Chapter 679
Pangea Castle, Mary Geoise
"It has been two days already... should we try to reach out to Imu-sama...?"
The question hung in the air like a blade. The Room of Authority had never felt this suffocating. Saint Warcury’s deep voice, usually steady with absolute authority, carried an unfamiliar weight—uncertainty. His powerful frame leaned slightly forward, fingers pressing into the armrest of his chair as if grounding himself.
Two days. Two days since the impossible had happened. Two days since their god had bled. Even now, the memory refused to settle in their minds. It replayed—again and again—like a curse they could not escape. The vast, silent chamber. The empty throne. And then— a single droplet of blood.
Not a wound. Not damage. A scratch. But to beings like them... It was heresy. Blasphemy carved into reality itself. Silence answered Warcury at first. A suffocating, oppressive silence.
Then—"If you are that eager to die...then please, go ahead, Saint Warcury."
The voice was calm. Too calm. It sliced through the tension like a frozen blade. All eyes shifted. Seated slightly apart—yet undeniably central to the room’s gravity—was Saint Figarland Garling. The Supreme Commander of the God’s Knights.
Even among monsters, he stood apart. Legs crossed. Posture relaxed. Fingers resting lightly against the armrest as though this gathering of the world’s highest powers was nothing more than idle conversation. Yet his eyes—cold. Sharp. Unforgiving.
"It has been centuries," Figarland continued, his tone devoid of emotion, "since any real change has occurred within the Gorosei ranks...if you are so eager to throw away your life...then please by all means do so, just don’t implicate the rest of us."
The words weren’t just a statement. They were a warning. The other elders shifted ever so slightly in their seats. The weight of the current situation pressed down on them—not as rulers... but as servants.
For two days, the six pillars of the World Government had remained here, unmoving, waiting. Waiting to be summoned. Waiting for judgment. Waiting... for permission to act. And none had come.
"So you want us to ignore what happened in the throne room... Figarland?"
Warcury’s voice dropped into a low growl, the authority of centuries returning to it. The air itself seemed to tremble as his gaze hardened. But Figarland— didn’t flinch. Not even slightly. Instead— he smiled. A thin, dangerous sneer.
"So please, Gorosei-sama..." he said, leaning forward just enough for the light from the ceiling to catch the sharp lines of his face. "Enlighten me." The temperature in the room seemed to drop. "How exactly do you propose we deal with this situation?"
No one answered. Because they all knew what he was about to say.
"How," Figarland continued, his voice lowering, each word deliberate, "do you intend to deal with a man... who was capable of killing a God’s Knight like Harald?"
A ripple moved through the chamber. Unseen. But felt it. The name alone carried weight. Even here. Even among them, even after Harald’s untimely death.
"And make no mistake," Figarland added, his tone now stripped of all pretense, "none of us here—including me—would have matched Harald’s strength."
That—that broke something. Because it wasn’t speculation. It was fact.
"If all six of us," he continued, his gaze sweeping across the elders one by one, "had thrown ourselves at him..." A pause. "...we would not have won."
"It seems you have conveniently forgotten something..." The shift in tone was immediate. Sharp. Cutting. Final. All eyes turned once more to Saint Figarland Garling as he leaned forward, the faintest trace of irritation breaking through his otherwise composed demeanor.
"Rosinante was able to kill Harald," he said, each word deliberate. "Despite his immortality." The chamber grew colder. The weight of that truth settled like iron chains around their throats. "Imu-sama’s blessing," Figarland continued, his voice steady but unyielding, "is our single greatest reliance upon which we rule this world with impunity in the Great One’s name. And that unbreakable shield has been shattered."
A pause. His gaze sharpened. "It is time we admit... Rosinante is no longer something we can deal with using conventional means. And the threat he poses to us is no longer something we can choose to ignore."
The words struck harder than any blade. For a moment, no one spoke. Then— "are you trying to belittle us... by praising that brat in front of us?" The voice of Shepherd Ju Peter rose, laced with restrained fury. His brow furrowed deeply, lips curling in disdain.
"Brat." The word lingered. A fragile attempt to diminish something they no longer understood. Because pride—centuries of ego—would not allow them to say the truth aloud. But Figarland didn’t hesitate.
"If you think I am belittling you," he said coldly, "then so be it." His eyes locked onto Ju Peter. Unflinching. Unforgiving. "But if you truly fail to understand my point..." his voice dipped, quieter now—but far more dangerous, "...then I suppose you will meet the same end Harald did."
A ripple passed through the chamber. A threat. Not shouted. But absolute.
"A brat, you say?" Figarland let out a short, humorless scoff. "Perhaps." Then his expression hardened completely. "But if you old relics are still too stubborn to see him for what he truly is—"
He didn’t stop himself. Didn’t soften the blow. "—then I have never seen a greater gathering of fools."
Silence. Then— "You bastard—!"
Ju Peter surged to his feet, fury erupting without restraint. The air warped slightly under the pressure of his rising haki, his authority flaring violently. To be insulted—like this— by someone they barely considered one of their own— Unacceptable.
They were the Gorosei. The highest authority in the world. Men who had ruled for centuries. And yet—this man, who had climbed to their level in mere decades under Imu’s favor—dared to stand above them. Dared to judge them. And today—he wasn’t holding back.
"ENOUGH." The word didn’t echo. It crushed. A staff struck the marble floor.
THOOM. A ripple of haki surged outward—heavy, powerful, and suffocating. The very air bent. Even Ju Peter froze mid-step. At the center of it sat Saint Jaygarcia Saturn. His expression—tired. Not of the situation. But of them. Of all of it. He exhaled slowly, the weight of centuries pressing down on his shoulders.
"We are facing an extinction-level crisis..." Saturn said, his voice low, yet carrying absolute authority. "And the so-called rulers of the world bicker like children."
The words stung. Because they were true. A long silence followed. Then Saturn spoke—"Figarland is right."
That—that changed everything. Even Figarland’s gaze shifted slightly. Because this wasn’t something he expected the Gorosei to agree, at least not so openly, not to him. This was admission. Something far rarer. Saturn’s eyes lowered briefly, shadows gathering beneath them.
"We underestimated Rosinante... at every turn," he continued, his voice quieter now—but heavier than before. "And now... look at where we stand."
The memory surfaced unbidden. Two boys. Standing before the gates of the Holy Land. Not as an enemy. But as someone who had come seeking acknowledgment. Seeking a place for themselves amongst the Celestial Dragons because they carried the blood of gods in their veins.
"In under two decades..." Saturn murmured, "...that same boy who once stood before us... pleading..." His grip tightened around his staff. "...now stands above us."
The words tasted bitter. Because they were undeniable. "This..." Saturn closed his eyes for a brief moment, as if the weight of realization itself was exhausting. "...is our failure." No one interrupted him. No one could.
"Had we simply killed him back then..." A pause. The air seemed to grow heavier. "...or better yet..." His eyes opened again. And for the first time—there was something in them that none of the others had shown. Regret.
"Had we accepted him into our fold..." The chamber fell completely silent. "...he would have become the very foundation of the World Government." Not a threat. Not an anomaly. An absolute pillar.
"One strong enough," Saturn continued, his voice steady but hollow, "to uphold this world for a thousand years to come." The irony was suffocating. They hadn’t just failed to stop him. They had created him. By rejection. By arrogance. By pride.
And now that same boy had become something far beyond their reach. Saturn lowered his gaze slightly. "...we allowed this to fester," a quiet admission. "...and now we are the ones paying the price."
"There is nothing we can do to change the past..." The voice was calm. Measured. But beneath it, there was tension. For the first time since the argument began, Ethanbaron V. Nusjuro spoke. And when he did—the room listened.
"But sitting here... doing nothing," he continued, his sharp gaze sweeping across the chamber, "will not solve our problem either."
The words settled heavily over the Room of Authority. No one refuted him. Because they couldn’t. Every single one of them understood it now—this was no longer a matter of control. This was survival. For centuries, they had ruled without consequence. Every decision they made shaped the world itself, unchecked, unquestioned.
But now every move carried risk. Every choice... could lead to death. And that was something they had long forgotten how to face. Nusjuro’s fingers rested lightly on the hilt of his blade, the faint metallic click echoing in the silence as he adjusted his grip.
"And with how... vengeful the Donquixote brothers are," he continued, his tone sharpening slightly, "we can expect retaliation." A pause. No one interrupted. Because they all knew exactly what he was referring to. "...the giantess," Nusjuro added, his eyes narrowing, "the one with the lightning Logia ability—she was part of the inner circle of the Donquixote Pirates."
That was the detail they had all overlooked. Or rather, chosen to ignore. A mistake. Time and time again, Donquixote Doflamingo had proven exactly what kind of man he was. Not reckless.
Not impulsive. But vengeful. Meticulous in his hatred. Patient in his revenge.
He had dared—dared—to attack the Mary Geoise itself. To reduce parts of the Holy Land to ruin. To slaughter Celestial Dragons—not for gain. But to send a message.
And now—now they had given him something far greater to respond to. Nusjuro’s voice lowered. "I have no doubt," he said, each word deliberate, "that retaliation is coming." The lights in the room flickered. "...we simply do not know in what form."
Silence followed. Heavy. Oppressive. Because that uncertainty was worse than any known threat. For the first time in centuries... They were not the ones controlling the board. They were reacting. Waiting. Anticipating.
And that was unfamiliar territory. Uncomfortable. Dangerous. Though none of them said it aloud, they all felt it. Deep within. A quiet, creeping fear. They had lived for centuries under the illusion of permanence. Death had become an abstract concept—something that applied to others. Not to them. Never to them.
But now that illusion had shattered. Rosinante could kill them. That single truth had changed everything. It lingered in the back of their minds, unspoken yet undeniable. And it showed. In the way none of them had left the chamber. In the way they lingered within the safety of the Holy Land.
In the way they clung—not openly, but instinctively—to the silence of Imu. Because that silence... Had become their shield. An excuse for inaction. A justification to remain still. To delay action. To avoid stepping into the unknown. Because beyond these walls—beyond the perceived safety of the Holy Land—death was waiting.
Tap..Tap...tap
Just then, a sharp, uneven rhythm of hurried footsteps echoed down the stone corridor outside the chamber—too fast, too unrestrained to belong to any guard on routine duty. The sound grew louder, closer, until it was abruptly followed by a series of rapid, insistent knocks that shattered the stillness within.
Inside, every figure present stiffened. Irritation flickered across their faces almost in unison. Their orders had been unmistakably clear—no interruptions under any circumstance. And yet, someone dared. The knocking came again, more frantic this time, each strike against the heavy door carrying a sense of urgency that bordered on desperation. A tense silence lingered for a fraction of a second.
"Come in...!" Figarland finally commanded, his voice edged with restrained annoyance.
The door swung open with little regard for decorum. A Cipher Pol agent stumbled inside, breath uneven, shoulders rising and falling sharply as if he had run the entire length of the compound. His usually composed demeanor was gone—replaced by visible panic. In his trembling hands was a crumpled stack of freshly printed newspapers, their edges slightly bent from the force of his grip.
"Weren’t our instructions clear—" Elder Warcury began, his tone cold and cutting. But the agent didn’t wait.
"Gorosei-sama—you need to see this... NOW...!" he blurted out, his voice strained, almost breaking under the weight of urgency. He stepped forward without permission, clutching the papers tighter as though they carried something too important—too catastrophic—to delay even for a reprimand.
The room, once filled with controlled authority, now felt charged with something far more dangerous. Whatever was printed in those papers had been enough to make a Cipher Pol agent forget fear of the Gorosei themselves.
Figarland moved before the agent could even steady his breath. With a swift, controlled motion, he snatched the newspaper straight from the man’s trembling hands, never once rising from his seat. The crisp pages of the morning edition of the World Times rustled sharply in the otherwise silent chamber.
His eyes began to scan. Line by line. Word by word. Whatever composure he held was ironclad—unyielding, unshaken even in the presence of the Gorosei themselves. And yet, as his gaze moved across the printed ink, something imperceptible shifted.
The World Times... an enigma that had haunted the world government since its inception. No matter how deeply their influence stretched, no matter how many shadows they commanded, they had never been able to seize control of it. It published no rumors. No speculation. Only facts—unyielding and absolute.
And that was precisely what made it dangerous. Across the seas, its word had become law in the minds of the masses. Even the most carefully crafted propaganda of the government often faltered in the face of its revelations. It was not merely a newspaper—it was a force.
And now... Figarland’s eyes stopped. For a single moment, time itself seemed to freeze.
Then he rose. Abruptly. The chair scraped harshly against the floor, the sound cutting through the chamber like a blade. The calm, unbreakable demeanor he had carried for decades—through wars, through bloodshed, through the weight of the world’s darkest secrets—fractured.
He turned, seizing the Cipher Pol agent by the shoulder with a grip so tight it made the man flinch.
"Mobilize everyone...!" Figarland’s voice thundered, no longer restrained, no longer composed. "Alert the Marines—alert every World Government agent!" The agent froze, eyes wide.
"Declare this a breaking taboo," Figarland continued, his voice dropping into something far more dangerous. "Anyone in possession of this newspaper... is to be declared a criminal—" His grip tightened further. "—and executed on the spot!"
The command echoed through the chamber like a death sentence carved into stone. For a heartbeat, no one moved. Then—the remaining Gorosei could no longer remain seated. Elder Mars shot to his feet, crossing the distance in a single stride as he tore the newspaper from Figarland’s grasp. His eyes darted across the page, desperate—searching for the cause of such an unprecedented order.
And then he saw it. His pupils shrank. "No... no... no... this can’t be—" His voice cracked, the words tumbling out in disbelief. "No! We cannot allow this to spread... We need to burn every last copy!"
His roar carried not just anger but fear. Real fear. Elder Saturn’s patience snapped. Watching both men unravel in the same manner was more alarming than any external threat. His voice cut through the chaos, sharp and commanding.
"What is happening, Mars...?" Elder Mars didn’t answer immediately. For a moment, he simply stood there—frozen—before thrusting the paper forward with trembling hands.
"See for yourself..." Whether the tremor came from rage or panic, even he could not tell. Saturn took the paper. The others gathered close, their imposing figures closing in as the newspaper was laid open upon the teapoy before him. Shadows loomed over the page as five of the most powerful men in the world leaned in and read.
What they saw... shattered them. Because staring back at them from the very front page was something they recognized instantly—a Poneglyph. Not a blurred image. Not a distant sketch. But a perfect, detailed set of rubbings—every side of the stone captured with impossible precision. Every groove. Every mark. Every word.
But that alone was not the horror. Beneath it lay the true nightmare. The translation. For eight hundred years, since the Void Century had been erased from history, the World Government had hunted relentlessly. Scholars, archaeologists, entire civilizations—wiped out for daring to even approach the truth. Every soul capable of reading that ancient script had been silenced, their knowledge buried alongside them.
And yet now... Someone had done the impossible. They had not only revealed the Poneglyph. They had deciphered it. Every line. Every symbol. Every forbidden truth carved into those indestructible stones had been translated flawlessly and printed for the world to see. Word for word. A deathly silence consumed the chamber.
Because they all understood. This was no longer contained. Any scholar—any mind sharp enough—could now use this as a foundation. The script, once thought indecipherable, could be reconstructed. The language of the Ancient Kingdom... reborn.
It was as if someone had taken the key to the forbidden history of the world and handed it to the entire world. The balance they had preserved for centuries... was on the verge of collapse.
Elder Saturn did not lift his gaze from the newspaper. His eyes moved slowly across the page, deliberate, absorbing every last word of the blasphemy printed before him. And yet, it was clear—there was more. Something deeper. Something far worse. The air in the chamber had turned suffocating.
The Cipher Pol agent still stood frozen where he was, awaiting orders, his earlier panic now replaced by a dread far heavier.
Saturn spoke. "You have your orders." His voice was calm—too calm. It did not rise. It did not waver. But beneath that stillness lay something absolute. Something merciless.
"Execute anyone and everyone in possession of this paper," he continued, each word falling with quiet finality. "And anyone who dares use this knowledge to decipher even a fragment more of the Poneglyphs..."
A brief pause. "I do not care if you must massacre entire islands... or erase nations as an example." The words settled like a death sentence over the world itself. "Just ensure... that this paper does not survive."
The agent’s breath hitched, but he did not move. Saturn’s fingers tightened slightly against the edges of the page.
"And find Morgans," he added, his tone sharpening just a fraction. "Bring him to me. Alive." For the first time, there was a trace of something else beneath the cold. Suspicion. "Pry the truth out of him," Saturn said. "I do not believe for a second that he is ignorant of who truly stands behind the World Times."
Silence followed. Heavy. Oppressive. Unforgiving. Because every single person in that room... already had an answer. An unspoken one. A name that lingered at the edge of thought—clear as daylight, undeniable in its implications.
And yet... none of them dared to say it. None of them dared to even acknowledge it aloud. Because if that answer were true—if the one behind this was truly who they feared—then this was no longer a breach of control. No longer a crisis to be contained. It was the beginning of something far worse.
Their worst nightmare... Already in motion.