The Grand Council's Growing Trepidation
The heavy oak doors of the chamber creaked shut, sealing away the outside world.
Within the austere confines of the Gorosei's meeting room in Pangaea Castle, high above Mariejois, the air was thick with a palpable tension, a stark contrast to the filtered sunlight that merely illuminated dancing dust motes.
The scent of ancient, polished wood mixed with the unspoken anxieties of men burdened by centuries of absolute power.
Each of the five figures seated around the vast, circular table bore not just the weight of their titles but the collective stress of a world teetering on the edge of an unknown precipice.
Saint Marcus Mars, the Warrior God of the Environment, gripped the file in his hand so tightly his knuckles were white, a faint vein throbbing at his temple.
His gaze, usually sharp and calculating, was now drilling into the pages, as if sheer force of will could extract the missing answers.
"Problem, always a problem,"
He muttered, the words a gritted-teeth whisper, a testament to the deep-seated frustration of ultimate authority facing something utterly beyond his control.
The question of "ancient technology" wasn't mere curiosity; it was a profound, chilling fear of an unknown power that could shatter their carefully constructed stability.
Saint Jaygarcia Saturn, the Warrior God of Science and Defense, placed his file down with a decisive thud that echoed in the strained silence. His eyes, usually analytical and precise, were narrowed in deep thought, a rare flicker of personal annoyance clouding their depths.
"I don't know for sure, Marcus."
He stated, his voice carrying a subtle, uncharacteristic edge of exasperation.
"This report gives us nothing concrete."
The lack of quantifiable data was an insult to his scientific mind, a testament to Guts's infuriating elusiveness.
"137 peoples in one night, 785 in the past three months,"
Saint Topman Wacury, the Warrior God of Justice, rumbled, running a weary hand over his eyes. The numbers were not just statistics; they were a guttural sound of weary indignation, a reflection of the brutality Guts case.
He looked at the standing CP agent, his gaze sharp and accusatory.
"So you found nothing but his name? No birth records, no family, no friends, no prior existence? Not even the Guts' blood we painstakingly acquired... it simply evaporated into mist?"
His voice was raspy from sleepless nights spent poring over similar, inconclusive reports.
The CP agent, a picture of rigid discipline, stood with every muscle taut, a bead of sweat tracing a path down his temple despite the cool air of the castle. His answers were delivered with military precision, but a barely perceptible tremor in his voice betrayed his internal fear.
"No, Your Excellency. Nothing. And for that, Your Excellency, six of our agents bravely sacrificed their lives to wound Guts with Seastone sabers, only for him to recover as if nothing had happened."
"And as for Nico Olvia's daughter..."
Saint Ethanbaron V. Nusjuro, the Warrior God of Finance, cut in, his words a rapid-fire declaration born from a mind that constantly calculated risks and losses.
"It seems impossible to abduct the child without defeating Guts first. He seems to prioritize her above all else. Deception and distraction simply don't work. And his bodily recovery is like..."
"Enough!"
Marcus Mars snapped, his voice sharp and commanding, cutting Nusjuro off before he could voice the unsettling conclusion.
"Do not speculate."
He turned his piercing gaze back to the agent.
"What about those heads? Are you certain it's not a Devil Fruit ability?"
"Certain, Your Excellency!"
The agent affirmed, though he visibly shuddered, the memory of the grotesque nightly screaming and wailing clearly scarring him.
"I submerged them in the sea myself, and... Your Excellency," he continued, dropping his voice to a near whisper, a raw, unprofessional plea for understanding.
"Without meaning to be presumptuous, what is Guts, exactly? He's not like a human."
Marcus Mars's eyes blazed.
"It's none of your business! You just do as you're ordered. Tell the House of Rose to send more men."
The agent hesitated. "Your Excellency, the House of Rose has run out of people."
The words hung heavy in the air, an alarming indicator of the sheer scale of Guts's impact and the strain he was placing on the World Government's covert operations.
The Gorosei relied on these shadowy forces, and their depletion meant a loss of effective tools. "And Your Excellency," the agent continued, his voice barely audible,
"West Blue has run out of pirates to incite. Only small fry remain."
Marcus Mars simply waved his hand, dismissing the agent. The agent saluted, a quick, precise motion, before turning on his heel and exiting the chamber, leaving the Gorosei in unnerving silence.
"So?"
Saint Shepherd Ju Peter, the Warrior God of Agriculture, finally broke the quiet, his question a challenge delivered with a slow, deliberate cadence, a slight tremor in his usually steady voice.
"What can you all take from this report?"
"Should we send Garp and Sengoku?" one of the Gorosei suggested, the idea hinting at a division within their unified front, a crack in their seemingly impenetrable resolve.
"Perhaps not necessary," another Gorosei countered, caution in his tone.
"Better they remain on Shell Island and under supervision. If we keep pressing them, I fear they will flee and hide somewhere we cannot find them."
The deep-seated paranoia they held even for their most loyal assets was palpable.
"I agree," a third Gorosei affirmed. "And are you certain he is not Nico Olvia's husband?"
"The report states the CP agent excavated Nico Olvia's husband's grave and confirmed the body," another responded, the cold factual tone doing little to alleviate the underlying unease.
"Guts is extremely dangerous due to his mysterious nature and our complete lack of understanding of his abilities," one concluded, his voice firm.
"And I agree to continue observing for now. He could be a candidate for our Shichibukai Project." The idea of making Guts a Warlord was not a desperate gambit, but a cold, calculated containment strategy.
"I agree," another quickly added, a hint of pragmatic relief in his voice.
"Aside from living like a father and daughter, they haven't done anything to endanger stability."
"If you all agree, let's conclude this conference today,"
Marcus Mars declared, his voice cutting through the lingering tension, though the problem of Guts remained, a dark, unsettling cloud on their otherwise clear horizon.
*
On Shell Island, a deceptive tranquility settled over the sun-drenched landscape.
The gentle lapping of waves against the shore and the distant calls of gulls usually painted a picture of idyllic peace.
But beneath this calm veneer, something ancient and terrible stirred, and a shadow loomed, cloaked in an armor as dark as forgotten history.
Guts sat, not casually, but as if carved from the very stone, his immense frame resting against the broad, unforgiving flat of the Dragon Slayer.
His eyes were closed, yet his perception was a tangible force, unwavering, fixated on the small figure of Nico Robin.
She was utterly engrossed, a tiny, vibrant splash of innocence, playing with the island's native birds, their chirps a soft counterpoint to the distant hum of the ocean.
A long, slow breath escaped Guts. Without opening his eyes, he reached a gauntleted hand to his chest, tapping his heart twice. It was a silent, solemn farewell, a ritual of release.
Another soul had finally moved on from the swirling, tumultuous space within him. This time, it was Yumi, a Marine woman who had defected, her unwavering justice solely aimed at protecting her son.
She had died, along with her entire family, friends, and the countless inhabitants of Ohara, her voices now just echoes in Guts's burdened soul.
His eyes, twin points of hardened resolve, finally opened. He rose, the Dragon Slayer scraping faintly against the earth as he pulled it free. The massive sword seemed to hum with a dormant power as he approached Robin.
"Still trying to understand their annoying chirping, kid?"
Guts's voice, surprisingly light, was tinged with a rare, playful sarcasm. His sudden approach had startled Robin's avian friends, sending them scattering into the air in a flurry of wings and panicked squawks.
Robin whirled around, cheeks puffed out, hands on her hips in exasperated defiance.
"Guts! You scared them away! I was trying to understand them!"
"You sure you won't fall out of a tree trying to have a conversation with a crow again?" Guts teased, a hint of amusement in his tone.
"Need me to call Potan? I'm sure he'd love another midnight summons, dreaming of his comfortable bed."
Potan, the island's gentle doctor, had been dragged from his slumber four months prior when Robin had suffered a high fever, a memory Guts clearly found amusing.
"Humph!"
Robin retorted, turning her face away in a huff and chasing after her tiny friends, who had settled back on a nearby branch.
Guts watched her, a ghost of something akin to warmth in his eyes, before his attention was snagged by Bonal.
The old man approached, his usually ruddy face a mask of profound exhaustion, a sickly pallor clinging to his skin.
He hadn't slept, that much was obvious. And he rarely came to Guts as the sun began to dip below the horizon.
"Guts, can we speak for a moment?" Bonal's voice was hoarse, strained.
Guts merely thumbed towards their temporary dwelling. Inside.
"Guts."
Bonal said, shaking his head, a grim set to his jaw. "Perhaps... perhaps we should speak over there."
He pointed a trembling finger towards a massive, ancient tree near the edge of the forest, its gnarled roots burrowing deep into the earth, its canopy providing a dense, natural screen.
Guts simply nodded, the subtle motion almost imperceptible.
As they settled beneath the silent sentinel of the tree, Bonal began his story, his voice a low, haunted murmur.
He spoke of his nightly ritual, venturing into the whispering depths of the forest with his loyal dog, Bolt, to gather Shellshrooms. These unique fungi, native to Shell Island, blossomed and unfurled in the cool embrace of the night, crucial ingredients for the tonics he and Potan prepared.
Last night, however, the sky had been bruised with heavy clouds, a distant rumble of thunder echoing through the air. Bonal, cloaked in his rain mantle and carrying his flickering lantern, had set out, Bolt at his heels, their combined shadows dancing erratically amidst the deepening gloom.
Deep within the woods, past the familiar trails, a sound had pierced the encroaching silence. A faint, collective moan of agony. Not one scream, but dozens, hundreds of muted whimpers, cries of profound, unending torment.
Bonal and Bolt had frozen, the dog letting out a low, uneasy growl. They followed the sounds, a grim magnet drawing them deeper, until Bolt began to scratch frantically at the earth.
There, nestled amidst the ancient roots and undergrowth, were dozens of small, fresh earth mounds. And the sounds... they were emanating from beneath them.
A chorus of suffering, rising from the very ground.
Bonal had scrambled back to his home, a desperate urgency propelling him, leaving the panting Bolt to frantically dig at one of the mounds.
He returned with a shovel, his heart hammering against his ribs, the first fat drops of rain splattering against his face as the thunder grew louder, closer.
He plunged the shovel into the earth where Bolt was digging, the soil soft and yielding.
As he unearthed the mound, the source of the terrible keening became horrifyingly clear. Bodies.
Not just one, but a gruesome pile, limbs severed, flesh sickeningly putrid, eyes wide with unfathomable agony, blood, fresh and viscous, oozing from where heads had been cruelly detached, now forming dark, weeping trails down their pallid faces.
The rain began to fall harder, washing over the macabre scene, mixing with the spilled blood, carrying the stench of death and decay on the wind.
Bonal finished his recounting, his voice barely a whisper, his gaze fixed on Guts. "Guts," he finally managed, his body beginning to tremble uncontrollably.
"who are you, really?"
His eyes pleaded for an answer, for anything that could explain the nightmare he had uncovered.
"Guts, every night, I and the men I've brought along... we've been unearthing these mounds, burning them. But Guts, what happened to them?"
Guts remained silent, his gaze unwavering, dissecting Bonal, seeing the fear, the desperation, the desperate need for answers. The air grew heavy with the unasked questions, the unspoken horrors.
"Guts."
Bonal continued, his voice cracking.
"I'm grateful for what you've done these past ten months. You've kept Shell Island peaceful, safe. But Guts... will we truly be safe? Will we be safe from you? And those unknown corpses... who are they, Guts?"
Bonal's questions tumbled out, a torrent of fear and confusion directed at the silent, imposing figure before him.
A long, heavy moment passed before Guts finally spoke, his voice low, gravelly, yet resonating with an undeniable truth that sent a chill down Bonal's spine.
"They are after the kid."
Bonal gasped, a long, shuddering breath, his eyes widening in comprehension and renewed terror. Slowly, his trembling hand reached into his satchel, pulling out a rolled parchment. He unfurled it, revealing two bounty posters.
The first, stark against the aged paper, depicted Nico Robin, her child-like face ironically branded with the words:
"Devil Child" and a bounty of ฿33,000,000. Dead or Alive.
The second... Bonal's hand trembled so violently he almost dropped it. It was an illustration, not a photograph, a crude but terrifying depiction. It showed Guts himself, cloaked entirely in the ominous Berserker Armor – a silhouette of living nightmare. The visor was a jagged skull, horns curling back, and points of malevolent red light seemed to pierce through the dark steel where eyes should be. The massive Dragon Slayer, slick with what could only be blood, was clutched in a clawed gauntlet.
Above the terrifying image, in bold, stark lettering, read:
"GUTS: THE DEVIL SWORDSMAN"
Below it, a figure that made Bonal's blood run cold: ฿277,000,000 Dead Only.
Bonal looked from the poster, to the silent, armor-clad figure before him, his voice barely a whisper, laden with a terror that surpassed anything the corpses had instilled.
"Guts... what have you done?"