The auction house in Grove 1 shimmered with chandeliers and cruelty. Inside, the scent of incense battled with perfume and old sweat. Celestial Dragons reclined on cushioned thrones, surrounded by guards, attendants, and the quiet hum of humiliation on sale.
Saint Roswald was there, fanning himself lazily, a goblet of spiced wine balanced on his gut. To his left sat Saint Jamalck, whose jowls sagged like damp curtains, eyes glassy from powdered haze. And between them, in crisp white and blue regalia, sat Donquixote Valquier—tall, elegant, gloved to the wrist. His face was fixed in a permanent look of mild offense.
The bidding was lively. A Fish-Man child. A three-limbed dancer from West Blue. A rare-breed canine trained to serve wine.
Valquier spoke with distaste. "They always begin with the vulgar, eh?. As if rarity means spectacle."
Jamalck giggled. "If it bleeds, it entertains."
Then she arrived. Zenka did not announce herself. She didn't need to. The guards at the door bowed instinctively. The room fell to silence as her boots tapped softly on the marble floor.
She wore no armor, no sword at her hip. Just the high-collared black of the Celestial Court, and her insignia: the inverted World Government star on her back, embroidered in silver.
Jamalck swallowed his breath. Roswald's smile twitched. Valquier's eyes narrowed with cold interest.
"Saint Zenka," Valquier said with cool grace. "You honor us."
"I didn't come to honor," she said. "I came to buy."
"Of course," Roswald chuckled. "Isn't it refreshing, Jamalck, eh? Even miracles need their curios."
Zenka stepped forward, eyes gliding across the stage. Slaves shifted uneasily in their cages. A man in tattered robes stood quietly near the wall, trembling. His eyes darted between the auction block and the cages. He clutched something in his hand — a faded ribbon. The kind tied in a child's hair.
He muttered to himself. Then louder. Then louder still. "You are not justice!" he shouted. "You're just the clean face of a filthy empire!"
Guards stirred too slowly. The man broke from the side, stumbled past a handler, and collapsed at Zenka's feet.
"You could stop this!" he screamed. "You're one of them, but not like them! Please—" He reached for her.
Zenka's hand flicked out. A single-finger strike — Shigan, direct to the collarbone. No blood. No struggle. Just the sound of something giving way. He fell without grace.The ribbon slipped from his palm.
Guards moved in. Dragged him off. Someone began clapping, nervously, then stopped.
Zenka looked at no one. "Continue."
Valquier's lips twitched. "Efficient."
"Mess draws flies," she said.
The auction resumed. Zenka moved without rush. She passed cages. Men, women, even children. None worth the effort. Then she paused.
An old man sat in a corner cage, legs crossed, a rusting violin across his lap. His hair was gone. His eyes dull—but alert. Beneath the filth, the posture of a musician. His fingers tapped silently on the strings.
"Who is that?" she asked. The auctioneer stammered. "A relic from the Grand Line, Saint. A survivor of the Rumbar Pirates. No value. We were to remove him—"
"Name?"
"Charles. He hasn't spoken in years."
Zenka stepped closer. "Is the violin tuned?"
"I... I wouldn't know."
"I'll take him." The auctioneer hesitated. "He isn't… fully functional."
"Ten million." Silence.
Roswald barked a laugh. "You're joking. That fossil?"
Zenka turned slowly to face them. "I require a gift for Rosinante's celebration. A performer. I want music that makes Saints weep."
Valquier tapped a finger against his armrest. "He's broken."
"Then I want him more." Behind the stage, a Cipher Pol agent leaned closer to his partner.
"Ten million for a ghost," he murmured.
"She bought him because he's broken — and they'll feel it."
Later, she stood before Charles' cell. The bars had not been unlocked yet. He looked up slowly, his fingers still moving on the neck of the violin.
"You'll play," she said. "Something rare. Something true. If you do, I'll see you freed. If you fail—"
Charles coughed once. His voice was dry bark. "Can I choose the song?" Zenka stared at him a moment.
Then: "Yes."
He wept for the first time in thirty years.
That night, in her private quarters aboard the outbound ship, Charles tuned the violin under candlelight. His hands trembled, but his posture was steady. Zenka sat near the window, flipping slowly through a dossier.
A photo of a massive man, shirtless, laughing, lifting three men off the ground with one hand.
"Edward Newgate," the file read.
Another image—blurry. "Shiki. Airborne threat."
Zenka's fingers hovered over the last profile. The ink was still fresh. "Rocks D. Xebec." She closed the folder. Outside, the violin let out its first, trembling note.
Mary Geoise
The ballroom shimmered with artificial warmth — crystal chandeliers, velvet drapes, tables of gold-rimmed fruit and spiced wine. And yet beneath the laughter of saints and the whir of slave-servants, there hung a strange silence. As if something had not been invited.
It was the celebration of Saint Donquixote Homing's newborn son, Rosinante. The child slept soundly in a glass cradle lined with silk. At Homing's side sat his three-year-old firstborn, Doflamingo — sharp-eyed, restless, and already draped in entitlement.
Saint Roswald sipped wine and snorted. "Isn't it a little early for sentiment, eh?"
Donquixote Valquier answered flatly. "We are not here for the child. We are here to be seen, eh?"
Roswald leaned over to Jamalck with a conspiratorial chuckle. "Did you hear? Saint Aurelien had his entire garden staff executed. Something about footstep patterns on the marble."
"Tch. Amateurs," Jamalck sniffed. "My last decorator tried using wood. Wood! In a chamber that receives sunlight."
Valquier sipped his wine, bored. "I heard the latest slaves from Ilusia were bred to resist pain. Pure-blooded too. One even bit a handler."
"Oh, delightful," Roswald said. "Maybe we'll see a demonstration later, eh?"
Another noble leaned in. "Anyone hear about Rocks D. Xebec?"
Valquier's eyes glinted. "What of him?"
"Spat on a Vice Admiral. Called the Marines 'weak-livered dogs in white coats.' Said he'd put one of our heads on a mast next."
Jamalck giggled. "He should try. He'll find the air thinner than his brain."
Valquier murmured, "He won't survive the year."
Then Zenka entered.
All conversation ceased.
She walked slowly, behind her trailed a single man — Charles, the former Rumbar violinist. Dressed in clean linens now, but still frail, gaunt, quiet.
Homing rose. "Saint Zenka. Welcome. We are honored."
"I brought you music," Zenka replied. "For the boy. Something real."
The nobles exchanged skeptical glances.
Charles stood before them, gripping his violin. His hands trembled. He lifted the bow.
The first note was uncertain. The second was not.
He closed his eyes. Brook… Yorki… everyone… just once more.
The room faded for him. The marble, the nobles, the judgment — all gone. Only the song remained.
His voice, cracked with age but pure in sorrow, began to sing:
The ocean whispers secrets old,
Of laughter lost and stories told.
Of sunny decks and sails unfurled,
A band of brothers, world to world. Echoes of the blue, a haunting strain,
A symphony of joy, now laced with pain.
The waves they crash, a mournful sound,
For comrades lost, and hallowed ground. The stars at night, they seem to weep,
Reflecting tears within the deep.
A melody of memories rise,
Before my weary, longing eyes. Echoes of the blue, a haunting strain,
A symphony of joy, now laced with pain.
The waves they crash, a mournful sound,
For comrades lost, and hallowed ground. Though fate has dealt a cruelest blow,
The embers of our friendship glow.
We'll meet again, on distant shore,
Where sorrows cease, and pain is no more. Echoes of the blue, a haunting strain,
A symphony of joy, now laced with pain.
The waves they crash, a mournful sound,
For comrades lost, and hallowed ground. The blue, the blue, it calls to me,
A reminder of what used to be.
Echoes fade, but love remains,
Beyond the sorrow, beyond the chains.
His bow slowed. His voice fell into trembling silence.
Tears welled in eyes that had never known empathy. One noble turned away. Another clenched their hands under the table.
Even Valquier looked… unsettled.
That was for you, Charles thought. Laboon… Brook… tell the sea I didn't forget.
Some saints wept. Others stared, hollow-eyed. Even Jamalck fell quiet.
Then Doflamingo burst into laughter.
"I did not expect to cry with old man songs," he grinned, "but this… this is hilarious!!! The crew is dead! Why should we have some sympathy?"
He clapped mockingly, eyes gleaming. "Great song, musician. Makes you wonder where all those pirates are now, eh?"
He leaned forward, voice sharp. "Probably feeding the fish!"
Roswald howled with laughter. "This comedian's too funny! I'll name my next brat after this joker—Charlos! Almost sounds the same, eh?" Others joined in. Mocking. Cruel.
"Silence!" Homing's voice boomed. The room froze.
He glared at his son, eyes flashing. "Show some respect! This man is an artist, and he has shared a part of himself with us."
He turned to Charles. "Thank you. Your music was… profound."
Charles bowed his head, tears slipping down his face.
Zenka said nothing. But her eyes were gleaming — not with joy, but with cold, calculated fulfillment. She had not wanted applause. She had wanted disruption. She watched them weep, squirm, laugh, rage — all of it was reaction. Real.
She glanced briefly at Doflamingo. A wolf pup howling for attention, she thought. He'll be a monster. But he'll be mine to measure.
Then at Homing. Still clinging to the illusion that kindness can grow in poison.
Homing turned to dismiss Charles.
Zenka raised a hand.
"One moment, Donquixote Homing," she said, voice smooth as silk. "I had planned to present Charles to you as a gift, to entertain you and your family. However…"
She looked toward Doflamingo, then the room. "It seems his talents are not appreciated."
She turned to Charles. Their eyes met.
"Charles, it seems you have failed to please your new master."
She raised a finger.
"Off you go. From the Red Line."
"HUH?!"
"Guards," Zenka ordered. "Send him flying."
The hulking guards in white uniforms seized Charles. Homing stepped forward in alarm.
"Wait—!"
Too late. Charles was dragged toward the edge of Marijoa.
The precipice loomed — a yawning drop between the gods and the world.
Charles didn't scream. He closed his eyes. Clutched his violin to his chest.
"S-Saint Zenka! Please, wait a minute!" Homing pleaded, his voice tinged with a desperate urgency. He couldn't condone this act of blatant cruelty, not in his own home, not in front of his family.
Zenka simply raised a hand, silencing him. The guards hesitated, caught between fear and protocol. In the twisted hierarchy of Marijoa, a Celestial Dragon held absolute authority—but Zenka's power was a different kind. Whispered, feared, unmeasured.
Charles, awaiting his fate, muttered a pained apology under his breath. "Brook, captain... Laboon... I am sorry. I only hope your revive fruit..." He trailed off.
Then, Zenka's voice cut through the tension.
"Ahh, I changed my mind... Charles, you are coming with me."
A sinister smile stretched across her face—a predator's grin, sharp and cold.
Charles looked up, stunned.
Zenka turned and walked away without another word. The guards let him go.
The violin remained in his hands.
Behind them, the music had stopped. But not the unease.
The party resumed. Nervous laughter returned.
Zenka did not look back.
High above, near a pillar lined with gold trim, two Cipher Pol agents watched through tinted monocles.
"Shouldn't we report that?" one whispered.
The other didn't blink. "Yeah… no. I want at least one more day off."