The Celestial Dragons—self‑proclaimed "World Nobles," descendants of the so‑called Creators—enjoyed privilege and protection few could ever imagine. Backed by the World Government and shielded by the Marines, they walked the earth as if the world itself belonged to them.
To them, all other people were filth.
Only their existence held value.
They refused to breathe the same air as "lesser beings," wearing their signature glass bubble helmets as "divine" air filters. And with wealth and authority beyond measure, anything they desired—whether a person or an object—was delivered instantly at their command.
Wherever they went, everyone was required to kneel.
Any resistance, any hesitation, earned only one outcome: instant execution.
When bored or annoyed, they shot civilians in the street for amusement. No one dared retaliate—hurting a Celestial Dragon meant the Marines' highest forces would descend in full fury. An Admiral would personally hunt the perpetrator to the ends of the earth.
And these abuses… were only the tip of the iceberg.
The darkest part of their existence was the slave trade.
Their endless demand for slaves fueled a massive underground market—pirates, traffickers, and corrupt brokers all scrambling to earn favor by delivering human lives to the Celestial Dragons. Once enslaved, those victims were condemned to a life worse than death.
On Gran Tesoro, seeing Celestial Dragons was nothing unusual.
Gild Tesoro had funneled astronomical amounts of "Heavenly Tribute" into their pockets. In return, Gran Tesoro gained official recognition as a neutral zone—untouchable by world powers. And for a floating city built on pleasure and spectacle, nothing drew a Celestial Dragon faster than luxury.
"Why is it," Whiteflame murmured, "that every time I see a Celestial Dragon… murder just comes so naturally?"
He sighed lightly.
"Seems my heart still needs some polishing. But before that… I should obey it just once."
A cold glint flashed across his eyes.
He flicked away his cigarette, blurred forward, and suddenly appeared in the path of the Celestial Dragon's procession.
"Who goes there?!"
"Protect Saint Charlos!"
Armored guards surged to the front, shields raised and lances leveled.
"You dare stand before me? Kill him!"
Saint Charlos shrieked.
In the next instant—
Slash. Thud.
The guards collapsed one by one—cleanly struck down before they even understood what happened.
"You… you know who you're attacking, don't you?!"
Saderose screamed.
"I am a Celestial Dragon! A WORLD NOBLE! Look at my clothes! My status! You're dead—dead a hundred times over!"
"I'm well aware," Whiteflame said calmly.
"Then you know the Navy is already on their way!"
"I've summoned twenty warships! If you run now, maybe—maybe—I'll spare you! But if I change my mind—"
"The Den Den Mushi in your hand?" Whiteflame interrupted.
"Give it here."
With one gesture, the transponder snail flew from Saderose's grip straight into Whiteflame's hand.
The line was still open.
"—Saint Charlos? Are you still there? Please don't worry, sir! Ten Marine battleships are already en route, with ten more preparing for deployment! Rest assured, we will protect you with the highest priority!"
A Marine's frantic voice echoed from the snail.
"So," Whiteflame said coldly, "you enjoy playing watchdog for the Celestial Dragons?"
Silence.
Then a trembling voice:
"Who are you?! Where is Saint Charlos?! Listen carefully—he is a Celestial Dragon! Whatever you want, we can negotiate, but do not harm him!"
"Celestial Dragon?" Whiteflame replied lightly.
"Oh, he's not doing too well."
He raised his hand—
A white bullet-thread shot forward.
Saint Charlos howled, clutching his arm.
Seconds later, another sharp snap—
A second shot hit his thigh, dropping him to the floor in a sobbing, indignant heap.
"You're dead! You're absolutely dead!" he shrieked.
"The World Government will crush you! You'll live forever in fear of the Celestial Dragons! I'll never forgive you—never!"
He had no trace of humility or survival instinct—only entitlement and fury.
Such was the upbringing of a Celestial Dragon.
Declaration of War
"This is Vice Admiral Doberman," barked a stern voice over the line.
"You are threatening a World Noble. I am warning you—if you harm him further, the Marines will hunt you to the grave."
Whiteflame remembered him well—one of the sixteen Vice Admirals, a hard‑edged man covered in scars. In the future war at Marineford, he would even challenge Red‑Haired Shanks's ceasefire directly.
Whiteflame chuckled.
"So that's why Celestial Dragons act the way they do," he said quietly.
"They rampage, they kill, they torture… and because the Marines will always come running for them—
They never learn fear."
"But tell me, Doberman…" Whiteflame's voice dropped to a whisper, dripping with malice.
"Have you ever heard how a 'highborn' screams when he's about to die?"
Before anyone could react—
Saderose was yanked into the air by invisible force, arms spread wide like a crucifix.
"Make him feel it," Whiteflame ordered. "Slowly."
The unseen pull on Saderose's limbs tightened. He shrieked—a sound so raw and animalistic that people nearby froze in terror.
"Stop! STOP AT ONCE!" Doberman roared.
"You?" Whiteflame replied. "Order me?"
A tearing sound shattered the air.
Saderose howled—
A sound that seemed to claw at the bones of everyone who heard it.
"Next," Whiteflame said coldly, "the other arm."
"And then the legs."
"You call yourself noble?"
"Let me show you what real suffering feels like."
"Madman! Stop immediately!"
Doberman's voice shook.
"You don't understand the consequences! You're inviting annihilation! If you value your life—STOP!"
Whiteflame laughed.
"Value my life? That's the one thing I stopped doing long ago."
"So my answer is simple—"
He snapped his fingers.
"No."
Saderose's screams echoed through the streets, turning every heart cold.
Dozens watched in paralyzed horror as the man who had defeated Gild Tesoro now turned his wrath upon a Celestial Dragon.
That symbol of untouchable power.
That "descendant of gods."
And Whiteflame showed no hesitation.
No mercy.
Only judgment.
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