Above the splintered wreckage of the volcanic reef, the mist of the duel slowly dissipated into the afternoon sky.
Dracule Mihawk had already vanished into the fog in his coffin boat, leaving the desolate ocean to its quiet swells.
Arthur stood upon the black basalt, drawing a deep, steady breath as the primordial vitality of his dragon core circulated through his meridians, effortlessly sealing the shallow cut along his shoulder.
He did not immediately return to the stratosphere.
Unfurling his crimson-and-gold draconic wings with a single, resonant snap, Arthur launched himself across the water, skimming over the waves like an imperial hawk.
Within moments, the fish-shaped prow of the ocean-going restaurant Baratie reappeared on the horizon.
Aboard the deck, complete silence reigned.
Cooks clutched their cleavers in paralyzed awe, while Don Krieg lay unconscious on the splintered floorboards, his armada shattered and his ambitions crushed.
Zoro leaned against the mast, his hand clamped tightly over his bandaged, blood-soaked chest, his eye burning with an unquenchable, reverent fire as Arthur hovered ten feet above the restaurant’s railing.
Sanji stood frozen, the unlit cigarette dangling from his lips, while Chef Zeff gave a slow, respectful nod of his chin—the acknowledgment of an old Grand Line veteran who knew an emperor when he saw one.
At the railing, Luffy leaned forward until his straw hat nearly fell into the sea, a brilliant, ecstatic grin stretching across his face.
“Arthur!” Luffy shouted, waving his rubber arm furiously.
“That was so awesome!
You fought Hawkeye to a standstill!
The whole sky split in half!”
Arthur hovered effortlessly on his fifteen-meter wings, looking down at the straw-hatted youth with a calm, aristocratic smile.
“A necessary touchstone, Luffy,” Arthur’s voice was deep, cultured, and carried clearly over the water.
“The sea beyond the Calm Belts is populated by men who can cut through heaven itself.
If you intend to wear the crown of the Pirate King, your current strength is nowhere near enough.”
Arthur paused, his golden eyes meeting Luffy’s with genuine warmth and unyielding expectation.
“Survive your crucible here in the East Blue.
Defeat your enemies, gather your crew, and forge your own path through blood and iron.
I will be waiting for you on the Grand Line, Luffy.”
Luffy grinned from ear to ear, his dark eyes ablaze with unshakeable resolve as he pumped his fist into the air.
“Count on it, Arthur!” Luffy laughed boisterously.
“I’m gonna get way, way stronger!
And the next time we meet on the Grand Line, I’m definitely gonna land a punch on your face!
Shishishi!
See ya out there!”
“I look forward to it,” Arthur smiled.
With a single, thunderous beat of his draconic pinions that sent a crisp sea breeze sweeping across the Baratie’s deck, Arthur shot straight upward into the heavens, piercing the cloud ceiling and leaving the mortal sea far behind.
Two thousand meters above, the massive emerald landmass of Merveille hung suspended against the sun like an unassailable mountain fortress carved by ancient gods.
Arthur cleared the outer stone balustrade and touched down upon the wide marble terrace of the central citadel.
Tap.
The moment his boots settled onto the pavers, his draconic wings folded inward, smoothly dissolving into his shoulder blades as his greatcoat fell back into place.
“Arthur!”
A soft, affectionate cry echoed across the courtyard.
Makino was the first to reach him.
Her radiant, amber eyes were filled with concern as she took in his disheveled appearance—the shredded cuffs of his black coat, the dust coating his shoulders, and the faint, dried crimson residue along his collar.
Beside her, Kaya hurried forward, her hazel eyes sharp and analytical, accompanied by Merry, who was carrying a brass tray laden with clean linen wraps and crystal vials of high-altitude medicinal tinctures.
And trailing ten paces behind them, trembling so violently his knees clicked together audibly, was Buggy.
The clown’s painted jaw was hanging slack, his eyes bloodshot and bugging out of his skull.
Through his brass telescope on the terrace watchtower, Buggy had witnessed the distant cataclysm across the horizon: the parting of the sea, the fifty-mile fissure torn through the heavens, the black lightning, and the terrifying silhouettes of Dracule Mihawk and Arthur clashing at terminal velocity.
Beneath Buggy’s theatrical terror, something cold and profound took root within his soul.
For the first time in his life, Buggy understood something terrifying.
Standing beneath Arthur’s shadow was dangerous—he was pushed to exhaustion every day, dodging Haki-infused staves and refining deadly munitions.
But standing outside that shadow was absolute suicide.
If an apex monster like Hawkeye Mihawk could bleed before Arthur, then out on the open sea, an East Blue pirate like himself was nothing more than an insect waiting to be crushed.
If Buggy wanted to survive the apocalyptic storm this man was going to unleash upon the Grand Line, he couldn’t remain a clown.
He needed to become indispensable.
He needed to be Arthur’s master of artillery.
“I am unharmed,” Arthur said softly, raising a calm hand to still Makino’s anxious approach.
His voice was steady and rich, carrying none of the exhaustion that would have crippled an ordinary warrior.
“Merely a superficial exchange of steel.”
“Superficial or not, a sovereign does not ignore the edge of a Black Blade,” Kaya said firmly, her tone stepping effortlessly into her authority as Chief Medical Officer.
There was no timidity in her posture.
The draconic vitality Arthur had infused into her had completely scoured the chronic frailty from her body.
She stood tall, poised, and utterly focused, stepping directly into Arthur’s personal space to inspect the narrow, cauterized cut along his left shoulder.
She gently peeled back the torn fabric of his shirt.
Her breath caught for an instant—not in fear, but in sheer scientific fascination.
Beneath the smooth skin of Arthur’s shoulder, faint traces of golden-crimson draconic scales were still faintly visible beneath the dermis, pulsing with radiant heat.
The cut carved by Yoru had already ceased bleeding, the cellular fibers knitting together with the terrifying, self-regenerating speed of an ancient apex beast.
“Even with your draconic constitution, regeneration is not perfection,” Kaya stated with quiet medical authority, her fingers delicately applying a cooling, translucent green balm she had extracted from Merveille’s botanical vaults.
“Repeated trauma can leave hidden damage beneath newly formed tissue.
This extract of the frost-root will cool the residual heat of the blade and prevent the wound from healing incorrectly.”
As the herbal balm met his skin, a soothing, crystalline coolness seeped into the muscle, neutralizing the phantom sting of Mihawk’s sword intent.
Arthur looked down at Kaya, a faint, approving smile touching his lips.
“An exceptional formulation.
Your talent is already bearing fruit, Kaya.”
A delicate blush touched Kaya’s cheeks, but she met his golden gaze with steady, professional pride.
“A physician must match the pace of her lord.
If you intend to wage war against the monsters of this sea, I cannot allow your body to accumulate hidden wounds.”
Behind them, Buggy fell flat on his knees with a loud thud, pressing his forehead against the stone tiles.
“L-Lord Arthur!” Buggy’s voice cracked, but beneath the trembling lay a desperate, feverish resolve.
“Forgive this humble subordinate for ever doubting your path!
To fight Hawkeye Mihawk—the executioner of the Grand Line—to a standstill!
Your strength reaches the heavens!
The 12th Seat swears his life and his cannons to your banner!”
Arthur turned his gaze toward the clown, his golden pupils cool and calculating.
“Get up, Buggy,” Arthur commanded calmly.
“Flattery does not forge an empire.
You watched the duel from the watchtower?”
Buggy scrambled to his feet, swallowing hard, his painted face set with an uncharacteristic, ferocious hunger.
“Yes, My Lord!
Every terrifying second!
I saw what real monsters look like…
and I realize my cannons are toys!
Give me the forge, Lord Arthur!
I will drill until my limbs fall off!
My miniature shells will pierce dreadnoughts, or I don’t deserve to sit at the Round Table!”
A flicker of genuine approval crossed Arthur’s eyes.
“Good.
The forge in the lower armory is yours.
Do not disappoint me.”
An hour later, within the grand obsidian council chamber of the citadel, Arthur sat upon the high-backed throne of Merveille.
A fresh black greatcoat, tailored with silver and gold imperial trim by Merry, rested comfortably across his broad shoulders.
At his side, the twin Meito Oto and Kogarashi stood propped against the throne’s armrest, their polished scabbards gleaming under the soft glow of the chandelier.
On the long mahogany table before him lay an expansive nautical chart of the world—the East Blue, the Calm Belts, the Red Line, and the mysterious expanses of the Grand Line.
Makino stood at his right, pouring freshly brewed tea into a porcelain cup, a fond, radiant smile gracing her lips.
“Arthur,” Makino spoke warmly, her voice carrying the tender familiarity of their days in Foosha.
“The lookouts on the lower clouds reported that the battle at the restaurant concluded.
Luffy defeated Don Krieg and protected the Baratie, just as you predicted he would.”
“The boy never lacked grit,” Arthur replied smoothly, taking a measured sip of the tea.
His Observation Haki, now elevated to True Future Sight, had already perceived the underlying threads of destiny weaving through the waters below.
Luffy had shattered Krieg’s armor, Sanji had packed his knives to join the Straw Hats as their cook, and their two-masted caravel was already catching the wind, setting sail toward the Conomi Islands to rescue their navigator from Arlong’s fishman syndicate.
“Should we descend upon the Conomi Islands?” Buggy asked, leaning over the table.
“That fishman Arlong has a twenty-million bounty.
We could wipe Arlong Park from the face of the earth in minutes.”
“No,” Arthur stated, his voice brooking no argument.
Buggy blinked, retracting his neck.
“N-No, My Lord?”
“The fishman is a petty tyrant whose vision is bounded by a provincial island,” Arthur said, his golden eyes cold and detached.
“And more importantly, that battlefield belongs to Luffy.”
Arthur looked at Makino, whose eyes shone with silent understanding.
“Luffy carries the bloodline of the ‘D,'” Arthur continued.
“His journey must be forged in his own crucible.
If I clear his path, his spirit will remain untested, and an untested spirit cannot survive the storm that awaits at the execution grounds of Marineford.
Let him slay his fishman.
Let him claim his thirty-million bounty.
We have far greater designs.”
Kaya looked up from her notes, her sharp intellect immediately grasping Arthur’s intent.
“You intend to leave the East Blue entirely, Arthur?”
“The East Blue has yielded everything of value,” Arthur confirmed, turning toward the high arched windows that opened to the southern sky.
“The foundations are secure.
Foosha gave us our culinary and domestic anchor.
Orange Town provided our ordnance and Roger’s records.
Syrup Village provided our medical vanguard.
And the Baratie served as the crucible that tested my blade against the apex of swordsmen.”
Arthur stood from his throne, walking to the edge of the large nautical projection.
“The time has come to look above the world.”
Kaya and Merry exchanged a puzzled glance.
“Above the world?
But we are already cruising at two thousand meters.”
Arthur tapped the chart, indicating the atmospheric layers of the world.
“The world beneath us is divided into four distinct atmospheric strata,” Arthur explained, his tone measured and instructive.
“From zero to two thousand meters is the lower sky—the operational cruising altitude we have occupied thus far.
But above us, between two thousand and seven thousand meters, lies the extreme weather layer—a violent corridor of freezing gales, plummeting air pressure, and turbulent lightning shear that shreds ordinary vessels.”
Arthur traced his finger higher.
“Between seven thousand and ten thousand meters sits the Sea Cloud region, where the clouds thicken into navigable oceans of condensed vapor: the White Sea.
And at ten thousand meters and beyond rests the White-White Sea…
the domain of the legendary sky island, Skypiea.”
Merry’s jaw dropped.
“A-An ocean in the sky?!
At ten thousand meters?!”
“Precisely,” Arthur said, his golden eyes burning with absolute purpose.
“While ordinary ships must risk their lives catching the suicidal blast of the Knock-Up Stream, Merveille possesses the power to ascend directly through the heavens.
But the journey will not be gentle.
The sudden drop in temperature and oxygen will place catastrophic strain on our infrastructure.”
Arthur turned back to his retainers, issuing commands with imperial precision.
“Merry, secure all glass structures, seal the residential sectors, and reinforce the heating conduits.
Kaya, prepare botanical stabilizing salves and oxygen-enriching tinctures for the household.
Makino, organize cold-weather provisions.
Buggy, secure the powder magazines against pressure variance.”
Arthur drew Oto an inch from its scabbard, the blade reflecting his unyielding resolve.
“We are not sailing through Reverse Mountain.
We are flying straight into the heavens.”
Marineford: The Hall of the Fleet Admiral
BANG!
The heavy double doors of the Fleet Admiral’s office flew open with violent force.
Fleet Admiral Sengoku shot up from his desk, his seagull cap trembling, his eyes wide with an alarm that bordered on frantic panic.
Standing in the doorway was Vice Admiral Tsuru, the Marines’ Chief Tactical Advisor, accompanied by Commodore Brannew, whose hands were shaking so violently the intelligence papers he held fluttered like falling autumn leaves.
“Sengoku,” Tsuru’s voice was uncharacteristically grim, devoid of its usual calm, maternal composure.
“The seismic monitoring stations in the northern sector of the East Blue just recorded a phenomenon that shouldn’t be possible.”
Sengoku’s knuckles turned white against his desk.
“Speak, Tsuru!
Don’t mince words!”
Brannew stepped forward, his throat bobbing as he swallowed hard.
“Forty minutes ago…
outside the waters of the ocean-going restaurant Baratie…
the sky split.”
The room fell dead silent.
Even Vice Admiral Garp, who was sitting on the leather sofa with a bag of senbei rice crackers, paused with his hand halfway to his mouth, his bushy gray eyebrows furrowing deeply.
“The sky…
split?” Sengoku whispered, a cold chill seizing his spine.
“That is the hallmark of a clash between two supreme users of Conqueror’s Haki!
In the East Blue?!
Who was fighting?!”
Brannew wiped cold sweat from his forehead with a trembling sleeve.
“We received an emergency transmission from a naval patrol vessel five miles out.
The first participant was confirmed…
it was Warlord Dracule Mihawk.”
Sengoku’s heart hammered against his ribs.
“Hawkeye?!
Who did he fight?!
Did Red-Haired Shanks enter the East Blue?!”
“No, sir!” Brannew cried out, slapping a reconnaissance sketch onto the mahogany desk.
“It was not Shanks!
The opponent was a completely uncatalogued entity!
A towering warrior clad in an imperial black coat, wielding two master blades, who descended directly from the clouds on massive crimson dragon wings!”
Sengoku grabbed the sketch.
Drawn on the parchment was a rough, terrifying illustration: an oceanic trench miles long cleaved into the sea, a shattered basalt reef, and thick, jagged bolts of black-and-crimson Conqueror’s lightning tearing the atmosphere apart.
“Our scouts observed the combatant in a monstrous draconic transformation,” Brannew stammered.
“A Mythical Zoan dragon fruit user of ungodly physical scale!
And more critically, Fleet Admiral…
look at the blades depicted at his hips!”
Sengoku shoved his glasses up his nose, his eyes scanning the sketch of the two curved, shark-skin hilted swords.
The Fleet Admiral’s breath hitched.
“Those hilts…
the crimson and gold scabbards…” Sengoku muttered, his voice dropping into a horrified rasp.
“Oto and Kogarashi!
The twin Meito of Golden Lion Shiki!”
“Yes, sir!” Brannew confirmed loudly.
“Three months ago, Shiki’s Vivre card in Impel Down burned into ash.
Headquarters assumed the old lion perished of old age or illness on Merveille.
But this proves otherwise!
Shiki was slain!
Slain by this uncatalogued Mythical Dragon Zoan, who took the Golden Lion’s legendary swords as his trophies!”
Sengoku slammed both fists onto the desk, his veins bulging with fury and shock.
“A Mythical Dragon Zoan powerful enough to execute the Golden Lion…
and now he crosses blades with Hawkeye Mihawk in the East Blue?!
What was the outcome of the battle?!
Did Mihawk execute him?!”
Tsuru slowly shook her head, her face lined with deep unease.
“The duel ended in a mutual draw.
The sea was severed for five miles.
Mihawk departed with his cloak shredded and his body bloodied—the first time he has suffered an injury in over a decade.
And the dragon swordsman…
simply unfurled his wings, leaped into the heavens, and vanished back into the cloud ceiling.”
Sengoku sank back into his leather chair, the color draining from his face.
The world’s perception remained intact: the absolute law of one fruit per person was unbroken in their minds.
To the Marines, there was no knowledge of the Fuwa Fuwa no Mi being held by this dragon; Mihawk had reported nothing, and the floating debris had been dismissed as the collateral devastation of supreme Conqueror’s clashes.
Instead, the reality was even more terrifying in Sengoku’s eyes.
A mysterious, Emperor-class swordsman wielding a Mythical Dragon Zoan.
The man who had slaughtered Golden Lion Shiki and claimed his twin blades.
A master of Advanced Conqueror’s Infusion who could fight the World’s Strongest Swordsman to a standstill.
And worst of all—the World Government did not have a name, a face, or a single bounty poster for him.
“Issue an emergency intelligence directive,” Sengoku ordered, his hands trembling slightly against the mahogany desk.
Brannew stiffened, quill poised over a fresh document.
“A name for the dossier, Fleet Admiral?”
Sengoku stared down at the reconnaissance sketch of the winged swordsman.
For several agonizing seconds, the high command office remained dead silent.
“Unknown,” Sengoku finally said, his fingers tightening around the parchment until the paper creaked.
“We do not know his name, his crew, or his origins.
Until we learn who he is…
classify him as an Unidentified Sovereign-Class Threat.
In all internal intelligence dispatches, designate him as ‘The Sky Sovereign.'”
The Skies of the Grand Line: WENP Flying Headquarters
Thousands of miles away, drifting through the high-altitude winds aboard the massive hot-air balloon airship of the World Economy News Paper, an enormous, feathered albatross burst into roaring, manic laughter.
SLAP!
SLAP!
SLAP!
“BIG NEWS!
GWAHAHAHA!
THIS IS ABSOLUTE, UNPARALLELED BIG NEWS!”
President “Big News” Morgans slapped his feathered wings against his mahogany desk, sending stacks of freshly printed newspaper proofs, photographic transponder snail rolls, and surveillance transcripts flying into the air.
Surrounding him, half a dozen human journalists scrambled frantically on their hands and knees, clutching their notebooks in terror.
“P-President Morgans!” a senior editor cried out, adjusting his spectacles.
“The Marine Headquarters issued a Class-Zero intelligence gag order thirty minutes ago!
Fleet Admiral Sengoku explicitly ordered that no reports regarding the anomaly in the East Blue be printed!”
“A gag order?!
Gwahahaha!” Morgans cackled, his large yellow beak snapping with unadulterated journalistic greed.
“Sengoku wants to cover the sky with his palm!
Look at these telegrams from our informants in the Sambas region!
The sea parted for five miles!
The cloud cover was severed into the stratosphere!
And Dracule Mihawk—the solitary monster of the Warlords—was forced to a draw by an uncatalogued dragon swordsman carrying Golden Lion Shiki’s twin Meito!”
Morgans leaned forward, his monocle glinting with a savage, razor-sharp light.
“And do you know what the most delicious part is?!” Morgans shrieked with delight, slamming his feathery fist down.
“The Marines can’t even place a bounty on his head!
Not a single Berry!”
The editor blinked in confusion.
“No bounty?
For a monster who matched Hawkeye?!”
“Of course not, you fool!” Morgans chuckled, tapping the report.
“What has this dragon swordsman actually done?
Did he raid a Marine base?
No!
Did he slaughter naval officers?
No!
Did he fly a skull and crossbones?
No!
Did he pillage a merchant town?
No!
He hasn’t caused a single Berry worth of damage to the World Government!
He crossed blades with Mihawk on the open, lawless sea—an engagement between two sovereign entities that violates no maritime law!”
Morgans stood atop his desk, his feathered wings spread wide as the airship rocked in the wind.
“To the World Government, a pirate with a billion-berry bounty is manageable.
But a phantom titan who moves through the heavens without a flag, without a name, without causing petty chaos, and without a single bounty poster…
that is a nightmare that will keep the Five Elders awake at night!
Keep your pens wet, boys!
The moment ‘The Sky Sovereign’ reveals his true name to the sea…
it will be the greatest front page in the history of the world!”
Skypiea: The Upper Yard
Ten thousand meters above the mortal seas, beneath an endless expanse of radiant white clouds and brilliant golden sunlight, a serene quiet blanketed the ancient forest of Upper Yard.
Within the grand golden shrine overlooking the sea of clouds, a man reclined upon a sculpted divan.
Bare-chested, wearing billowing orange trousers and a white headscarf, his long earlobes adorned with heavy gold weights swung gently in the mountain breeze.
Across his back, four large thunder-drums were anchored into an arched ring, humming with dormant, crackling power.
God Enel.
Slowly, his pale eyelids lifted.
Crackle.
A faint, brilliant spark of blue-white lightning danced across his fingertips, illuminating the bored, arrogant smirk resting upon his face.
For several seconds, the self-proclaimed God of Skypiea remained motionless, listening to the vast, spiritual currents of the heavens.
Through his Mantra—amplified ten-thousand-fold by the electromagnetic currents of the Goro Goro no Mi—every whisper, every falling leaf, and every heartbeat across Skypiea was an open book to his mind.
Then, his expression changed.
The languid boredom vanished from Enel’s face, replaced by a sudden, sharp stillness.
His Mantra had caught an anomaly.
Not a tiny wooden skiff thrown upward by the erratic eruption of a Knock-Up Stream.
Not a flock of high-altitude migrating birds.
Far below the White Sea, beneath the freezing, violent storm currents of the five-thousand-meter atmospheric stratum, an immense mass was rising through the clouds.
A continent.
An entire floating mountain range, radiating the suffocating spiritual presence of an apex beast, ascending steadily, purposefully toward heaven!
Enel slowly sat upright.
Around the golden pavilion, his four high priests—Ohm, Shura, Gedatsu, and Satori—instantly stiffened, dropping to one knee as the air pressure within the shrine plummeted.
“God Enel?” Ohm spoke, his hand resting on the hilt of his iron-cloud sword.
“What disturbs your divinity?”
A slow, chilling sneer spread across Enel’s face.
BZZZZZZZZT!
Arcs of blinding, cerulean lightning erupted from his drums, dancing violently along his shoulders and scorching the golden tiles beneath his bare feet.
“Interesting…” Enel murmured, his voice echoing with arrogant delight.
“A piece of the Blue Sea believes it can sprout wings and climb into the realm of God.”
Enel rose from his divan, stepping to the edge of the golden balcony, looking down into the churning sea of clouds.
“Heaven…” Enel sneered, raising his hand toward the sky.
KABOOOOOM!
A massive pillar of divine lightning shot straight into the stratosphere, tearing through the cloud ceiling.
“…does not welcome trespassers.”
Far below, climbing steadily through the freezing gale of the seven-thousand-meter storm layer, Arthur stood at the southern prow of Merveille.
His black greatcoat whipped against the sub-zero winds, his golden eyes glowing through the mist like twin lanterns.
Arthur lifted his head.
Through the thickness of the cloud sea, through the raging tempest, his newly awakened True Future Sight registered the divine lightning flickering in the heavens above.
Arthur’s lips curved into a cold, predatory smile.
In this sky, Enel believed himself an omnipotent deity.
The young man had reigned unchallenged in his isolated sandbox, completely ignorant of the brutal horrors of the Grand Line, devoid of Armament Haki, and shielded by a Logia intangibility that meant nothing before a Great Swordsman.
Arthur did not see an equal sovereign.
He saw a harvest.
A false god, about to be introduced to the iron fist of an emperor—whose divine fruit would serve as the final cornerstone of the Round Table.
‘Enjoy your divinity while you can, Enel,’ Arthur mused softly, his hand resting on the pommel of his Meito.
‘The throne of thunder belongs to a King.’
[Status Panel]Name: Arthur PendragonOfficial Marine Threat Designation: “The Sky Sovereign” (Classification: Unidentified Sovereign-Class / Bounty: 0 Berries)Age: 22 | Height: 2.00 m | Origin: Great Britain / Pendragon LineageBase of Operations: Merveille (Ascending through 7,000m — Target: Skypiea)Tier: Mid Admiral Class | Rank: Great Swordsman (Daikengou)Devil Fruits:Core 1: Ryu Ryu no Mi, Model: Imperial Pendragon (Zoan, 80% Mastery — 6-Meter Hybrid Unlocked)Core 2: Fuwa Fuwa no Mi (Paramecia, 60% Mastery — Concealed from Marine Intelligence)Core 3: [Locked — Target: Undisclosed]Haki:Armament Haki: Advanced (Internal Destruction)Observation Haki: Awakened True Future Sight (3–4s Precognition)Conqueror’s Haki: Advanced (Conqueror’s Infusion / Coating)Weapons: Twin Meito Oto and Kogarashi (Supreme Grade Swordsmanship / Nascent Singularity Coating)Combat Record:vs.
Golden Lion Shiki: Victory (Inherited Legacy & Meito)vs.
Buggy the Clown: Victory (Recruited as 12th Seat)vs.
Dracule Mihawk: DRAW (Formally Invited to 1st Seat; Awaits in the New World)Retainers & Assets:Makino: Lady of the Citadel (Logistics & Vitality Cleansed)Buggy: 12th Seat of the Round Table (Artillery / Advanced Split Control)Kaya: Chief Medical Officer (Dragon-Marked / Restorative Master)Merry: Household Steward (Managing Relocated Estate)Citadel Vault: Smilodon Fruit, Iron-Iron Fruit, Shock-Shock Fruit, Captain John’s Treasure Map, Buggy Ball Formula, Roger’s Navigation Notes.