"Begin."

He didn’t wait for their response. His body rose from the deck without visible effort, ascending into the sky like a leaf caught in an updraft—except no wind blew, and his movement was precisely controlled. Higher and higher, until the ship was a toy below, until Jaya was a patchwork of green and brown and the distant blue of the sea.

He didn’t look back. He did not need to. His observation haki maintained awareness of every life sign on that island, would alert him instantly if any of his possessions faced true danger.

Below, Mirana turned to the assembled women.

"Girls. You heard him." She leaped without further preamble, her body tracing a perfect arc through the air, landing on the beach of Jaya with enough force to crater the sand. "Let’s go hunt some pirates."

The others followed. Lily laughed as she jumped, a sound of pure, predatory delight.

Robin moved more deliberately, her devil fruit ability sprouting arms from distant trees to swing her forward. The agents who had combat capability went with them, leaving only Makino and a skeleton crew of protectors.

Makino descended by the more conventional route—stairs lowered by the remaining CP agents, her hand tight on the railing. She was weak, by their standards. A liability in direct combat. But Lakeman had not forbidden her from observing, from experiencing the results of his training program.

The sounds began soon after.

A scream from the jungle’s edge, cut short. The crash of breaking wood as a building collapsed.

Occasional gunfire, always brief, always ending in silence. Mirana’s voice, distant but clear, offering tactical corrections.

"Faster, Lily. Don’t play with them."

"Robin, three approaching from your left."

"Finish it."

Makino walked through Mock Town’s streets, flanked by agents in anonymous suits, their eyes constantly moving.

The pirates she passed gave her wide berth—not because they recognized the threat of the agents, but because something in her bearing, in the absolute confidence with which she moved, warned them away.

She found a tavern, took a seat by the window, and watched smoke begin to rise from various points across the island.

Each plume marked a nest of pirates, exterminated. Each silence between screams marked a life ended, a threat eliminated, a lesson absorbed by her sisters-in-servitude.

She ordered tea. The bartender, a scarred veteran who had seen too much, served her without meeting her eyes.

—

Ten thousand meters above the sea, the sky changed.

Lakeman passed through the layer of clouds that marked the boundary between ocean and sky island, and the world transformed.

The Sea Clouds stretched in every direction, solid enough to support weight, glowing with an internal luminescence that spoke of their unnatural nature.

Above, the White-White Sea extended to a horizon that curved wrong, that suggested a world smaller and stranger than the one below.

Skypiea.

His observation haki swept across the island in an instant, cataloging everything. The Upper Yard with its ancient ruins and tribal warfare. The settlements of the Skypieans, technologically primitive but spiritually developed. The Shandorians, still fighting their centuries-long guerrilla war against the "gods" who had stolen their homeland.

He found Gan Fall easily enough—the current "God" of Skypiea, riding his pegasus cloud across the sky, maintaining the pretense of authority over a land that had never truly been his. The old man’s conscience was clear, his dedication genuine. Lakeman noted him for future reference and moved on.

Women. He searched specifically for women of exceptional beauty, for the prizes that had drawn him to this backwater in the original timeline. Conis was too young, her potential unfulfilled. The other priestesses and warriors held nothing special.

But there was one.

Lakeman’s attention fixed on a mature woman—full-figured, angel-winged, her beauty carrying the weight of years and experience. She moved through a garden of cloud flowers, her expression distant, troubled.

The most beautiful woman on this island, perhaps, but still... inadequate. His standards had grown exacting, fed by the celestial beauties he had collected and cultivated.

His cock stirred regardless. Heat accumulated, demanding release. He would take her, add her to his collection, but she was not the primary purpose of this visit.

Gold. The golden city of Shandora, melted down and scattered across centuries. Most of it concentrated in a single vault, guarded by priests who had forgotten its true significance.

More scattered through the island, hidden in ruins, buried in graves. And a significant amount—Lakeman smiled at this—concentrated in the stomach of the great snake, Nola, currently digesting its latest meal of would-be treasure hunters.

He teleported.

The vault was first. The priests died before they knew he was there, their hearts simply stopping as his haki crushed their consciousness. He gathered the gold—bars and coins and artifacts, centuries of accumulated wealth—into his internal space, the dimension created by his devil fruit that existed outside normal reality. The weight was substantial, hundreds of tons, but the space was infinite.

Ruins next, the scattered hoards of dead kings and forgotten gods. Each teleportation was instantaneous, his awareness guiding him to every cache. The snake Nola presented a minor complication—he simply grabbed her by the tail and shook it until she vomited all the gold and treasures the beast had swallowed over the years.

The Golden Bell was last. It hung in its tower, silent for four hundred years, waiting for the song that would announce the end of a war. Lakeman took it whole, the massive structure vanishing into his storage space, the tower left empty and shaking.

Three hundred tons of gold. Enough to buy nations. Enough to fund a thousand wars. He accumulated it with the casualness of a child collecting shells, each piece added to a fortune that already beggared calculation.

Then he turned to Gan Fall’s memories.

The old man was unconscious, never knowing that Lakeman had appeared beside him, had pressed fingers to his temple, had extracted everything he knew about the geography of the sky islands.

Birka. The location of the other sky island, home to a different civilization, a different "god."

Lakeman flew.

The distance was nothing at his speed. He crossed the White-White Sea in minutes, following the mental map stolen from Gan Fall.

Birka appeared on the horizon—a more developed land, more technologically advanced, ruled by a theocracy that had grown decadent and cruel.

His observation haki swept through it in an instant, and he found what he sought.

A box. Hidden beneath the most luxurious building on the island, in a shrine to a god who did not exist. The Logia-type Devil Fruit—the Goro Goro no Mi, the Thunder-Thunder Fruit. One of the most powerful abilities in existence, capable of turning a man into living lightning, of mass destruction on a scale that only the truly elite could achieve.

He teleported directly to it.

The box opened at his touch, revealing the fruit in all its malignant beauty—shaped like a thunderbolt, its surface crackling with contained energy. Lakeman stored it instantly, turning to face the man who had appeared behind him.

Enel.

The would-be god of Skypiea—no, of Birka first, before his ambition drove him to conquer the neighboring island. He was young, his ego unearned, his power potential rather than actual.

He looked at Lakeman with the hatred of a man who had just seen his destiny stolen, who recognized in this intruder something that reduced his own magnificence to insignificance.

"Come out, Enel." Lakeman’s voice held no particular emotion. "I know you’re there."

Enel emerged from shadow, his body crackling with the static of his natural ability—the non-Logia manipulation of electricity that would have eventually led him to the fruit now in Lakeman’s possession. His eyes burned with the fanaticism of the self-absorbed, the certainty that he was divine, special, chosen.

Lakeman hit him.

The blow came from nowhere, from everywhere. Enel’s ribs collapsed, his organs ruptured, his body driven through three walls of the shrine before coming to rest in the street outside. He tried to rise, coughing blood, and Lakeman was there, heel coming down on his spine, grinding him into the cloud-stone.

"I—" Enel gasped.

Lakeman kicked him in the face. Teeth scattered. The skull fractured, not quite enough to kill.

"God," Lakeman said, his voice conversational as he continued the beating. "You think you’re a god."

Each strike was calculated, devastating without being immediately fatal. Enel’s body broke in systematic fashion—bones, organs, the delicate structures of face and hand.

"Aaaahhh"

He screamed, then couldn’t scream, then screamed again when Lakeman’s healing power touched him, knitting everything together with agonizing speed, only to be destroyed once more.

This continued for minutes that felt like eternities. The citizens of Birka fled, hiding, praying to their false deities. Lakeman ignored them, focused entirely on the lesson he was imparting.

Finally, he stopped. Enel lay in a crater of his own making, whole again but shattered in every way that mattered, his eyes empty of everything except terror.

"You look at me like that again," Lakeman said, his tone cold enough to freeze the tropical air, "and death will be your only outcome. Not a quick death. The kind that takes years."

Enel flinched backward, scrabbling at the stone, unable to look away, unable to meet that gaze.

In truth, Lakeman had intended to kill him. The beatings were prelude to execution, a final indulgence before ending this insect who had dared to aspire to godhood. But then the notification came—his system, that metaphysical presence that had accompanied him since his reincarnation, alerting him to exceptional potential.

[Subject: Enel. Genius-level aptitude for electrical abilities. Predicted mastery of Goro Goro no Mi exceeds original timeline parameters. Political applications: significant.]

Lakeman considered. In the original narrative, Enel had developed the thunder fruit to frightening levels, destroying islands, establishing a reign of terror that only ended through protagonist intervention. With proper training, proper control, he could be...

Useful.

"System," Lakeman commanded in his mind. "Complete binding."

[Initiating. Duration: binding completing in two hours.]

Lakeman continued to work him over physically during this time, establishing the association between pain and disobedience so deeply that it would never truly fade.

When it ended, Enel knelt before him, trembling, unable to conceive of resistance.

Lakeman withdrew the thunder fruit from his storage space, tossing it to the broken man.

"Eat it."

No hesitation. No question. Enel shoved the entire fruit into his mouth, swallowing convulsively, the taste apparently irrelevant.

Power exploded through him—blue-white lightning crackling across his skin, his eyes going incandescent, hair standing on end as the transformation completed.

He felt it. The overwhelming might of the Logia, the ability to become lightning itself, to travel at speeds that made sound seem slow, to project destruction that could level cities. His ego, so carefully crushed, began to swell again as he glared at Lakeman.

"What," Lakeman said, watching the arrogance return to those eyes, "thinking you can fight me now?"

He didn’t wait for response. The second beating was worse than the first, because now Enel could resist, now he could become lightning and flee, now he had the power of a god—and it meant nothing.

Lakeman’s haki ignored the elemental form, striking the true body within. His speed matched the lightning. His strength dwarfed anything Enel could generate.

When he finished, Enel lay in a crater twice as deep as before, whole again through healing, but marked. Lakeman pressed his heel into the man’s face, grinding hard enough to break bone, then released the healing power while maintaining pressure.

The result was permanent—a shoe-shaped scar on Enel’s face, a reminder that would never fade, that would greet him in every mirror for the rest of his long life.

"Whenever your ego swells," Lakeman said, "look at this. Remember."

He wrapped Enel in a bubble of life force, compressing it tight around the man’s body. Then he kicked him, the bubble transforming into a shooting star that arced across the sky, its destination the CP0 training facility on a distant island.

The communication with Stussy was immediate, mental, private.

"Master." Her voice in his mind was liquid silk, the honeyed tones of a woman who had learned that pleasure and power were not opposites but partners. "You have something for me?"

"Training project. Enel. Goro Goro no Mi, Logia-type. Admiral-level potential." Lakeman’s mental voice was crisp, businesslike despite the recent exertion. "Break him. Rebuild him. Absolute loyalty."

"Mm, a challenge." He could feel her smile through the connection, the way it would curve those perfect lips. "I do love it when you bring me gifts, Master. I’ll make sure he’s... your obedient subordinate."

"Just don’t kill him yet and force him to focus more on his devil fruit development."

"Of course not." A pause, weighted with meaning. "When Master arrives in Sabaody, I will make sure to thank you properly. With all my holes."

The mental image she projected was explicit, detailed, designed to provoke exactly the response it received. Lakeman felt himself harden, the heat that had been banked now returning full force.

"Damn bitch," he muttered aloud as the connection severed. "Always setting fires, never calming them down."

He turned back toward Skypiea, toward the angel-winged woman whose face he had barely registered, whose body suddenly seemed essential. The frustration of incomplete satisfaction, of Stussy’s teasing departure, needed outlet.

His speed increased, breaking the sound barrier, leaving a trail of compressed air that dispersed the Sea Clouds in his wake.

He reached the sky above Skypiea in minutes, scanned once to locate his target, and teleported directly before her.

She stood in a garden of cloud flowers, wings furled, her expression startled by his sudden appearance. Up close, she was more than he had assessed—mature beauty indeed, full curves barely contained by traditional dress, face bearing the lines of sorrow and strength in equal measure. Her wings were white as snow, tinged with gold at the edges.

Lakeman said nothing. He didn’t need to. His presence was statement enough, his power radiating from him like heat from a furnace.

He watched her recognize him—not who he was specifically, but what. The predator. The conqueror. The force that had swept through her world and taken everything worth taking.

Her wings spread instinctively, preparation for flight that would never succeed. Her mouth opened to speak, protest or plea or question.

He reached for her, his hand closing on her wrist with gentle inevitability, pulling her toward the heat that demanded satisfaction.

Behind them, the golden bell that no longer existed would have rung, if it could, to mark the moment. Instead, there was only the wind through the cloud flowers, and the beginning of another submission.

—

The Seraphim’s Crown remained anchored off Jaya’s coast for a day before Lakeman returned. When he did, he brought gifts—the angel-winged woman, now dressed in silks that matched the other prizes in his collection, her eyes downcast but her step steady.

Gold beyond measure, though he shared no details of its acquisition. And news, relayed to his women in the privacy of his cabin.

"Set sail for Sabaody," he announced, and none questioned why.

—---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------