The wet squelch of blood echoed ominously as Donquixote Doflamingo took slow, deliberate steps forward. Each step sent ripples through the pooling crimson beneath his feet, the once-pristine marble of the plaza now a canvas of carnage.
The Celestial Dragon, now realizing the monster approaching him, instinctively stumbled backward. Fear—raw, unfiltered, and utterly foreign to his entitled existence—gripped him.
But the moment he registered that fear, humiliation took over. How dare he? How dare a lowly worm inspire terror in a descendant of the gods?
Rage burned in the Tenryuubito's veins, overpowering his reason. His trembling hands clenched around the pistol in his grip, and he bellowed, his voice shrill and seething with venom.
"What are you worms doing standing there like statues?! Kill him! Kill that bastard!"
BANG! BANG! BANG!
Gunfire erupted like a frenzied drumbeat, bullets tearing through Doflamingo's body. Yet his stride never faltered.
Chunks of flesh seemingly disintegrated upon impact, only to reform an instant later. To the horrified onlookers, it was as if he were a ghost—untouchable, unstoppable.
From the sidelines, the assembled Cipher Pol agents turned expectant gazes to the CP0 leader, awaiting orders. The masked agent, after a long pause, simply gave a slow shake of her head.
A silent command: Do not interfere.
As long as the Celestial Dragon's life wasn't in immediate danger, she had no intention of stepping in.
Doflamingo grinned as the foolish noble kept firing, kept screaming, kept digging his own grave.
"You... you filthy scum!" The Celestial Dragon's voice was high-pitched with hysteria, spit flying from his lips as he shrieked. "I will have you and your entire family strung from the walls! I will have your skin torn from your bones! I will—"
SMACK.
A thunderous slap cracked through the plaza like a whip, silencing everything.
The sound echoed, bouncing off the marble walls, off the hushed crowd, off the very heavens.
The Celestial Dragon's head snapped violently to the side, his glass helmet shattering instantly.
Teeth flew. Blood splattered.
A few noble spectators gasped in horror. The CP0 agent visibly stiffened. The Fishmen, despite everything, could only watch in silent awe.
The Celestial Dragon staggered, dazed, humiliated, in pain for the first time in his wretched life.
"You—" He turned, eyes ablaze with indignant rage.
SMACK.
Another slap sent him reeling in the opposite direction, his already swollen face now grotesquely misshapen.
The CP0 leader winced.
She had to fight every instinct to intervene. Doflamingo wasn't aiming to kill—but this… this was a declaration.
A declaration to the entire World Government. He was pushing their limits. Testing their bottom line.
Doflamingo chuckled darkly, his crimson sunglasses glinting under the bloodstained sunlight.
"Fufufufu… I can't help it." He tilted his head, an amused smirk stretching his lips. "The moment I see your face… I just feel like slapping it."
SMACK.
A third slap. This time, the Celestial Dragon crumbled to the ground like a broken doll.
Blood dribbled from his lips, his once-pristine robes tattered, his royal stature reduced to nothing but a shivering, sobbing heap.
Doflamingo towered over him, his expression unreadable. Then, with slow, calculated disgust, he spat onto the crumpled noble's body.
"Descendants of gods? Ptui….!."
He sneered, rolling his shoulders lazily as he placed his feet over the celestial dragon's knees crushing it real painfully and slowly, making the tenryubito squeal like a pig.
"You're worse than worms." The tension in the plaza was suffocating. No one dared to breathe.
Some spectators had already begun fleeing, eager to put as much distance as possible between themselves and the scene. Even the most hardened government soldiers stood rooted in place, uncertain, terrified.
They all knew it. This wasn't just an act of defiance. This was a declaration of war.
The atmosphere was suffocating, thick with tension so heavy it felt like the air itself had turned to lead.
A bead of sweat trickled down the CP0 agent's temple, her masked face betraying no emotion, yet her voice carried a subtle weight of warning as she finally spoke.
"Donquixote-sama, I believe that is enough. We will personally ensure the safe escort of the Fishman dignitaries. I kindly ask that you let this matter slide."
Though polite, her words were razor-sharp, a veiled reminder that even with his special status, there were limits—limits that not even the Heavenly Demon could cross without consequences.
Doflamingo grinned.
A slow, deliberate, predatory grin that sent a chill through those watching.
"Fufufufufu… is that so?"
His gaze flickered toward Señor Pink, a silent command passing between them. Without hesitation, Señor nodded and moved, gathering the bloodied and battered Fishman delegation and leading them away from Mariejois toward Redport.
That, however, was where Doflamingo's compliance ended.
With a casual ease that sent a shudder through those present, he bent down, gripping the crumpled Celestial Dragon by the throat and hoisting him high into the air.
The noble's limbs flailed uselessly, his swollen, bloodied face turning shades of red and purple as Doflamingo's grip tightened like a vice.
Gasps filled the plaza.
The remaining guards and Cipher Pol agents shifted, hands twitching toward their weapons, their carefully maintained neutrality teetering on the edge of collapse.
Then he spoke.
"I wonder…" Doflamingo mused, his voice eerily calm as his fingers slowly constricted around the noble's fragile throat.
"I wonder how the Elders have instructed you to act if I were to… snap his neck right here? Right in front of you?"
The CP0 agent froze.
For the first time since the chaos erupted, a flicker of uncertainty passed through her stance.
Because he wasn't bluffing.
His cold, deadened eyes held no amusement, no trace of the smug arrogance he often wore. He was serious.
And that terrified them.
The entire contingent of Cipher Pol agents tensed, the decision to act or remain passive teetering on the edge of a knife.
Then—
Tap. Tap. Tap.
A slow, rhythmic sound echoed through the blood-soaked plaza.
A cane striking the marble floor.
Doflamingo's smirk returned.
Without even needing to turn, he already knew.
"Tch… took you long enough."
The air itself seemed to grow heavier as the figure stepped forward, emanating a presence so suffocating, so absolute, that even the most hardened warriors felt an instinctive dread creep down their spines.
Saint Jaygarcia Saturn.
One of the Five Elders.
The entire battalion of guards and Cipher Pol agents instantly bowed in reverence, making way for the Elder as he came to a stop, his dark, calculating gaze settling on Doflamingo.
"Doflamingo…!" Saturn's voice was calm, neutral, yet layered with something undeniably ominous.
"That's enough trouble you've caused for now. We have far more pressing matters to discuss. And you should know—harming a Celestial Dragon is a death sentence. Even for you."
The words were spoken without threat, without anger—merely a statement of fact.
But Doflamingo only chuckled.
Low and slow at first, before it rose into a full-bodied, mocking laugh.
"Fufufufufu… is that supposed to scare me, Elder Saturn?"
His grip on the Celestial Dragon's throat didn't loosen. Instead, his fingers tightened.
Ever so slightly.
Just enough that the noble's strangled wheezes turned to desperate, choking gasps.
And then Doflamingo's expression changed.
Gone was the amusement, the smirk, the arrogance. His voice dropped, deadly and deliberate.
"Do you want to bet on whether I dare to kill him or not?"
The Cipher Pol agents behind Saturn stirred, hands moving ever so slightly toward their weapons. But Saturn raised a single hand.
Instantly, they froze. The Elder met Doflamingo's challenging gaze, his own unreadable.
A long silence stretched between them.
Then, finally—
"Donquixote," Saturn said, his voice betraying nothing. "Enough of this farce. Let him go."
The demand hung in the air.
Doflamingo cocked his head, his grip still unrelenting.
"And what if I don't?"
A mocking question.
A provocation.
One that had every single person in the plaza holding their breath.
****
Syrup VIllage, East Blue
The sky burned with hues of crimson and gold, the dying sun casting its final embers across the vast, endless ocean. The wind carried the familiar scent of salt and adventure, whispering through the tall grass atop the seaside cliff where Yasopp and Banchina sat together.
He had returned to Syrup Village just for her. Just for one more moment.
Yasopp leaned back, resting his elbows on the cool earth, his sharp eyes fixed on the horizon. The call of the sea, of adventure, of the uncertain tomorrow loomed over him like an unspoken promise. He knew it in his heart—this might be the last time.
Beside him, Banchina sat quietly, her fingers absently playing with the hem of her dress. She could feel it—the weight of his thoughts, the war inside his soul.
A gentle gust of wind tousled her dark hair as Yasopp finally spoke, his voice quiet, reluctant.
"I will have to return to the sea, Banchina…"
His words carried the weight of inevitability, of duty to a life he had long sworn himself to. He didn't look at her when he said it—he couldn't. Instead, his sharp gaze remained fixed on the horizon, as if the ocean itself was calling him back.
Banchina felt her chest tighten.
She had known it all along. This was always how it would be with Yasopp. He was never meant to be tied down. The sea ran in his veins, and no matter how much he loved her, no matter how much she loved him…
She bit her lip, hesitating. Could she tell him? Would it change anything?
Her hands instinctively fell to her stomach, where a new life was growing, fragile and full of unspoken possibilities.
"Yasopp…" she started, her voice wavering. He finally turned his head, noticing the way she clenched her hands together, how her eyes—usually so strong, so bright—were filled with something hesitant, uncertain.
She took a deep breath. She had to say it.
"I'm pregnant."
For a moment, Yasopp didn't react. His expression didn't change. The words hung in the air between them, heavy, profound.
He blinked, as if his mind was still trying to process the meaning of those simple, earth-shattering words.
"What…?" he breathed.
Banchina clenched her fists tighter, forcing herself to meet his gaze. "Yasopp… you're going to be a father."
Silence.
Yasopp's breath hitched. His mind raced, heart pounding so loudly he swore even the waves below could hear it. A father? Him?
He felt like the ground beneath him had just crumbled.
A storm of emotions crashed over him all at once—shock, joy, terror, guilt.
A child. His child.
His family.
His dream had always been to sail the world, to carve his name into the annals of history alongside legends. But now… now there was something—**someone—**waiting for him. Depending on him.
He turned away, running a hand through his disheveled hair, suddenly feeling restless, trapped.
"Banchina, I—" He stopped himself. He didn't even know what to say.
Banchina watched him carefully, searching his face, his eyes, for some kind of answer. She had known this moment would come—his hesitation, his conflict.
She had always known his heart belonged to the sea.
But she had to try. For the sake of their child.
"You could stay," she whispered, almost pleading. "We could be a family."
Yasopp exhaled sharply, eyes shut tight. She was asking the one thing he wasn't sure he could give.
The sea was his first love. The thrill of battle, the call of the unknown—it was the very essence of his being. To stay… to settle down… could he even do that?
Yet, the thought of leaving his child behind, never holding them, never seeing them grow…
It tore at his soul.
His hands clenched into fists.
Why? Why did life have to be so cruel, to make him choose between the two things he loved the most?
Banchina saw the storm raging in his eyes. She already knew the answer—but she had prayed, foolishly, that maybe, just maybe, he would choose differently.
Yasopp turned to her then, his expression pained, conflicted.
His voice was hoarse when he finally spoke.
"I want to stay. I do."
Her heart clenched.
"But I don't know if I can."
The truth laid bare between them.
Banchina smiled, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. She had prepared herself for this.
But still—it hurt.
She looked toward the sunset, her hand instinctively resting over her stomach, where their child —their son— was growing.
"I knew you'd say that." Her voice was soft, accepting. "I just… I had to try."
Yasopp swallowed the lump in his throat. He reached out, brushing his calloused fingers against hers, intertwining them gently.
"I'm sorry."
And he meant it. God, he meant it.
A part of him wanted to fight it—to turn his back on the sea, to be a husband, a father. But the other part, the part that had spent his life chasing the horizon, knew that if he stayed, if he ignored the call of the sea, he would never forgive himself.
Banchina squeezed his hand, her touch warm, understanding.
She had always loved a man who belonged to the sea.
And now, she would raise a child who would never know his father's embrace.
The thought nearly broke her, but she held back the tears.
She would be strong. For her child.
For their child.
The sun dipped below the horizon, and the ocean swallowed the light.
Yasopp knew this might be the last time he ever saw her.
So he memorized everything—the curve of her lips, the sadness in her eyes, the warmth of her hand in his.
And then, as the sea called once more—he let her go.
The wind carried the salty scent of the ocean, rustling through the grass atop the cliff where Yasopp and Banchina stood for what might be the last time. The sun had long since begun its descent, painting the sky in deep shades of orange and violet, a fitting backdrop for the farewell neither of them wanted to say.
Yasopp opened his mouth, struggling for words. "Banchina…"
But before he could say more, she smiled.
A gentle, heartbreaking smile that did nothing to hide the tears streaming down her face.
"It's okay, Yasopp," she whispered, her voice trembling but her resolve unshaken. "Go. Live your dream. I'll wait for you here, no matter how long it takes."
Her words pierced through his soul, and the guilt in his chest only grew heavier.
He should be happy. He should be grateful that she understood. But all he felt was pain.
His throat tightened. "I'm sorry…" But the words barely made it past his lips.
She wiped her tears quickly with the sleeve of her dress, forcing herself to put on a cheerful face, though Yasopp could see through the act.
"You should get going. Your crew must be waiting for you. You've already been on the island for almost two months."
The unspoken words hung between them: You can't stay. You never could.
And just like that, it was over.
Yasopp stood frozen for a moment, his heart screaming at him to stay, but his feet—his cursed feet—carried him away.
****
By the shore of Syrup Village, a medium-sized galleon lay anchored, its sails catching the evening breeze. The Jolly Roger of the Red-Haired Pirates fluttered proudly against the twilight sky.
Benn Beckman leaned against the mast, a cigarette resting between his fingers, his sharp eyes scanning the slope leading to the shore. Yasopp was late. That alone was enough to raise concern.
"This is unlike him," Beckman commented, his voice calm but watchful.
At a small wooden table, Shanks was in the middle of a card game with Buggy and a few others, a mischievous glint in his eye.
"Cut him some slack, Benn," Shanks said casually, not even bothering to look up. "We don't know when we'll have this kind of luxury again. Let him enjoy his time while he can."
Unnoticed by most, Shanks' fingers expertly shifted a hidden card up his sleeve, seamlessly swapping it into his hand.
Across from him, Buggy was grinning wildly, gripping his cards like they were a winning lottery ticket.
"This round, I'm finally gonna win, and then I get to slap your smug face, Shanks!" Buggy thought, his swollen cheek still sore from previous losses.
Lucky Roux, seated nearby on a wooden crate, let out a soft chuckle, gnawing on a large piece of meat. He had seen everything.
Shanks narrowed his eyes at him. A silent warning: "Don't you dare say a word."
Then—a shift in the air.
Shanks' Observation Haki flared, instantly picking up a familiar presence. Yasopp.
A silhouette emerged at the top of the slope, moving towards them slowly, deliberately.
Shanks turned, frowning. Something was wrong.
There was no farewell party, no Banchina waving from the distance.
And more than that—Yasopp wasn't steady.
His steps were heavy, as if he was dragging his own soul down the slope. The usual jovial energy, the cocky swagger of their sharpshooter—gone.
It was as if he had left a part of himself behind on that cliff.
Shanks' fingers slipped, and the hidden cards fell from his sleeve onto the table.
Buggy's eyes widened as he immediately realized what had just happened.
"YOU CHEATING BASTARD—!"
But then, he stopped.
He felt it too.
The atmosphere had shifted.
The usual rowdy energy of the crew was gone, replaced by a quiet, unsettling tension.
Buggy turned his head, following Shanks' gaze, and finally saw Yasopp.
His jaw tightened.
Yasopp was walking lifelessly toward the ship, his spirit disturbed, his heart torn in two.
The crew exchanged silent glances. They were a family. They had all seen pain before, but never like this.
Yasopp was one of theirs.
And tonight, he wasn't whole.
Shanks exhaled, stepping forward, waiting for his friend to reach the ship.
He wouldn't ask—not yet.
But he knew, deep down, that Yasopp had made the hardest choice of his life.
And now, he had to live with it.
The galleon swayed gently as the tide pulled at its hull, ready to depart. The crew moved swiftly, untying ropes and adjusting sails as Shanks gave the command to set sail.
Yet amidst the flurry of motion, all eyes lingered on Yasopp.
He climbed aboard without a word, his boots landing on the wooden deck with an uncharacteristic heaviness. The usual grin, the cocky remarks, the endless jokes—gone.
Shanks and the others held back, knowing that whatever haunted him wasn't something to be pried into so soon.
But Buggy?
Buggy was never one for patience.
The red-nosed pirate strode forward, his expression twisted into something between suspicion and unease. If there were two people who teased him the most in the crew, it was Lucky Roux and Yasopp.
And yet, Yasopp—the same Yasopp who laughed in the face of danger, who mocked Buggy every chance he got—was now sitting on a wooden crate by the mast, staring out at the island like he had just left his soul behind.
It didn't sit right with Buggy. Not one bit.
He stepped closer, hesitating only for a second before speaking.
"Everything alright, Yasopp?" Buggy asked, and for once, his voice held none of its usual snark. It was quiet. Genuine.
A bitter chuckle escaped Yasopp's lips, dry and hollow, like he was laughing at some cruel joke only he understood.
"I'm going to be a father…" he whispered, his voice barely audible over the waves.
The words hung in the air, heavy, suffocating.
Buggy blinked.
He wasn't the sharpest in the crew, but even he understood what those words meant. And it wasn't just him.
The entire deck fell silent.
No one spoke, but the shift in the atmosphere was palpable.
For a crew of pirates—a family forged not by blood, but by the shared pursuit of freedom—this was an unspoken truth they all understood too well.
A father. A husband. A brother. A son.
They had all left someone behind.
Not because they didn't love them. But because this was the path they had chosen.
Because the sea wasn't just a calling. It was a curse.
A life of adventure, of danger, of legendary battles… but also one of abandonment.
To be a pirate was to give everything to the sea.
To live and die by it.
Buggy shifted awkwardly, unsure of what to say. He was never good with this kind of thing.
Shanks, standing nearby, let out a quiet sigh. He understood all too well.
"Tough luck, huh?" Shanks finally spoke, his tone light but carrying an underlying weight. "You made your choice, Yasopp. It was never going to be easy."
Yasopp exhaled, running a hand through his hair. "Yeah…"
But no matter how much he told himself that, the ache in his chest wouldn't go away.
As the island faded into the horizon, he knew that Banchina was still standing somewhere on that shore, waiting.
And he had no right to ask her to.
The wind picked up, filling the sails as the pirate galleon cut through the water, carrying them further and further away.
And Yasopp, despite the open sea before him, had never felt so trapped.