The afternoon sun glinted off the polished brass rails of the upper aqueduct, casting geometric shadows across the pristine canals of Water 7.
Near the secluded waterfall terrace of the municipal district, a small celestial skiff floated motionless two inches above the canal current.
Nico Robin sat beneath her wide-brimmed sunhat, idly turning the pages of an ancient text.
Her posture was relaxed, yet her senses tracked every ripple in the water.
A faint distortion in the air preceded the sound of footsteps.
From the shadowed archway of the municipal bridge emerged Arthur Pendragon, followed closely by Kalifa.
The former Cipher Pol agent walked with a swift, predatory silence, her rimless spectacles catching the light.
Robin’s eyes shifted upward.
A subtle, enigmatic smile touched her lips as she closed her notebook.
“It appears congratulations are in order, Lord Arthur,” Robin murmured, her voice smooth and melodic.
“To extract the chief secretary of Galley-La without alerting the pigeons of Dock One…
an exceptionally clean acquisition.”
Kalifa stopped at the edge of the canal, her sharp gaze locking onto the raven-haired woman sitting aboard the skiff.
For a brief second, a flicker of professional recognition crossed Kalifa’s features.
“Nico Robin…” Kalifa breathed, adjusting her glasses with a gloved finger.
“The ‘Devil Child’ of Ohara.
The ghost who has eluded the World Government’s intelligence network for twenty years.”
“And you are Agent Kalifa of Cipher Pol Number 9,” Robin replied calmly, offering a slight incline of her head.
“I have read Spandam’s private dispatches.
It must have been tiresome, pouring black coffee and sorting pine timber requisitions for five years just to maintain an identity.”
Kalifa stepped aboard the skiff, exhaling a quiet, wry breath.
“More tiresome than you could ever imagine.
Especially when the man issuing the orders was an incompetent fool.”
She turned back to face Arthur, bowing her head with formal deference.
“My cipher codes and intelligence networks are yours, Sovereign Arthur.
If CP9 notices my absence, they will initially assume Iceburg sent me on an errand to the city treasury.
We have roughly three hours before Rob Lucci suspects an anomaly.”
“Three hours is more than enough,” Arthur said, stepping aboard the skiff.
He reached into his sovereign coat and withdrew an ornate, lacquered wooden chest inlaid with gold leaf—an artifact retrieved from Golden Lion Shiki’s personal vault atop Merveille.
He popped the bronze clasp, revealing a dense, dark-grey fruit with sharp, metallic angular swirls resembling folded Damascus steel.
Kalifa’s eyes widened slightly behind her spectacles.
“A Devil Fruit…
but this is neither of the two from Spandam’s office.”
“The Awa Awa no Mi and the Ushi Ushi no Mi are crude tools bought by a desperate fool to bribe his underlings,” Arthur said calmly, tossing the metallic fruit into Kalifa’s hands.
“In Merveille, I do not equip my intelligence leaders with soap bubbles.
This is the Tetsu Tetsu no Mi—the Iron-Iron Fruit.
A Paramecia harvested from Shiki’s treasury.”
Kalifa caught the fruit, feeling the staggering density and icy chill of the metallic skin.
“The Iron-Iron Fruit…” she whispered, her analytical mind immediately calculating the combat applications.
“Your Rokushiki is refined, but limited by mortal flesh,” Arthur stated with cold precision.
“Combined with this fruit, your Tekkai will possess the density of tempered battleship plating, your Rankyaku will shear through steel armor like parchment, and your Shigan will pierce through naval bulkheads.
Consume it when we return to the skies.
In my empire, you will not be a fragile spy in the dark; you will be an impenetrable weapon.”
Kalifa clutched the heavy fruit to her chest, her eyes burning with genuine, fierce loyalty.
“I will not fail your expectations, Sovereign.”
“Now,” Arthur said, directing the celestial skiff into a silent, weightless glide toward the lower city.
“We descend into the scrap heap.
It is time to retrieve the blueprints of Pluton.”
The outskirts of the lower canals: the Backstreet Scrap Heap.
Here, the gleaming marble and grand aqueducts of Water 7 gave way to mountains of rusted iron, shattered galleon skeletons, and the acrid stench of grease and burning pitch.
This was the territory of the Franky Family—the chaotic sanctuary where derelict ships were stripped for metal, and stray bounty hunters gathered beneath their eccentric cyborg boss.
Deep within the subterranean workshop beneath the main dismantling shed, the heavy beat of rock music rattled the corrugated steel walls.
Sitting on a workbench surrounded by blueprints, iron plates, and empty glass bottles of cola was a towering, muscular cyborg.
Franky wore his signature Hawaiian shirt, swim trunks, and dark sunglasses, his massive iron forearms branded with blue star tattoos.
He was humming loudly off-key while tightening a pneumatic piston in his left shoulder with an oversized wrench.
“Suuuuuper!” Franky bellowed, flexing his biceps and slamming his forearms together in his trademark triangle pose.
“Today’s modifications on the Battle Franky are looking pristine!
Those pansy Galley-La boys wouldn’t know real craftsmanship if it smashed them in the teeth!”
Suddenly, the music died.
The record on the turntable didn’t just stop spinning; the needle lifted into the air and floated suspended in the dust-mote light.
Franky froze mid-pose, his sunglasses sliding down the bridge of his iron nose.
“Hey…
what the hell?” Franky grunted, reaching for his wrench.
“Zambai?
Kiwi?
Mozu?
Which one of you half-wits tripped over the power cord?”
“No one tripped over a cord, Cutty Flam.”
The voice was cool, quiet, and completely devoid of hostility.
Franky’s entire body went rigid.
The name hit him like an armor-piercing artillery shell.
The careless, loudmouthed demeanor vanished in an instant, replaced by the deadly, cornered instinct of a beast that had lived eight years in the shadow of the grave.
Clack!
Franky’s left hand flipped open, the iron knuckles hinging downward to reveal a cluster of rifle-caliber gun barrels embedded directly into his cyborg palm.
Weapons Left!
Without bothering to look, Franky whipped around, unleashing a point-blank volley of explosive shells toward the source of the voice.
Arthur did not draw a weapon.
He did not even shift his stance.
Zzzzt.
In the span of a microsecond, Arthur vanished.
The explosive shells crossed the empty air where he had stood, but before they could travel three feet, an invisible gravitational inversion caught the projectiles in mid-flight.
The bullets froze instantly in the air, their kinetic momentum extinguished in a faint shimmer of golden light, before dropping harmlessly onto the flagstones like dead insects.
Before Franky could even register the missing target, a shadow fell across his neck.
Arthur materialized directly behind the cyborg’s massive frame.
Moving with effortless, surgical precision, Arthur’s right index finger, coated in a concentrated thread of Advanced Conqueror’s Haki and an electric shock, tapped the junction between Franky’s organic skull and iron neck.
Thump.
The strike carried no destructive explosion, but the internal shockwave bypassed Franky’s armor entirely, instantly scrambling his central nervous system and overloading his consciousness.
Franky’s eyes rolled back behind his sunglasses.
His massive mechanical arms went limp, his jaw slacked, and the towering cyborg collapsed forward onto his workbench, plunging into an instantaneous, deep unconsciousness.
Arthur stood quietly beside the sleeping titan.
He did not celebrate.
He did not gloat.
To a sovereign of his caliber, neutralizing a street-level cyborg was as simple as extinguishing a candle.
Moving with practiced efficiency, Arthur reached down to the waistband of Franky’s swim trunks.
With a soft mechanical press against the release valve, the iron plate on Franky’s abdomen swung open like a vault door, revealing the hollowed-out internal cavity of his chassis.
Nestled securely between the cola tanks was a waterproof, sealed steel canister.
Arthur withdrew the canister, unscrewed the threaded cap, and slid out the contents: a rolled cylinder of ancient, yellowed parchment tied with a dark leather cord.
The authentic blueprints of the battleship Pluton.
Arthur unrolled the first few inches, his golden eyes scanning the intricate geometric lines, the internal keel specifications, and the catastrophic main cannon schematics conceived in the Void Century.
The craftsmanship was breathtaking—an engineering marvel of unprecedented destructive capability, designed as an ultimate anti-ship deterrent.
Arthur rolled the parchment back up and stored the canister securely within his sovereign dimensional mantle.
Then, Arthur reached into his coat and produced two items, setting them carefully upon the workbench beside Franky’s sleeping head.
The first was a heavy velvet pouch containing five hundred million Berries in radiant, pure Shandorian gold bars—more than enough to purchase the legendary Treasure Tree Adam from the black market brokers.
The second item was a thick, sealed white envelope bearing no name, no signature, and no imperial crest.
Inside the envelope were the classified CP5 historical dossiers confiscated from Spandam’s desk in the Tower of Justice, along with a cleanly penned, unvarnished letter:
To Cutty Flam,
Eight years ago, CP5 Director Spandam deliberately used your Battle Frankies to assault the judicial ship of Water 7, framing your master Tom and using your creations as weapons of slaughter.
Tom sacrificed his life and traded his royal pardon from the Sea Train Puffing Tom not because he was guilty, but to ensure you and Iceburg could live free under the sun.
The blueprints of Pluton were never a curse; they were an insurance policy.
But guarding an ancient doom inside your chest in a city swarming with Cipher Pol agents is a death sentence for you and your family.
Today, that burden is removed.
The blueprints have been secured by a force that will never use them against the innocent, nor permit the World Government to corrupt them.
As for your vengeance: Spandam was struck down hours ago on his own office floor in Enies Lobby.
His nervous system was shattered, his judicial gates were abandoned, and he will remain a paralyzed, comatose invalid for the rest of his miserable life.
Your master’s blood debt is settled.
Inside the velvet pouch is five hundred million Berries in pure gold.
Buy the Treasure Tree Adam.
Build the dream ship Tom always knew you were capable of creating, and live with pride in the ships you build with a DON.
Arthur set the letter down and weighted it with a gold bar.
He turned toward the doorway, where Nico Robin and Kalifa were waiting in silence.
Both women looked upon the scene with quiet respect—Robin with a gentle, melancholy warmth for the tragic history of Tom’s apprentices, and Kalifa with a profound appreciation for Arthur’s cold, absolute efficiency.
“Is everything secured, Lord Arthur?” Robin asked softly.
“The burden of Pluton is ours,” Arthur replied calmly, adjusting the collar of his navy coat.
“And Cutty Flam is finally free to be a shipwright.
We have no further business in Water 7.”
With a subtle movement of Arthur’s hand, the three figures stepped onto the celestial skiff and rose silently into the air, vanishing into the cascading mist of the upper aqueducts.
Twenty minutes later.
Deep in the scrap heap workshop, Franky groggily opened his eyes.
“Ugh…
my head feels like it was hit by a sea train…” Franky groaned, rubbing the back of his neck with his heavy iron fingers.
He suddenly froze.
Memory rushed back like a tidal wave.
An intruder!
A monster who stopped bullets in mid-air!
“The blueprints!” Franky gasped in sheer terror, his hand slapping wildly against his abdomen.
The iron plate of his stomach was open.
The steel canister was gone.
“NO!
DAMN IT!
NO!” Franky roared, tears of panic and fury spilling from his eyes as he punched the workbench.
“Tom-san’s blueprints!
I let them get stolen!
I—”
His fist stopped mid-air.
His eyes fell upon the gleaming heap of Shandorian gold bars resting on the wood, and beside them, the thick, sealed white envelope.
Trembling violently, Franky picked up the envelope, tore open the wax seal, and pulled out the pages within.
As he read the official CP5 dossiers, seeing the undeniable proof of Spandam’s setup, and read the handwritten words detailing Tom’s true sacrifice and Spandam’s paralyzed, comatose fate in Enies Lobby, the breath hitched in Franky’s throat.
The room fell dead silent, save for the sound of his ragged, uneven breathing.
‘…Spandam was struck down hours ago…
Your master’s blood debt is settled…’
‘…Buy the Treasure Tree Adam.
Build the dream ship Tom always knew you were capable of creating, and live with pride in the ships you build with a DON…’
Franky’s mechanical knees gave out.
He collapsed onto the floor of his workshop, clutching the unsigned letter against his chest.
Great, heavy sobs tore from his throat—not tears of helpless rage, but the agonizing, liberating tears of a boy who had carried eight years of suffocating guilt, finally set free from the dead.
“Tom-san…” Franky wept into the dust, his shoulders heaving with uncontrollable emotion.
“Tom-san…
it’s over…
that bastard will never hurt anyone again…”
He looked at the glittering gold bars on the table, then up through the skylight toward the endless blue sky above Water 7.
Wiping his eyes with his forearm, Franky gritted his teeth, a wide, defiant, and legendary grin breaking across his scarred face.
“Whoever you are…
you magnificent, terrifying bastard…” Franky choked out with a wet laugh.
“I’m gonna build it.
I’m gonna buy the Adam Wood, and I’m gonna build the most SUPER ship this world has ever seen!”
Thirty-five thousand feet above the Grand Line.
The celestial skiff breached the dense white cloud barrier, landing smoothly onto the emerald lawns of Merveille.
Looking out over the floating continent, the ancient spires of Shandora, the golden power grid humming beneath the soil, and the prehistoric forests of Little Garden stretched out beneath a radiant, golden sun.
Nico Robin stepped off the skiff, turning back toward Arthur with an expression of sharp, strategic anticipation.
“The judicial gates are headless, Spandam is neutralized, Kalifa is ours, and the blueprints of Pluton rest in your hands,” Robin noted smoothly.
“A flawless operation, Sovereign.”
“The preliminary moves are concluded, Robin,” Arthur replied, his golden eyes narrowing as he looked toward the central training grounds where the battle cries of the giants and the skypiean warriors echoed across the plateau.
Arthur’s hand rested on the pommel of Oto.
“It is time to inspect the steel of our empire.
Assemble the Round Table and summon the Vanguard.
Before we face the frozen tide approaching from the south, I will see how much my warriors have grown.”