A/N: This chapter is a bit longer but it just didn't feel right to split it up. Hopu you like it!
-General POV:
The world shook.
This was no metaphor, no poetic flourish to stir fear in the hearts of men, it was the truth. The very foundations of global power trembled, resonating from the epicenter of an event that would be etched into history: the Sabaody Incident.
Within mere hours of the deaths of not one, but two Celestial Dragons, the news blazed across the seas like wildfire. Transmitted through hastily scribbled headlines and stolen transponder signals, it reached every corner of the world, from the smoky taverns of the South Blue to the gilded offices of the World Economic Journal. It was spoken in hushed voices aboard Marine warships, screamed in awe in pirate dens, and whispered with reverence in the slums of forgotten islands. Something had cracked in the sky, and the world could feel it.
The people, long chained by silent obedience and the crushing weight of fear, now felt a spark, dangerous and intoxicating. Hope. Fury. A chance. The balance of power that had ruled the seas for centuries was no longer invincible. The unimaginable had happened.
And in the sacred, hallowed halls of Mariejois, the throne of arrogance and cruelty perched atop the Red Line, chaos reigned.
The Celestial Dragons, gods in their own minds, shrieked like children denied a toy, their gilded thrones shaking beneath the weight of their fury. Slaves were kicked aside, servants punished for failing to prevent an attack they had never seen coming. Screams echoed through marble corridors as they demanded vengeance, blood, answers. Their opulence could not shield them from humiliation. Their pride, that divine birthright they wore like armor, lay in pieces, shattered beyond repair.
Two of their own had been butchered. Not by a Yonko. Not by the Revolutionary Army. But by a single boy.
A boy with fire in his eyes and the storm at his back. A boy with no army, no kingdom, no name of noble birth, just a will unbreakable, and a hatred that burned hotter than the sun.
In the heart of Mariejois, deep within the sanctum of power, the meeting chambers of the Five Elders seethed with turmoil.
The room, normally cold and composed, now pulsed with unease. Ornate globes spun idle beside vast maps of the world, their surfaces littered with red ink, sharp slashes and circles marking zones of unrest, unstable kingdoms, whispers of defiance. The seas themselves felt restless, as if responding to the tremors that echoed from Sabaody to the ends of the Grand Line.
Scrolls and reports lay abandoned on the marble conference table, forgotten in the wake of the chaos. Hushed tones had long since given way to raised voices, each word laced with urgency and fury.
"This cannot be allowed to stand," one of the Elders snarled, slamming a withered, spotted fist onto the table with a crack that echoed through the chamber. Veins bulged beneath his pale skin, more from fury than age.
Across from him, another Elder leaned forward, eyes sharp behind rimless glasses. "The boy didn't just kill two Celestial Dragons. He shattered the illusion. The illusion that we are untouchable."
"If we don't crush him immediately," a third hissed, voice like a rusted blade, "we will lose more than just respect, we will lose control. The tides are already shifting. Wano, Alabasta, even kingdoms of the West Blue… they watch us now, not with reverence, but with possibility."
Another Elder stood silently, staring at the red marks spreading like bloodstains across the world map. "This is how legends begin," he muttered darkly. "First a whisper. Then a storm. And then the fall of empires."
The name "Justin" hung in the air like a curse. A name that, days ago, had meant nothing. Now, it was spoken in fear by the mighty and in reverence by the downtrodden. A single boy had shaken the pillars of heaven.
Across the vast and wild seas, pirate crews, from infamous names to ragtag nobodies, raised their cups in unison.
Celebrations erupted like cannonfire. In smoky taverns hidden deep within lawless archipelagos, in the shadows of forgotten coves, and aboard ships anchored in uncharted waters, a single name echoed like a war drum: Justin Vargas.
They toasted with stolen rum and clashed mugs until they shattered. Songs were improvised on the spot, voices hoarse with laughter and awe. Some carved his name into wood, others into flesh. Wanted posters with his face, some real, some hastily sketched from rumors, were tacked onto walls with reverence. The man who had done the unthinkable. The man who had slaughtered gods.
To the World Government, he was a criminal. A threat. A heretic to be erased.
But to pirates? He was a legend in the making.
He was proof. Proof that the Celestial Dragons, those self-proclaimed deities who had ruled from above for centuries, could be brought low, screaming and bleeding like any other man. That their blood was not divine, but red, and mortal.
In every dark corner of the sea, the same phrase passed from mouth to mouth like prophecy:
"If a boy like him can bring down a god… what else is possible?"
Meanwhile, the Marines were in disarray.
Fleet Admiral Sengoku stood at the center of Marineford's war room, the nerve center of global order, now consumed by unease. The air was thick with tension, the quiet hum of den den mushi transmissions barely covering the silence of men and women buried in paperwork and panic.
At the far end of the room, pinned to a wall lined with war maps and urgent missives, hung a freshly printed bounty poster. The ink was still drying, but the name beneath the grainy image was already infamous: Justin Vargas. A bounty beyond what any rookie had earned in decades, a number so high, it screamed of fear rather than justice.
Behind Sengoku, the sharp minds of the Marine elite gathered. Vice Admiral Tsuru stood with arms crossed, her gaze as calculating as ever. Beside her, the legendary Garp munched quietly on a rice cracker, unreadable, while several Admirals-in-training rifled through stacks of intelligence, pirate ship sightings, suspicious revolutionary movements, and whispers of royal courts beginning to waver in their loyalty.
"This... Justin Vargas," Tsuru said slowly, her voice cold, dissecting the situation like a surgeon. "He's no ordinary rebel. His very existence threatens the balance we've spent centuries holding together."
Sengoku remained quiet, eyes fixed on the poster. His fists were clenched behind his back, brow furrowed in thought. Finally, he spoke, low and grave.
"I'm more concerned with who helped him."
That was what disturbed him most. The precision. The timing. The sheer power the boy displayed at Sabaody, too refined, too sudden. And the reports… whispers from those few who had escaped the incident alive spoke of a shadowy figure at the edge of the chaos. A man whose movements and aura matched someone Sengoku hoped never to see involved again.
Silvers Rayleigh. The Dark King.
If true, if Justin Vargas had been aided, or worse, mentored, by him, then the situation had escalated from dangerous to catastrophic.
Tsuru mirrored his expression, her sharp eyes narrowing. "It doesn't matter who helped him," she said, though her voice betrayed the tiniest edge of doubt. "Even if it was Rayleigh, it changes nothing in the long run."
She turned away from the maps, arms still folded tightly. "Based on his sudden appearance and the boy's strength, I suspect he simply took an interest in the kid's talent. A passing whim, perhaps. But one with consequences."
Sengoku was silent for a moment, chewing over her words. Then he nodded, reluctantly.
"You're right," he muttered. "That boy would've become a monster eventually. But if Rayleigh's truly training him…" He trailed off, eyes hardening.
"…then we won't be fighting a rookie. We'll be fighting a future king."
"Justin aside," Garp said at last, his usually laid-back tone sharpened into something grim and grounded. The silence that had hung around him broke like brittle glass as he stepped forward from the shadows of the war room, arms folded, eyes hard. "We need to quell the unrest across the world before civilians start dying in droves."
For a man known more for reckless laughter than concern, the seriousness in his voice made even the younger officers straighten up.
Sengoku nodded. "Garp's right," he replied without hesitation, the lines in his face deepening. "Times like this, when the world wavers, pirates, warlords, and criminals crawl out of the woodwork to exploit the chaos. The seas are about to get bloodier."
And they were. Already, reports were flooding in from every corner of the world. Kingdoms that had been barely held in check, their governments stretched thin by corruption, famine, and oppression, were now teetering on the brink. The deaths of two Celestial Dragons didn't just signal rebellion… it justified it. For the first time in generations, people believed that the World Government could bleed. That its so-called "divine protectors" could die.
To Sengoku and Garp, it wasn't just about Justin Vargas anymore. It was about preventing an all-out collapse.
"The Revolutionary Army lit the fuse," Sengoku muttered to himself. "And this boy's strike… it was the spark that hit the powder keg."
He turned to Tsuru, eyes firm with resolve. "Immediately review the dossiers of every kingdom with escalating unrest. I want a Marine Task Group deployed to each hot zone, minimum one Vice Admiral per country. We maintain order, or we lose the world."
"Understood," Tsuru replied crisply, already moving before the sentence was finished. Her mind was a machine of strategy and logistics, and in times like these, she worked faster than anyone alive.
And so, within mere hours, the gears of Marineford ground into action. Over fifty battleships were deployed from the harbor, their sails stretching to the horizon like the teeth of a beast. Twelve Vice Admirals, each a legend in their own right, departed in different directions, bound for islands aflame with unrest, to crush rebellion before it consumed everything.
But the World Government was not the only one to react.
Across the New World and beyond, the news of Justin Vargas' bounty, massive, almost mythical, spread like a fever. Pirate captains, bounty hunters, mercenaries, even disillusioned ex-Marines licked their lips at the number. Some saw glory. Others saw profit. And a few saw justice.
A man who could kill Celestial Dragons was either the world's greatest threat, or its last hope.
Justin Vargas had become more than a name. He was a spark.
And as the world stood at the edge of a revolution, two types of people emerged: Those who would extinguish him before he became a blaze too vast to control…
…and those who would fan the flames until the entire World Government burned.
Far across the seas, in the churning heart of the New World, the ripples from Sabaody had become tidal waves.
The strongest and most dangerous forces in existence, pirate emperors, underworld tycoons, warlords masquerading as monarchs, all turned their gazes toward one name: Justin Vargas. And each, in their own way, reacted.
From atop their thrones of blood and bone, the rulers of chaos paused their battles and schemes to assess the growing storm. For them, this was more than a flash in the pan, it was a fracture in the world order. And fractures, if widened, could split empires.
In the shadows of the underworld, Jigra the Broker, one of the richest men alive, invisible to the public but known to every black market dealer worth their salt, adjusted his spectacles as he read the report. "Chaos breeds profit," he whispered to no one. "And this... this is the best market shift in years."
Aboard the Moby Dick, the ocean breeze carried with it more than just salt, it brought whispers of a world on the brink.
Seagulls cawed overhead as the Whitebeard Pirates gathered on the main deck, their usual rowdiness subdued. All eyes were locked on the front page of the newspaper held tightly in Marco's hands, the ink still fresh with the headline that had shaken the world.
GODS BLEED! TWO CELESTIAL DRAGONS KILLED!.
The paper fluttered in the wind, the image of a defiant figure standing over bloodied nobles burned into their minds.
Whitebeard sat atop his towering throne-like chair, the creak of the wood groaning beneath his massive frame. An IV line still hung from his arm, gently swaying with the ship's motion, but there was nothing frail about the man who sat upon that chair. Even in age and sickness, Edward Newgate radiated the raw presence of a living legend.
A tense silence hovered, until he broke it with a booming, earthshaking laugh that rolled like thunder across the sea.
"Gurararara! What a gutsy little brat! To strike down those Celestial pigs…!"
The deck trembled beneath his mirth, and even the seagulls scattered from the sheer force of it. Some of the younger crewmates chuckled nervously. Marco smirked, shaking his head.
But then the old man's laughter faded, the mirth dimming behind the weight of experience. His brow furrowed as he stared out at the endless horizon, the newspaper slipping from his hand and landing softly at his feet.
"But guts alone won't be enough," he rumbled, his voice quieter now but far heavier. "The seas are gonna turn wild, wilder than even my era. That boy… he just painted a target on his back the size of a kingdom."
And yet, even as he spoke those words, there was something in Whitebeard's expression. A flicker of something old and powerful, pride. Not for what Justin had done, but for why he had done it. It reminded him that the spirit of freedom, the will to challenge the gods, hadn't died with Roger.
The fire still lived.
He leaned forward with a grunt, the strength returning to his voice. "Come on, my sons. We've got work to do." He gestured broadly, casting the paper aside as if it were already old history. "This kid's stirred the whole world, and the fools out there might see that as permission to take what ain't theirs. We won't let his recklessness endanger the people under our flag."
The Whitebeard Pirates didn't need to be told twice.
Marco cracked his neck, folding the paper and tucking it under his arm. "Alright, everyone, you heard Pops. Let's split into divisions and make the rounds. Check every island, every ally. Make sure they're safe. The world's shifting, and we're not about to lose our footing now."
The commanders nodded, each heading to their respective crews. Sails were unfurled, orders barked, den den mushi crackling to life as the Moby Dick prepared to send its fleet across the New World.
Still, as the ships began to move, many of them noticed the thing their captain didn't say aloud, the wide, unmistakable grin still resting on Whitebeard's face.
A grin not of worry…
But of anticipation.
On Whole Cake Island, deep within the sugary nightmare she called paradise, the air was thick with the scent of frosting, blood, and madness.
Towering mountains of cake and rivers of syrup twisted through her territory like a fairytale gone wrong. Homies sang cheerful songs while terrified servants scurried between candied streets, ever at the mercy of their queen's volatile whims.
At the heart of this bizarre empire, inside a throne room sculpted from hardened caramel and chocolate, Charlotte Linlin, Big Mom, devoured a small mountain of sweets with gleeful abandon. Cakes disappeared in gulps. Candy shattered between iron teeth. Cream smeared across her cheeks as she cackled to herself, completely absorbed in the front page of a newspaper held between sticky fingers.
Her eyes, for a brief moment, widened, a rare glimmer of interest slicing through the constant storm of hunger and chaos behind them.
"Fufufu…" she purred, licking the sugar from her fingertips. "So a little human dares to kill the Celestial Dragons?" Her voice was syrupy-sweet, but behind it lay something sharp, something dangerous.
She tossed aside a tray of half-eaten pastries with a crash, her massive form quivering in excitement. "Mama mama! What a delicious mess this will make!" she cried, her laugh echoing through the hall like a mad opera.
The paper fluttered to the floor, the image of Justin Vargas staring back at her, bold, bloodstained, and defiant.
"I wonder…" she whispered, eyes glinting like gemstones, "if he'll survive long enough to join my collection." Already her mind, a chaotic labyrinth of craving and conquest, was spinning. A new pawn. A new toy. A new ingredient for her dream of a world ruled by her perfect family.
"Katakuri!" she suddenly barked, voice like a cannon blast.
From the shadows beside her throne, Charlotte Katakuri stepped forward, tall and silent, his scarf pulled up just below his sharp eyes. He held the paper he'd delivered with measured calm, but the slightest furrow in his brow showed that even he felt something shift when he read it.
"Yes, Mama," he said simply.
"Send someone to find him," she ordered, waving her hand like a queen declaring war. "He's bold, strong, dangerous... I like that. Marry him off to one of your sisters, someone pretty. Smoothie, Galette, Flampe, I don't care who. Let's make him family."
There was no hesitation. No question. "It shall be done, Mama," Katakuri replied with a slight bow, already turning to carry out her will. There was no room for doubt. Not in a place where even hesitation could mean death, or worse.
Behind him, Linlin sank her teeth into another massive éclair, giggling like a child, though the sound sent shivers down the spines of every homie within earshot.
"A new son… how sweet that would be." Her grin stretched wide as her imagination ran wild, weddings, chaos, betrayal, and the scream of a world that bent to her hunger.
On Onigashima, thunder cracked across the black skies as a monstrous roar erupted from deep within the mountain fortress.
The sheer force of it shook the very stone, sending birds scattering into the storm clouds above. Inside the grand hall, lit by torches and flickering shadows, Kaido of the Beasts sat atop his throne, more like a battlefield trophy than a seat, with a half-empty jug of sake in one massive hand.
The laughter that followed was thunderous.
"A seventeen-year-old brat took out the World Nobles?! BWAHAHAHAHA!"
The walls trembled with his amusement. Servants flinched. Some of the lower-ranked Beast Pirates laughed nervously, not quite sure if they were supposed to.
Kaido slammed the jug down with such force that it cracked the stone floor beneath it, sake splashing out and soaking the feet of nearby lieutenants.
"This kid's got balls! To raise a hand against the Celestial Dragons like that…" His golden eyes gleamed with savage glee. "Now that's the kind of madness I like to see in the new generation!"
Around him, his top officers stood at various distances, Queen, snorting with a mix of amusement and disbelief; Jack, grunting in approval; and at Kaido's right hand, King, calm and sharp-eyed, already processing the implications.
For a man like Kaido, a creature who thrived on destruction, war, and the collapse of order, the name Justin Vargas wasn't just news. It was music. The boy was a storm brewing on the edge of the world, and Kaido, ever the mad dragon, wanted to fly straight into it.
He leaned forward, sake dripping from his beard. "King."
"Yes, Kaido-sama."
"Keep tabs on this kid. I want eyes on him day and night. If he lives long enough… try to make contact. Offer him a place here, if he's got the guts to kill gods, maybe he's got the spine to fight beside monsters." He grinned wide, the shadows dancing across his fangs.
"It'll make the next great war all the more fun."
"Understood," King replied with a respectful nod, already considering how best to approach a boy who had just become the most wanted man not affiliated with any major force. His tone never wavered, but even he felt a strange curiosity about the so-called Heretic of Sabaody.
Kaido leaned back, laughter dying down into a satisfied growl. "The world's cracking… and I love the sound of it."
Outside, the wind howled through Onigashima's peaks like a warning. Or perhaps, a welcome.
On an island lost to charts and cloaked in thick silver mist, the Red-Haired Pirates made their temporary camp.
The sounds of laughter and clinking mugs echoed through the fog as pirates lounged around a roaring fire, the orange glow casting long shadows onto the mossy stones. The scent of grilled fish mixed with sea salt and the faint aroma of cigar smoke, hanging lazily in the air.
At the edge of the gathering, seated on a smooth boulder near the fire, Red-Haired Shanks sat in rare silence, a newspaper spread open across his lap. The flames flickered in his thoughtful eyes as he read the headline for the third time.
"GODS BLEED! TWO CELESTIAL DRAGONS KILLED!"
His jaw tightened slightly. Not in anger, nor fear, but in thought. In calculation.
Beside him, ever his quiet shadow, Benn Beckman leaned back against a log, cigar pinched between his fingers, a trail of smoke drifting upward into the mist. He watched his captain closely.
"So," Beckman finally said, voice low and even, "what should we do, Captain?"
There was a pause. Shanks didn't look up right away. Instead, his gaze wandered past the firelight, past the treetops, up to the stars just barely visible beyond the mist.
He folded the paper slowly, with great care, not like trash, but like a relic of something important. His voice, when he finally spoke, was quiet. Measured.
"Nothing."
Beckman raised an eyebrow, but said nothing, letting his captain continue.
"We can't afford to intervene," Shanks said, his voice carrying a rare heaviness. "The world is shifting. And while I believe—no, know—that Luffy is the one meant to carry the captain's will… he must walk that path on his own."
He stood, brushing the ash from his coat, the sea breeze stirring his crimson hair. Around him, his crew continued their revelry, unaware of the weight pressing on their captain's shoulders.
"If we start paving the road for him now, he'll never become the man he's meant to be," Shanks added, almost to himself. "This Justin Vargas… he's a new element. A wild card. Dangerous, yes. But maybe necessary."
Beckman rose beside him, exhaling another long breath. "So we just watch?"
"For now," Shanks said, gazing into the distance as if he could already see the storm on the horizon. "If things spiral too far, if the balance breaks completely… we'll act. But not a moment before."
His voice was soft, but firm. Resolute.
The fire crackled. Somewhere in the distance, waves crashed gently against a hidden shore. And above them, the stars shone cold and distant, like the eyes of gods watching mortals rearrange the pieces of fate.
The Red-Haired Pirates would wait.
Because sometimes, the strongest move… is not moving at all.
Meanwhile, in the deepest shadows of the Grand Line, where the light of justice dared not reach, the heart of the Revolutionary Army beat louder than it had in years.
In an underground war chamber carved from ancient stone, torches flickered across walls covered in maps, coded messages, and portraits of world leaders marked in red. The air was tense but alive, a storm of silent anticipation.
At the center of the chamber, Monkey D. Dragon, the world's most wanted man, stood tall. His cloak fluttered slightly from the breeze that tunneled through the base's stone corridors, but he remained still, the only movement was the crumple of newspaper in his gloved hand.
His eyes scanned the headline again, as if needing one more pass to believe it.
GODS BLEED! TWO CELESTIAL DRAGONS KILLED!
Then, unexpectedly, Dragon's stern, storm-weathered expression cracked. A rare and almost imperceptible smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, not of amusement, but something more rare.
Hope.
"He did it," Dragon said, softly, more to himself than to the circle of high-ranking commanders gathered before him. "Without help. Without allies. He declared war on the World Government… in the purest form possible."
Silence followed, not from fear, but reverence. Men and women who had risked everything for the cause watched their leader with burning eyes. Bartholomew Kuma stood like a sentinel, unreadable as ever. Emporio Ivankov, flamboyant but deadly, leaned forward slightly, understanding the gravity of what had just shifted in their favor. Others, scarred veterans of unseen wars, exchanged quiet nods.
Justin Vargas had become something more than a name.
He was now a symbol.
To the Revolutionary Army, he wasn't a wildcard. He wasn't even a hero.
He was proof.
Proof that the untouchables could fall.
That the lies of the World Government were cracking.
That the gods could bleed.
Dragon turned toward Ivankov and extended the newspaper, his voice regaining its command. "Iva. Monitor him. If he survives the coming storm… he could become our greatest ally. And if that happens, we support him. With everything we have."
Ivankov's face lit up with a grin, the glint in his eye sharp and dangerous. "Ooh~! I like him already! Got that rebellious fire! Consider it done, Commander-chan!"
Even as he said it, agents across the globe were already picking up the whispers. In nations long on the edge of rebellion, flames had begun to rise. Kingdoms once paralyzed by fear now stood up, their people no longer waiting for a savior, because one had shown them they didn't need saving. They needed only courage.
The effects were immediate. Within days, the Revolutionary Army's network nearly doubled. Underground cells went active. Weapons moved. Borders cracked.
The world was waking up.
Plans once set for years into the future were suddenly being executed ahead of schedule. They had a window, and that window had been blown open by one defiant young man who didn't even know he'd given rise to an army.
And in that moment, one truth solidified in the hearts of every commander present:
If Justin Vargas ever called for help… they would answer. Without hesitation. Without question.
Because the world didn't need another king.
It needed a fire.
And Justin had already struck the match.
In Dressrosa, a kingdom of dazzling beauty built on lies and blood, the sun shone brightly, but inside the royal palace, shadows danced to a different tune.
High above the colosseum and the flower-filled streets, within a lavish chamber lined with velvet curtains and gold-gilded furnishings, Donquixote Doflamingo lounged like a king of madness.
The newspaper in his gloved hand trembled from the force of his laughter, sharp, high-pitched, utterly deranged.
"Fufufufufu…" he cackled, slumping back into his throne as the headline glared up at him like a challenge. "Interesting... really interesting, boy."
He tossed the newspaper aside with a flick of his fingers, letting it flutter to the marble floor like trash. But what he kept —oh, what he kept— was the bounty poster.
Justin Vargas' face, defiant and fierce, stared back at him, frozen in black and white. The numbers printed beneath it were outrageous, but what caught Doflamingo's attention wasn't the bounty, it was the look in the boy's eyes.
A spark.
"You've managed to plunge the seas into chaos with that little stunt," he said aloud, twirling the poster between his fingers like a puppet string. "And chaos... oh, chaos is a currency I deal in quite well."
He stood and strolled to the edge of the balcony, looking down at the kingdom that bowed to his smile and bled under his heel. The people below danced in the sun, ignorant of the puppeteer above.
"The World Government's going to choke on this," he whispered to himself, voice filled with venomous glee. "The Celestial Dragons dead, the Marines scrambling, the Revolutionaries emboldened... It's a beautiful mess. One I didn't even have to start."
He laughed again, this time louder. More manic.
"I can't wait to see how they try to handle you," he said, holding the poster to the sky like an offering. "Will they send a fleet? Will they try to erase your name like they did with Ohara?"
The thought made him laugh harder, his coat fluttering in the wind like the wings of a fallen angel.
"Whatever happens, I hope you survive, boy," he said between chuckles. "Because I like you. You're a wild card. A disruptor. And if you keep creating this kind of chaos..." He licked his lips, eyes narrowing behind his shades.
"Well... you might just make the seas fun again. Hahahahahahaha!"
His laughter echoed across the palace, bouncing off marble and gold, spiraling down into the flower fields, a madman's applause for the boy who dared to defy gods.
Back in Marineford, long after the footsteps had faded and the war room had emptied, two men sat in silence.
The fading sunlight crept in through tall windows, casting long shadows over maps, reports, and scattered bounty posters. The air was still, not from peace, but the kind of heavy stillness that only follows a wound too fresh to speak of.
Fleet Admiral Sengoku stood at the far end of the room, arms folded behind his back, staring through the glass as the sea rolled on in the distance. He hadn't spoken in several minutes. His lips were tight. His jaw clenched.
Behind him, seated with his cap pulled low over his eyes, Vice Admiral Garp didn't move.
Finally, Sengoku broke the silence. His voice came quiet, burdened with something heavier than anger.
"Melvin…" he murmured. "Old friend... who would've thought you would be the spark for all of this."
He turned slightly, his gaze catching Garp in the dimming light.
"And that your death... would lead to the beginning of a war."
Garp said nothing, but his shoulders rose and fell, not in exhaustion, but in mourning. In memory.
Because it had happened all at once. One moment, Melvin, the young man they had once mentored, a former Marine with a spine of steel and a heart as pure as they come, had returned to Sabaody on a patrol mission. Not for battle. Not for glory.
Just a man trying to protect someone. Trying to speak sense. And then, Then the Celestial Dragons' guards shot him down. Publicly. Casually. Like stepping on an insect.
They hadn't even known who he was.
But Justin had.
His son had watched his father die that day, not in some grand battlefield, but like garbage tossed into the gutter. And in that moment, something broke. Or perhaps… woke up.
Justin Vargas, only seventeen, had slaughtered the untouchable. He didn't just kill two Celestial Dragons, he made a statement. Not one of madness or blind vengeance.
But of righteous fury.
Garp's fist trembled lightly, resting against his knee. A tear trailed silently down the side of his face, catching in the corner of his mustache.
"He didn't attack them because he was a monster," Garp finally said, voice gravelly. "He did it because no one else would. Because we've let this rot fester for too long."
Sengoku closed his eyes.
"Melvin tried to change the world the right way," he said. "And the world spat on him. His son... didn't ask for revenge. He delivered it."
Garp clenched his jaw, and beneath the brim of his cap, a storm brewed in his eyes.
"As long as that boy doesn't lose himself, doesn't hurt the innocent, I'll protect him. No matter what the Marines say. No matter what the world demands."
Because it wasn't just about duty anymore.
It was about a promise.
To a friend.
To a fallen comrade.
To a father who died forgotten… so his son could be remembered forever.
And somewhere, deep within the Calm Belt, where the sea slumbered and monsters stirred beneath glassy waters, Justin Vargas rested.
His wounds were still healing, his body bandaged and sore, but under the watchful eye of Silvers Rayleigh, he was safe. For now.
Blissfully unaware of the storm he had unleashed.
He did not yet know that kings and criminals alike now spoke his name. That fleets had been mobilized, revolutions ignited, empires shaken. That bounties were rising and loyalties falling, all because of what he had done in the span of a single day.
Some now hunted him. Others placed their hopes in him.
And all of them waited to see one thing:
Would the boy who killed gods become something more?
The world was no longer what it had been.
And it would never be the same again.
-end-
Sea Calendar — November 4th–6th, Year 1516.
The Heretic Era had begun.