Chapter 680
"The Marines and World Government forces will not be enough..." Elder Ju Peter’s voice cut through the suffocating tension, sharp with urgency and restrained fury. He leaned forward, hands pressing firmly against the table as his composure began to fracture.
"If we are to enforce a total ban on the World Times, then we must go further." His eyes hardened. "It is time we fully mobilize the forces of every kingdom affiliated with the World Government." A ripple of tension passed through the room.
"We assign our agents to each nation," he continued, his tone growing colder with each word, "place them in temporary command, and order a complete purge. Every port, every city, every island within their reach—cleansed." The implication was unmistakable. Extermination.
"They will act faster than our fleets ever could. Even if we deploy the full might of the Marines, we cannot cover the entire world in time." His jaw tightened. " But the World Government commands over one hundred and eighty kingdoms. Each with armies numbering in the hundreds of thousands—some in the millions."
His gaze sharpened. "With their combined strength... we can choke this crisis at its source before it spreads beyond control."
The logic was brutal. Efficient. Necessary.
And yet—"I do not think those rulers will be so eager to comply..." Elder Saturn’s voice echoed quietly, yet it carried enough weight to halt the momentum of Ju Peter’s proposal entirely. He still hadn’t looked up. The newspaper remained open in his hands, his eyes now scanning further down the page—beyond the revelation of the Poneglyph.
Because it hadn’t ended there. Not even close. A faint crease formed on his brow, the only visible sign that even he—who had remained the most composed—was beginning to feel the weight of what lay before them.
"The paper..." he began slowly, "also states that the World Government possesses the secret to immortality."
Silence. Utter. Absolute. "And as proof..." Saturn continued, his voice dropping lower, heavier, "it lists us." His fingers pressed slightly into the page. "As living evidence."
"—What...?" The reaction was immediate.
Even among the Gorosei, even from Saint Figarland himself, shock broke through their ironclad control. The chamber, once dominated by calculated authority, now trembled under disbelief. They had thought the worst had already been revealed. They were wrong.
"That’s absurd," Elder Warcury snapped, almost too quickly. "No one would believe such a claim—" But even as he spoke, the certainty in his voice faltered. Because deep down... He knew. This was not a lie. Immortality—granted by the will of Imu-sama—was not a myth.
It was their reality. And that truth... Was never meant to reach the world. There was a reason the Gorosei remained distant—untouchable, unseen. A reason why even during the Reverie, when kings and queens from across the seas gathered beneath the banner of the World Government, only a rare few were granted a fleeting audience.
And even then—only once in decades or so. It was not merely to preserve an image of authority. It was to hide the truth. Generations of rulers came and went. Kings died. Thrones changed hands. Memories faded. No monarch lived long enough to notice the pattern... to question why the faces seated at the pinnacle of power never aged.
Never changed. Never died. Even suspicion, where it existed, had always lacked proof. Until now. Because what the World Times had done was not simply expose a secret— It had confirmed it. Given it form. Given it evidence.
And once the idea took root in the minds of the masses... once the rulers of those one hundred and eighty kingdoms read these words for themselves... Obedience would no longer be guaranteed. Fear would turn into doubt. Doubt... into ambition.
And ambition—into rebellion. The balance of the world was no longer slipping. It was unraveling. Right before their eyes.
"So what if they know...?" Elder Warcury’s voice rumbled through the chamber, laced with disdain. His eyes burned with irritation rather than fear, his confidence unshaken—at least on the surface.
"Monarchs—especially those from the older bloodlines—have always harbored suspicions about us." He scoffed. "This piece of paper changes nothing." A low murmur of agreement followed from the other elders in the room.
"What will those insignificant kingdoms do?" he continued, his tone sharpening. "Rise in rebellion? On what grounds? Speculation?" His lips curled faintly. "None of them would dare set foot upon the Holy Land to challenge us. Not without proof."
Elder Mars and Elder Ju Peter shared the same sentiment. The logic was sound—without undeniable evidence, suspicion alone would never be enough to shake the foundation of the World Government.
Fear had always been enough to keep the world in line. But— Elder Saturn did not respond immediately. He remained still, the newspaper resting in his hands, his gaze distant—not on the ink before him, but somewhere far deeper... far older. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet. Too quiet.
"You all underestimate human greed... and ambition." The words settled heavily in the air. "And more importantly..." he continued, lifting his gaze at last, "you underestimate the lengths to which humans will go... to obtain power."
Something shifted in the room. Unlike the others—who had been granted immortality in more recent centuries—Saturn was different. He had not inherited history. He had lived it.
"None of you were even born during the era of the Ancient Kingdom," he said, his voice gaining weight with each word. "So tell me..." His eyes swept across them—one by one. "Do you truly believe the twenty greatest powers of that age united out of righteousness?"
"Do you think they waged war to rid the world of some great evil?"
A pause. Then— "No." The word fell like a verdict. "It was ambition." The chamber seemed to grow colder. "Greed," Saturn continued, his voice now carrying something far more dangerous than anger—truth. "Unrestrained. Unapologetic. Absolute." He stood up from where he sat and stepped forward slightly, the shadows around him deepening.
"Jaygarcia... Manmayer... Shepherd... Figarland..." he named them slowly, deliberately. "Every one of the twenty families now revered as gods..." His gaze hardened. "...did what they did for one reason."
A beat. "To obtain power beyond all limits."
Silence crushed the room. "The ’Great Enemy’ of that era..." Saturn said softly, almost as if recalling a distant memory, "was not destroyed for justice."
"It was erased... because it stood in the way." The weight of nearly a millennium pressed into his next words. "And at the end of it all... we were rewarded." A faint, almost imperceptible tension formed in his expression. "The blessing of Imu-sama."
He did not need to say it. They all knew. Immortality.
"Now ask yourselves this," Saturn continued, his voice dropping to a near whisper—yet somehow louder than any shout. "If the rulers of today... kings, queens, emperors across one hundred and eighty nations..." His eyes sharpened. "...come to believe that such power is attainable—"
A pause. "Do you think they will continue to kneel before us?" No one answered. "Or will they," he pressed, "turn their eyes upward... toward the Holy Land..."
"...and begin to ask how?" The silence that followed was no longer just tension. It was realization. "If twenty kingdoms, driven by ambition and greed, could reshape the entire world..." Saturn’s voice deepened, each word striking like thunder, "could erase a century of history without leaving a trace..."
He leaned forward slightly. "...then imagine what one hundred and eighty nations could do." The implication was catastrophic. "Especially," he added, "if they are driven by the same hunger that once drove us." The room felt smaller. Heavier. "...because this time," Saturn said quietly, "we would not be the architects of history."
A long pause. "We would be its target." The words lingered like an omen.
For centuries, the greatest threat to the World Government had always been the past—the truths carved into Poneglyphs, buried beneath time. But now... The future itself had become the greater danger. Because history, once uncovered, could inspire rebellion.
But immortality? That could ignite something far worse. War. Not for freedom. Not for truth. But for ascension. And unlike the ancient kingdom, this time, the entire world would be fighting against them. A realization dawned slowly across the faces of the others.
They had feared the Poneglyphs. They had feared the truth of the past. But Saturn had made one thing brutally clear—the greater threat... was what the world might do next. Because history could not change.
But ambition? Ambition could make the world repeat it. And this time... The World Government would be the civilization marked for erasure.
"Elder Saturn is right..." The voice that broke through the heavy silence carried a weight none of them expected. Figarland Garling. For a fleeting moment, even the others turned toward him in quiet surprise. It was rare—almost unheard of—for him to openly support the words of the Gorosei without dissecting them first, without finding fault or leverage.
And yet now... There was no mockery. No calculation in his tone. Only cold acknowledgment.
"We are underestimating the true scale of this threat," Garling continued, his gaze steady, his voice measured but firm. "Especially when it comes to the credibility the World Times has cultivated over the years."
He tapped the newspaper once, sharply. "Across the seas, its word is truth. People do not question it—they accept it. Whatever is printed here... becomes reality in their minds."
A pause. "That alone makes this far more dangerous than any weapon." The room fell into a deeper silence. "Let alone the monarchs of the lower world..." Garling went on, his eyes narrowing slightly, as if peering beyond the chamber itself—beyond the Red Line, beyond the seas.
"I suspect... the danger may already exist much closer to home." That statement alone shifted the atmosphere. "Even among the Celestial Dragons..." he said quietly. A ripple of tension passed through the room.
"There are those who harbor ambition. Those who question. Those who desire more." His voice grew colder. "The blessing of Imu-sama is not universal. Even among the Tenryubito, only a select few are aware of the Great One’s existence... and an even smaller number understand the true nature of the power granted."
His gaze hardened. "But unlike the masses below... there are those among them who have seen us." A beat. "Seen that we do not age. That we do not wither."
The implication settled like poison. "And when one sees such a thing..." Garling continued, his tone dipping lower, "a question inevitably takes root." He paused—just long enough for the weight of it to sink in.
"Why them... and not me?" Silence. "Why should the Gorosei alone possess eternity... when we all bear the blood of gods?"
"Enough...!" Elder Mars cut in sharply, his voice edged with both irritation and something far less stable. "What exactly are you suggesting, Figarland?" His eyes narrowed. "That the Celestial Dragons themselves would turn their blades against us?"
Garling did not flinch. In fact— A faint, humorless smile touched his lips. "If one were to examine the matter with absolute rationality..." he replied calmly, "then yes."
The word landed heavily. "It is entirely possible." Elder Mars stiffened. Garling’s gaze sharpened, cutting through the room with surgical precision. "Tell me, Elder Mars..." he continued, his voice now carrying a subtle edge.
"Among the original twenty families..." He stepped forward slightly. "Does every family currently possess someone blessed by the Great One?" The question needed no answer.
They all knew it. No. Only the Gorosei... and the Knights of God. Not all twenty. Not even close. "There are families," Garling went on, his tone unwavering, "who stood at the foundation of this world... who spilled blood, erased history, committed atrocities beyond measure..."
His eyes darkened. "...and yet have nothing to show for it now except for the lofty title of Tenryubito." A pause. "Take the Donquixote family, for example." The name lingered in the air like a ghost. "Or others like them... stripped of influence, stripped of favor."
He tilted his head slightly. "Do you truly believe such families feel no resentment?" The silence answered for them. "Do you truly believe," Garling pressed, "that they would not grasp for immortality if they believed it within reach? Especially those families who had once before embraced this blessing."
His voice dropped—colder now, more dangerous. "Because make no mistake... to Imu-sama, there is no difference between you... and any one of them." A subtle shift. "A blessing granted to you... can just as easily be granted to another." His gaze locked onto Mars. "And a blessing given..."
A pause. "...can be taken away." The implication struck like a blade. All it would take— was a fall from favor. Garling straightened, his expression returning to its usual composed indifference—but the tension beneath it was undeniable.
"I do not trust them," he said plainly. "Not the kingdoms. Not the monarchs." A beat. "...and certainly not our own." Because he understood something the others were only beginning to grasp— Power built on fear could control the weak.
But power built on desire? That was far more volatile. For ten centuries, the twenty families had ruled the world as gods—untainted, unquestioned, untouchable. But now... A single revelation had done what no war, no rebellion, no ancient enemy ever could.
It had turned their own foundation against them. Ambition. Greed. Envy. The very forces that had once allowed them to rise... were now awakening in those beneath them.
And perhaps—even among those beside them. For the first time in centuries, the greatest threat to the World Government... was not the world below. Nor the forgotten past. But the possibility—
That their own "gods"... Might begin to turn on each other.
****
Water 7, Grand Line
"They’re late..." The words slipped out in a low murmur, barely carried by the sea breeze. Monkey D. Garp sat atop a weathered boulder overlooking the vast stretch of ocean before him, his broad frame still as a statue. The midday sun blazed overhead, its light dancing across the waves—but his sharp eyes remained fixed on the horizon.
Unblinking. Waiting. Behind him, the remnants of Water 7 told a story of both ruin... and defiance. What had once been a thriving city of canals and craftsmen now stood as a scar upon the sea. The rubble had mostly been cleared, pushed aside through relentless effort, leaving behind skeletal frameworks of what would one day rise again. Wooden beams, half-built structures, scaffolding stretching toward the sky—signs of a city clawing its way back to life.
Hammer strikes echoed in the distance. Voices called out. Life... stubbornly refused to die. The progress had been unnaturally fast, especially for an island that was erased completely. Not because the people had forgotten their grief, but because of the resources.
Every week, like clockwork, ships arrived. Supply ships. Bearing the mark of the Donquixote pirates. Wood. Steel. Tools. Food. Everything needed to rebuild an entire city from its ashes. No delays. No failures. Until today. Garp’s gaze hardened slightly. The horizon remained empty.
"They’re late..." he repeated under his breath, a faint crease forming on his brow. It wasn’t like them. Not once had they missed a delivery. Not once. A strange unease settled in his chest—subtle, but undeniable.
Slowly, his eyes shifted. Beside him, resting against the rough surface of the boulder, lay a folded newspaper. He had already read it. And he wished he hadn’t.
The world... Was about to descend into chaos. Not the kind of chaos born from pirates or wars over territory, but something far worse. Something deeper. This was a challenge. A direct challenge to the very foundation of the World Government.
Whoever had done this... had no intention of hiding anymore. They had torn away all pretense. This wasn’t a leak. It was a declaration. A war where only one side would remain standing. Garp exhaled slowly, his jaw tightening ever so slightly.
He had always had a suspicion. A quiet, nagging instinct buried deep within him. About the true force behind the World Times. That suspicion had first taken root years ago—when he had seen his own bounty printed in its pages. The same amount as Gol D. Roger. At the time, he had laughed. A ridiculous, audacious joke.
But now... Now it didn’t feel like a joke anymore. His eyes drifted back to the sea. "What the hell are you thinking, you brat..." he muttered, almost to himself.
Because if his suspicion was right—then the Donquixote pirates weren’t just fighting the world government from the shadows. They had just declared war on the entire world. And not openly. Not yet. But the truth had a way of surfacing. It always did.
And when it did... There would be no turning back. But that wasn’t what troubled him the most. Garp’s expression darkened slightly. What came next—he could already see it. The response.
The suppression. The blood. The World Government would not allow this to spread. Not this. Not something of this magnitude. There would be no restraint. No hesitation.
Entire islands would be silenced. Cities would burn. And the justification? "Maintaining order."
His fists clenched slightly against his knees. And the ones carrying out those orders... Would be the Marines. His Marines. Men and women who believed they stood for justice—forced to become executioners. Forced to slaughter innocents by the thousands... All because they had read a newspaper. All because they had dared to know. Garp shut his eyes for a brief moment.
Then— "Oye... old man...!" The voice snapped the tension. Garp glanced over his shoulder.
A young teen, half human, half cyborg, approached, footsteps heavy against the uneven ground. Franky. He carried an oversized platter piled high with food, the scent drifting through the salty air. Without ceremony, he thrust it forward.
"Here you go...!" Garp stared at him for a moment before reaching out, taking the platter with a quiet grunt. "...Tch. You’re feeding an enemy, you know," Garp muttered, though there was no real bite behind the words.
Franky snorted. "Yeah? Then stop showing up every damn day." Garp didn’t respond. Because they both knew the truth. This wasn’t the first time. For months now, Garp had remained. Perched along the edges of the ruined city like a silent sentinel.
Watching. Guarding. Not as a Marine. But as something else. The people of Water 7 had tried to drive him away more times than he could count. Shouts. Threats. Even outright attacks in the early days.
And every single time, he came back. Sat in the same place. Said nothing. Did nothing. Just... stayed. It didn’t erase the hatred. It couldn’t. The Marines had destroyed their home and killed their loved ones. Burned their lives to the ground. That kind of pain didn’t vanish in months. Maybe not even in years.
And yet... They had stopped trying to chase him away. Not because they forgave him. But because, somewhere along the way, they had begun to understand. The man sitting there...
Had nothing to do with their destruction. And yet he stayed anyway. Like he was trying to atone for something that wasn’t his to bear. Garp picked up a piece of food, chewing slowly as his gaze drifted back to the sea.
"Iceburg-kun seems... unusually restless these past few days." Garp’s voice was casual, almost offhand, as he took another bite from the platter. But his eyes—sharp, observant—remained fixed on the city behind them.
Franky didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he turned. His gaze found Iceburg in an instant. High above the ground, balanced atop a narrow rafter, Iceburg worked with relentless intensity. Hammer strikes rang out in rapid succession—too fast, too forceful, lacking the usual precision that defined him. His movements were sharp, almost erratic, as if he were trying to outrun something that lingered just beyond reach.
He hadn’t stopped. Not for days. No proper sleep. Barely any food. To anyone else, it might have looked like dedication. But Franky knew better. To him, it looked like mourning.
A quiet, desperate kind of mourning—the kind where a man buries himself in labor because stopping... even for a moment... would mean facing whatever it was tearing him apart inside.
Franky’s jaw tightened slightly.
He had asked. More than once. Pressed him. Pushed him. Tried to force the truth out. But Iceburg had refused every time. Deflected. Dismissed. Returned to work. As if the act of building something new could somehow hold together what was breaking within him.
At first... Franky had feared the worst. Tom san. To the world, their master was dead. But Franky knew the truth. And for a brief, terrifying moment, he had thought something had happened—something that had reached even that hidden truth.
It was only after Iceburg had firmly denied it—after assuring him that it had nothing to do with their teacher—that Franky had been able to breathe again. But that didn’t make this any easier to understand. Franky exhaled slowly, shaking his head before turning back.
His eyes drifted downward—and stopped. On the neatly folded newspaper beside Garp. A flicker of something crossed his face. Curiosity.
"...Is it true...? The news..." Franky said, his voice quieter now. "What’s written in that newspaper..."
He hesitated, then looked at Garp directly. "...is it true?" A brief pause. "...is there really immortality in this world?"
The question hung in the air. Simple. But heavy. There was genuine curiosity in his tone—natural, almost childlike in its wonder. But beneath that... Something else. Something darker. A trace of sadness. A quiet, lingering melancholy that didn’t escape Garp’s notice. Garp chewed slowly, swallowing before answering.
"...Does it matter?" he replied, his tone neutral. "Maybe it’s true. Maybe it isn’t." He glanced sideways at Franky. "Why do you ask?"
Franky didn’t answer right away. His gaze shifted back toward the rising skeleton of Water 7—the beams, the scaffolding, the people rebuilding their lives piece by fragile piece.
"...Because," he said finally, his voice lower, steadier, "if the World Government was willing to massacre an entire island just to hide a lie..." His fists clenched slightly against his knees. "...then how far would they go... if it was the truth?"
Silence. The wind carried the distant sounds of construction—hammering, shouting, life continuing against all odds. But in that moment, it all felt far away. Garp’s hand froze midway to his mouth. The piece of food between his fingers suddenly felt heavier than it should.
Franky didn’t know. Not really. To him, this was still a question. A possibility. A theory. But Garp knew. Not from rumors. Not from speculation. But from the weight of history itself. From the blood-soaked truths buried beneath centuries of silence. His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
Because Franky was right. If they had destroyed Water 7 over a lie, then the truth... Would demand something far worse. Garp lowered his hand slowly, his appetite gone. His gaze drifted back to the horizon. To the empty sea. To the storm he knew was coming.
"...This world..." he muttered under his breath, barely audible.
Then silence. Because there was nothing he could say. Not to Franky. Not to anyone. After all—
He was a Marine. A bearer of "justice." And yet, he carried the bloodline of the D. The so-called natural enemies of the gods. A man standing on both sides of a war that hadn’t even begun yet. And for the first time in a long while, Monkey D. Garp felt the weight of that truth heavier than ever.