The chamber was silent, save for the scratching of a pen against parchment. Incense burned quietly in the corner, the scent of sandalwood barely masking the tension that hung in the air.
"What's the matter?" Elder Mars asked without looking up from his desk. His voice was calm — measured — the tone of someone who had seen empires rise and fall without blinking.
Before him stood a World Government agent, stiff and expressionless beneath the dim light of the Celestial Chamber. The agent bowed slightly before speaking, his tone as neutral as the mask he wore.
"Gorosei-sama… Admiral Akainu is requesting permission to depart from his post. He's already reached the Red Port and insists on providing reinforcement at Water 7. Shall we issue a restraining order?"
Mars sighed, signing another document without pause. "It can't be helped, I suppose. The situation at Water 7 worsens by the hour… but even that hothead knows better than to act without orders."
He finally set his pen aside and looked up, his cold, ancient eyes glinting beneath the chandelier light. "Any new reports from the battlefield?"
The agent nodded crisply. "The Bloodsteel Pirates have entered the fray. Scarlett and Kaido are currently engaged in direct combat. With their arrival, Marine casualties have increased drastically."
Mars didn't flinch. "It doesn't matter if Marines die. Their duty is to serve… and serve they shall." His tone was absolute. "If Kaido and that woman want to tear each other apart, let them. Instruct Aegis Division to exploit the chaos — eliminate potential threats among the Emperor's subordinates. Anyone who could grow into an issue in the future…"
The elder's voice trailed as he scrawled his approval across another decree. Then, mid-stroke, his pen stopped.
"What of the Donquixote Pirates?" His gaze sharpened like a blade. "Have they made their move?"
The agent swallowed before replying. "Yes, Gorosei-sama. Saint Agana has been sighted on the island. She's fighting under the Donquixote banner. Our agents attempted contact, but… she's cut down every envoy we've sent."
A flicker of irritation crossed Mars's face. "Tch. Ungrateful traitor. So she's fallen that far already? To abandon her divine lineage for that worm's influence…" His voice turned to venom. "Issue an immediate decree — Agana is stripped of her Celestial Dragon status. All privileges, titles, and records are revoked. From this moment on, she no longer exists to the Holy Land."
The agent hesitated. "But Gorosei-sama… shouldn't we at least inform Saint Figarland? Given the—"
The air trembled. Mars's Haki surged for an instant, suffocating the room. The lights above flickered violently, their flames bending away from him as though terrified.
"Did I ask," Mars said slowly, "for your opinion?"
The agent immediately dropped to one knee, trembling. "My apologies, Gorosei-sama! I will carry out your orders at once!"
Mars exhaled through his nose, annoyed, and reached for another document. But before his pen could touch parchment again, another door burst open. A second agent stumbled in, panting, his face pale with something beyond fear.
Mars frowned. So… the storm finally hits.
"What is it now?" he asked coldly.
"Gorosei-sama—" the agent gasped, still trying to catch his breath. "It's… it's Whitebeard." That name alone made the entire room still. Even Mars's pen froze mid-air.
"What about him?" he asked after a heartbeat. His tone didn't change, but his hand tightened around the pen until it cracked slightly. "We expected his arrival. Sengoku should have intercepted him near the surface. Is he requesting reinforcements?"
The agent shook his head violently. "No, sir. That's not it."
Mars's gaze narrowed. "Then speak."
The agent swallowed hard, his next words tumbling out in a rush. "Whitebeard has bypassed Marineford entirely. He surfaced directly near the Gates of Justice—next to Marineford itself—without resistance."
Mars's eyes widened slightly, disbelief flashing in their depths. "That's… impossible. Those gates are guarded by an entire armada. He couldn't have navigated the Tarai Current without—"
The agent interrupted, voice trembling. "He didn't navigate it, Gorosei-sama. He tore it apart." The pen in Mars's hand slipped, clattering against the marble floor.
"What… did you say?"
The words were barely above a whisper, but they struck like thunder in the silent chamber. The agent's face went white as he forced the report out. "Whitebeard has ripped off the Gates of Justice—the entire structure—and entered the Tarai Current with his fleet. They're en route to Water 7 as we speak."
For a long, frozen moment, no one moved. The silence that followed wasn't just shock — it was horror. Mars rose slowly from his seat, the weight of the words pressing against his chest like gravity itself.
"Ripped… off the Gate of Justice?" he repeated, almost in disbelief. "That gate is layered with seastone, reinforced to withstand the fury of the ocean itself… its foundation channels the very tides that guard the World Government's core…"
He trailed off. His hands trembled slightly — not from fear, but from sheer incredulity. For centuries, the Gates of Justice had been untouchable — a symbol of divine control, the very thing that kept the seas themselves obedient. To destroy it was to defy the natural laws of the world.
And yet, Whitebeard — the old titan, the so-called "Man Closest to One Piece" — had done exactly that.
The other elder, hidden within the shadows of the chamber, stirred restlessly. The incense smoke trembled in the air, like the Holy Land itself was holding its breath.
Mars clenched his fist, veins rising across his hand. "He's turned the sea against us," he muttered, voice low but venomous. "The fool intends to bring the Grand Line itself to its knees…" A tremor ran through the chamber as distant thunder echoed from beyond the clouds above Mary Geoise.
Mars looked out toward the world below — toward the chaos now unfolding on the Grand Line — and for the first time in decades, a shadow of unease crossed his ancient features.
"Whitebeard…" he whispered. "You dare defy the will of the Gods themselves?" The lights flickered, and somewhere far below the Red Line, the sea roared back — as if laughing in answer.
"Sengoku… you useless fool. You had one job, and you couldn't even do that right…"
Elder Mars's growl reverberated through the marble chamber as his hand slammed down on the desk. Scrolls and decrees scattered to the floor as he seized the transponder snail, its eyestalks curling in nervous mimicry of his rage.
"Don't you dare tell me he's unreachable again," Mars snapped at the trembling operator beside him. The agent swallowed, his fingers tightening around his notes.
"Elder Mars—"
"Enough!" The old man's voice thundered through the chamber, echoing against the gilded walls. His fury was the kind that could topple kingdoms; even the ancient portraits of the Celestial lineage seemed to shiver under the weight of his voice. A slow, tired sigh broke through the tension.
"Yelling at him won't change a damn thing."
From the shadows at the far end of the hall, Elder Nusjuro emerged. The samurai's aged hand closed the worn book he had been reading, the sound of its cover snapping shut slicing through the silence sharper than any blade. His snow-white beard and unflinching eyes gave him the calm of a warrior who had seen far worse storms than this.
He stepped forward, the tap of his wooden sandals echoing across the marble. "The Gates of Justice have fallen. That's a wound to our authority the world won't soon forget. But anger won't mend it, Mars. Strategy will."
Mars glared, but said nothing. Nusjuro's presence had that effect — commanding, unshakable, the voice of a soldier amid gods.
"You said Akainu's already at Red Port, yes?" Nusjuro asked, glancing toward the agent. The man nodded quickly.
"Then send him. Immediately." Nusjuro's tone brooked no argument. "And dispatch Admiral Raylene as well. With Whitebeard in the Tarai Current, it's far too late to try and stop him. We'll need every high-level combatant near Water 7 to contain what's coming."
Mars's eyes narrowed. "You're suggesting we let him pass through the current? Through Enies Lobby? Are you mad?"
Nusjuro shot him a hard look. "If we try to intercept that man inside the Current, Enies Lobby will cease to exist. The Tarai Current isn't a battlefield — it's a deathtrap. If Whitebeard's already forced his way into it, then let him ride it straight to Water 7."
He turned toward the agent again, his voice sharp as steel. "Send word to Enies Lobby. Every fleet stationed there is to withdraw and form a defensive perimeter around the Justice Island. Under no circumstances are they to engage Whitebeard's forces. That is an order."
The agent saluted and sprinted from the room. Mars exhaled slowly, his frustration simmering beneath the surface. He understood the reasoning — it was better to lose a corridor than an entire bastion. But the thought of letting Whitebeard pass unchallenged through their waters was almost unbearable.
"The world is watching, Nusjuro,"" Mars muttered darkly. "Every king, every pirate, every fool across the seas will take this as weakness."
Nusjuro gave a short, dry chuckle. "Let them watch. Let them whine. When the dust settles, they'll see who still controls the board and anyone who says otherwise will simply cease to exist."
He stepped closer to the window overlooking the Holy City. The red clouds hung low over the horizon, a storm gathering far below them where the Grand Line raged.
"What about the Seven Warlords?" Nusjuro asked, his tone grave. "How many have responded to the summons?"
The remaining agent at the corner of the room flipped through his den-den receiver logs before answering.
"Currently, only Gecko Moria and Crocodile have reached Water 7, Gorosei-sama. But…" He hesitated. "…their motives appear… questionable. Both seem to be acting independently, pursuing the blueprints for themselves. As for Dracule Mihawk — he has not responded, as usual."
Mars's brow furrowed. "Typical."
The agent continued quickly. "However, the remaining three have accepted the summons. They're en route to intercept the pirate fleets approaching the island."
At that, Nusjuro's gaze hardened. "Moria, Crocodile, Izumi, Dorian, and that lunatic Francois…" He folded his arms. "The Seven Warlords — a collection of vultures bound together by convenience. Still, they serve their purpose."
Mars scoffed. "Serve? Barely. Moria's probably crawling out of his grave because he wants something from us in return. Crocodile's ambitions have always been obvious, he thinks he is smart but he is naive — ancient weapons, forbidden power, the usual drivel of would-be kings. Let him try. He'll choke on his own arrogance before he ever reaches it."
Nusjuro smirked faintly. "And the others? Any idea as to why their sudden interest in the matter..? They had all the excuses at hand to reject the summons, especially with how short notice it was…"
Mars's eyes narrowed at the thought. "Izumi and Dorian… they are unstable but useful; they don't seem to be showing any particular interest in the matter regarding the ancient weapons themselves. Their notoriety alone keeps the balance intact. As for that last one…" He trailed off, his tone dropping lower. "…that mad dog Francois. A monster even by pirate standards. We have no idea why he is stepping forward willing especially even after knowing that Whitebeard will be there…"
Nusjuro grunted in agreement. "The fact that he still wears the title of Shichibukai is a gamble in itself. The day we strip it away, he'll turn those blades on us."
Mars nodded grimly. "An enigma — and a necessary evil."
Lightning flashed outside the chamber windows, casting their silhouettes in stark relief against the gold-leafed walls. The storm over the Grand Line had reached even this high — the heavens rumbling in response to the chaos below. For a moment, the two elders stood in silence, watching the clouds churn.
****
While the gods of the world argued within their golden halls high above, far below, where the sea met the blood-colored cliffs of the Red Line, a single man stood before the towering wall that divided heaven from earth.
The waves were unusually calm. Normally, these waters were wild — a violent symphony of currents that crashed endlessly against the Red Line's base, as though even the sea itself detested the existence of that crimson barrier. But tonight… they were still. Almost reverent.
It was as if the ocean — the very soul of the world — had gone silent to bear witness. Fisher Tiger stood there, gazing upward at the colossal red wall that pierced the clouds, its surface gleaming faintly under the moonlight. His gills fluttered softly in the breeze as the salt air stung his eyes, but his gaze remained firm — resolute.
He knew what lay above. He knew the consequences. And yet, he did not hesitate. The entire world's eyes were fixed on Water 7, where the greatest forces of the age were clashing in chaos. It was the perfect distraction — the only window a man like him would ever get.
Tiger had chosen this night carefully. His attire was simple, but everything about it spoke of purpose. His sleeveless, sea-worn tunic clung to his broad frame, the coarse fabric allowing freedom of motion. The material was reinforced with waterproof leather strips across his chest and shoulders — light, flexible armor designed to survive both the climb and the fight that might await him at the summit.
Across his hips, twin cutlasses hung from sturdy belts, their edges gleaming faintly with the polish of care and use. He had no illusions about stealth once he reached the top — this was a mission that would end in either freedom or death, and he would meet either with his blades drawn.
Strapped diagonally across his back were two muskets, old but reliable, the barrels darkened with oil to avoid reflecting light. Around his waist, he carried half a dozen throwing knives, sheathed neatly within easy reach, and four flintlock pistols holstered across his chest and thigh belts.
Each weapon added weight — a burden for any climber — but Tiger carried them all without complaint. Better to climb heavy than to die light.
Dangling from his harness were iron climbing hooks, their points sharpened to bite into the Red Line's rough surface. Coiled neatly at his side hung several lengths of reinforced rope, seaweed-treated to resist fraying from salt and friction. A small grappling spike was fastened to his pack, alongside pitons, hammer hooks, and a climbing axe crafted from forged coral and tempered steel — a tool that could double as a weapon if the need arose.
Every item had a purpose. Every ounce of weight was a choice. He exhaled slowly, eyes narrowing as he studied the wall. The Red Line loomed so high that it seemed to pierce the heavens themselves, vanishing into a sea of clouds that blotted out the stars. The scale of it was enough to make most men falter. But Fisher Tiger was not most men.
He had seen the cruelty of the world above this wall. He had felt the chains that bound his kind beneath it. Tonight, he would return — not as a slave, but as the storm that would shake the very foundations of the so-called Holy Land.
For a brief moment, he closed his eyes. The sea breeze brushed against his face like an old friend, and the waves lapped gently at his feet — a silent blessing from the ocean that had given him life. He smiled faintly.
"Even the sea's gone quiet for me, huh?" He gripped the first climbing spike and drove it into the wall.
CLANG.
The metallic echo carried across the still waters like the toll of a distant bell. Another spike. Another sound. And slowly, Fisher Tiger began his ascent.
The Red Line resisted him at every inch. The rock was slick with salt and mist, jagged and uneven, and the air grew colder the higher he went. But Tiger's movements were deliberate, powerful — every swing of his arm and push of his leg was filled with the strength of a man who had crossed oceans and broken chains.
Below, the sea began to churn again, as if stirred by his defiance. He climbed higher, the lights of the surface world vanishing below him, replaced by the dark veil of clouds above. Lightning flickered faintly in the distance — a reminder of the gods' fury waiting at the top.
He was trespassing upon their heaven. He knew that once his shadow fell upon their sacred walls, the Holy Land would be on high alert. Marines, Cipher Pol agents, and the world government's soldiers would descend upon him like locusts. Even the Marine Admirals stationed upon the Holy Land might appear.
But he was counting on their arrogance — their distraction.
With the world's might drawn toward Water 7, the defenses of Mary Geoise would be thinner than ever. Just thin enough for one man to slip through. His fingers tightened around the next ledge, muscles straining. The ropes creaked under his weight, and droplets of sweat mingled with the sea mist on his skin.
Still, he climbed. His mind wandered briefly to Fishman Island — to the faces of those who had waited their entire lives for the day someone would strike back. He remembered the pain of the collars, the laughter of the Celestial Dragons, the chains that clinked like mockery in his sleep. And that memory gave him strength.
"Wait for me," he whispered to the wind. "I'll burn their heaven to the ground."
The Red Line stretched endlessly above him, a monument to oppression, to the arrogance of men who thought themselves gods. But beneath it — a single fishman climbed, step by step, toward the impossible.
The waves below began to roar again, crashing against the cliffs in rhythm with his climb.
Whether it was rage, awe, or encouragement, even the sea could not remain silent any longer.
And somewhere, far above the clouds, the Holy Land slept — blissfully unaware that a legend was already scaling its walls.
By the time Fisher Tiger had reached what he guessed was halfway up the Red Line, the sea below had vanished into mist. He couldn't even hear the waves anymore — only the howling wind that screamed across the cliff face like an angry god.
The air here was thin, biting cold. Every breath burned in his chest. The rock beneath his fingers was slick with crimson moss and salt, and his knuckles were already bleeding from the constant friction. But still, he climbed.
His muscles screamed, his rope groaned, and his heartbeat thundered in his ears — a steady drumbeat that kept him moving. His Haki coated his fingers and arms, hardening them against the jagged stone, helping him find grip where none should exist. Even then, the climb was treacherous beyond belief.
A sudden gust slammed into him. He dug the climbing axe deep into the wall, the metal biting into the stone with a crack. For a moment, he dangled there — suspended between the endless sky and the unseen ocean below. The Red Line offered no sympathy. It was alive in its cruelty — cold, vast, and unfeeling.
And yet, it wasn't done testing him. From somewhere above the clouds came a shriek — high, piercing, and ancient. Tiger froze. His eyes narrowed as a massive shadow cut through the mist. Wings.
Enormous wings.
The colossal creature emerged with a bone-rattling screech — a Sky Leviathan, one of the aerial predators that made the upper reaches of the Red Line their nesting ground. Its body was a hybrid of bird and serpent — wings like stretched canvas that stretched for dozens of meters across, scales shimmering in oily hues of red and black. Its eyes glowed like molten gold, and the curved beak could split steel.
The monster circled once, sensing movement — then dove. Tiger barely had time to brace before the beast slammed into him. The impact rattled his bones; his rope snapped like a whip.
"Damn it—!"
He swung his climbing axe just in time, embedding it into the cliff again as the creature's talons slashed past, tearing a chunk of rock — and nearly him — from the wall. Dust and pebbles exploded downward, vanishing into the endless fog.
Tiger gritted his teeth, pulling himself close to the wall. His muscles bulged, veins standing out beneath his skin as he forced his other hand free and drew one of his pistols. The leviathan swooped again, jaws open wide. Tiger raised the pistol, calm even in chaos. "Not today."
BANG!
The shot rang out, the sound swallowed by the storm. The bullet — coated in Armament Haki — pierced straight through one of the creature's eyes. The beast shrieked, its body convulsing as it spiraled upward, wings flailing wildly before disappearing back into the mist above. Tiger exhaled, his heart pounding.
He holstered the pistol and continued his climb, every sense alert. His body was strong, but nature was relentless — and the Red Line still had more to throw at him. Not long after, the rain came.
A curtain of water poured down from above, turning the world into a blur of motion and sound. The cliff face turned slick as oil, the ropes heavy and waterlogged. His fingers slipped twice, nearly costing him his life.
Lightning flashed—blinding white—followed by a deafening roar of thunder that shook the very wall. Tiger's vision swam for a moment. His arms trembled. He knew he had to rest, but there was nowhere to rest on this cursed cliff. The rainwater streamed down in torrents, drenching him to the bone. Every inch of his skin stung from the cold.
Still, he pressed on. And then—out of the corner of his eye—he saw movement in a small crevice just above him. A glint of green. Before he could react, something lashed out—fast, silent, and deadly.
Tiger jerked back just as a crimson-scaled serpent struck from the crack in the wall, its fangs glistening with venom potent enough to melt flesh. The snake coiled, ready to strike again—but this time Tiger was ready.
His hand shot out, faster than the creature could blink, gripping it by the neck. He slammed it against the rock, the impact cracking stone. The serpent writhed, hissing violently.
Tiger's eyes narrowed. "Even you want a piece of me, huh?"
He crushed the snake's head against the wall and let the lifeless body fall into the void below. The rain washed away the blood, leaving only the steady rhythm of droplets striking stone.
He paused—just for a heartbeat—and looked upward. The Red Line's peak was still hidden in cloud and storm. He couldn't even see how far he'd come. For all he knew, he'd been climbing for hours. But that didn't matter. His fingers flexed. His jaw clenched. The fire in his chest refused to fade.
He thought of his brothers and sisters still bound in chains. Of the scars that lined his back. Of the laughter of Celestial Dragons who had treated his people as playthings.
"I'll show them…" he whispered to the storm. "What it means to defy the heavens."
Lightning flashed again—and in that light, the figure of Fisher Tiger, drenched and battered, clinging to the Red Line with nothing but will and fury, looked less like a man and more like a force of nature himself. The storm howled around him. The mountain bled rain. The world seemed to resist him at every step.
But the fishman climbed on. Step by step. Breath by breath. Defying the gods and the sea alike. By the time the storm began to ease, Fisher Tiger was gone—swallowed by the clouds, climbing toward the forbidden light of the Holy Land.