And with that, the alliance was formally established.
The Revolutionary Army, a vast force with the potential to overturn the world, joined hands with another resistance power that had spent years gathering strength in the shadows—all under Ron's undisputed leadership.
It was a historic agreement.
Like a massive stone dropped into still water, it sent ripples spreading outward in every direction. Like a spark touching a fuse, it threatened to ignite a storm that would soon engulf the entire world.
The gears of history began turning faster.
A new chapter had opened, and although no one could predict exactly where it would lead, one thing was already certain—
a transformation unlike anything the world had seen before was coming.
...
After weighing the situation from every angle, Dragon had made his choice.
The Revolutionary Army would cooperate with the Eternal Divine Kingdom.
More importantly, it would willingly accept the Divine Kingdom's leadership within that alliance.
The moment the decision was issued, the Revolutionary Army's enormous and intricate network immediately sprang into motion.
Orders containing critical information were transmitted through encrypted channels established with specially modified Transponder Snails, silently crossing the four seas and reaching hidden bases throughout every corner of the Grand Line.
Those secret outposts had always existed beyond the public eye.
Now they quietly moved into action.
There were no lengthy explanations.
No hesitation.
Only one concise order—
"Initiate Operation Transfer."
Every Revolutionary Army operative who received the message understood exactly what it meant.
And immediately, they began moving.
...
Moonlight hung over the Goa Kingdom like a fragile veil, only to be torn apart by the thick industrial smoke pouring endlessly into the sky.
Pale fragments of light fell across the mountains of refuse filling the Gray Terminal.
The entire area reeked.
Rotting garbage mixed with chemical waste and stagnant filth, creating an oppressive stench that made every breath unpleasant. Apart from rats scratching greedily through scraps and the faint creaking of metal slowly rusting in the damp air, the wasteland was almost completely silent.
Then more than a dozen figures appeared among the garbage.
Every one of them wore an old, heavily patched hooded cloak that concealed most of their features.
Their coarse clothing had long since lost its original color beneath layers of dirt and wear, allowing them to blend almost perfectly into the surrounding filth.
They were barefoot.
Yet as they carefully crossed the foul mud, they left no footprints behind.
Special woven pads had been tied beneath their feet, erasing almost every trace of their passage.
They moved through the ruins like ghosts.
"Move quickly."
The broad man at the front gave the order in little more than a whisper.
Despite its low volume, there was no mistaking the authority in his voice.
He reached toward what looked like a discarded industrial boiler and pulled aside part of its rusted shell.
Creak...
A massive hidden hatch opened beneath it.
Behind the false boiler was a narrow underground passage descending into darkness.
The people behind him immediately formed a disciplined chain.
One after another, sealed metal cases were passed up from below.
Their surfaces had been deliberately smeared with thick oil and grime, making them indistinguishable from the industrial junk scattered everywhere around the Gray Terminal.
But when one operative accidentally knocked the corner of a case against a rusted metal frame—
Thud.
The sound was unusually heavy.
Each case had been constructed with an elaborate internal protection system.
Three layers of reinforced lead shielding surrounded the center, while shock-absorbing material filled the gaps between them.
Whatever was inside these containers was clearly important enough that the Revolutionary Army would take no chances with its safety.
Core intelligence.
Critical documents.
Material accumulated through years of clandestine operations.
Everything that could not be allowed to fall into enemy hands was being moved.
...
Deeper within the refuse mountains, two small, thin figures knelt among the garbage.
The stench there was almost unbearable.
Broken clothing, spoiled food, household waste, and things too decomposed to identify were piled around them in every direction.
Neither operative used an ordinary shovel.
Instead, each carried a specially made tool carved from bone.
Carefully, they scraped through the foul layers of trash without making unnecessary noise.
Every movement was deliberate.
Every piece of refuse was displaced with exacting care.
Eventually, they dug deep enough to bury several sealed cylinders beneath the ground.
Whatever those cylinders contained, the two treated them with extraordinary caution.
Once the hiding place was secure, they began restoring everything exactly as they had found it.
Layer after layer of garbage was returned to its original position.
They even noticed a cockroach that had been crawling across the pile before they began.
One of them gently picked it up and placed it back where it had been.
Nothing could look disturbed.
Nothing could suggest that anyone had ever been there.
...
Not far away, at the mouth of a polluted drainage river, another operation was underway.
A rust-covered garbage transport ship sat quietly against the bank, apparently engaged in an ordinary loading run.
Workers moved back and forth across its deck.
To any observer, they were simply throwing real refuse into the hold—rotting kitchen scraps, spoiled food, and other foul-smelling waste hauled out from the Gray Terminal.
Everything looked perfectly normal.
Which was exactly the point.
Because beneath that worthless garbage, something far more important was being loaded aboard.
...
Hidden within the ship's inner compartments were several of the special crates, each wrapped so thoroughly that there was no way to tell what they contained.
Just then, a coastal patrol boat slowly approached.
Its powerful searchlight swept across the water like a blade, illuminating everything in its path.
The captain of the garbage ship immediately plastered a fawning smile across his face. Bowing and scraping, he raised the bottle in his hand toward the soldiers aboard the patrol boat in greeting, doing his best to appear like nothing more than a harmless, half-drunk sailor.
Beneath his feet, however, inside the dark, damp, foul-smelling hold, Revolutionary Army operatives were pressed tightly against piles of refuse without daring to breathe too loudly.
Their eyes remained alert and unwavering.
Their bodies shifted faintly with the rocking of the ship, but not one of them made a sound. They blended into the garbage around them so completely that anyone casually inspecting the hold might have overlooked them entirely.
When the darkest hour before dawn finally arrived, the entire world seemed wrapped beneath a heavy curtain.
Under that oppressive silence, the garbage ship quietly started its engine and began making its way toward the outlet leading to the open sea.
The operatives who remained behind in the Gray Terminal did not leave immediately.
Instead, they meticulously erased every trace that might expose their presence.
Nothing was overlooked.
When the final operative prepared to disappear into the underground passage, he reached down and carefully tossed a dead rat beside the narrow crack of the hidden hatch.
It was a tiny detail that would mean nothing to anyone else.
To the Revolutionary Army, however, it was a prearranged signal—
the operation had not been discovered.
...
At the mouth of the polluted drainage river, the water rushed past thick and murky.
The garbage ship soon encountered three other vessels of the same kind, their hulls passing so close together that the captains could practically spit onto one another's decks.
Naturally, they immediately started shouting.
"Get your damned tub out of the channel!"
"You're the one blocking the way, asshole!"
Their angry curses echoed across the water, making the encounter look like nothing more than another argument between foul-tempered garbage haulers.
But beneath the cover of that noisy dispute, a sealed crate quietly changed ships.
No one watching from a distance would have noticed.
By the time the first rays of sunlight finally pierced through the thick industrial smoke, the Gray Terminal had returned to its usual deathly stillness.
It was as though nothing had happened during the night.
Only a few seabirds landed leisurely atop the newly disturbed piles of garbage.
They tilted their heads curiously toward one patch of ground that rose ever so slightly higher than the rest, completely unaware of what lay buried beneath it.
...
In the Kingdom of Bliss, the magnificent capital stood like a jewel set into the vast surrounding land.
Dawn had only just begun to brighten the horizon, and pale morning light fell softly across the ancient city.
At this hour, the weathered wooden door of the Robin Bookshop remained firmly closed, as though the little store were still asleep.
A hand-carved sign hung outside.
OWNER AWAY — CLOSED FOR ONE WEEK
The morning breeze gently rocked the board back and forth.
To an ordinary passerby, there was nothing unusual about it. Shops closed temporarily all the time.
But anyone deeply familiar with the Revolutionary Army would have noticed one tiny detail.
In the lower-right corner of the sign was an almost invisible scratch.
It was no accident.
That mark was a Revolutionary Army code—
Emergency relocation.
Beneath the seemingly peaceful bookstore, however, an entirely different scene was unfolding.
A narrow hidden passage descended deep underground into a secret chamber illuminated by dim gas lamps.
At the center of the room stood a massive hand-operated printing press.
It had only just finished a frantic round of work, and heat still radiated from the machinery while the strong smell of fresh ink filled the air.
More than a dozen "printers" wearing aprons moved around the workshop in silence.
Their hands worked with practiced speed.
Pages were turned.
Ink was applied.
Presses were operated.
Every movement was precise and efficient.
Sweat had already gathered along their foreheads and soaked the edges of their collars, but despite the frantic pace, the room remained so quiet that even a dropped needle would have been heard.
"Hurry. This is the last batch."
A middle-aged man wearing black-rimmed glasses spoke in a low, urgent voice.
He stood beside a stack of supplies, carefully counting the items in his hands.
They were not ordinary books.
Each booklet bore four bold words across its cover:
The Freedom Herald
The freshly printed pages still carried the faint sheen of wet ink.
The workers quickly stacked them into neat bundles, wrapped them carefully in waterproof oilcloth, and made sure no sheet was left exposed.
Then the packages were packed into wooden crates labeled:
DRIED SEAFOOD
From the outside, the crates looked exactly like ordinary commercial cargo.
Inside, however, they contained material the Revolutionary Army considered far too important to leave behind.
In one corner of the underground room, two strong young men gritted their teeth and began pushing against a heavy bookshelf.
The massive piece of furniture shifted slowly aside with a dull scraping sound.
Behind it—
a dark passage was revealed.
The tunnel stretched deep into the earth, disappearing into blackness as though it led toward an entirely different world.