Chapter Text
The seas remembered the roar.
It was not the roar of a beast, nor of a man — but of an idea. The ghost of Aurelion Dawnclaw’s voice still haunted the den-den mushi lines, the broken radios, the trembling hearts of those who had once bowed in silence. His words, repeated and reinterpreted, had spread like wildfire through the world: “Justice belongs to the people — not to the throne.”
And so the world burned.
...............
From the kingdoms of the Four Blues to the storm-tossed islands of the Grand Line, the embers of rebellion glowed. Some flickered weakly, others burned bright enough to blind.
The omniscient eye of the world turned first to the South Blue, where a nameless island kingdom — once choked under the rule of a corrupt monarch fattened on Marine protection fees — had risen in fury.
The uprising had begun with farmers, wielding scythes and sickles. It ended with the king’s banner burning atop his own palace. His guards had fled or joined the people. In the aftermath, a new flag was raised — rough, stitched from rags and lion’s manes dyed red with blood.
The people called it The Lion’s Creed.
It fluttered uncertainly in the smoke-filled sky, its symbol half-tattered but unmistakable: a roaring lion breaking its chains.
They cheered, not out of triumph, but defiance. They had no fleet, no allies, no hope of holding out forever. But for the first time in living memory, they stood free — and that freedom was worth the price.
They had no Aurelion Dawnclaw among them. But they had his ghost.
......................
Far to the north, in the Sorbet Kingdom, the story ended differently.
The same words that had kindled freedom elsewhere became the death sentence of thousands.
By the time the rebellion began, the Marines were already waiting.
The main square was red at dawn. The gallows creaked under the weight of the fallen, and the air stank of cordite and burning paper — the shredded leaflets of Dawnclaw’s sermons, soaked in blood and mud.
A young girl watched her father hang. A Marine officer, his face as blank as the white justice coat he wore, announced the verdict: “Treason against the World Government. Punishable by death.”
The girl did not cry. She simply whispered,
“Then your justice is dead too.”
Her voice was lost in the wind. Just like countless others.
By nightfall, the square was empty. Only the sound of crackling flames remained — the pyre of those who had dared to dream.
....................
In the New World, the message of the Lion had found strange disciples.
A pirate crew — infamous for pillage and slaughter — had taken to calling themselves “Peace Mains.” Their captain, a man with a scar carved in the shape of a claw mark, stood on the deck of a stolen Marine supply ship as the smoke cleared from the battle.
Below, starving islanders reached for the crates they threw overboard — food, medicine, ammunition.
“Dawnclaw said justice is the right of all men,” the captain muttered, lighting a cigar. “Who says pirates can’t have some?”
His first mate laughed bitterly. “And when the Marines come?”
“Then we give ‘em justice,” the captain said, exhaling smoke like a dragon. “Ours.”
As the ship vanished into the mist, the islanders cheered. For a fleeting moment, it did not matter who was right, who was wrong — only that someone had fought for them.
The lines between hero and villain had blurred beyond recognition. The Lion’s roar was no longer just a creed — it was chaos given purpose.
..............
And at the center of it all, the World Government trembled.
In the Holy Land of Mariejois, the Celestial Dragons whispered in fear and fury. The Gorosei convened in secret chambers, their robes heavy with the weight of paranoia.
“The disease spreads faster than we expected,” murmured one.
“Then burn the fields,” said another.
And burn they did.
Across the seas, Marine fleets moved like locusts. Towns were purged. Leaders executed. Whole islands vanished under pillars of smoke.
The Buster Call, once the rarest and most dreaded punishment, became a whispered threat used freely. To defy was to die. To think was to burn.
The world’s memory still bore one fresh scar — Ohara.
The scholars’ island had been erased weeks earlier, not for rebellion, but for knowledge. The official statement was simple: “Poneglyph research — a crime against the world.”
But among intercepted Marine transmissions, the truth leaked:
“The scholars were not rebels yet. But they could have been.”
The Government struck before the thought could even take root. The Tree of Knowledge, once a monument to human curiosity, now existed only as ash swirling in the waves.
The Ashes of Ohara became both warning and prophecy.
The same fear that had driven Aurelion to speak had driven his enemies to annihilate.
But not all wore the mask of obedience.
In the West Blue, a Marine platoon moved through a ravaged town, the embers of rebellion still glowing in the streets. Their captain, a man once devoted to Absolute Justice, hesitated at the sight of a child hiding under her mother’s body.
The order was clear: No survivors.
He lowered his rifle.
“Fall back,” he said. “We were never here.”
When a subordinate protested, the captain turned — and shot the officer through the shoulder.
“Turn your coat,” he said, ripping the Marine emblem from his own jacket. “If the Government’s justice is this, then it’s not justice at all.”
By dawn, that platoon had vanished into the forests, guiding refugees toward the sea. They would later become the first defectors to the Neo Marines — the first to believe that Dawnclaw’s vision wasn’t madness, but mercy.
------------------------------------------------
And in every rebellion, in every whisper of defiance, in every terrified heart that still dared to hope, the ghost of Aurelion Dawnclaw walked.
He had no body, no grave — but his voice was everywhere.
In the cries of the liberated.
In the ashes of the slain.
In the courage of those who still dared to say no.
He was not a man anymore. He was a myth, a fire that could not be drowned.
“Aurelion Dawnclaw is dead.”
The world whispered.
“Long live the Lion.”
And the seas, vast and unending, roared in answer.
--------------------------------------------------
Six months. Six months since the ghost of Aurelion Dawnclaw gave it's post mortem sermon. In that time, the world had not calmed; it had ignited.
The impact of the "Lion's Creed" was profound and unpredictable. In tyrannical kingdoms aligned with the World Government, long-oppressed citizens, armed with nothing but the whispered words of a dead man, found the courage to rise. Rebellions sparked in the Sorbet Kingdom and other minor nations, their rebels citing "True Justice" as their cause. More startlingly, some pirate crews, tired of mere plunder, began styling themselves as "liberators," attacking Marine supply ships and corrupt officials, claiming to fight for the people. The ideal was a wildfire, and the World Government, for all its power, could not arrest an idea.
On Baterilla, protected by its mythic status as the Lion's grave, a miracle occurred. Safe within the fortress of Dawnclaw's legend, Portgas D. Rogue did not need to wage her lonely, terrible war against time. She gave birth to a healthy, dark-haired boy, naming him Portgas D. Ace. The sacrifice that had defined her in another timeline was replaced by exhausted, tearful relief. She held her son, alive and well, under the protection of the Neo Marines. It was Dawnclaw's first, unequivocal victory. That completely changed the timeline without a doubt.
But the world, in its chaos, exacted a price for this hope.
The news arrived via an intercepted, panicked Marine communique. The island of Ohara was gone. Erased by a Buster Call. The official reason: the study of the forbidden Poneglyphs. The unofficial truth, whispered in the communique, was that the Government's paranoia, fueled by Dawnclaw's broadcasts and the resulting global unrest, had reached a fever pitch. They could not risk another intellectual rebellion. They acted with preemptive, absolute brutality. There were no survivors.
Dawnclaw stood on the bluff, the joyful cries of the newborn Ace a stark contrast to the hollow ache in his chest. He had seen Ohara's fate in his memories, a distant tragedy. But now, it felt like his doing. His actions had accelerated the timeline, making him an unwitting accomplice to the annihilation of an entire island of scholars. The weight of his crown of rebellion grew crushing.
Is this the cost of True Justice? he wondered, his red eyes staring at the endless sea. For every life I save here, do I condemn a hundred or a thousand more elsewhere? Am I truly changing the future, or just writing its tragedies in bloodier ink?
His turmoil was a silent storm. The steadfast certainty that had carried him since Roger's execution began to crack. He needed counsel. Not from his loyal soldiers, who saw him as an infallible leader, but from the only man who might understand the depth of his failure: his old teacher.
Using an untraceable Black Den Den Mushi, he placed a call to a frequency known only to Zephyr's most trusted aides. After a long moment, the screen flickered to life. The man who appeared was a ghost of the Vice Admiral Dawnclaw had known. Zephyr's face was a roadmap of bitterness, his eyes hollow. His left arm was now a hulking, mechanical monstrosity.
"Z," Dawnclaw said, forgoing his old title.
The man on the other end stared, his jaw slack with disbelief. The voice was unmistakable. "Dawnclaw? This... this is a trick. A recording."
"It's no trick, Sensei. The reports of my death were... greatly exaggerated."
"You fool," Zephyr breathed, a storm of emotions warring on his face—shock, anger, and a flicker of desperate hope. "The entire world mourns your martyrdom! Why reveal yourself?"
"Because I need to know if I am becoming a monster," Dawnclaw replied, his voice raw. "Ohara.And many many others tragic deaths.It happened because of me. Because my words made the Government paranoid."
"Of course it did!" Zephyr snapped, his mechanical fist clenching. "You poked the beast, and it lashed out! You think your 'True Justice' can be won with pretty words? The World Government only understands one language: force! Absolute, overwhelming force! They turned my family's murderers into Warlords! They erased Ohara! Your path is naive, a child's dream!"
"And yours is?" Dawnclaw shot back. "To become what you hate? To slaughter indiscriminately until you drown the world in the same blood you seek to avenge? That is not justice; it is a tantrum!"
"I am creating a force that cannot be ignored! Your Neo Marines will be hunted and destroyed! My New World Army will be a tidal wave that scours the filth from the seas!"
"And who will be left in the clean ocean, Sensei? Only more killers," Dawnclaw said, his tone softening from argument to plea. "I have... a gift. A curse. I have seen glimpses of the future. In my visions, Ohara's tragedy was years away. My actions moved it forward. I carry that guilt. But I also saw your path. It leads only to more death, and your own destruction."
Zephyr was silent for a long moment. "Future sight? You expect me to believe that?"
"Believe what you will. But believe this: I saw a world where a mother died to save her son from the Government's purge. Because of our actions here, that mother lives. Her son lives. That is a victory your army of vengeance could never achieve. It is a victory of protection, not destruction."
The two men, mentor and student, revolutionary and terrorist, stared at each other across the vast distance. The air crackled with their opposing ideologies.
"Join me, Sensei," Dawnclaw said finally. "Your strength, your experience... we need it. Help me build a shield for the innocent, not just a sword for the guilty."
Zephyr's hollow eyes held Dawnclaw's gaze. "Or you join me, boy. Stop playing at justice and embrace the necessary purge. Together, we could truly change the world."
The offer hung in the static-filled silence. Neither would yield.
"Then we are at an impasse," Zephyr said, his voice final. "We will both pursue our justice. And we will see which path is stronger."
"The world may not survive the contest," Dawnclaw replied sadly.
"Perhaps it doesn't deserve to," Zephyr said, and the line went dead.
Dawnclaw was left alone with the silence and the weight of his choices. He had saved a mother and child, but doomed an island of scholars. He had inspired a wave of hope, but forged a weapon of vengeance in his teacher. There was no clear path, no easy answer. True Justice was not a destination; it was a minefield, and every step forward risked a catastrophic explosion. The ghost of Aurelion Dawnclaw had to decide if he would continue to haunt the world, or if he would step from the shadows and fully embrace the terrifying, ambiguous burden of being its would-be savior.
---
The silence in Z's war room after the call was deafening. The only sound was the low hum of the ship's engines and the faint, rhythmic clenching of his mechanical fist. He stared at the now-dark Den Den Mushi, his mind a maelstrom of conflicting emotions. The student he had mourned was alive. The idealistic boy was now a rival prophet, preaching a philosophy Z had come to see as weak.
From the shadows of the room, a figure emerged. Nico Olvia's face was a mask of pale fury and profound devastation. The fiery intellect that had once defined the Oharan archaeologist was now a cold, dead star of grief. She had heard everything.
"He's alive," she whispered, her voice trembling with a rage so pure it seemed to freeze the air. "That… that voice. The Lion of Justice. He is responsible. He lit the fuse that burned my home." Her hands clenched into white-knuckled fists. "I saw my daughter… I saw Robin… turn to ash before my eyes because his words made the Government jumpy?"
Z turned to her, his own bitterness a familiar companion. "I told you, Olvia. Idealism is a luxury paid for with the blood of others. His 'True Justice' is a beautiful theory that, in practice, led to a real-world massacre."
Olvia paced, a caged animal. "But he said… he said it was fixed. That in his 'visions,' it was always going to happen. Just later." She stopped, pressing her palms to her temples as if trying to squeeze out the horrific memories. "Is that supposed to be a comfort? That my daughter was doomed regardless? That her death was just a matter of timing?"
"It is the truth," Z stated coldly. "The World Government was never going to allow the knowledge of Ohara to survive. Dawnclaw's rebellion may have been the spark, but the gunpowder was already packed and waiting. He is guilty of hastening the inevitable, not creating it."
This rationalization did nothing to calm her. It only deepened the chasm of her despair. If Ohara's destruction was inevitable, then her life's work, the sacrifices of her colleagues, and the death of her child were all meaningless. The only thing that gave her existence purpose now was her alliance with Z—the promise of vengeance.
But a new, terrifying need began to burn within her. She needed to look into the eyes of the man whose actions had irrevocably altered her destiny. She needed to see if the legendary Lion was a visionary or a fool, a savior or a harbinger of ruin.
"I need to go," she said abruptly, turning to Z. Her eyes, once full of scholarly curiosity, now held the desperate intensity of a final, burning question. "I need to see him. Face to face."
Z's eyes narrowed. "That is a suicide mission. Baterilla is a ghost town watched by the World Government. Going there risks everything we are building."
"What are we building, Z?" Olvia shot back, her voice breaking. "An army of destruction? I am a scholar, not a soldier! My weapons were books, not cannons. Before I fully commit to your path of annihilation, I must understand his. I need to hear from his own lips why my daughter had to die now. I need to know if there is another way, or if the world is truly so rotten that only fire can cleanse it."
"There is no other way!" Z boomed, slamming his mechanical fist on a console, leaving a dent. "I offered him a place at my side! He refused! He clings to his naïve dream of building a better world while the one we have crushes the innocent. His way is slow, futile surgery. My way is the amputation of a diseased limb!"
"Then let me hear his excuses!" Olvia pleaded, a single tear tracing a path through the grime on her cheek. "Let me be the one to confirm that his path is a dead end. Let me look at the man who shares the burden of Ohara's ashes and tell him to his face that his 'True Justice' failed us. Then… then I can pick up a gun for you without looking back."
Z studied her. He saw in her not just grief, but the last flicker of a conscience he himself had extinguished. He understood that for her to become the utterly ruthless weapon he needed, this last ember of hope had to be snuffed out. And who better to do it than the idealist who had inadvertently caused her pain?
"You believe seeing him will harden your resolve?" Z asked, his voice a low gravelly rumble.
"I believe it will give me closure," she corrected. "Or confirmation. Either way, I will return to you committed. I give you my word."
Z was silent for a long time, weighing the risk against the potential reward. Losing Olvia would be a blow; her knowledge of the Void Century was invaluable. But a fully committed, emotionally hardened Olvia would be irreplaceable.
"Very well," he finally conceded. "But you will not go alone. I will send a small, fast ship with a crew loyal to me. You will have one week. If you are not back by then, I will assume you are dead or captured, and I will continue my work without you."
Olvia nodded, a grim determination settling on her features. "Thank you."
As she turned to leave and prepare for the journey, Z added one final, chilling warning. "Remember, Olvia. When you look into the lion's eyes, do not be seduced by his roar. Remember the silence of the ashes on Ohara. That is the only truth that matters."
Nico Olvia left the room, a scholar on a pilgrimage to meet the ghost who held the keys to her past and the architect of a war that would define the future. The confrontation between the heart of Ohara and the Lion of Justice was now inevitable.....