Icarus Kingdom, Grand Line
"Are you sure this gamble will pay off... Your majesty? If the World Government catches wind of what we're planning, they won't hesitate to erase us off the map."
The minister's voice was low, cautioning, as he stood beside the towering windows of the royal palace, watching distant columns of smoke rise from the besieged harbor.
Across the room, lounging lazily on a velvet throne, the King of Icarus swirled a goblet of crimson wine, his lips curled in a confident smirk. Beyond the walls of his gilded palace, pirates ravaged his kingdom—setting fire to granaries, plundering trade posts, and clashing with what appeared to be outmatched royal guards. But none of it troubled the king. In truth, it was all by design.
By sheer chance—or perhaps fate—he had discovered that four World Government vessels, each laden with a portion of the Heavenly Tribute, would be docking at his kingdom's main port for resupply. Those tributes were sacred: taxes extorted from the world's nations to feed the whims of the Celestial Dragons. To interfere with them was a crime punishable by annihilation.
And yet, the king had seen opportunity.
"I crafted this plan with precision," he murmured, sipping again. "Let the pirates take the tribute. Let the world watch my kingdom burn. When the smoke clears, I will weep before the Holy Land, claim innocence, and offer loyalty. Who could blame a nation overrun by raiders?"
The minister stiffened. "And if they don't believe you?"
The king's smile deepened. "They will."
He leaned forward, setting his goblet aside, eyes gleaming.
"Because during the last Reverie, I stumbled upon a truth… a truth the World Government buried deep for centuries. I didn't share it with the council, not even with you. Only my son knows, as a contingency. But if they dare accuse me, if they try to eliminate me to hide their shame—" he tapped his temple with a finger, "—then I will burn their entire illusion to the ground."
He let out a roaring, drunken laugh, halfway between arrogance and madness. "Soon, we'll be richer than any kingdom in the Grand Line! Use the tribute to strengthen our army. Once we have the World Government's eyes elsewhere, we'll strike the neighboring lands. We'll forge an empire!"
The minister gave a slow bow, murmuring acknowledgments, and soon excused himself after a few more updates about the pirate activity. But the moment he closed the door behind him and returned to the privacy of his study, everything changed.
Gone was the warm, servile demeanor. With a fluid motion, he reached up and peeled away a layer of synthetic skin, revealing a cold, expressionless face beneath—a Cipher Pol agent, elite intelligence of the World Government.
His eyes were steely, devoid of emotion.
The intelligence he gathered confirmed the suspicions: the king had orchestrated the pirate siege, ensuring that the tribute was stolen on his soil so he could redirect the wealth under the guise of victimhood. The kingdom's army had collapsed too quickly against the pirates assault, too conveniently, as if choreographed.
What made things worse was the timing: four tribute ships lost in a single day, all at this same kingdom's port. The coincidence was too thin. The World Government had already sent a kill order—the king and his family were to be eliminated before this secret could be leveraged.
But just as the agents prepared to strike, something unexpected happened: The prince vanished. Every spy, every tracer, every Den Den Mushi surveillance node came back empty. The prince had simply disappeared.
And that meant only one thing to the World Government: the king wasn't bluffing. Somewhere, tucked away in the hands of that missing heir, was a secret powerful enough to shake the foundations of the world—a secret so damning it could not be allowed to see the light of day.
The Cipher Pol agent activated a secure transponder snail.
"Operation Icarus Fall is on hold," he said flatly. "The prince is missing. Repeat—the leverage is at large. Requesting additional personnel from higher-ranking Cipher Pol divisions."
Soon enough, the orders came through from the other side. The Cipher Pol agent—whose face rarely betrayed emotion—frowned for the first time.
"A rookie CP9 team...?" he muttered, barely hiding his disbelief. His fingers tightened slightly around the Den Den Mushi's receiver. "Are they truly suited for an operation of this magnitude? We're on the verge of a continental crisis. The prince must be captured before he leaves the island. We've combed every inch of this territory for over a week—and still no trace. And now… you're sending in a single, untested team?"
There was silence on the line for a heartbeat. Heavy. Final. The weight of the higher-ups' disappointment hung in the air like a blade.
This operation—meant to be clean, swift, and silent—had already spiraled into a diplomatic disaster. The very fact that the prince had slipped through their fingers while carrying potentially world-shattering information was an error they could not afford.
And with pirates running rampant and the kingdom's military deliberately weakened—its forces conveniently captured by those very same mercenary crews hired by the king—it made any free movement by Cipher Pol increasingly dangerous. The agent straightened as the voice on the line resumed, crisp and cold as steel:
"Understood, sir. We will maintain constant surveillance on the king and his inner circle. Anyone who has interacted with him over the last seven days will be marked as potential targets for elimination—pending confirmation of the prince's fate."
The line went dead. Silence lingered in the room like a fog of ash after a fire.
The agent set the transponder snail down slowly. His jaw clenched. He didn't like this. Not one bit. Assigning the retrieval of a political keypiece and a catastrophic secret to a rookie CP9 unit felt less like a tactical decision… and more like a setup for failure.
He turned to the window, watching the city beyond—flames curling into the sky, chaos dancing in the streets, and pirate flags waving on the outskirts of the capital. The kingdom was a battlefield dressed as a tragedy. But he suspected the true tragedy had yet to unfold.
The World Government, in its infinite ruthlessness, would not tolerate any weakness in its agents. If CP9 failed to retrieve the prince… if the secret ever surfaced… if the balance of power even tilted—then the next order would not be a retrieval.
It would be a Buster Call. An island-wide purge. No survivors. Not even the Cipher Pol agents on mission.
He took a slow breath, swallowing the bitter taste in his mouth. He had served the government long enough to recognize the signs. They were already preparing the paperwork for annihilation.
He had just two days.
Two days to find a missing prince hiding among flames and treachery. Two days before this island was reduced to ash. And it had all been left to a rookie team.
As the agent stood deep in thought, weighing the fate of an entire kingdom against a ticking clock, he realized—too late—that someone had breached his perimeter.
His instincts flared.
A presence was behind him. Close. Deadly. Silent. And he was certain—absolutely certain—that all entrances had been secured.
"Busoshoku Kōka...!" he growled, black iron creeping over his limbs.
"Rankyaku!"
In a blur, he spun—his leg cleaving through the air, imbued with Armament Haki, aiming to bisect the intruder with a cutting shockwave. But the strike never landed. A hand shot up from below—coated in jet-black Haki—and caught his leg mid-swing.
The impact should have crushed bone or torn muscle, yet the grip didn't budge. Iron met iron—and the agent's eyes widened in disbelief. Before him stood a young teenager—no older than fifteen—with ashen gray eyes and an expression carved from stone. There was no rage. No urgency. Not even recognition.
Just cold emptiness. Even among the Cipher Pol ranks—where children were molded into weapons—this one stood apart. He radiated something worse than hostility: Precision.
The boy's other hand rose slowly—not in an attack, but with fingers forming silent gestures.
"Tekkai!" he barked, muscles locking into steel—but the expected blow never came.
Instead, his opponent remained still, fingers shifting rapidly with a trained fluency. For a few seconds, the only sound in the room was the subtle swish of their uniforms and the fading tension in the air. And then—he understood.
Sign language.
The veteran agent narrowed his eyes. Every CP operative was trained in silent communication, but rarely was it used in the field outside of missions. That this child used it now—mid-combat—and without a flicker of hesitation, spoke volumes. The agent instinctively dropped into a defensive stance.
This boy... this ghost in the shape of a child... was one of the Cipher Pol operatives. The rookies. Already deployed. Already infiltrating. The realization hit like a thunderclap. Without saying a word, the boy released his grip and stepped back, allowing the agent to steady himself.
Still silent. Still watching. The older agent exhaled slowly, regaining composure. They hadn't just sent a team of rookies. They'd sent monsters in training. And if even one of them moved like this—then the prince's time was already running out.
The older agent didn't drop his stance immediately. Though the teen had backed off, the air still crackled with tension. His eyes narrowed as he studied the boy in front of him—lean, quiet, expressionless.
"Identify yourself, agent." No response. Only a cold, unwavering stare from the boy standing in the shadows of the chamber, his presence like a blade drawn in silence. The room held its breath.
Then, slowly—precisely—the boy raised his hands. Fingers moved in practiced, rigid rhythm. Each gesture was sharp, direct. Military. Not the showmanship of a field agent flaunting fluency in Cipher Pol's sign language—no, this was something else.
The veteran agent's brow furrowed. No flourish. No hesitation. Just raw necessity. He's not showing off... This is all he has. A chill settled in his gut.
Mute. Deaf. Trained in silence. Made for shadow. A ghost of Cipher Pol. One of the rumored black assets bred for the Aegis division.
Still, protocol could not be bypassed. The enemy had eyes, and a uniform alone meant nothing.
"You could be anyone in that coat," the veteran muttered, his voice low, his stance unbroken. "If you're CP9... then show me the hex."
The boy—barely a teenager, face unreadable and pale under the moonlight—nodded once. From the inside of his black combat sleeve, he retrieved a slate—sleek, obsidian, not much larger than a den-den mushi shell. Its screen flickered alive with crimson characters that pulsed like a heartbeat: 9F-3C-7A
The agent's tension eased slightly. The code matched. A six-digit rotating hexadecimal cipher known only to operatives specifically assigned to the royal surveillance operation. One wrong digit, and the child in front of him would've been executed on the spot.
The veteran agent exhaled slowly. "Confirmed."
He raised two fingers and drew a swift cross-pattern—an internal Cipher Pol clearance gesture.
The boy mirrored the signal, tapping his forearm once. Acknowledged. Ready to deploy.
The agent studied him for a moment longer. So young. Barely more than a whisper of a man, and yet—there was no hesitation. No emotion. No wasted movement. Just pure, cold execution.
"You're the asset they sent to track the prince?" he asked. "Where's your team?"
Zero responded instantly, his hands a blur—silent combat language. The veteran read it effortlessly.
The team scattered. Four-man unit. One among the pirates. One embedded in royal kitchens. One tracking port activity. I am lead on direct intercept.
Then came the final signal—two taps on the chest with a closed fist. Status concluded.
"Any leads?" the agent asked.
Zero didn't hesitate. He signed rapidly: Initial scans negative. Subject concealed. All public trails exhausted. Previous teams compromised. Suspected third-party extraction. Last credible contact: Port Cerulean—48 hours prior. Intercept failed.
The older man's jaw clenched. He'd been on the island for a week, and this silent wraith already had more insight than half the embedded agents combined.
"Then the situation's worse than I thought…"
Three rapid taps to the wrist. Urgency. Zero turned to the west-facing window and pointed—movement signal.
"Understood." The veteran adjusted his coat and followed suit. "If the prince slips the net, we both know what comes next. They won't hesitate to burn the island. A Buster Call's just waiting for the order."
Zero didn't blink. Didn't flinch. He vaulted silently through the open window, vanishing into the dark like smoke caught in wind. The veteran agent followed a breath later, boots landing lightly on the adjacent rooftop, his silhouette fading into the horizon.
****
In the heart of the bustling harbor district—just beyond the sightlines of the Marine blockade—stood a massive warehouse that once housed goods destined for trade with kingdoms across the Grand Line. But now, the towering structure had been repurposed into something far more insidious.
A prison—but not one of chains.
The enormous interior, once filled with crates of spices, fabrics, and rare ores, had been cleared out and converted into a makeshift detention center. Ironically, it held not enemies, but the very army meant to protect the kingdom: the Icarus Royal Guard.
Outside, chaos reigned. Pirates ran unchecked through the cities, looting, razing, terrorizing the population. Civilians wept, fled, or fell to violence. And the Marines, watching from their blockade offshore, could only wait—paralyzed—not by fear, but by the sheer number of hostages the pirates supposedly held captive. A misstep could cost thousands of civilian lives.
But the truth inside the warehouse told a far different story. The so-called "hostages" were lounging. Drinking. Laughing.
Tables had been arranged into makeshift banquet halls. Roasted meats, casks of wine, even cigars from the royal treasury had been passed around. Lanterns swayed from the rafters, casting a dim amber glow over a scene that more resembled a tavern festival than a prison.
No chains. No guards barking orders. Only indulgence.
The soldiers of the Icarus Kingdom, clad in polished armor and bearing the royal crest, had obeyed their final orders without hesitation. Weeks ago, they had been instructed—through secure channels—to stand down. To surrender themselves to the pirates. No resistance. No retaliation. "Temporary internment," the message claimed. A strategic move for "the greater good."
And so they obeyed. Not out of loyalty to the people, but to the crown.
Because their king had promised them safety. Promised protection for their families—who had already been escorted to secure housing within the capital's inner sanctum. He had promised rewards, titles, and gold once the "crisis" ended. The only price? Compliance.
And so they sat, safe within these iron walls, laughing while the kingdom burned. To them, the cries of civilians were distant echoes. The smoke rising from the towns was little more than a backdrop to their feast. Their armor, once worn in pride to defend the weak, had become mere ornamentation—a symbol of blind obedience.
They did not question how their mighty army had fallen to a ragtag fleet of pirates led by a man with a measly 73 million bounty. They did not ask why the pirates treated them with respect or how their families had been "miraculously" protected.
They didn't care.
The king had spoken. And they followed—not out of honor, but out of comfort.
Honor was cheap. Loyalty was conditional. And as long as their bellies were full and their blood unspilled, the world outside could burn.
And it was.
Because in the streets beyond, while the royal guard toasted to their king's cunning, the people of Icarus screamed for salvation that would never come. Not from these men. Not anymore.
"Oye! Newbie—stop brooding and come have a drink! What're you doing sulking in the corner?"
A burly soldier, half-drunk and grinning, waved a sloshing tankard toward a young recruit sitting near the far end of the warehouse, away from the makeshift banquet unfolding around him.
Laughter echoed off the steel walls. The flickering lanterns overhead bathed the scene in a hazy golden glow, making the entire space feel like some surreal tavern plucked from a painting—utterly disconnected from the burning chaos outside.
The young man looked up slowly, forcing a tight-lipped smile and raising his hand in a polite decline. "Later," he said, his voice barely audible.
But the soldier had already turned away, absorbed once more into the raucous revelry. The moment passed, and silence returned to his corner of the warehouse—a silence thick with tension and hidden truths.
Because the man they had waved at was not just another new recruit. He was the prince. The only heir to the Icarus throne, disguised beneath a soldier's armor and a false name.
Gone was the flowing silver-blonde hair—now cut short and dyed a nondescript brown. The royal beard, once a mark of his coming-of-age, had been shaved clean. His sharp noble features had been dulled by grime and shadows. Even his voice had been trained to sound rough, common.
He had memorized ranks, backstories, slang. And somehow—against all odds—not one soul had recognized him. Yet inside, his heart thundered like war drums. Half from fear… half from the raw fire of ambition.
Leaning forward, elbows on his knees, he whispered under his breath, his voice low enough to be swallowed by the drunken noise around him.
"Damn it... how long do I have to keep up this act? Why haven't the Marines responded? One show of force is all it would take to scatter these hired dogs…"
His gaze flicked across the warehouse floor. Hundreds of elite royal guards lounged without armor, swords laid aside, drinking and laughing like guests at a feast. Every one of them had surrendered under "special orders"—a quiet command from the king himself. The pirates who'd "captured" them were actors in a carefully orchestrated deception. A false war. A staged siege.
And in the middle of it all, hidden among the soldiers like a needle in hay, was him—the kingdom's future, tucked away behind enemy lines by the king's own hands. A move so cunning, even the World Government wouldn't suspect it.
And yet… something felt wrong. The plan was too perfect. The delay too long. Every passing hour without a signal from the Marines twisted deeper into his gut like a blade. Was the king really in control?
Or had the strings been cut, and no one realized it yet? He clenched his fists. No matter what happened, he couldn't stay hidden much longer. If the Marines didn't act… he would.