Five in the morning.
Marineford still slept beneath a dim gray sky. Only the slow, rhythmic crash of waves against the fortress seawall broke the silence.
The doors to the underground training facility burst open.
No screams.
No groans.
Only the echo of heavy footsteps.
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
Monkey D. Garp stood at the center of the training hall, staring at his still-smoking fist.
Then he looked at the retreating figure staggering toward the exit.
That punch — an Iron Fist of Love reinforced with Armament Haki — even at half strength, could pulverize solid rock.
The man had taken it.
Not only that — the recoil had been instinctively redirected through his body, allowing him to land upright with barely a trace of dust.
Garp scratched his graying hair, eyes shining with manic excitement.
"Is this what they call… talent?"
"That brat KING keeps saying he doesn't want to train…"
"But his body is training itself!"
"Even unconscious, it refuses to yield!"
"What terrifying willpower!"
To hell with willpower.
To hell with instinct.
In the corridor outside, KING clung to the wall, legs trembling like a malfunctioning machine.
His mind buzzed.
If anyone could hear his thoughts now, they would hear the rawest cry from the man hailed as the Navy's rising legend:
Who am I? Where am I? Why did I wake up at five to get beaten to death?
And why is there a meeting right after this?!
Pain had passed the threshold of sensation.
Only two forces drove his body forward:
His biological clock screaming for sleep.
His morning irritability — if anyone blocked his path, he might genuinely snap.
"I'll… find the restroom first… then the meeting… then a corner to sleep…"
His bangs hung low, hiding bloodshot eyes that looked like they had crawled out of the underworld.
Marineford — Port One
The harbor resembled a battlefield before war.
Thousands of elite Marines stood in layered security lines. Warships formed a defensive perimeter across the bay, cannons angled outward.
Even the wind felt tense.
Cold sweat soaked the backs of hardened soldiers.
"Fufufufufu…"
A mocking laugh cut through the stillness.
A flamboyant pirate vessel with a pink flamingo prow glided into port.
Standing atop the deck, draped in a feathered coat, sunglasses gleaming, was:
Donquixote Doflamingo
One of the Seven Warlords of the Sea.
He surveyed the Marines like livestock.
Before his gangway even finished lowering, another craft arrived — a coffin-shaped boat drifting soundlessly across the water.
A tall figure stepped ashore.
Black coat. Cross-shaped blade. Hawk-like eyes.
Dracule Mihawk
The world's greatest swordsman.
He merely stood.
Yet the invisible edge of his presence tightened every soldier's grip on their weapon.
Then, without warning, a distortion of air appeared several meters away.
A towering figure materialized silently, Bible in hand.
Bartholomew Kuma.
Three Warlords.
Three completely different yet equally suffocating pressures collided at the harbor's center.
Even breathing felt difficult.
Doflamingo grinned.
"Fufufu… quite the reception. Someone might think we're about to be executed."
Mihawk ignored him, scanning the surroundings with calm precision.
Something in the air felt… off.
Oppressive.
Footsteps
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
Light. Slow. Dragging.
From the fortress shadow emerged a Marine wearing a slightly disheveled justice coat.
Golden hair obscured his face.
He did not look at the Warlords.
Nor at the thousands of soldiers.
His bloodshot eyes lacked focus.
That gaze…
…was indifference to the entire world.
Doflamingo's smile froze — just briefly.
Because the man was walking straight toward them.
No weapon drawn. No Haki visible.
His posture appeared full of openings.
But to masters of combat—
Openings everywhere meant no openings at all.
"Oh?"
Doflamingo's eyes narrowed behind his glasses.
Interesting.
He extended invisible threads into the air.
A test.
If the man dodged, he was wary.
The razor-thin strings sliced silently toward King's throat.
Just before contact—
King stopped.
He had to.
The path ahead was blocked, and he was desperately trying to figure out which direction led to the public restroom.
He halted.
The threads grazed the air before his nose.
Doflamingo's pupils contracted.
"Precise…"
Not speed.
Timing.
Had he already seen through the attack?
Mihawk's golden eyes sharpened.
This man felt like the ocean itself — vast, silent, unfathomable.
Mihawk's hand rested on the hilt of Yoru.
Clang.
The sword remained sheathed, yet an immense sword intent pressed forward like a storm.
A greeting.
A challenge.
King felt a cold shiver run through him.
And then—
An urgent biological crisis.
He froze.
Cold sweat formed.
He dared not move.
He was using every ounce of willpower to prevent an irreversible disaster.
To Mihawk, it looked like absolute composure.
Faced with the world's strongest swordsman's intent…
…this man did not even prepare a guard.
The pressure peaked.
King's heart thundered.
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
Not a heartbeat.
An engine roar.
The ground vibrated faintly.
Pebbles trembled.
A deep rhythmic pulse spread through the harbor like the awakening of an ancient leviathan.
Doflamingo's grin vanished.
His Conqueror's Haki, poised to emerge, was forced back.
What… is this?
Kuma's expressionless face shifted almost imperceptibly.
Mihawk's veins bulged along his sword hand.
A chill of recognition ran through him.
Not fear.
Excitement.
A worthy opponent.
The harbor froze in perfect stillness.
Then—
King raised his head.
He was done waiting.
These strangely dressed people blocked the path and said nothing. Was this some kind of performance?
He was in real trouble now.
He glanced at them.
His eyes were empty, exhausted, faintly ferocious from physical distress.
Then he stepped forward.
Softly, like a whisper from the underworld:
"Excuse me… excuse me… could you let me through…"
And in that instant—
The elite Marines…
The Warlords…
All shifted half a step aside.
King passed through.
Only after he vanished around the corner — toward the restroom sign — did the oppressive heartbeat fade.
Doflamingo exhaled slowly.
His back was damp with sweat.
"Puff… The Navy has raised a monster."
High above the harbor.
Fleet Admiral Sengoku lowered his binoculars.
Beside him stood Tsuru.
"Did you see that, Tsuru?"
Her wrinkled face was grave.
"Sengoku… are you certain you can control him?"
Sengoku watched the empty corridor where King had vanished.
"No one can control KING."
"If anyone can…"
"…it is only himself."