The chamber doors parted with a low, echoing groan. Silk curtains stirred as if the room itself sensed his arrival. "How is she…?"
Donquixote Doflamingo stepped inside without waiting for permission, his feathered coat brushing the marble floor like a living thing. Behind him followed Senor Pink, unusually silent, the usual theatrics absent from his heavy stride.
Before either man could advance further, a small blur of pink darted past them. Little Reiju rushed to the bedside, her tiny hands gripping the sheets as she climbed up toward the pillow. Her wide eyes shimmered with panic she was too young to mask. At the far end of the chamber, Giolla rose abruptly from her chair, paint-stained fingers curling into her skirts as she bowed her head.
"Master…" The room was dimly lit, lantern light refracting through tall panes of stained glass shaped like coral and seafoam—an aesthetic Shyarly had favored. The entire chamber felt submerged, bathed in hues of deep blue and filtered gold. The ceiling had been crafted like the inside of a vast shell, curving inward protectively over the enormous bed at its center.
Upon that bed lay Shyarly. Still. Too still. Her long hair fanned across the pillow like spilled ink beneath water. Her chest rose and fell slowly, but her presence—her spirit—felt distant. Not asleep. Sunken.
"She has lost consciousness," Giolla said carefully, eyes lowered. "From what Scarlett and Monet witnessed… she forced herself to see a vision. She pushed beyond her limits."
Doflamingo did not respond immediately. He was already beside the bed. The mattress dipped slightly beneath his weight as he leaned closer, crimson lenses reflecting her pale, unmoving face.
"The backlash…" Giolla continued, swallowing. "It appears to have driven her into a deep slumber."
Doflamingo's smile did not reach his eyes. Shyarly was not merely a member of the Donquixote Family. She was one of its pillars. Her prophetic abilities—magnified by her Devil Fruit—had spared them ambushes, exposed betrayals before they bloomed, and revealed opportunities others could not even conceive. Entire operations had succeeded because she had seen the path ahead. Without her foresight— The future became fog.
"Can you heal her?" Senor Pink asked quietly. His voice carried none of its usual bravado. Near the pillow, the small Tontatta princess placed her hands gently against Shyarly's forehead. A faint glow shimmered briefly before fading. She lowered her head. And shook it. It was a tiny motion.
But it carried the weight of inevitability. Doflamingo's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. Senor exhaled through his nose, heavy and restrained. Before either man could press further, a soft voice cut through the silence.
"Master Doffy…" Monet stepped forward. Even composed as she was, her expression betrayed something rare—unease. For Monet to falter meant the ground beneath them was already cracking. Doflamingo's head tilted slightly in her direction.
"Yes?"
"She forced herself to see the vision," Monet said, her arms folding tightly before her as though bracing against cold. "Before collapsing… she managed to speak. "The air grew heavier.
"What did she say?" Doflamingo asked. His voice was calm. Too calm. The cold edge beneath it was not aimed at anyone in the room. It was aimed inward—at his own failure to foresee this. At the fact that one of his own had fallen beyond his reach. Monet hesitated only a fraction of a second.
"Shyarly said… that someone within our family is in grave danger." The words seemed to echo unnaturally against the shell-like ceiling. Senor Pink's head snapped toward her. Doflamingo did not move—but the temperature in the room seemed to drop. Someone within our family.
Not an ally. Not an asset. Family.
"Who?" Señor demanded. Monet's eyes lowered.
"That was all she managed," she said quietly. "She said someone among us is in mortal danger… but before she could name who, she collapsed…" Silence fell again. Reiju clutched Shyarly's hand tighter, whispering something under her breath as if trying to anchor her back to the surface.
Doflamingo slowly straightened. His shadow stretched long across the coral-colored floor. Mortal danger. Within his family. He did not believe in coincidence. Nor did he ignore prophecy. If Shyarly had risked her mind—her very consciousness—to force that vision through, then whatever she saw had been urgent enough to defy consequence.
Outside the stained-glass windows, the sea churned faintly against the palace cliffs. Inside the chamber, threads of invisible tension began to tighten. Doflamingo adjusted his glasses slightly.
"Seal the palace," he ordered calmly. It was not a suggestion. "No one enters. No one leaves without permission." His smile returned—thin, sharp, dangerous.
Doflamingo did not linger. After issuing a few quiet but absolute instructions to Giolla to remain at Shyarly's side no matter what, he turned on his heel and exited the chamber. The doors shut behind him with a low, resonant thud that sounded far too much like a coffin being sealed. Reiju stayed behind, small fingers still wrapped around Shyarly's unmoving hand.
Senor Pink followed his master into the corridor, the marble floor reflecting the distorted silhouette of Donquixote Doflamingo as he strode forward without hesitation. But there was something different in his pace. Not panic. Calculation sharpened by instinct.
"Senor," Doflamingo said evenly, though the air around him felt charged. "Reach out to everyone in the family. Warn them. Especially those currently outside Dressrosa."
His coat rippled behind him like restless wings.
"And purge every mole we've left breathing inside Dressrosa. I don't care how minor they are. I don't care who they report to." His voice lowered—cold, decisive. "It's fine if it alarms the World Government. We cannot afford lingering risks."
Senor's expression hardened immediately. "Yes, Master Doffy. I will see to it at once."
He pulled out his personal Den Den Mushi, its tiny face already scrunching with urgency as multiple lines were prepared simultaneously. Calls began to route outward across the seas.
Warnings. Orders. Silent mobilizations. Because they did not know who Shyarly had seen in her vision, everyone had to assume it was them.
"Were you able to reach Rosinante yet?" Doflamingo asked, not slowing as they passed beneath high arched windows that overlooked the restless sea. Senor shook his head grimly.
"No signal. He's still within that forbidden sea. The interference is blocking all transmissions."
Doflamingo clicked his tongue faintly. Rosinante was currently hunting Pure Gold—a resource so rare it could distort time itself. The sea he traveled through was notorious for devouring signals, compasses, even fate itself.
Normally, Doflamingo would not worry. With Rosinante's current strength, only a handful of beings in the world could threaten him. Perhaps only Imu.
And yet— Shyarly had forced the vision. That meant certainty. Soon, Senor's Den Den Mushi began connecting. Calls went out in rapid succession. To Agana, stationed beside Shirahoshi as her guardian—the future Poseidon—within the newly built Fish-Man Island on Punk Hazard. To Robin and the rest, training in the first half of the Grand Line under Dr. Kureha, sharpening both mind and body.
To Issho, currently en route to meet Rosinante, tasked with helping haul the remains of Bonbori back to Dressrosa. Each transmission carried the same message: Heightened alert. Maximum vigilance. Trust no coincidence.
Doflamingo continued walking— Then abruptly stopped. The sudden halt caused Senor to nearly step into him. Doflamingo's brows drew together slightly behind crimson lenses. He replayed the names in his mind.
Agana… Robin… Lucci.. Smoker.. Law…Issho... Rosinante… Shirahoshi. All accounted for.
All monitored. All prepared.
Then—a name surfaced. And his stomach tightened in a way he did not appreciate. "Dora."
Senor's head snapped up.
"Senor," Doflamingo said slowly, each word deliberate. "Have you tried reaching Dora yet...?"
Silence. Señor's eyes widened. Dora. She had left Dressrosa alone in secret. No escort. No formal declaration. No coordination with the Donquixote intelligence network. She had slipped away toward Elbaph on her own initiative.
Unlike the others, whose movements were tracked, protected, and shadowed by Donquixote intelligence, Dora had stepped beyond their web. Recklessly.
"She didn't inform anyone before departure, Master Doffy…" Senor muttered under his breath.
"And she took no one with her," Doflamingo finished. The corridor suddenly felt narrower. The sea outside the windows seemed darker. "Monitor every vivre card of the family members," Doflamingo ordered immediately. "Now."
Senor's hands moved quickly, flipping open a secured case containing the fragments—each one pulsing faintly with the life force of a family member.
"Where is Issho currently?" Doflamingo demanded.
"Two days from Rosinante's last known route. They are probably the closest ones to Elbaph currently." Senor recalled the information immediately and conveyed it.
"Contact him immediately. Tell him to relay a message to my brother. Dora has gone to Elbaph alone." The name hung heavy in the air. Elbaph. Land of giants. Warriors who valued strength above all else.
And recently, King Harald had ascended as a God's Knight. That single development altered the board entirely. If the World Government realized that a Donquixote executive—alone—was on Elbaph… If Harald chose to act—or worse. If the God's Knights mobilized.
Even Dora—with her Lightning Logia powers. Calamity in giant form. Even she might not withstand that convergence of power. Doflamingo resumed walking, but slower now. More deliberate. He did not believe in coincidence. And he did not ignore instinct. Something about this felt wrong. Not a trap carefully laid. Not an ambush. Something worse. A convergence. As though invisible hands were aligning pieces behind a curtain.
*****
Elbaf, New World
On the quieter edge of Elbaf, where the roots of the ancient tree dipped low enough for the sea to kiss the land without shattering it, stood a modest house and tavern of dark timber and weathered stone. It was not one of the towering longhalls of the noble warrior tribes. Its beams were crooked in places. Its carved dragon-head roof had been repaired more than once. The paint had faded beneath decades of salt wind.
But the house had always been alive. Bright shields once hung along its outer walls—gifts from wandering warriors and sailors who had survived storms and found warmth within. Lanterns used to burn through the night, golden light spilling across the shore like a beacon for the lost.
This was the seaside tavern of Ida. For decades, many among Elbaf's proud warrior clans had detested it. They detested the giantess who ran it—too soft, too welcoming, too willing to offer ale and shelter to outsiders who washed ashore knowingly or unknowingly, and more importantly, the woman who truly ruled their king's heart, a giantess whose status was too beneath them to truly become the queen of Elbaf. To them, bloodline and strength defined worth. Compassion was weakness.
And yet—time had a way of eroding even the hardest prejudice. Over decades, the tavern had become a landmark. Sailors spoke of it in hushed gratitude. Even giant warriors who scoffed at its existence found themselves drinking there after battles, listening—begrudgingly at first—to Ida's thunderous laughter that could rival any war drum.
She had a way of disarming scorn with warmth. Of turning strangers into family. But now—the house was silent. The shields were dull. The lanterns unlit. Inside, the great hearth had burned low. The air smelled not of roasted meat and ale but of bitter herbs and sickness.
At the center of the room, upon a massive bed built to hold a giant's frame, lay Ida. Once broad-shouldered and radiant with life, she now seemed diminished despite her immense size. Blankets covered her up to the chest, though even those could not hide the gauntness that had hollowed her features.
The poison had not merely entered her blood. It had seeped deeper. Into marrow. Into spirit. Her once-sun-kissed skin was pale, almost ashen. Veins stood faintly dark beneath the surface, like cracks spreading through stone. Her eyes—those bright, mischievous eyes that once sparkled as she teased warriors twice her size—were clouded and unfocused.
She could no longer see. Could no longer truly hear. Even breath had become a titanic labor. Each inhale shuddered through her like a collapsing mountain straining to remain upright. Each exhale trembled, fragile, uncertain whether another would follow.
The old healer sat beside her, small even by giant standards, hands folded in quiet resignation.
The door burst open. Cold sea air rushed in.
"Ida—! Ida—!"
Dora's voice broke against the stillness. She filled the doorway—tall, powerful, her presence crackling faintly with restrained lightning. She had crossed the sea in relentless haste, leaving Dressrosa without a word, without escort, and without precaution. When the message reached her, she had believed Ida was merely ill.
A fever. A passing weakness. Nothing more. But the moment Dora stepped inside and saw the room—the silence. The extinguished hearth. The healer's lowered gaze. Her steps faltered.
And when her eyes found the bed—the world narrowed. Ida looked small.
Not just in size—but in presence. The indomitable giantess who had once seemed larger than Elbaf itself now lay fading like a dying star. Dora's throat tightened painfully. She crossed the distance in seconds, falling to her knees beside the bed, the floor trembling faintly under the force.
"Ida…" she whispered, and the word shattered. She reached for her—careful despite her strength—and took one of Ida's small hands into both of hers. It was colder than it should have been. This was the woman who had raised her. Who had fed her when others turned their backs. Who had stood between her and scornful warriors. Who had laughed when Dora first lost control of her ancient giant powers and nearly split their home in half.
"Storms are nothing to fear," Ida had said back then, scooping her up despite the size disparity. "You're just learning how to roar."
Dora pressed her forehead against Ida's knuckles.
"I'm here," she said, voice trembling despite every effort to steady it. "I came as fast as I could… I'm here." Ida's breathing hitched. Slow. Labored. Her clouded eyes did not focus. Her ears no longer carried sound properly.
And yet— Somewhere beyond failing senses, beyond poisoned blood and fading nerves— She felt it. The little storm she had raised. The child who had once clung to her apron, who had grown into a force capable of splitting the heavens. Her fingers twitched. Barely. But unmistakably. Dora froze.
"Ida…?"
The old healer looked up sharply. Ida's breathing shifted—uneven, but aware. A tear slid from the corner of her unseeing eye. She could not see Dora's face. Could not hear her voice clearly. But she knew. The presence beside her was familiar in a way deeper than sight or sound.
A warmth she had longed for in these fading days. Her daughter had come home. Dora's composure shattered. She rose slightly and leaned over the bed, wrapping her arms around Ida's massive form as gently as someone handling glass.
"I'm sorry," Dora choked. "I should have come sooner. I should've been here—"
Lightning flickered faintly across her shoulders, unstable, responding to the storm inside her chest. Ida's lips moved. No sound came. But Dora felt the faintest pressure of Ida's hand against her own. Reassurance. Even now.
Even on the brink of death, Ida was comforting her. Dora let out a broken breath, pressing her face into the blankets beside Ida's shoulder. The silence in the house thickened. Dora's sobs did not erupt into thunder. They quieted. And that was far more dangerous.
She remained kneeling beside the bed, one massive hand still wrapped around Ida's frail fingers. Her shoulders trembled once—then stilled. When she spoke, her voice was low. Controlled.
"I was told… Ida was simply sick."
The words fell like stones. She lifted her head slowly, eyes no longer blurred by tears but sharpened by something far colder.
"But this is not sickness." Her gaze shifted toward the old healer. Even without releasing her lightning—even without allowing the ancient bloodline of the primordial giants to flare—something in the room bent. The air felt heavier. Harder to draw into the lungs.
"It's poison…the poison has seeped into her very soul," Dora continued, voice steady now, almost eerily so. "This was deliberate." Her fingers tightened around the bedsheets.
"Tell me who did this…!" No crack of thunder followed. No lightning split the roof. And yet the old healer felt her heart stutter.
"Tell me," Dora repeated, lifting her eyes fully now, molten grief simmering beneath the surface, "which bastard dared to poison my mother...? " Her teeth clenched. "I swear upon the names of all forefathers—upon every ancient giant who stood before me—" The wooden beams above creaked faintly.
"I will slaughter every last one of them." Dora had always been playful. Mischievous. Even among giants, she was considered young—a child by their lifespan. But she was not naïve. Not blind.
Ida was not fading from age or ailment. This was venom. Calculated. Cruel. The old healer swallowed hard.
Though Dora had not released her pressure—though no lightning crackled across her skin—the blood of the ancient giants flowed through her veins like a sleeping volcano. It pressed outward unconsciously. An inherited authority. An instinctual dominance older than Elbaf's warrior code.
The healer's knees felt weak beneath it. Her breathing grew shallow, not from threat—but from the sheer weight of Dora's restrained wrath. The tavern walls seemed to shrink. Even the sea outside had stilled.
"DORA…!!!!"
The shout crashed through the doorway like a hammer striking a shield. The pressure snapped.
The old healer gasped as though breaking the surface of deep water. A massive silhouette filled the entrance.
Jarul stepped inside, his presence firm and immovable as the roots of Yggdrasil itself. His expression was stern—not unkind—but heavy with understanding. He crossed the room in long strides, the wooden floor groaning beneath each step.
"Enough," he said, not harsh—but commanding. The unseen pressure dissipated fully. Dora did not turn immediately. Her jaw was clenched so tightly her teeth threatened to crack. Jarul inclined his head toward the old healer.
"My apologies," he said gravely. "You have done more than enough." The healer straightened slowly, offering Dora one last sorrowful look. She did not blame her. How could she?
If she had been younger—if strength still filled her limbs enough to lift a mace—she would have marched herself to whoever had done this. Ida had been the gentlest soul in all of Elbaf. The old giantess quietly gathered her satchel and departed, the door closing behind her with a muted thud.
Silence returned. But it was no longer suffocating. It was charged. Dora finally turned her head slightly, enough for Jarul to see her face. Her eyes—they were no longer merely grieving. They burned.
"Who," she asked again, voice hoarse but steady, "did this?"
Lightning flickered faintly along her collarbone—just a whisper of blue-white veins beneath skin. Jarul sighed. Not in irritation. In sorrow. Dora rose slowly to her full height. The tavern seemed smaller for it. Her hand never left Ida's.
"Tell me, Grandpa Jarul…" Dora's voice was no longer trembling. It was vibrating. Low. Dangerous. "Who did this?" she demanded, her fingers tightening unconsciously around Ida's frail hand. "How could someone even conceive of something so vile?"
Her eyes burned—blue lightning flickering faintly within their depths like embers fanned by wind.
"Tell me who did this so I can erase their entire tribe."
The words were not shouted. They were growled—raw and feral, like a beast that had tasted blood. The beams of the tavern groaned faintly under the weight of her suppressed aura. The ancient giant blood flowing through her veins stirred restlessly, responding to her fury like a slumbering colossus shifting beneath the earth.
For a moment, it truly felt as if Elbaf itself held its breath. Then—a small pressure. Frail. Weak. But deliberate. Ida's fingers—so thin now, so drained of strength—pressed faintly against Dora's hand. It was barely a movement. Yet it struck like a thunderclap.
Dora froze. The storm inside her faltered, just enough. Her gaze snapped downward. Even blind. Even deafened by poison. Even stripped of strength— Ida had felt it. The hatred rising within her daughter. And she would not allow it. The realization hit Dora harder than any blow. Jarul saw it too. He exhaled slowly, the breath heavy with years and understanding.
"Calm yourself, Dora," he said, voice firm but not unkind. "Even if you sought vengeance… it is already too late."
Dora's head lifted slowly. "What do you mean?"
Jarul's expression darkened. "Loki has already done what you wished to do." The words landed like falling stone. "He slaughtered the former queen's tribe in its entirety. Nearly extinguished them from this world."
Silence followed. "He is imprisoned now," Jarul continued. "For mindless slaughter and endangering his own kin." Dora did not blink. Her jaw tightened.
Loki, of course. The rage. The extremity. Though neither Loki nor Dora were Ida's blood children, she had raised them both as her own—alongside Hajruddin. Jarul had seen that fury before. He had seen it in Loki's eyes when the truth surfaced. Now he saw it in Dora's.
"Good," Dora muttered. The word was sharp. "Good… I hope he got every last one of those bastards."
But even as she said it, her mind was racing. If Loki had already exacted vengeance… Then why were the others not here? Why was Hajruddin not standing at Ida's side? And Harald— King Harald. Why was the king absent? When Dora had entered earlier, only the old healer had been present.
No guards. No warriors. No watchful protection. If someone had the audacity to poison Ida once, what prevented them from finishing the job? Her breathing grew heavier again. A different anger now. Sharper. Colder. She rose to her full height and turned fully toward Jarul.
"Why… was I not told the truth?" Her voice cracked—not from weakness—but from betrayal.
"Why wasn't I told that Ida was poisoned?" Lightning flickered along her shoulders, veins of blue-white tracing briefly across her skin before fading.
"If I had known—" Her hands curled into fists. "I could have brought help. I could have reached out to my family in Dressrosa." The name carried weight even here in Elbaf, especially after their last visit. Power. Influence that extended far beyond Elbaf's own networks.
"They have resources. Doctors. Connections. Devil Fruit users who could have tried something." Her voice rose now, thunder building behind it. "Why was I kept in the dark?" She stepped closer to Jarul.
Even the ancient warrior, towering and battle-hardened, was dwarfed by her presence. The blood of the primordial giants ran strong in her veins. Only King Harald and Loki rivaled her sheer stature within all of Elbaf.
"Why is no one doing anything?" she demanded. "Why is she lying here waiting to die?" The tavern shook faintly. "And why," her voice dropped into something deadly quiet, "did no one reach out to me and the Donquixote family for help?"
Jarul's brows furrowed. Before he could answer, Dora's fury shifted again—this time toward absence. "And where," she hissed, "is that damned bastard Harald?"
The title of king did not pass her lips. "And Hajruddin? Why are they not here?" Her eyes blazed.
"At a time like this, they should be at her side!"
Outside, the sea began to churn more violently, waves crashing harder against the cliffs. Jarul stepped forward, planting the butt of his spear against the wooden floor with a heavy thud that cut through the rising tension.
"Enough." The word carried the authority of centuries. "You were not told," he said, meeting her burning gaze evenly, "because Ida forbade it."
That stopped her. "She knew," Jarul continued, "that if you learned the truth, you would abandon everything and come here and do something reckless, just like how Loki did." His eyes softened slightly.
"And she did not want your life entangled in Elbaf's internal conflicts."