Arabasta Kingdom, Grand Line
Tap. Tap. Tap.
The rhythmic sound echoed sharply through the dimly lit chamber, each tap a cruel punctuation against the silence. The source was subtle—Crocodile's metal claw, idly striking the armrest of a towering, high-backed chair carved from dark mahogany.
The room lacked extravagance, yet exuded an eerie, calculated menace. A massive polished oak table dominated the center, its surface pristine save for one thing: a small glass vial, filled with a faintly luminescent purplish liquid that shimmered under the low amber light.
Set into one wall of the chamber was not stone or steel, but an immense pane of reinforced glass, behind which stretched a vast underground pit. There, dozens of monstrous Bananawani thrashed and hissed as they tore into the corpse of a colossal Sea King, its death throes splashing blood against the walls. The muffled sound of rending flesh and snapping bones lent a visceral ambience to the already suffocating atmosphere.
Crocodile watched the carnage with detached amusement, swirling a cigar slowly between his fingers as the young woman across from him remained still.
Nico Lily—known to the world as the Demon of Ohara—stood facing him, her arms at her sides, her jaw clenched. She was only twenty, yet her eyes carried the weight of a thousand burned books and the screams of a destroyed homeland.
He waited. And then, softly, she spoke.
"No." Her voice was calm, but unshakable. "I agreed to work with you to uncover the secrets of the Poneglyphs—not to become an assassin."
Crocodile didn't look at her. His eyes remained fixed on the feeding pit.
"Kuahahahaha… Since when did you grow a conscience?" he mused, voice laced with mockery. "You never had a problem eliminating pirates or mercenaries when they got in Baroque Works' way. What's different now, Lily?"
He turned slowly, at last meeting her eyes, the humor fading from his expression.
"It's not like you're the one who'll poison Queen Titi. You'll simply craft the plan—make it look like a natural death. The poison is undetectable. Even veteran coroners wouldn't find a trace. A gentle passing. Painless."
His claw tapped the vial.
"Heart failure," he whispered, as if savoring the words.
"No." Lily said it louder this time, firmer, each syllable like a stone dropped into water.
She had made her compromises. She had killed to survive. She had turned her mind into a weapon to keep herself under Crocodile's protection, away from the clutches of the World Government. But this? To orchestrate the death of a kind-hearted queen—an innocent woman with an infant child?
She would not cross that line. Crocodile's laugh ceased. The silence that followed was far louder than the noise before it.
Slowly, he turned to face her fully. The light above cast deep shadows over his scarred face, and for the first time since she'd entered, the room felt cold. His brow furrowed. His claw stopped tapping. The air shifted.
A subtle wave of Haki rippled outward from him, thick and suffocating. The massive oak table creaked ominously, fine cracks spiderwebbing across its surface under the pressure.
"It seems you're mistaken." His voice dropped to a low, venomous growl. "You think you have a choice in this matter?"
He leaned forward, the chair groaning under his weight.
"All these years under my protection… have you forgotten who you are?"
His gaze burned into hers.
"You are the Demon of Ohara. A walking sin in the eyes of the World Government. If they ever lay hands on you again, they won't imprison you. They'll erase you. You'll vanish, along with the last remnants of your cursed island."
Crocodile's tone darkened, raw with restrained fury.
"Don't delude yourself into thinking you've been clever all this time. I've seen the way you quietly sabotaged my operations. I let it slide. Call it… tolerance. Amusement. But don't ever think for a second that I didn't notice."
He stood slowly, towering over the table now, casting a long shadow across Lily.
"You've survived only because I deemed you useful. And now, I'm telling you to be useful again. Plan Queen Titi's death."
The vial between them gleamed like a cursed gem. Undetectable. Perfect. Murder wrapped in science and silence. But Lily didn't flinch.
She met his gaze with fire in her eyes. "And I'm telling you no."
For a second, the two simply stared at each other. Predator and prey? No. Not anymore.
This was something else.
To Crocodile, she wasn't just a nuisance—she was his key. The only living soul capable of deciphering the Poneglyphs, the last bridge to the Ancient Weapons… to the very throne of the world. But now, that bridge was defying him.
Crocodile exhaled slowly, letting the breath drift from his lungs like smoke from a dying flame. He dropped his half-burned cigar to the stone floor, the glowing ember flickering faintly in the shadows before he crushed it under his boot with a deliberate twist.
"In that case," he said, voice cold and sharp as cut glass, "I'll handle the matter personally."
He stepped around the table, each footfall echoing with quiet menace.
"And when the streets of Alabasta run red... when the people cry over the corpses of their children... you'll remember this moment, Lily."
His golden eyes narrowed with malice.
"You'll remember that it was your choice."
Lily's breath hitched as the meaning struck her. He wouldn't just kill Queen Titi. No—Crocodile would slaughter indiscriminately, just to make a point. To remind her. To punish her.
"No… you can't—!" she began, panic flooding her voice.
But Crocodile moved like a desert storm, faster than her words, a blur of raw power. His hand snapped forward, seizing her by the scalp, and with monstrous ease he lifted her clean off the ground before slamming her face downward—
CRACK!
The reinforced oak table shattered down the middle, splinters flying as Lily's face smashed into the wood, blood splattering across the jagged surface. Pain exploded through her skull. Blood ran down her cheek. But worse than the pain was the weight of him, pressing her down—pinning her.
"You little bitch," Crocodile snarled, his voice now a low, monstrous growl that echoed like thunder off canyon walls. "Do you think you're in any position to defy me?"
Lily struggled, her hands scrambling for leverage, but his grip on her hair was iron. Her face was mashed into the jagged wood of the ruined table, a mix of blood, sweat, and tears soaking into the splinters.
"When I give an order," he hissed, tightening his hold, "you carry it out. You don't question me about morality like some naive little girl. Is that clear?"
She whimpered—a broken sound escaping her throat—but somewhere in that pain, a spark ignited. Beneath the blood, beneath the humiliation, there was a growing, quiet fury—a volcano slumbering beneath the surface.
Crocodile leaned closer, lifting her slowly back up by the hair, bringing her face near his own. Their eyes locked. And what he saw in hers didn't frighten him. It amused him.
"Kuahahaha… that look in your eyes, Lily." He grinned, breath hot and foul. "That defiance… that rage… it's the mark of a survivor."
He dragged her face to his, eyes alight with sadistic glee. "But don't get any clever ideas."
"You think you can wait for the right moment? Betray me? Run off to some new safe haven? You're still a child if you think you can play this game."
His voice dropped lower, more dangerous now—like the calm of a sandstorm just before it swallows a city whole.
"You have no idea what will happen if you step outside the shadow of my protection. The World Government would devour you alive. And if I so much as whisper that you can read the Poneglyphs?"
He smiled darkly, his face inches from hers.
"They will burn down islands just to find you."
And then, without warning—SLAM! Her face smashed against the splintered wood again.
Then again. And again. Each impact was a brutal punctuation mark, echoing through the chamber like a judge's gavel sentencing her to hell.
Blood pooled. Her breathing turned ragged. Tears fell silently—not from fear—but from the fury she could not yet unleash.
Crocodile let go, finally, and she collapsed onto the broken table, limbs trembling, hair matted with blood. Yet even now—even as her face throbbed and the world spun—she didn't scream.
She didn't beg. Because beneath the pain, Lily was still watching. Still learning. Still waiting.
Crocodile gave her limp, bloodied form a disdainful glance. With a casual flick of his boot, he rolled her onto her back—not out of concern, but calculation. She was still breathing. That was enough.
She was, after all, his most valuable asset. The key to everything.
He crouched slightly, his golden eyes narrowing as they locked onto her blood-soaked face.
"Listen carefully, Lily…" he said, voice like dry sand scraping over steel. "You have one month. That's all. In thirty days, the world must believe that Queen Titi died of natural causes."
He stood again, slowly, looming like a shadow stretching across a dying land.
"And trust me," he continued, tone sharpening, "if she's still breathing by then, I will personally walk into Alubarna... into the capital itself... and crush the skulls of every child I find."
His gaze was fire now, burning with cruelty.
"And before I do it, I'll whisper your name into their ears—so they know exactly who to curse before the end."
A twisted smirk crept across his face.
"So you decide, Demon of Ohara. One life… or a massacre."
He glanced down at the tiny glass vial resting beside her like a serpent offering salvation. The purplish liquid inside shimmered faintly in the dim chamber light, silent… seductive… deadly.
"Either way," he murmured, "a month from now… Queen Titi, or the Kingdom of Arabasta, will be dead."
With a sigh that sounded almost bored, he turned away and walked slowly toward the massive glass pane. Behind it, the pit writhed with chaos—dozens of ravenous Bananawani tearing into the carcass of the Sea King, blood and viscera painting the glass red.
But his eyes weren't on the gore. His thoughts had drifted—to the woman he couldn't touch with brute strength. Queen Titi.
She was more dangerous than she appeared.
At first, Crocodile had dismissed her as little more than a figurehead—another royal clinging to bloodlines and ceremony. But then she began unraveling the Baroque Works operation, piece by piece, brick by brick. Quietly, strategically.
Like a master player on a chess board. She knew. Crocodile was almost certain now. She suspected he was the true puppeteer behind Baroque Works. And that made her lethal.
Unlike kings who led with strength or queens who ruled through charm, Titi wielded influence—the kind that slithered into the ears of nobles, advisors, and world leaders. More dangerously, she had somehow forged ties with Vice Admiral Garp, the so-called Hero of the Marines.
Crocodile's jaw tightened at the thought. If he attempted to kill her openly—if even a whisper of his involvement reached the Navy's ears—Garp would come.
And if that man truly came for him, not even the title of Shichibukai would save him. Not the World Government. Not the Marines. Not the Warlord System. Nothing.
Garp would hunt him to the ends of the world, and if he caught him—Crocodile wouldn't see Impel Down. He'd be buried beneath the Marine Hero's fist, and the world would forget he ever existed.
That was why Crocodile didn't resort to carnage. That was why he needed subtlety, and secrecy, and Lily. Because Arabasta was more than a kingdom—it was a key.
The Poneglyph hidden in its depths held secrets about the Ancient Weapon—one that Crocodile had spent years searching for. If he could decode it, if he could harness its power, then no man—no admiral, no pirate, no emperor—could stand in his way.
He would not merely conquer Arabasta. He would rule the world. But for that to happen… Queen Titi had to die. Quietly. Discreetly. And the world had to believe it was fate. He looked down one final time at Lily's motionless form.
"Get it done, Nico Lily," he whispered coldly. "Or the blood of an entire kingdom will be added to your already dreaded legacy."
Then, without another word, he vanished into the darkness, the faint echo of his boots and the low growls of the feeding pit the only sounds left in the room.
****
Goa Kingdom , East Blue
Two little boys—barely five years old—had crept into the High Town district of the Goa Kingdom, bypassing all the security and patrols with the skill of seasoned street urchins. This was the wealthiest and most exclusive part of the kingdom—a gilded enclave where the royal family and noble elite lived in absolute opulence.
High Town was composed of high-class residential neighborhoods, each lined with elegant mansions boasting towering marble pillars, manicured gardens, and streets so spotless they reflected the morning sun like mirrors.
Its inhabitants enjoyed the highest quality of life, far removed from the squalor that plagued the rest of the kingdom. And they made no effort to hide their disdain for the commoners, whose access to this privileged zone was strictly forbidden. Only those of noble blood were allowed to live here.
This was the world Sabo had been born into—a world of silver spoons and sharpened smiles. A world he had come to abhor. And today, he had brought Ace here—not as a guest, but as an avenger.
It was time to repay the debt his father had incurred when he dared to target Sabo's new family—the only family that had ever truly mattered.
They had recently begun collecting treasures, trinkets, and anything of value, in hopes that one day, those stolen pieces of wealth would buy them their escape from this island prison. Ace had already expressed his desire to join the Marines, the fire in his heart burning with dreams of justice and strength. Sabo, however, remained undecided.
His aversion to the Marines ran deep.
He had seen with his own eyes how the Marines turned a blind eye to the atrocities of the nobles—how they smiled and bowed while injustice festered. He didn't trust the system. Not all of it. Not yet. There were a few exceptions, of course. Men like Grandpa Garp and Uncle Bogard, whom he had come to admire in recent years. But admiration wasn't conviction.
Sabo still didn't know who he wanted to become—a Marine, a pirate, or something else entirely. And until that day came, they had agreed to prepare for every possible path.
Ace never pressured him.
Whatever Sabo chose, Ace would support him. Because that's what brothers did.
And today, Ace was here—to prove that support.
"Are you sure about this, Sabo?" Ace asked in a low voice, glancing sideways at his brother as they crouched in the shadows of a hedge outside a grand estate. He didn't sound scared. Just... resolute. Seeking confirmation one final time. Because what they were about to do wasn't mischief.
It was revenge.
Today, they planned to rob Sabo's birth family blind—to strip them of their gold, their jewels, and their pride. This was retaliation. A message.
Sabo's father had dared to send mercenaries and soldiers to capture him. To rip him away from his brothers. To drag him back to a cage of silk and control.
And though Sabo couldn't bring himself to harm them physically—not yet—he had no qualms about stealing what was rightfully his.
"All that wealth? It should've been mine anyway," he smirked mischievously under his breath.
Sabo scanned the perimeter, his eyes sharp and calculating, tracking the rhythm of the patrolling guards and the movement of a few nobles who were out enjoying the early morning air.
"Yes, I'm sure. They need to understand not to disturb us again," he said, a quiet chuckle escaping his lips. "And trust me, that family is rich. We might be able to get enough to buy a real ship… not just a boat."
His eyes gleamed, not with greed, but with purpose. And beside him, Ace grinned. He didn't care much for gold. But he cared about Sabo. And right now, this was his fight too.
The mansion they targeted loomed ahead—a marble beast inlaid with gold and silk-curtained windows. It was the house Sabo had once called home. The house that had betrayed him.
Inside its walls lived a man who had sold his son for status.
The guards were drowsy, sipping hot tea on their porch, oblivious to the two figures that scaled the side wall and slipped into an upper balcony with the skill of veteran burglars. Sabo's heart pounded—not with fear, but with resolve.
This wasn't just about treasure. This was a message. They tiptoed through velvet-carpeted halls, past paintings of ancestors long dead, crystal chandeliers, and locked cabinets full of useless trinkets.
"This way," Sabo whispered, leading Ace through a hidden passage he remembered from his childhood. The scent of polished wood and lavender perfume filled the air. Familiar. Foreign.
They reached a study—lavish, untouched. Behind the desk was a concealed vault, and within it: stacks of beri, gold ingots, gemstone jewelry, and rare coins. Wealth beyond what a child should remember.
Ace's eyes widened. "Damn… They really are loaded."
Sabo didn't respond right away. He stared at the riches like they were ashes. His past life—trapped in gold and silence.
Then he exhaled. "Let's take it all. Enough for a ship… not just a boat. Maybe even cannons. Food for a year. Freedom."
They had filled their sacks with as much treasure as their small arms could carry—jewels, gold coins, silver trinkets, heirlooms worth fortunes—before slipping out as silently as they had come. The plan was perfect. From the ornate balcony, they'd jump down onto the rooftop below and disappear into the winding alleyways of High Town.
But fate had other plans.
Standing between them and their escape was a ghost from Sabo's past—the very man who had poisoned his heart against everything noble and pure: Outlook III, his father.
"You… you filthy little—!" Outlook's voice cracked with disbelief as his eyes landed on the boy he had once tried to mold into a pawn.
He stood frozen for a moment, his expression twisting into one of fury and disgust. Over a year of failed hunts, wasted coin on mercenaries and corrupted soldiers, and now—now—the bastard child had walked back into his grasp, dragging a mud-caked street rat along with him.
It wasn't the loss of Sabo that haunted Outlook. No. It was the loss of opportunity—the political marriage that would have cemented his rise in nobility, perhaps even secured him influence over the royal court. All of it had been ruined by this defiant brat.
And now… here he was.
His eyes shifted to Ace: bare feet, messy black hair, clothes so ragged they barely clung to his frame, and a look in his eyes that screamed fire and rebellion.
"So this is the kind of filth you betrayed your own blood for?" Outlook sneered. "Well then… since you've so kindly delivered yourself into my hands—forget ever leaving again."
His voice dropped to a cruel snarl.
"As for your little friend… he can die."
Without hesitation, he reached into his coat and drew a flintlock pistol, a weapon meant for noble duels, not for children.
Bang!
The shot rang out like thunder. But Ace moved like lightning. He twisted instinctively, and the bullet missed his neck by mere inches, ripping through the sack over his shoulder instead. Gold and gems spilled onto the polished marble like cascading sparks.
Outlook's eyes widened. That sack. They were robbing him.
"You thieving little bastards—GUARDS! GUARD—!"
He didn't finish.
A tiny fist, packed with all the strength of Garp's brutal training, slammed directly into his gut. The air fled his lungs with a sickening wheeze, and his body lifted clean off the ground, slamming into a marble column with a dull crack. His pistol clattered uselessly across the floor.
But Sabo wasn't done. Not even close.
That moment—the moment Outlook pulled the trigger on Ace—broke something inside him. All the years of buried hatred, of cold glares and broken dreams, of being treated like a tool—it erupted.
Sabo dropped his sack at Ace's feet.
"Take the treasure and cover the guards," he said, voice shaking with rage. "I'm going to end this."
Ace nodded, crouched low, and slid behind a stone balustrade as voices and footsteps thundered toward them. "I've got this," he growled, fists raised.
Just as the palace guards burst onto the balcony—spears and rifles at the ready—Ace leapt into action, ducking and weaving between them, tripping legs, biting ankles, throwing dirt into eyes from the nearby flowerpot. His small form was a blur, dancing in the chaos like a forest fire—untamed, wild, and unrelenting.
Meanwhile, Sabo walked slowly toward Outlook, who was coughing violently, blood spitting from his lips.
"You tried to kill my brother," Sabo said coldly. "You tried to cage me. You only ever saw me as a bargaining chip… but never as your son."
Outlook tried to raise a hand, maybe in surrender, maybe in fear. Too late. Sabo's foot came down hard on his wrist—a sickening crack echoed as bone snapped. Outlook screamed, but it was drowned out by the roar of blood in Sabo's ears.
The next punch shattered a tooth. Then another—jawbone crunching under the weight of his tiny fists. Sabo rained down punches, each one a hammer forged from years of pain. He didn't care that he was five. He had been forged in fire, shaped by survival, and trained by the Hero of the Marines.
Blood pooled beneath Outlook's swollen face. Teeth scattered like broken pearls across the stone floor.
"You beat me with words. You tried to beat me with chains. Let me return the favor."
He grabbed the man's coat and dragged him upright, then headbutted him square in the nose—blood burst in every direction. Outlook slumped against the pillar, groaning, barely conscious. But Sabo grabbed his collar and whispered, low and venomous:
"Next time you raise a hand to someone I love, I won't stop at your face."
Just then, Ace rolled beside him, breathless but grinning. "Balcony's clear. Let's bounce!"
Sabo stood, fists stained red, chest heaving, and grabbed the sack again. Together, they leapt from the balcony—brothers, rebels, outlaws—their stolen riches clinking behind them like the laughter of fate.
And behind them, Outlook III lay broken in his own palace—defeated not by pirates or revolutionaries, but by the very child he once tried to sell for power.