The Privileges of the Celestial Dragons

Grand Line, Water 7.

Milky-white mist flowed along the crisscrossing canals, spilling over bluestone steps and creeping up stained-glass windows, wrapping the entire city in a hazy veil.

On Scrap Island, mountains of old shipwrecks loomed in and out of sight through the fog. Seagull cries pierced the mist, accompanied by the first hammer strike from the distant shipyards. Water 7 awoke.

Inside Tom's Workshop.

Tom hung up the Den Den Mushi, turned around, and swept his gaze across the workshop.

"Clean up. We'll be receiving guests in a few days."

Iceburg set down his sandwich and nodded.

Franky scratched his outrageously blue hair, his face full of impatience.

"He's come so many times over the past few years. There's no need to make such a big fuss, right?"

Tom shook his head, walked to the window, and pushed it open. Mist surged in, carrying the briny tang of seawater. His gaze passed over Scrap Island and settled on Water 7's main city in the distance.

A few days later, on another morning, at Water 7's harbor.

The port, large enough to berth massive merchant ships, bustled with activity. Dockworkers shouted work chants as they loaded and unloaded cargo, vendors called out fresh seafood, and travelers crowded onto the piers waiting for the next Bloo boat.

The harbor master was squatting outside the duty room, smoking his pipe with narrowed eyes as he watched the sunlit waves glitter gold. Then he saw a speck appear on the horizon.

That speck swiftly grew into a sail, followed by a hull. When the entire ship came into view, the pipe dropped from his mouth with a clatter.

It was a colossal warship sixty meters tall, its three main masts stabbing into the sky as black sails swelled in the wind.

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