The "champion" title was a hollow crown.
Remembering Ragnar's face now was like seeing a ghost, one that promised to expose all the lies Garling had built his legacy upon.
"Father, you think he's that dangerous?" Shamrock frowned and asked.
"He's already done what Rocks only dreamed of," Garling said, not taking his eyes off the now-blank window.
"He's captured the symbols of our power and is preparing to break them before the entire world. This isn't just war. This is a ritual of usurpation."
Deep below them, in the deepest, most secret chamber of Pangea Castle, where the giant straw hat rested and the history of the world was curated, Imu-sama stood amidst fluttering butterflies.
The broadcast manifested here too, on the surface of a still, dark pool. Imu watched Morgan's, then the subsequent blank screen, with an expressionless face.
The voice that emerged was soft and carried the weight of centuries. "Is he trying to wage war... against Mu?"
The question hung in the fragrant air. Then, from Imu, a deeply ominous dark aura burst forth.
It was not Conqueror's Haki meant to intimidate, but something older, more fundamental, a pressure of pure, absolute sovereignty that made the very light in the room dim and the butterflies fall dead to the floor, their colors drained.
The ancient ruler had been acknowledged and challenged directly on the stage of the world stage. A flicker of something akin to interest, cold and merciless, passed through Imu's red eyes.
Across the globe, in labs on Egghead, Vegapunk and his satellites paused their work, staring at holograms that had been forcibly overwritten.
In the shadows, Blackbeard Teach tended his wounds from the war, his beady eyes gleaming with avaricious rage at this new, chaotic player.
Mihawk, alone on his coffin ship, merely raised an eyebrow, appreciating the theatricality.
Doflamingo, in his palace in Dressrosa, threw back his head and laughed a jagged, insane laugh, thrilled by the "magnificent chaos."
And among the Whitebeard Pirates, anchored off their home island, the broadcast brought a different kind of silence.
Ace, sitting in Pops' former chair for the first time during a commander's meeting, watched with Marco, Jozu, and Vista. They saw Morgans, heard the claim of a "captain." They knew who it was.
"He's not wasting any time." Ace's jaw tightened as he spoke.
Marco nodded, his arms crossed. "He's forcing the world to pick a side. There's no neutrality after a broadcast like that. After whatever comes next."
…..
The blank screen lasted for exactly sixty seconds, a minute of global, agonizing suspense. Then the image returned.
It was not a studio, not a stage. It was a stark, terrifyingly simple tableau under an alien, silver-tinged sky that confirmed it was not of this world.
The ground was seamless, polished black stone. In the center stood twelve tall, rough-hewn crosses made of dark, non-reflective material.
And nailed to those crosses, not by hands but by bands of glowing seastone that clamped their wrists and ankles, were the twelve Celestial Dragons.
They were a pitiful, horrifying sight. Their fine clothes were in tatters, stained with blood from the earlier whipping.
Their spherical helmets were gone, revealing their grotesque, tear-and-snot-streaked faces to the world for the first time.
They hung limply, the seastone sapping all strength, making them look like broken, ugly puppets. Some were sobbing quietly, broken.
Others, like Charlos, were mewling and begging incoherently to an unseen audience. Saint Roswald blubbered prayers to ancestors who couldn't hear him. His daughter simply trembled in shock.
And before them, centered in the frame, was a simple, high-backed chair made of the same black stone. Sitting in it, one leg crossed casually over the other, was Ragnar.
He was dressed not in battle armor, but in elegant, dark attire, a tailored coat over a simple shirt, looking more like a gentleman attending an opera than a pirate at an execution.
A small, calm smile played on his lips as he regarded the crucified nobles. It was the smile of a gardener looking at weeds finally ready for pulling.
The global audience stared, breathless. In villages, people clutched each other. In marine bases, soldiers paled. On pirate ships, crews roared with a mix of shock and savage approval.
Ragnar leaned forward slightly, resting his chin on his steepled fingers. His voice, when it came, was amplified by Morgan's power, clear, calm, and carrying to every corner of the globe.
"People of the world," he began, as if starting a lecture. "For centuries, you have been told a story. You have been told that these creatures-" he gestured lazily behind him at the weeping Celestial Dragons,
"-are divine. That their blood is sacred. That their will is law. That to harm them is the highest crime, inviting the wrath of heaven itself."
He paused, letting the image of their abject helplessness sink in.
"The story is a lie."
The words were simple, delivered without bombast, and they hit with the force of a tectonic shift.
"Look at them. Do you see gods? Do you see divinity? Or do you see the product of inbreeding, cowardice, and unchecked privilege? They are mortal. They bleed. They cry. They beg. They fear."
On the crosses, Charlos let out a particularly loud wail. "PLEASE! I'LL GIVE YOU ANYTHING! TREASURE! SLAVES! JUST LET ME GO!"
Ragnar didn't even glance at him. His gaze seemed to look directly through the broadcast, into the eyes of the world.
"Their power was never their own. It was a loan from a system built on fear, maintained by the Marines, the Cipher Pol, and the threat of an Admiral's wrath. It was a prison for your minds."
In Marineford, the bandaged Akainu snarled. Sengoku closed his eyes in despair.
"But today," Ragnar continued, his smile widening just a fraction, "we break a wall of that prison. Today, we demonstrate a new truth. Their divinity is a contract written on paper. And paper…"
He raised his right hand, snapping his fingers.
Snap.
The sound echoed globally.
"…burns."
As if on cue, figures walked into the frame from the sides. Eleven of them. They were a diverse group: Kuro, with his cold precision; Wyper, his face grim as always. Bartolomeo, grinning with fanatical glee.
Nami, holding her Clima tact staff with deadly seriousness; Nojiko, a sniper with calm in her eyes; Isabella, like a deadly surgeon; Sandersonia and Marigold, their expressions fierce with liberated hatred; and others from Ragnar's crew, each chosen for their own reasons.
The twelfth figure, walking to the front, was Boa Hancock. She moved like a panther, her beauty stark and terrible against the bleak backdrop. In her hands, she carried not a sword, but a long, wicked-looking glaive, a Kuja weapon.
Ragnar stood from his chair.
"The sentence for crimes against humanity, for centuries of enslavement, torture, and a tyranny built on the myth of blood, is death. The sentence will be carried out now, by those they have wronged, or by those who represent a new justice. The method is beheading. There will be no last words from the condemned. Their voices have been heard enough."
He looked at Hancock and gave a single, slight nod.
Hancock stepped forward, her eyes locking onto Saint Roswald. The bloated noble saw her approach and began to shriek, a high-pitched, wordless sound of pure terror.
Hancock did not speak. She did not gloat. She simply raised the glaive with flawless, graceful form. The world watched, utterly hypnotized, unable to look away.
The blade flashed down in a perfect, silver arc.
There was a thwick sound, clean and sharp, followed by a heavier thud.
Saint Roswald's shrieks cut off. His head, wearing an expression of frozen, stupid surprise, tumbled from his shoulders and hit the black stone with a dull sound, rolling a few feet before coming to a stop. His body sagged against its seastone bonds.
A beat of absolute, deafening silence gripped the world.
Then, chaos.
In Onigashima, Kaido roared with approving laughter. "WORORORO! SHE DID IT! SHE ACTUALLY DID IT! A FALSE GOD IS DEAD!"
In Totto Land, Big Mom stopped chewing. "Mamamama... So it's real. The game has truly changed."
On the Red Force, Shanks' face was grave. "And so it begins. The point of no return."
In Marineford, Garp's laughter had died. He watched, his expression now unreadable, a rice cracker forgotten in his hand. Sengoku looked physically ill. Akainu's bandages smoked where his fist clenched.
In Mary Geoise, the Room of Power was ice-cold. The Five Elders were statues, their minds racing through scenarios of containment, retaliation, and damage control that were already impossible. The myth was bleeding on live television.
In the Knights' headquarters, Garling's hand went to the hilt of his sword. "A line has been crossed that can never be uncrossed."
Deep below, Imu's ominous aura pulsed again, a silent wave of anger.
On the screen, Hancock stepped back, her job done, a look of serene, cathartic finality on her face. She handed the glaive to Sandersonia, who stepped up to the next cross, her target a mewling noble who had once owned a dozen slaves.
One by one, the figures advanced. Wyper took his turn, his cut swift and merciless, fueled by the memory of his people's suffering under a false god. Bartolomeo cackled as he swung, creating a barrier behind the neck to ensure a clean, bouncing cut.
Nami's strike was cold and economic, settling a debt for every woman threatened by their whims. Nojiko was clinical. Isabella's move was precise, a strategic removal of a piece from the board.