While chaos reigned across the Holy Land, far removed from burning food reserves and clashing armies, one man moved quietly toward his fate.
Cobra, King of Alabasta.
Once, he had stood tall—proud, broad-shouldered, a ruler who walked among his people and carried their burdens as his own. Now, time had worn him down. His body was frail, his legs useless, his hands resting lightly on the arms of a wheelchair pushed forward by his own strength.
He had been granted an audience with the Five Elders.
Alone.
Neither his guards nor his daughter would be permitted to follow. The escort ended long before the chamber itself, and Cobra insisted on wheeling himself the rest of the way. His expression was calm, serious, unreadable.
Whether he understood what awaited him, or whether age had simply made him at peace with death, only he knew.
The path beneath his wheels was velvet, dyed deep and rich, stretching forward and upward toward a room few had ever entered. Each rotation echoed softly in the vast silence, the sound swallowed by the enormous space ahead.
Then he saw it.
The Empty Throne.
Cobra stopped.
Before him rose the seat no one was allowed to occupy, standing atop a short flight of steps. Around it, embedded in the stone floor, were nineteen swords—ancient weapons driven into the earth by the hands of kings and queens eight hundred years ago. They were symbols of a vow: that no single ruler would ever dominate the world.
The original twenty monarchs had placed their weapons there, swearing equality.
Yet only nineteen blades stood before him.
Cobra stared at the gap.
He had stared at it many times in books, in murals, in stories passed down through generations—but standing here, feeling its presence, was something else entirely.
Then footsteps echoed.
Five figures emerged from the shadows, their silhouettes distinct even before their faces became clear.
The Five Elders.
Saint Marcus Mars stood tall and gaunt, his long white hair flowing past a thin mustache and goatee. His dark suit was immaculate, his posture rigid, his eyes cold and unblinking.
Saint Topman Warcury followed, shorter and heavier, his bald head and massive white mustache giving him the look of a stern judge. His spotted, weathered skin spoke of age, yet his stance was firm, grounded.
Saint Ethanbaron V. Nusjuro moved with measured grace. Draped in loose white robes bound by a golden sash, a katana rested at his side. His pale, wrinkled face showed no emotion, his gaze sharp and calculating beneath centuries of restraint.
Saint Shepherd Ju Peter towered above the others, lean and unnervingly tall. His simple dark suit hung loosely on his frame, open at the collar, a long scar visible across his chest. His presence carried quiet authority.
Saint Jaygarcia Saturn—once counted among them—stood as well, his aged features severe, his posture rigid. Even in stillness, he commanded attention.
They asked Cobra what business he had come to discuss.
He did not hesitate.
He began at the beginning.
He spoke of the twenty monarchs who formed the World Government, of how they abandoned their homelands and relocated to Marie Jois, founding the lineage now known as the Celestial Dragons. He spoke of the Empty Throne as a monument to their shared power, a promise etched into stone that no dictator would ever rule the world.
The weapons at its base were proof of that vow.
He spoke of how, in their absence, new royal families were chosen to rule the original kingdoms—new bloodlines, new names, new histories.
And then he spoke of Alabasta.
Of Queen Lily of the Nefertari family.
She had been one of the original twenty monarchs, yet she did not become a Celestial Dragon. Instead, she returned—or was believed to have returned—to her homeland. Her descendants still ruled Alabasta to this day.
Which was why only nineteen swords surrounded the throne.
The Elders asked him his point.
Cobra continued.
He spoke of old records, of histories that never predated the Void Century, of gaps that could not be filled no matter how deeply he searched. And in those gaps, he had noticed something deeply troubling.
Queen Lily's name vanished.
There was no record of her return. No confirmation. No grave. No account of her final days.
She never appeared again.
Her younger brother ruled in her place.
Cobra asked them what they knew.
They listened.
Then Saturn responded, his tone dismissive, as though brushing away dust. No one knew what became of her. It was assumed she returned home. Nothing more.
Cobra did not look convinced.
His voice lowered.
He asked another question.
A dangerous one.
What is the D.
For the first time, the room shifted.
Nusjuro responded sharply, demanding to know why a king would ask such a thing.
Cobra did not flinch.
He spoke simply.
There was a letter.
Written eight hundred years ago.
Passed down through generations of the Nefertari family.
At that moment, the composure of the Five Elders cracked—just slightly.
Their expressions remained controlled, their bodies still, but something had changed in the air.
The Empty Throne loomed silently behind them.
And Cobra, King of Alabasta, had crossed a line from which there would be no return.
And that's a wrap
Ooh, cobra such a badass, even in that state '
