[Enjoy….]
The golden light of the transformation faded, leaving the Sun Chamber bathed in the warm, ordinary glow of the desert evening.
Morgans remained on one knee for a long moment with his head bowed not just in fealty, but in sheer, overwhelming awe as he processed the new reality and the newfound power within his veins.
It was more than just power, it was a fundamental rewriting of his being. The creeping aches of age were gone, replaced by a vibrant relaxing energy.
His senses were preternaturally sharp, he could hear the whispered conversations of servants three halls away, see the individual dust motes dancing in the sunbeams with microscopic clarity.
And on his back, the weight of the magnificent, snow-white wings felt not like a burden, but like a part of him that had always been missing.
He slowly rose to his feet with a wide, manic grin spreading across his beak. "Captain… the feeling… it's… INCREDIBLE!" he said, his voice couldn't hide the excitement he felt at all.
"But this is just the foundation, isn't it? The potential! I can feel it, itching at my feathers! Abilities waiting to be born from this divine inkwell!"
Ragnar watched, his earlier surprise at the singular pair of wings giving way to keen interest. Isabella, his first angel, had awakened only one primary ability 'Whispers,' a potent form of telepathic suggestion and emotional manipulation.
For Morgans to potentially manifest more was a fascinating development.
"Show me," Ragnar said, his voice calm but expectant.
Morgans closed his eyes, focusing his will. He thought of his life's work, the power of the printed word, the way a headline could start a war or topple a king.
He envisioned truth not as something discovered, but as something created. The air around him began to shimmer.
Spectral, glowing feathers, each one resembling a page of parchment, detached from his wings and swirled around him in a complex, beautiful dance.
A halo of golden, rotating runes, ancient symbols for 'word,' 'truth,' and 'propagation' materialized above his head, forming the shape of a floating, ethereal printing press.
"This is my first ability, Heavenly Press," Morgan said, and his words sounded like they were imbued with divine authority.
In his outstretched talons, light coalesced, solidifying not into a weapon, but into a perfectly crisp, freshly printed newspaper. The headline blazed in bold, black letters: 'ALABASTA LIBERATED: SEA SCOURGE HAILED AS HERO BY KING COBRA.'
Below it was a stunningly clear photograph of the very moment the king had bowed to Ragnar on the rooftop. The article was filled with quotes from "eyewitness soldiers" and "grateful citizens," all fabricated from whole cloth by Morgan's belief, yet so convincingly detailed they felt irrefutably real.
"The words I print become truth," Morgans explained, his eyes gleaming with unholy glee. "If I believe it, the world will believe it. And the more who believe… the more reality itself begins to bend to accommodate the narrative. This doesn't just report history, Captain. It writes it KAHAHAHA."
Ragnar's eyebrows rose. This was beyond anything he had anticipated. It was a power of conceptual manifestation, of shaping consensus reality through sheer force of persuasive will. It was, in its own way, as terrifying as his own command over the oceans.
Before Ragnar could fully process the implications, Morgans took a deep breath, puffing out his chest. His new wings gave a powerful beat, not to lift him, but to send a pulse of energy through the air. The golden runes of his halo shifted, rearranging into symbols of sound and projection.
"And this…" Morgans declared, his voice changing. It became a resonant, like and omnipresent echo, as if it were emanating from the walls, the floor, the very air itself.
It was a voice that demanded to be heard, that bypassed the ears and spoke directly to the soul. "This is my second ability 'Voice of Revelation'!"
Soon, a holographic image of Morgan's own face flickered into existence in the middle of the room, then another near the window, then a third reflected in the polished surface of a silver platter. His voice filled the chamber from everywhere at once.
"I can project my voice and image anywhere in the world," he proclaimed, the holograms mirroring his movements perfectly. "To every Den Den Mushi, to every still pool of water, to the very sky itself. No barrier can block it, heheheh"
"No government censor can cut the signal. I can speak to all, or I can whisper a secret into the ear of a single Marine Admiral on the other side of the Grand Line. The air is my network. Belief is my broadcast tower."
The holograms vanished, and his voice returned to its normal, localized state. Morgans stood there, panting slightly from the exertion of awakening two such monumental abilities at once, but his chest swelling with pride.
Ragnar was, for one of the few times in his recent existence, genuinely and utterly speechless. Isabella's 'Whispers' was a subtle, insidious tool, perfect for manipulation and infiltration. But this? 'Heavenly Press' and 'Voice of Revelation' were weapons of mass perception.
They were the tools to wage a war for the very soul of reality, to control the narrative on a global scale instantly. The potential was staggering.
With these abilities, Morgans could turn allies into enemies, make lies into unassailable facts, and rally the entire world to his banner, or Ragnar's with a single, uncensorable broadcast.
He looked at the newly-born angel, this mammoth bird with wings of light who held the power to reshape truth itself. An appreciative smile spread across Ragnar's face.
"Good job, Morgan," he said, the praise simple, direct, and immensely powerful. "Very good job."
Morgans laughed, it was a booming, triumphant laugh that shook the books on their shelves. "Thank you, Captain! KAHAHAHA! With gifts like these, how can I not serve you with every fiber of my being?"
His mind was already racing, plans unfolding at the speed of thought. He reached into his coat and pulled out his personal Den Den Mushi, its face a caricature of his own eager expression.
Ragnar watched, curious. What was his newest, most powerful subordinate's first move going to be? To issue a challenge to the World Government? To broadcast Crocodile's defeat?
The Den Den Mushi connected after a single ring. "Sir! We're ready on our end! The presses are hot, we just need your copy for the extra edition!" a frantic voice chirped from the snail.
Morgan's grin turned razor-sharp. "Johnson. Listen carefully. You, and everyone else at the World Economic Journal… are fired."
There was a dead silence on the other end. "...Sir? This is a poor time for a joke. The biggest story in decades is-"
"No joke," Morgans interrupted, his voice cheerful and final. "Effective immediately. All of you. Pack your desks. Security will escort you out. Goodbye." He snapped the Den Den Mushi shut, cutting off the sputtering protests mid-sentence.
Ragnar, who had remained impeccably composed through discussions of toppling world orders and bestowing immortality, was left genuinely speechless for the second time in five minutes.
His jaw actually went slack for a fraction of a second. He had expected many things, grand pronouncements, dramatic proclamations, but not this… corporate ruthlessness.
"Morgans… you just laid off your entire global staff," Ragnar stated, the sheer absurdity of the act momentarily overriding his godlike composure.
"Of course I did!" Morgans cackled, waving the newspaper he had conjured. "With these abilities, why would I waste billions of berries on salaries, printing costs, distribution networks, and bribes for Den Den Mushi lines? KAHAHAHA! I AM the press now! I AM the network!"
"I can write, print, and distribute a story to the entire world simultaneously, for free! The overhead is zero! The profits…" His eyes glinted with astronomical greed.
"The profits are now one hundred percent mine! Well, ours, Captain!"
Ragnar stared for another moment, and then he began to laugh. It was a low, genuine sound of amusement. The sheer, unadulterated capitalist fervor was something he hadn't factored in. It was brilliant in its pragmatic, greedy simplicity.
"Well," Ragnar said, shaking his head in amused disbelief. "You do what you want to."
Morgans nodded, his business concluded. "Captain, with your permission, I must take my leave. I have… assets to liquidate and a new, divinely-efficient business model to implement in the New World. But first," he said, his expression turning solemn and fervent once more,
"I have a glorious story to tell the whole world. The tale of the Sea Scourge, the liberator of Alabasta, the man who will wash the Red Line clean."
Ragnar gave a single, regal nod of assent. "Go. Let them hear it."
Morgans bowed deeply. Then, with a powerful, ground-shaking beat of his new wings, he shot towards the large window. Instead of crashing through it, his body and the window became momentarily intangible, passing through each other as if both were made of light.
He soared into the Alabastan sky, a streak of white feathers and golden light, his triumphant laughter echoing back down into the Sun Chamber.
"TO THE WORLD!" his Voice of Revelation boomed across the entire city of Alubarna, causing citizens and marines alike to look up in shock and wonder. "YOUR NEWS IS HERE!"
Ragnar stood alone in the sudden quiet, a slow, predatory smile gracing his lips once more. He had come to Alabasta to remove a nuisance and test his strength.
He was leaving with the eternal loyalty of a king, the awe of his crew, and control over the single most powerful propaganda machine in history. The game was indeed escalating. And he was holding all the best cards.