The Moby Dick, grand and imposing as ever, sliced through the unnaturally still waters surrounding Ikki Island. A miasma, thick and cloying, clung to the air, carrying the scent of decay and something else… something ancient and deeply wrong. Ikki itself rose from the dark sea like a festering wound, its volcanic peaks jagged and black, its forests a tangled, unhealthy green that seemed to drink the light.
On deck, the usual boisterous energy of the Whitebeard Pirates was subdued. All eyes were on their captain. Edward Newgate, Whitebeard, sat on his colossal throne, but the usual earth-shattering vibrancy was dimmed.
"Water, Pops?" Riku squeaked, his voice barely audible.
Marco the Phoenix, First Division Commander, stepped forward, his usual laid-back expression tinged with deep concern. "Pops, you shouldn't even be out of bed. Let us handle this. The island itself feels… malevolent."
"Bah!" Whitebeard waved him off, though the effort cost him. "Malevolent is my middle name, brat. But you're right. I need to be here to protect the kid… You, Jozu, take a strong contingent. Find the fruit. Be quick. This island… it doesn't like visitors."
Jozu, the Diamond, nodded, his massive form a reassuring presence. "Understood, Pops. We won't fail."
Soon, a landing party assembled: Marco, his blue flames flickering faintly around his hands in readiness; Jozu, his arms already partially transformed into glittering diamond; Vista of the Flower Swords, adjusting his top hat; Haruta, small and nimble, already eager to scout; Rakuyo, his spiked flail resting on his shoulder; and a dozen other seasoned fighters, including a boisterous fish-man named Gyro, whose gills flared nervously, and a stoic woman with a scar across her nose named Thatch (a distant cousin of their fallen brother, who insisted on the name).
"Alright, yoi!" Marco called, clapping his hands. "Standard formation. Haruta, you're on point. Gyro, keep your senses sharp for anything… unusual in the air. Thatch, you and Rakuyo watch our flanks. Jozu and I will take the center. Let's get this done and get Pops his medicine."
The longboat cut through the murky water, beaching on a shore of black sand littered with bleached, twisted driftwood. The forest edge was a mere fifty paces away, a dense, suffocating wall of vegetation. The silence was the most unnerving part. No birdsong, no insect hum, just the sighing of a sickly wind through diseased leaves.
"Creepy," Gyro muttered, his webbed fingers twitching. "Smells like a kraken's latrine mixed with a graveyard."
"Focus, Gyro," Thatch chided, her hand on the hilt of her cutlass. "The sooner we find this fruit, the sooner we're off this rock."
Haruta, agile as a monkey, had already darted ahead, signaling an all-clear from the treeline. Marco nodded. "Let's move."
They plunged into the gloom. Sunlight struggled to penetrate the dense canopy, casting long, dancing shadows that played tricks on the eyes. Twisted vines, thick as pythons, snaked between gnarled trees whose bark seemed to weep a black, tar-like sap. The ground was a squelching carpet of rotting leaves.
"Anything, Haruta?" Marco called softly.
"Just… weird plants, Marco-san," Haruta's voice echoed back, slightly strained. "And bones. Lots of bones. Animal… and not just animal."
A low growl rumbled from Jozu. "This place is a tomb."
They pressed on for what felt like hours, the oppressive atmosphere weighing heavily on them. Rakuyo swung his flail idly, the iron ball occasionally thudding against a tree trunk with a dull, wet sound. "I'd rather fight a Buster Call than walk through this nightmare fuel."
Suddenly, Haruta skidded to a halt, holding up a hand. "Movement! Ahead!"
The crew tensed, weapons ready. From the dense undergrowth, a figure stumbled. Then another, and another. They were humanoid, but horrifically emaciated, their skin grey and mottled, clothes in tatters. Their eyes, however, burned with an unholy, pale green light, and their jaws hung slack, emitting guttural groans.
"Zombies?" Vista breathed, a rare note of unease in his voice. "Charming."
"They're fast!" Marco yelled as the first wave lurched forward with surprising speed, claws outstretched. "Engage!"
Marco transformed partially, blue flames erupting as he launched a fiery kick that sent three zombies flying back in flaming pieces. Jozu, now fully diamond, became a glittering juggernaut, smashing through the attackers with bone-jarring force. "Brilliant Punk!" he roared, his punch pulverizing a zombie's torso.
Vista's swords became a silver whirlwind, decapitating and dismembering with elegant lethality. Rakuyo's flail was a brutal engine of destruction, crushing skulls and shattering limbs. Thatch fought back-to-back with Gyro, her cutlass flashing, his powerful fish-man karate strikes sending zombies sprawling.
But for every one they cut down, two more seemed to take its place. They poured from the woods, a relentless tide of decaying flesh.
"There's too many of them, yoi!" Marco shouted, incinerating another cluster. "Where are they all coming from?"
As if in answer, a new chorus of snarls and roars erupted from deeper within the forest. The ground began to tremble. From the shadows burst creatures that defied sanity: massive boars with tusks like obsidian daggers, their fur matted and falling off in clumps, green light blazing in their eye sockets. Wolves, larger than any natural specimen, their ribs showing through torn flesh, snapped and snarled. And then came the insects – centipedes the size of crocodiles, their myriad legs skittering, and spiders with bloated, pulsating abdomens, their fangs dripping viscous, green venom.
"Animal zombies too?!" Gyro shrieked, narrowly dodging a giant, skeletal bear paw that slammed down where he'd stood. "This island is cursed to its rotten core!"
Jozu grunted, shoulder-charging a zombie boar, sending it tumbling. "They're trying to box us in!"
He was right. The human zombies pressed from the front, while the animalistic horrors surged from the flanks and rear. They were surrounded, a small pocket of defiance in a sea of undeath. The air was thick with the stench of rot, the crackle of Marco's flames, the clash of steel, and the unearthly shrieks of the damned.
"Thatch, watch your left!" Rakuyo bellowed, his flail whistling as he intercepted a pouncing zombie wolf.
Thatch spun, her cutlass cleaving a zombie in two, but not before its grimy claws raked across her arm, drawing blood. "Gah! Filthy creature!" She grimaced but kept fighting.
The battle raged, a desperate, grinding affair. Marco, even with his regenerative flames, was starting to feel the strain of constant output. Jozu, though impervious to most damage, was being battered by sheer numbers.
Suddenly, a strangled cry tore through the din, not from a zombie, but from one of their own.
Gyro, who had been valiantly smashing zombie monkeys with powerful water-less karate thrusts, stumbled.
His gills flared violently, and a low, guttural growl rumbled in his chest, a sound chillingly similar to the ones they'd been fighting.
"Gyro?" Haruta called, noticing his comrade's strange behavior. "You alright?"
Gyro didn't answer. He slowly turned, his movements jerky, unnatural. His gaze fixed on Haruta, not with recognition, but with a predatory hunger.
"Gyro, snap out of it, yoi!" Marco yelled, his heart sinking as he recognized the horrific transformation.
But it was too late. With a deafening, inhuman roar, Gyro lunged, not at the surrounding zombies, but straight at Haruta, his webbed fingers curled into claws, teeth bared in a horrifying snarl.
"NO!" Jozu bellowed, attempting to intercept, but he was bogged down by a trio of hulking zombie bears.
The Whitebeard pirates weren't just trapped by the dead; they were now being attacked by one of their own.
The waves lapped gently against the black sand as another ship, sleek and crimson-hulled, dropped anchor a discreet distance down the coast from the Moby Dick. The Red Force. On its deck, a figure with a straw hat tilted low over his eyes surveyed Ikki Island with an unreadable expression.
"So, this is the cursed place," Shanks murmured, a faint smile playing on his lips. "Feels like it's holding its breath."
Benn Beckman, his first mate, stood beside him, rifle slung over his shoulder, taking a long drag from his cigarette. "Intel confirms Whitebeard's already here. And the Moby Dick looks quiet. Too quiet. Either they're having a nap, or they've run into trouble already."
Lucky Roux, perched on the ship's railing with a massive drumstick in hand, chuckled around a mouthful. "Trouble usually finds Whitebeard, or he finds it! Gurarara!" He mimicked the old Emperor's laugh, nearly toppling over.
Yasopp, leaning against the mast, squinted through his scope towards the dense treeline. "Can't see much. But the birds are smart enough to stay away. That tells you something."
"Whitebeard, here for Rocks' fruit," Shanks mused, more to himself than anyone. "And Big Mom's likely sniffing around too. If those two fossils decide to actually ally over this… well, that'd certainly stir the pot, wouldn't it?" He finally looked at Beckman, a glint of amusement in his eye. "Preventing that particular brand of chaos might be in everyone's best interest."
Beckman nodded, exhaling a stream of smoke. "It would upset the balance considerably. More than usual. The Five Elders would have kittens."
"And it'd make things far too predictable," Shanks grinned. "Where's the fun in that? Still… Rocks' power… it's a dangerous toy. Perhaps we should take a closer look. Yasopp, think you can get a bead on their progress without stirring the nest?"
"Can try, Captain," Yasopp replied, "but this island plays tricks on the eyes. And the air… it's thick."
"Let's give them a bit more time to soften it up for us," Shanks decided, settling back. "No need to rush into a hornet's nest if someone else is already getting stung." He chuckled. "This is going to be interesting."
---
Further out at sea, a flotilla of Marine warships cut through the waves, their white sails stark against the grey sky. On the flagship, Admiral Aokiji, Kuzan, lounged on a deck chair he'd fashioned from ice, a sleep mask perched on his forehead. A Den Den Mushi on a nearby ice table began to ring. Purupurupuru… Katcha.
"Moshi moshi," Kuzan drawled, not bothering to sit up.
"KUZAN!" Fleet Admiral Sengoku's voice barked from the receiver, making the Den Den Mushi vibrate. "Report your position! Have you reached Ikki Island?"
"Arara, Sengoku-san, so loud," Kuzan sighed, pushing the sleep mask up. "Yeah, just sighting it now. Looks as charming as akraken's backside. Why all the fuss? Did Garp lose his crackers again?"
"This is no time for levity, Aokiji!" Sengoku snapped. "We have confirmed Whitebeard's presence on Ikki. It's believed he's after a Devil Fruit of immense power – potentially the one once possessed by Rocks D. Xebec himself!"
Kuzan sat up a little, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. "Rocks, eh? Now that is a name I haven't heard in a while. That explains the urgency. And if Whitebeard's there..."
"Precisely. Big Mom is also rumored to be heading in that direction. An alliance between those two, or either one of them gaining Rocks' power, would be catastrophic. Your orders are clear: secure the Devil Fruit. Prevent any pirate alliance. Engage hostiles as necessary, but the fruit is the priority. Understand?"
"Maa, maa, quite the shopping list," Kuzan said, stretching. "Secure a legendary cursed fruit, stop two Emperors from playing nice, and probably fight a few hundred angry pirates. Sounds like a Tuesday. Understood, Sengoku-san. We'll handle it." He hung up, the Den Den Mushi closing its eyes with a soft click.
Kuzan stood, his tall, lanky frame casting a long shadow. "Alright, men! Prepare to make landfall. Looks like we're crashing a party."
The Marine landing crafts hit the black sand with disciplined precision. Hundreds of marines poured out, forming ranks, their rifles glinting. Kuzan strolled casually at their head, his hands in his pockets.
"Spread out, but stay vigilant," a Marine captain barked. "This island is unconfirmed territory!"
They advanced, encountering the same oppressive silence the Whitebeard Pirates had. As they pushed into the treeline, the first wave of groaning, grey-skinned figures stumbled from the undergrowth.
"Hostiles!" a Marine shouted. "Fire at will!"
Gunfire erupted, but the zombies, riddled with bullets, kept coming, their pale green eyes burning.
"Arara, persistent little buggers," Kuzan observed, almost idly. He raised a hand. "Ice Age."
A wave of frigid air swept forward from him. The ground cracked and froze. The charging zombies were instantly encased in jagged coffins of ice, their groans cut short, their grotesque forms frozen mid-lunge. The path ahead was cleared, a glistening corridor of immobilized undead.
The Marines cheered. "Admiral Aokiji!"
"Don't get cocky," Kuzan warned, though a hint of his usual laziness was back. "There's more where they came from, I'd wager."
They pressed on, Kuzan occasionally freezing new pockets of resistance – zombie boars, skeletal wolves, even giant, ice-bound centipedes. It seemed almost too easy.
Then, it happened.
A Marine near the front, a young recruit with wide, nervous eyes, suddenly stopped. He blinked, then his head twitched violently. A low snarl, disturbingly similar to the zombies', escaped his lips. His eyes, just moments before filled with fear, now blazed with that same unholy pale green light.
"Recruit Tanaka? What's wrong?" his squad leader asked, turning.
Tanaka didn't answer. He lunged, teeth bared, not at the frozen zombies, but at his own squad leader, sinking his teeth into the man's outstretched arm.
The squad leader screamed, a sound of shock and agony. "Tanaka! What are you—?!"
Before anyone could properly react, another Marine nearby let out a choked gasp, clutching his head. His rifle clattered to the ground as he, too, turned on his nearest comrade, fists flying with mindless fury.
"What in the blazes?!" a veteran Vice-Admiral roared, drawing his sword. "Stand down, you fools! What is this insubordination?!"
But it was like a contagion. One by one, then in clusters, Marines began to falter. Some clutched their heads, screaming, before their eyes turned that ghastly green. Others simply turned, their faces contorting into masks of primal rage, and attacked the Marine closest to them. The disciplined ranks dissolved into a chaotic melee of blue and white uniforms. Punches flew, rifle butts cracked against skulls, and the screams of the afflicted mingled with the cries of the uninfected.
Kuzan stared, his usual nonchalance evaporating, replaced by a grim understanding. "This island… it's not just the dead it corrupts." He dodged a wild swing from one of his own men, his face set. "It's getting into their minds."
The wave of icy control he'd brought was shattered by a wave of internal, inexplicable madness. His own troops were tearing each other apart, and the frozen zombies stood as silent, mocking witnesses to the chaos.
High above the sickly green canopy of Ikki Island, a figure danced through the sky, barely visible threads glinting in the oppressive gloom. Donquixote Doflamingo, his flamboyant pink feather coat a stark contrast to the dreary landscape, surveyed the scene below with a wide, predatory grin. "Fufufufu! What a delightful little cesspool. And so many interesting players gathering. This party is just getting started!"
His eyes, hidden behind his signature shades, scanned the waters. He spotted the Moby Dick, the Red Force, and the distant but approaching Marine flotilla. Then, his gaze fell upon a more peculiar vessel.
The ship was a grotesque parody of a seafaring vessel, cobbled together with mismatched wood, skeletal protrusions, and tattered, dark purple sails that seemed to absorb the light. At its prow, a leering, oversized skull with hollow eyes served as a figurehead. This was the "Thriller Coffin," one of Gecko Moria's smaller, faster ships.
On its deck, two figures stood out. The first, massive and bulbous, with onion-shaped hair and a perpetually downturned mouth, was Gecko Moria himself. He lounged in a throne made of what looked suspiciously like stitched-together bones, idly prodding a small, listless zombie servant with the toe of his boot.
The second was leaner, more severe, his face scarred, a golden hook gleaming where his left hand should be. Sir Crocodile, exuding an aura of dry, simmering impatience, stared towards Ikki.
"Kishishishi!" Moria cackled, his voice like grinding stones. "Can you smell it, Crocodile? The delicious aroma of death and despair! This island will be a treasure trove for my armies!"
Crocodile snorted, drawing on a cigar. "Focus, Moria. We're here for Rocks' Devil Fruit. Your 'armies' are a secondary concern. If the rumors are true, that fruit could shift the balance of power significantly."
"And any treasure Rocks might have stashed here is mine by right of… finding it first," Moria added, a greedy glint in his eyes. "You can have the fruit, Crocodile. I just want the bodies and the baubles."
"Heh. Generous," Crocodile said, his tone laced with sarcasm. "Assuming we can even get past Whitebeard's brats and whatever else this cursed island throws at us. And assuming the Marines don't stick their noses in too deep."
"That's why we're together, isn't it?" Moria said, pointing a chubby finger at Crocodile. "Your sand against their numbers, my shadows to bolster our forces. A perfect, if temporary, arrangement."
Crocodile didn't look convinced. "Temporary is the operative word. Let's just get this over with."
It was then that the distinct swish-thwack sound of taut threads cutting the air reached them, followed by a surprisingly gentle landing on the deck of the Thriller Coffin.
"Fufufufufu! My, my, what an unexpected reunion!" Doflamingo purred, spreading his arms wide, his pink coat billowing. "Gecko Moria! And Sir Crocodile! Fancy meeting you two scallywags in a place like this."
Moria jolted upright, nearly tumbling from his bone throne. "Doflamingo! What are you doing here?!"
Crocodile's eyes narrowed, his hand instinctively moving towards his hook. "Always turning up like a bad smell, Flamingo."
Doflamingo chuckled, unperturbed. "Just following the scent of opportunity, Crocodile. And it smells particularly ripe around this island. Rocks' Devil Fruit, I presume? A tempting prize indeed." He strutted closer, his grin never faltering. "And it seems I'm not the only one with designs on it."
"This is our venture, Doflamingo," Moria grumbled, regaining some composure. "Find your own cursed island to pilfer."
"Now, now, Moria, no need to be greedy," Doflamingo chided, waggling a finger. "Think of the competition. Whitebeard's crew is already ashore. The Red-Hair Pirates are lurking. And I just saw Admiral Aokiji himself leading a Marine contingent. Fufufu, it's quite the guest list."
Crocodile blew a smoke ring. "Your point?"
"My point, Mr. 0," Doflamingo said, his smile becoming sharper, "is that your little duo might find itself overwhelmed. However, a trio of our... unique talents? That changes the odds considerably, wouldn't you say?"
Moria looked intrigued, despite himself. "Kishishishi… The unholy trinity… It does have a certain ring to it."
Crocodile remained skeptical. "And what's your price, Doflamingo? You don't do anything for free."
"Astute as ever, Crocodile!" Doflamingo clapped. "My price is simple: a share. We work together to secure the fruit and any other... valuables... this island might yield. We cut through the Whitebeards, the Red-Hairs, the Marines, anyone who gets in our way."
"And then?" Crocodile pressed, his golden eyes glinting. "How do we divide the spoils? I doubt you're one for fair shares."
"Fufufufu! Details, details!" Doflamingo waved a dismissive hand. "Once the main obstacles are cleared, and the prize is in our collective grasp, then we can discuss the finer points of ownership. Perhaps a friendly contest? Or maybe one of us will prove more... deserving. We can cross that bridge when we come to it. For now, our interests align: chaos, power, and a significant blow to the World Government and the other Emperors."
Moria rubbed his chin. "More power to crush our enemies… I like the sound of that. And more bodies for my collection when the fighting's done!"
Crocodile considered it, his expression unreadable. He despised Doflamingo, but the Heavenly Yaksha was undeniably powerful and cunning. And the thought of facing Whitebeard's entire crew, potentially Shanks, and the Marines with only Moria as backup was unappealing. "A temporary alliance, then," Crocodile finally conceded, his voice a dry rasp. "But know this, Doflamingo: try any of your usual tricks, and this ship won't be big enough for the both of us."
Doflamingo's grin widened. "Fufufu! Wouldn't dream of it, Crocodile. We're partners! For now." He clapped his hands together. "Excellent! Then let's not keep our future prize waiting. Shall we make our grand entrance?"
The Thriller Coffin, now carrying an unholy trinity of ambition and malice, steered its grotesque form towards the shores of Ikki Island, ready to add another layer of deadly chaos to the unfolding nightmare.