The twin doors of the grand villa opened with the protesting groan of ancient bronze hinges. A blast of icy wind poured out, curling through the entryway like the breath of something long-dead. It swept over Doflamingo's frame, sending his pink-feathered coat into a wild, fluttering dance.
And then—the world fell silent.
As if something unseen had snapped.
Trebol, Diamante, Vergo, Pica—the elite four who moments ago strode with bloodstained blades and swaggering bravado—stood frozen.
Behind them, the Donquixote Family's soldiers—hundreds strong—stiffened as one, each man held in place by some ancient, unspoken fear.
Their eyes had locked on something inside.
A faint sound in the silence. Something thick. Liquid. Hitting stone.
The flames in the vast domed hall flickered.
Shadows danced across the ornate stained-glass windows. The central chandelier swayed ever so slightly, casting halos of moving gold across a long oval conference table, worn and weathered by time.
And there, above the fireplace—
Pinned like an offering.
Slicked-back hair. Sharp black suit. A blood-red rose pinned neatly to the lapel.
A steel spear had been driven clean through his heart and into the black stone wall behind him. Crimson soaked his chest, legs, and shoes. It dripped from the tips of his polished shoes like wine from a broken chalice.
They all recognized him.
The iron-fisted patriarch who had ruled one-third of the North Blue's underworld for over two decades.
His empty eyes gazed at them through death.
His lips curved ever so slightly, frozen in a smirk that mocked them all.
Trebol shivered. His scalp crawled. The entire room seemed colder.
To the head of the long table.
A man who blended into the shadows as though he were born from them.
Flames flickered, but his face remained veiled.
Black suit. Black tie. White shirt. Gloves. Boots polished to a mirror shine.
One leg crossed over the other.
One hand twirling a lit cigar.
The other tapping the table with the measured rhythm of judgment.
Eyes like twin daggers glinted in the dark.
They couldn't see it.
"Perfect timing," he said.
His voice rolled through the silence.
The firelight finally caught his features.
Captain Rogers Darren.
"Well done," he said with quiet praise, turning his gaze to the boy in the flamingo coat.
Doflamingo didn't answer.
His fists were clenched tight.
Trebol swallowed. He could only see their young master's back—but that was enough to know the fury boiling beneath.
Brrrrrr... Brrrrrr...
A Den Den Mushi rang.
Darren reached into his coat and calmly answered.
A voice responded on the line:
"Reporting in, Captain Darren. As of five minutes ago, the operation is complete."
"All targets—including the Snock, Vincent, and Rockefeller families—have been purged. Seventeen underworld syndicates, fully eliminated in the name of justice."
The Donquixote Family gasped.
Their jaws tightened.
North Blue's underworld—gone?
The one who had done it was standing right before them.
The body of Rodriguez Michael still bleeding behind him.
Panic rippled through the ranks.
"Good," Darren said mildly. "Excellent work. Return to base. I'll be along shortly."
He ended the call, pocketed the snail, took a slow drag of his cigar, and rose from the chair.
And over a thousand men took a full step back.
Doflamingo stood unmoving.
His fists trembled harder.
Rage? Humiliation? Something deeper?
Darren stepped toward him.
Trebol flinched. Tried to move.
Darren looked at him.
Ice slid down his spine. He froze.
Until Darren stood before the boy.
Blonde. Silent. Furious.
"This is my gift to you, Doflamingo."
His tone was soft. Almost... parental.
"From this moment on, the North Blue's underworld belongs to you."
Trebol could barely breathe.
'Why should I bow...'
'I... why should I bow?'
Doflamingo's hands stopped trembling.
Trebol heard a silent sigh.
His young master's shoulders relaxed.
And kissed the back of it.
A quiet, respectful gesture.
"Thank you, my Godfather."