Drum Kingdom Capital City, Cassia. Inside the Royal Palace.
King Gresham sat in his throne room, looking utterly exhausted as he listened to Finance Minister Herbert's lengthy report.
When the old minister finally finished, Gresham frowned deeply and glanced at the antique clock hanging on the wall.
The hands pointed to half an hour before midnight.
"Cough… cough…"
A wave of pain welled up in his chest, and the aged monarch was seized by another fit of coughing.
His face quickly turned pale. The guards nearby, well-trained from experience, rushed forward and handed him a vial of medicine.
Moments later, the king's coughing subsided, and a faint flush returned to his cheeks.
Seeing this, Herbert, his own hair as white as snow could not hide the sorrow in his eyes.
As one of the few people Gresham still trusted completely, Herbert knew all too well that the king's body was already running on fumes.
It was only the rare and expensive medicine keeping him alive at this point.
But prolonged use had dulled its effect. The dosage required had grown steadily larger in recent weeks, an unmistakable sign that the medicine was beginning to fail.
"Your Majesty," Herbert began, voice heavy with hesitation, "perhaps it's time to accept that shameless merchant's offer. The treasury is strained, yes, but if we make some cuts elsewhere, we can manage.
However, we cannot let him take advantage of us. Since that merchant has the means to acquire Devil Fruits, let him find you a Zoan-type, specifically the Turtle-Turtle Fruit."
Herbert drew a deep breath. His love for the kingdom was deep, and he knew exactly how vital Gresham was to its survival.
If medicine could no longer sustain him, then perhaps only a Devil Fruit, one of the mysterious treasures of the sea, could grant the king a few more precious years.
At Herbert's words, Gresham's expression darkened in anger but only briefly.
His features soon softened into weary resignation.
He knew precisely what Herbert meant: to use a Devil Fruit to cling to life.
The doctors had already warned him; his life force was nearly spent. No number of drugs or external treatments could restore it.
The only way to keep going was for his body to somehow generate new vitality from within.
A Zoan-type Devil Fruit might do just that.
Especially the Turtle-Turtle Fruit, rumored to grant its user enhanced longevity and a slow but steady vitality.
It wouldn't cure him, but it could prolong his life a while longer.
Yet the old king was simply too tired.
He had been battling illness for seven long years, seven years of endless pain and torment.
The disease had nearly driven him mad.
And the loss of his son had left a wound that never closed.
There had been times when he had thought of ending it all.
He was exhausted.
He had given his entire life to this kingdom, now he only wanted rest.
"Please, Your Majesty… endure a little longer," Herbert pleaded.
"Prince Mushuru is on his way back. He'll be here soon. You just need to hold on until then."
Herbert's voice trembled with both guilt and determination.
He knew his old friend's suffering far too well, and he knew that Gresham truly wanted to die.
But until Prince Mushuru, the last legitimate heir of Drum Kingdom returned, the king could not fall.
If Gresham died now, the people's morale would crumble. The Royal Army would lose heart.
And Gilbert, leader of the rebel forces, would surely seize the opportunity to launch a full-scale attack.
If that happened, even Mushuru's return would be meaningless, the war would already be lost, and all loyalists of Gresham would be purged.
This was a war that neither side could afford to lose.
"…I understand," Gresham said at last after a long silence.
He glanced at the clock, midnight was approaching.
A weary sigh escaped him. "You may go."
For the sake of his kingdom, he would carry the burden a little longer.
Herbert bowed deeply and took his leave.
"Fuffuffuffu…"
No sooner had Herbert left the chamber than an arrogant, mocking laugh echoed through the room.
The unmistakable, chilling laughter of Donquixote Doflamingo.
Blizzard Town, a small coastal settlement about ten kilometers east of Snowstorm City, though lacking in natural resources, it had thrived thanks to its strategic location.
Serving as a vital maritime gateway for Snowstorm City, the kingdom's key military stronghold, Blizzard Town had grown prosperous.
Its harbor was one of the few deep-water ports in the Drum Kingdom, small but able to dock over a dozen large ships at once.
With the constant flow of merchant vessels, the town had transformed from a humble fishing village of a few thousand into a bustling town of tens of thousands.
But all that prosperity vanished when the civil war broke out.
To prevent the Royal Navy from landing reinforcements through the port, the rebel army destroyed the harbor completely and looted the town like pirates.
Its wealth was plundered, and its people scattered.
In the following months, the rebels repeatedly raided the area, preventing the port from being rebuilt.
As a result, most residents fled, and the once-bustling harbor town became a desolate ruin haunted by thieves and bandits.
The next morning, the sun rose as always.
Those few residents who refused to abandon their homeland awoke to another day.
Humans are resilient creatures, capable of adapting to almost any environment.
The people of the Drum Kingdom, an island locked in perpetual winter were no exception.
Harsh conditions had forged their endurance and willpower since childhood.
At first, the townsfolk had struggled to adapt to the collapse of their once-prosperous lives.
But over time, those who remained learned to survive again fishing the icy seas, hunting in the forests, trading cautiously with nearby soldiers.
Some bold few even began small dealings with the army to make ends meet.
Still, peace was gone.
Every day was lived in fear of rebels, bandits, or pirates, any of whom could swoop in to rob them of the meager food and wealth they had managed to gather.
After another heavy snowfall the night before, the streets were buried in snow.
The townspeople organized groups to shovel it aside, chatting softly as they worked, trying to savor this brief moment of calm.
Suddenly
DONG! DONG! DONG!
The town's alarm bell rang from the direction of the harbor.
The residents froze, faces paling in terror.
Without a word, they dropped their tools, sprinted back into their homes, and grabbed what little food they could carry before fleeing toward the forest outside the town.
At the same time, a pirate ship was rapidly approaching the ruined port.
Because the docks had been so badly damaged, the pirates struggled to navigate the wreckage of old vessels before finally managing to dock.
Led by their captain, a man in a tattered naval-style hat they disembarked and stormed toward the town.
"What is this dump?! Is this all you've got? You rats must be hiding something!"
The pirate captain kicked over a small pile of food and trinkets, his face twisted in fury.
"No, Captain! There's barely anyone left here. The townsfolk must've spotted us early, they all ran! This is all we could find!"
An older pirate groaned helplessly.
The others nodded in agreement, equally frustrated.
This raid had been their worst haul since entering the Grand Line.
"Damn it! Worthless town! Burn it to the ground!" the captain roared.
His men cheered wildly.
They were pirates, after all and destruction was as satisfying as treasure.
Moments later, flames began to spread through the small town.
Thick smoke billowed into the sky as the pirates laughed and shouted.
From the nearby forest, the fleeing villagers watched in despair.
Their homes what little they had left were being consumed by fire.
Then
BANG! BANG! BANG!
A series of gunshots echoed through the burning streets.
The townsfolk flinched in fear.
But the next sound made their hearts leap
A trumpet's call, clear and commanding, cutting through the chaos.
Their eyes widened with hope.
An eight-year-old boy shouted with joy, "It's Lord Mesfield! That's his army's trumpet! I'd never mistake that sound!"
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