Where Is Caesar?!

Where is Caesar Clown?

Uchiha Natsu's voice descended from above the throne.

This time, the tone was even lighter than the first time, like a bubble slowly rising from the bottom of an extremely deep, icy pool, releasing a bone-chilling cold the moment it bursts.

He still stood before the golden throne, the hem of his greyish-white robe fluttering in the night wind blowing in from the window, his scarlet Three-Tomoe Sharingan glowing eerily in the dim hall.

"I don't like to say the same thing a third time."

Doflamingo's breathing suddenly became heavier.

Cold sweat dripped down his jawline, landing on the collar of his pink feather coat and leaving a small, dark, damp patch.

He was still smiling—the curve of his lips seemed nailed to his face, but there was no smile in his eyes behind those sunglasses, only a wildly beating heart and the embarrassment of being cornered.

He felt as if an invisible hand was gripping his throat, and each breath required twice the effort of usual.

He instinctively wanted to bring up that name.

Kaido.

No one knew better than him what that name meant in the New World —it was a synonym for destruction, a taboo that even the Navy dared not easily touch, and the thickest lifeline he had built with half his life.

The moment he opened his mouth, familiar images flashed through his mind: every time he invoked Kaido's name, the people opposite him—whether they were fellow Shichibukai, Marine Admirals, or Underworld tycoons—would hesitate, back down, and then compromise for a split second. It had always been like this.

But his mouth opened and then closed again.

Genjutsu.

He remembered the Genjutsu he had just witnessed very clearly.

It wasn't an ordinary Genjutsu —it dragged him directly back to the darkest quagmire of more than thirty years ago.

He saw his foolish father, he saw himself kneeling in the blood and filth, trembling, and he saw the mob that had once pointed fingers at him and mocked him as a "fallen Celestial Dragons."

He kept these things hidden his whole life, never mentioning them to anyone, not even his closest family member Trebol.

But this boy, this madman who looked only ten years old and stood before his throne, demolished the high wall that he had spent half his life building in less than three seconds.

If it hadn't been Conqueror's Haki just now... he didn't continue thinking about it. He didn't want to think about it anymore.

Doflamingo slowly loosened his clenched fist, which had turned white, then clenched it again, and then loosened it again.

He took a deep breath, and when he exhaled, the stale air trapped in his chest carried away the last vestige of hope.

He is the King of Dressrosa, Shichibukai, and the "Joker" who has roamed the Underworld for many years—but who is standing before him?

He is a monster who single-handedly repelled Kizaru twice, a madman who wiped Sabaody Archipelago Island One off the map, and the first desperado in eight hundred years to dare kill Celestial Dragons and demand "an eye for an eye" in front of the Five Elders.

Betting your life against such a madman? Don Donquixote Doflamingo isn't that crazy. At least, not yet.

"Fu fu fu fu fu..." Laughter escaped involuntarily, but this time even he could hear it himself. The usual arrogance and composure were gone from the laughter, leaving only a dry, almost self-mocking tone.

He raised his hands, palms outstretched, in a gesture of surrender—the movement was exaggerated, almost theatrical, but his slightly trembling fingertips betrayed him.

"Why must Lord Natsu Yin be angry?" His voice regained its smooth tone, but it held a subtle tension that was harder to detect than usual.

"Caesar Clown is indeed in Punk Hazard —that place is an abandoned experimental island of the government, and no one has taken care of it since the gas leak."

Caesar Clown ruled the mountain and conducted his ' Death Kingdom ' experiments there for several years.

Our relationship was purely business-related; he was responsible for producing SAD products, and I was responsible for finding buyers.

As for the specific details of his experiments, I never inquired about them.

After saying this, he lowered his head slightly, his eyes behind his sunglasses fixed on Natsu's fingers resting on the armrest of the throne.

Those few fingers were tapping lightly and slowly on the gilded armrest, making a soft clicking sound, each sound like the rhythm of his heartbeat.

He's waiting.

We'll wait for this madman to make a decision: whether to take the intelligence and leave, or to twist his head off as well, keeping it as another form of "interest."

"Bring him here."

Doflamingo's Adam's apple bobbed up and down.

He opened his mouth, the word "Lord Natsu Yin" had just slipped onto his tongue, and before he could finish speaking, a cool sensation brushed against his cheek.

The coolness was very thin, as thin as the first breeze on a late autumn morning, which made him pause for a moment.

It wasn't until warm liquid streamed down his cheek, dripping onto the collar of his pink feather coat, that he realized the true nature of the chill—

It was a thin wound, as fine as a hair, extending from the cheekbone to the jaw. Beads of blood were seeping out one by one along the edge of the wound, as if someone were slowly picking open a red line with a blunt knife.

His hands didn't shake.

But the cold sweat that had almost stopped on his forehead suddenly became dense again, covering his entire forehead in a thick layer. A few drops even mixed with the blood on his face and dripped down, staining the dark area of his collar, which was soaked with sweat, with a few dark red spots.

When was that attack launched?

He didn't see it at all. He didn't even see the boy move a finger.

The person on the throne remained in the same posture—one leg hanging casually, the other bent at the knee, resting on the stone window frame, the hem of his greyish-white robe still swaying gently in the night breeze.

It was as if nothing had happened. But the still-bleeding wound on Doflamingo's face, and the bloodstains dripping from his chin onto the throne steps, silently refuted this "as if."

"I don't like repeating myself," Uchiha Natsu's voice descended from above the throne.

His tone was flat, and even his volume was exactly the same as before, unhurried, as if he were instructing the butler to pour him a cup of tea.

Doflamingo heard it clearly—there was no room for negotiation, no room for bargaining, only a silent wall slowly pressing down on him.

He instinctively wanted to say something.

Kaido, SAD, Artificial Devil Fruits, the complex terrain of Punk Hazard, the surveillance facilities left by the government—anything would do. He had a whole set of rhetoric in his head, a survival instinct he had accumulated over half a lifetime of struggling in the Underworld, like the slime of an eel, slippery and never failing him.

But his lips moved twice, and all those words got stuck in his throat.