce through the soul. His stance was casual, yet there was a predatory tension in the way he gripped the balcony railing, his fingers curling around it like talons.
Without turning, he spoke, his voice deep and dripping with malice. "Awake already, Lady Agana? Good. I'd have been disappointed if it had taken you longer to recover from such a minor procedure."
Agana's gaze shifted warily, taking in the others present in the room. By the balcony's entrance stood Señor Pink, a stark contrast to the grandeur around him. His muscular frame was accentuated by his perfect gentlemanly attire—a pale blue suit stitched perfectly for his stature and matching accessories that highlighted his perfection.
A cigar dangled from his lips, the smoke curling upward lazily. His expression was unreadable, his deep-set eyes fixed on Agana, but his hand rested lightly on his belt, a clear message that he was ready to act if needed.
In the corner of the room sat a man who radiated calm yet undeniable power—Issho, the blind swordsman who was only known as Fujitora within Dressrosa. He sat in quiet contemplation, his shikomizue leaning against the chair.
Though his eyes were closed, his presence felt all-encompassing, as though he could see and feel every movement in the room with uncanny precision. His serene demeanor was unnerving, a stark contrast to the chaos brewing within Agana.
Agana's growl was low and venomous as she struggled to regain control of her body, her crimson eyes burning with frustration and rage. "What have you done to me...?" she demanded, her voice dripping with defiance despite her weakened state.
She clenched her fists, willing the power of her Blood Logia to surface, but there was nothing—no rush of energy, no connection to the liquid lifeforce she once commanded so effortlessly. It didn't take long for her to realize the truth.
Her gaze sharpened as she spat, "Seastone... you cowards are suppressing my devil fruit abilities."
From the balcony, Doflamingo turned slowly, his broad frame casting an imposing shadow across the room. His laugh, sharp and sinister, cut through the tension like a blade.
"Fufufufu... Did you really think, Lady Agana, that I'd let you roam freely in my world without a leash?" His smirk widened, his teeth glinting like a predator's. "You underestimated me. And that... was your first mistake."
He gestured lazily toward Wolf, who stood beside Giolla with the air of a man eager to show off his latest masterpiece.
"My friend Wolf here," Doflamingo continued, his tone mocking yet conversational, "is something of a genius when it comes to... unorthodox creations."
Wolf stepped forward, his small stature belying the malice in his sharp grin. He adjusted the cuffs of his tailored jacket before speaking, his voice calm and clinical, as though he were discussing an art piece rather than an insidious device.
"Lady Agana," he began, "allow me to enlighten you. The discomfort you feel is due to a rather elegant little invention of mine—a Kairoseki implant placed near the base of your spine." He tapped his temple as if commending his own brilliance.
"It's designed to nullify Devil Fruit abilities. And a word of caution—should you attempt to force the device out of your body, it will detonate. Per Master Doffy's instructions, the explosion won't kill you outright but will leave you... irreversibly crippled."
Wolf's nonchalant explanation was a dagger to Agana's pride, but she refused to let the fury in her heart show on her face.
"A bomb?" she snarled, her tone dripping with scorn. "So that's what the mighty Donquixote Family has come to—afraid to fight their enemies head-on, resorting to cheap tricks and cowardly tactics."
Senor Pink exhaled a thick plume of smoke, his eyes narrowing as he addressed Agana. "Lady Agana, you should be grateful that we haven't decided to torture you to death after what you did to young master Ross. I suggest you hold back on your insults unless you want your life to become hellish."
Agana's gaze shifted to Senor, her eyes burning with defiance. "So why haven't you? Just kill me and be done with it. It's not like I can put up much resistance. Or are you, the famous Donquixote, afraid to even fight a cripple like me?" She mocked, her voice dripping with sarcasm.
Contrary to her expectations, Doflamingo erupted into laughter—a cold, mirthless sound that sent chills down the spines of those present.
Doflamingo's grin didn't falter. If anything, her defiance only seemed to amuse him further. He crossed the room with measured steps, the heels of his boots clicking against the polished floor, each sound a deliberate reminder of his control.
"Fufufu... Cheap tricks? Cowardice?" he echoed, his voice low and dangerous. "No, Lady Agana. This is strategy. You don't leash a lion by standing in front of its claws. You clip them first."
Agana's gaze shifted briefly to the others in the room. Señor Pink, standing stoically at the balcony entrance, exhaled a plume of smoke as he watched her with cold disdain. Issho remained seated, his serene posture giving no hint of judgment or pity, while Giolla's maniacal grin widened, as if savoring Agana's humiliation.
Wolf, was inspecting his gloves with detached satisfaction, as though her suffering was nothing more than another successful experiment.
But Agana's attention snapped back to Doflamingo as he spoke again.
"You've made quite a mess of things, haven't you?" he mused, stopping a foot away from her. "My little brother—Ross—he still bears the scars of what you did at Marineford. Do you even remember? Or were you too drunk on your so-called power to notice the damage you left behind?"
Agana laughed bitterly, though her body trembled under the weight of her anger and frustration.
"So that's what this is? Revenge for your precious little brother? You think this makes you powerful, Doflamingo? You're nothing but a vulture scavenging scraps from the world's rot."
The words struck a nerve, but Doflamingo's expression didn't waver. Instead, his grin grew colder, his eyes narrowing behind his dark lenses. He reached out with lightning speed, his gloved hand gripping her jaw in an iron vice. With terrifying ease, he hoisted her off the bed until their faces were level.
"You're lucky, Agana," he said, his voice a menacing whisper that dripped with malice. "If it were up to me alone, I'd have gutted you and hung your carcass for the world to see—a warning to the World government who were foolish enough to cross me."
His grip tightened, and Agana's jaw ached, but she didn't flinch. Her fiery gaze met his, unbroken and unyielding, even as the weight of his words sank into her chest.
"But you see," Doflamingo continued, his smirk twisting into something darker, "my little brother—softhearted fool that he is—believes you deserve a chance. A chance to rise to greatness. To become the sharpest weapon that we can wield against the so-called Celestial Dragons."
Agana's voice was steady, even as her body screamed in protest. "Go ahead then. Let's see if the mighty Donquixote has what it takes to finish me off. Or are you afraid, Doflamingo? Afraid of what I might do if I ever get free?"
For a moment, silence filled the room, heavy and charged. Then, Doflamingo threw his head back and laughed—a deep, guttural sound that reverberated through the walls.
"Fufufufu... You've got fire, I'll give you that. But don't mistake fire for power, Agana. In this world, only one thing matters—control. And right now, I have it. Over you. Over this room. Over everything."
Doflamingo's grin shifted into something more restrained, an unsettling combination of menace and sincerity. He released his grip on Agana's jaw, stepping back to give her a moment of reprieve, but his piercing gaze never left hers. The room was heavy with his presence, his words laced with a dangerous mix of opportunity and warning.
"And because my little brother said so," he began, his tone softer but no less commanding, "I will give you a chance—a chance to prove yourself." He turned slightly, pacing with deliberate precision, the faint click of his boots on the polished floor the only sound in the tense silence.
"If you can truly earn my trust, and the trust of my family, you will have a place at my table. Not as a pawn, not as a tool, but as one of us—like family."
Agana's brow furrowed, her mind racing to decipher the depth of his words. Despite the humiliation, despite the implant in her spine that made her feel more caged than ever, there was a flicker of something unexpected. His tone, though ruthless, carried a thread of genuine sincerity.
"But understand this," he continued, his voice hardening. "Should you betray me—should you even entertain the thought of crossing me—then death will be the least of your worries." His eyes glinted behind his signature glasses, the promise of torment woven into his every syllable. "I don't forgive traitors, Agana. Ever."
He turned back to face her fully, his hands gesturing slightly, as if inviting her to consider the gravity of his offer.
"As for the implant," he said with a faint smirk, "consider it insurance—for now. You understand why I can't have someone like you, with your history, running freely where my family lives. Restraint isn't personal; it's precaution. Prove that I don't need it, and perhaps one day, we'll talk about removing it."
Agana's lips parted, her retort on the edge of her tongue, but Doflamingo silenced her with a raised hand.
"Take your time, Agana. Choose your side carefully. But let me make something abundantly clear: you are no longer a world noble. That title, that privilege—it's gone. You're nothing more than an outcast now, like me... like all of us." His voice dropped lower, almost a whisper, but it carried the weight of his conviction.
"No one in this world will mourn you if they find your cold corpse rotting in the street. Not the nobles, not the Marines, and certainly not the people you once looked down upon."
He stepped closer again, looming over her but not in a way that felt threatening. This time, there was something almost human in his expression, though it was wrapped in the calloused layers of his cruelty.
"But if you prove yourself? If you can cast aside the remnants of the life you once had and align yourself with us? Then you'll find something more valuable than status or power." He leaned closer, his grin sharper now.
"You'll find belonging, Agana. True belonging. My family may be broken, twisted, and far from perfect, but we are loyal to each other in ways that the world nobles could never comprehend. Earn that loyalty, and you'll be untouchable. Fail, and..."
He let the sentence hang in the air, its unspoken conclusion clear.
The room fell silent, Doflamingo's words reverberating in Agana's mind. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, she wasn't sure whether to feel fury, despair, or a spark of something she had long forgotten—hope. Not the naive hope of salvation, but the pragmatic hope of survival and perhaps... redemption.