Heaven Has No Limit Chapter 14 - Glaze

Our kind.

Those words were not words Doflamingo thought he would ever hear. Due to the actions of his father, the gates of heaven itself were barred from him; the Holy Land, his home, his rightful home, was not a place he was given the right to return. The lands of his father, and his grandfather before him, and his great-grandfather before them still. The lands where his mother had hailed, lands of endless plenty, lands deprived of lack and want, that land, that home, was a place he was barred from, for as long as he lived and as long as he drew breath.

His people, too, had looked upon him with scorn, with mocking gazes, with upturned noses, laughing and sneering; they had nothing but derision for him, nothing but denigration and disparagement, nothing but contempt and vilification. His people, due to the choices of his father, due to the mistakes that fool had made, denied his association with them. Denied his existence, invalidated his being, negated his citizenship as one of the gods, revoked his identity as one who was at the top of this world. 

Not a single one of them, he had thought, would ever accept that he was one of them. Not a single one of them, he had believed, would ever tell him those words.

Our kind.

All the years he lived in the Lower World, struggled in the Lower World, strived in the Lower World, and had no choice but to accept a family here, plan here, plot here, lodge and board and dwell with the same kind of ilk that had been responsible for his mother’s death, that rounded up himself and his father, tortured them, and scorned them. They worshipped him, as Trebol did, admired him as Diamante did, loved him as Giolla did, but in spite of whatever sentiments they showered him with, they would never, never, understand him.

“...can’t understand because he’s not like us.”

They were not like him. 

For the first time, since he had been a boy, asking his father how they were to live without slaves, for the first time, when his stomach would growl so loudly as he turned and tossed on a bed whose softness was only a step above packed earth…

For the first time, since their family of four would split a single loaf of bread into two pieces, the foolish man gave his portions to him and Rosinante while smiling and telling them how he was not hungry…

For the first time, he overheard his fool of a father begging on the Den Den Mushi time and again for their forgiveness, confessing his mistake, pleading that at least, his sons should be returned into the fold, that they should punish him alone, but not his sons, not them, for they had committed no crime…

For the first time, since he clenched the gun in his hand and pulled the trigger, the kickback almost snapping his wrist, the sound of the shot deafening his ears, the sound of a body hitting the floor ceasing his breath, the sound of his brother’s screams engulfing the world in silence…

For the first time…

For the first time—

There was a gnawing in his stomach, a burning in his throat, a churning in his chest. A sensation he’d not felt since those days, when he heard the soft laughter of his mother’s voice, her cheeks filled with the warmth and blush of life, with the healthy blubber and glow of corpulence. Those days, before those smiles grew strained and those cheeks grew gaunt. Those days, before her wrists became small enough to fail to fill the grasp of his boyish hand, and those days before he could count her every rib as she embraced him.

Those days, before her grave, dug into the compacted earth behind the ramshackle building they called home, hidden and unmarked for their fear that those who hated them would unearth it and desecrate it.

That gnawing, that burning, that churning would come for only a moment, just a brief moment. As fleeting as a nostalgic memory; as transient as smoke wafting in the sea breeze. Those memories would wear upon his lips, the first inkling of an expression that was not found in his twisted glee, in his frustration, in his wrath, or in his contempt. 

For the first time in years, Donquixote Doflamingo smiled. 

His hand went up. The challenge, the right to accept and refuse, was given to him. The right to choose, with his answer, was bestowed. Words, mere words, mere simple words, powerless words, yet because of who uttered those words and because of who he uttered them to, the power they held, and the weight they held, could not be compared to the words of any other.

“He’s not like us.”

After those words, retreat was not an option. Bargaining was not an option. Discussion was not an option. Questions were meaningless. Further conversation was needless. 

Not even if the consequence of victory was an abominable fate, not even if the consequence of defeat was death.

For whether he triumphed or whether he fell—

He did so, not as Donquixote Doflamingo, a common Pirate.

He did so as Donquixote Doflamingo.

A Noble of the World.

“Bullet String.”

“Glock.”

=====)+(=====

“You didn’t need to accompany me for this. It’s just a routine errand.”

“Bah… I told you I just needed a lift. That’s all.”

Far off the coast of the Germa Kingdom, a Marine Ship sailed across the high seas, one recognizable as belonging to the Vice Admiral, Tsuru. There, on deck, as the woman exhaled a cigarette, another man stood beside her, a large man with a dog mask obscuring the top portion of his face. 

“A lift to North Blue?” Tsuru said dryly. “You don’t have any business in North Blue.”

“Maybe I wanted to spend time with an old friend, and rekindle something lost…”

“There’s no spark in the world that can rekindle something that was never kindled.”

He grumbled. “Bah… Can’t an old man go where he wants anymore? Besides, consider it my thanks for… You-know-what.”

Tsuru gave the man an almost annoyed look. The you-know-what in question was simply something that should have been common sense from the beginning. Truly, if she had let Garp have his way… he’d truly leave his flesh and blood in the hands of mountain bandits?

“If you really want to thank me, then don’t start any trouble for me, Garp. I mean it,” Tsuru said. “The CP0 liaison to the Saint said that pirates are going to be attacking the Germa Kingdom, and that I was meant only to observe.”

“And you’re going to listen to whatever he says?”

“Garp,” Tsuru warned. 

“If pirates are attacking, as a Marine Vice Admiral—”

“Don’t even think about it. If you try anything, you’ll be swimming back to Marineford.”

“That’s cruel of you,” Garp sniffed. “...That’ll take me days.”

“Vice Admiral Tsuru, ma’am!”

“Hm? What is it?”

“It… It’s the Donquixote Pirates, ma’am! Their ship! I can see their flagship at the docks of the Germa Kingdom!”

Donquixote Pirates?

Tsuru frowned. This was not good. She had not understood the cryptic message sent to her by the man, Guernika, passed down, about a show and about arriving to see something special happening. However, hearing that the Donquixote Pirates she had been chasing for a long, long time, were nearby—

A coincidence? No. There aren’t any coincidences this big.

“Donquixote Pirates?” Garp dug his finger into his nostrils. “Who are they?”

“They’re led by Donquixote Doflamingo, he is…” Tsuru paused. “Was a World Noble before his father renounced the title for himself and his family. Afterwards, he started a small family of his own and quickly dove into piracy. He’s one of the most dangerous pirates in all of North Blue… if not the most dangerous one.”

“A former World Noble’s attacking a Kingdom where a current World Noble’s staying?” Garp laughed. “Bwahaha! I’d almost say let the trash take care of themselves!”

“If he’s the one who’s attacking the Germa Kingdom, no one will be safe. Not children, not innocent women… no one.”

Garp frowned. “He’s the type to go that far?”

Tsuru turned to the Marines on Deck. “All of you, prepare yourselves for battle! And full speed ahead! Hurry! Now!”

“Yes, ma’am!”

=====)+(=====

Donny Boy, Donny Boy, you like the bait, Donny Boy?

Noah stood with his left hand in his pocket and his right hand outstretched into a finger gun, high in the air. As if he were Olympic Silver Medallist Yusuf Dikeç, he casually pointed with his right hand, firing off Glock after Glock, as Doflamingo countered with Bullet Strings.

The opening salvo of shots unleashed a barrage of ear-shattering, sound-barrier-breaking projectiles, colliding and smashing into each other, ricocheting off each other, and leaving bullet-holes in stone and marble, in granite and concrete, in pavement and road, in trees and compacted earth. 

“W-what’s happening!?”

“The Saint is fighting someone! R-run! Ru—gah!”

“Quickly! Get out of here if you value your—AH!”

Bystanders, those prior rendered unconscious from the Supreme King Clash, awoke only to immediately be gunned down in the crossfire. For some, rebounded string bullets pierced their heads faster than they could scream, for others, Glock, the water projectile, collided with their jaws and bones and sundered sinew from flesh. Kneecaps exploded, sending fragments of tibia and cartilage soaring into the air. The screams which would follow from the hapless bystanders would be drowned by the inglorious deaths brought, if not by liquid projectiles, then by compressed strings.

Trebol dove for cover behind a thick, cylindrical tower, doing what he could to try to escape the epicenter of the conflict. He was amongst the lucky ones, one of the few wise enough to move quickly and rapidly enough. The entire street rapidly began to reek with the scent of blood, and piss, and death and fear.

Trees, buildings, towers, pavement, lampposts, tarps, tents, barrels, and the very earth itself became painted with endless bullet holes. Bodies and corpses closest to the center of the conflict were battered in so many holes they became little more than disparate masses of wet, bloodied, butchered meat.

There was nothing, nothing within a full kilometer radius of the opening salvo between the two combatants that was not perforated. The world had become a honeycomb, a rotten tooth overswollen with cavities. It became a Swiss-cheese-esque painting; a trypophobia-inducing landscape of orifices, pores and craters.

In the center of that landscape, that street that had become a warzone, Noah’s left hand still remained in his pocket,  and Doflamingo’s right arm was still outstretched.

Neither of them gave a glance at the casualties, and neither of them cared. In the area around Noah, a full sixty feet around him, the air was unspeakably dry; what plants remained that had not perished under the onslaught had grown withered and shrivelled, wilted and desiccated. 

Noah stopped hopping in the air and landed on the ground, on the hole-riddled street. Around all corners, around all the streets, between the endless holes and crevices, strings were slithering and gathering as hissing serpents in search of prey.

The opening salvo that had devastated their surroundings had done nothing to harm either combatant. It had been nothing but an appetizer, nothing but a casual, cursory greeting. Nothing more than setting the stage, a preamble, prelude, and overture to the letter of carnage and the ballad of bloodlust they were about to unleash.

“...You’re not using a Devil Fruit.”

Doflamingo was the first to break the silence. His words were dripping with the fetor of disbelief.

“I’ve never needed one, Donny Boy.” 

Noah craned his neck, turning it left, and then turning it right, and put his right hand back in his pocket. His feet gained a rapid sheen of black Armament Haki coating.

“After all—”

Noah bent his knees, bent his ankles, and squatted low with both hands in his pockets. 

“What’s a Devil to a God?”

The ground underneath his feet liquified. The earth, the solid, hard, compacted earth, could not compute the speed or the force of the object kicking off it. Ripples spread along the surface of solid earth like a stone dropped into a pond. Only after the object atop the surface vanished did the earth recall it was not meant to change states of matter. Only then did it transition from liquid to solid at a speed that superheated the solid, disintegrating it and all around it with an ear-shattering boom.

“Soru: Moonwalk!”

With one step, Noah’s leg, clad in black, whipped out, smashing into Doflamingo’s head. An explosion followed. Not of blood, guts, and brain matter, but of string and wire and thread.

Noah dropped to the ground, grinning as the headless string clone dissipated around him.

From under the ground, one of the many, many holes created by their opening barrage, a hand burst out, along with five razor-sharp, glowing strings.

“Five Color Strings!” 

“Bite the Curb!”

Noah’s foot, pitch black, collided with five pentachromic strings: Red, yellow, green, blue, and purple. His stomp smashed through the ranger-colored thread and collided head-on with a glasses-clad skull. There was no crunch of bone, no smush of flesh, only the sensation of striking rubber, as the face of the Doflamingo within the ground, too, turned into a bundle of strings that were crushed underfoot.

Using the force of his stomp, Noah used Geppo, flying upwards into the air, a shit-eating grin on his face.

Trying to exhaust me with your bullshit marionettes, Donny Boy? This isn’t even elementary-level bait.

Bait. Always. Had. To. Be. Believable.

Noah was well-versed in that universal truth of baiting. His gaze swept the varying holes on the ground, the varying holes filled with threads and strings, and even he could not say just how many of those clones Doflamingo had made and littered around the battlefield.

No doubt the plan was to stall him, as he'd burn valuable time and energy trying to find the real Doflamingo, and be worn out slowly and gradually. Doflamingo was fighting cautiously, planning on letting him reveal his hand and expose all his cards. After all, as a Paramecia Devil Fruit user, he had a nigh-infinite amount of string he could always use and always draw on, but Noah had no such advantages. All Noah had was stamina, and once that ran out, it would be his loss.

However, running out of stamina was something that did not exist in the dictionary of No Limit Noah.

Playing whack-a-mole isn’t my speed.

Noah did not bait Doflamingo any more than he already had. He was more than aware of the right thing to say to get under someone’s skin. He was more than aware of what was the right thing to say to stir someone up, to make their heart start pumping, to get them filled with a will-to-harm.

Donny Boy, Donny Boy, insults won’t do shit to you, Donny Boy, Noah grinned. Yo Mama jokes would slide off your back like baby oil on Bieber buttcheeks… nah… you’ve got thick skin in that regard.

A crowd of villagers had ganged up on him as a child and hurled every insult and every line under the sun, and all that did was manage to reinforce his beliefs and ideas. It was why Noah understood early on that regular-level bait would never work on someone like Doflamingo. It would never affect him. 

So Noah did not use his normal baiting methods. 

Bait had to be adjusted for the right fish, and Doflamingo was a slightly bigger fish than most.

Donny Boy, Donny Boy, I need you to give it your all, Donny Boy. Can’t have people saying I beat your ass only because you were too blinded by rage to fight properly, Donny Boy. Come on, I’ve set the stage for you. I’ve given you what some part of you has always wanted, Donny Boy! So don’t you fucking dare disappoint me…

Noah’s words, from the beginning, were primed to accept Doflamingo. Every word was carefully chosen. Every barb was timed, every selection, done to bait the would-be Heavenly Yaksha.

To give him that feeling he’d been wanting his whole life, the feeling he’d been craving his whole existence, to confirm his worth, to invite him back into the fold like the Prodigal Son getting on his knees and weeping before the omnibenevolent father—

Acknowledgement.

For in Noah’s eyes, that was the core of Doflamingo’s Haki. An essence, all but screaming—

ACKNOWLEDGE! ME!

In ways, they were the same kind of man. The same kind of beast. The same kind of monster. It was only that their scales were different. Doflamingo wished for acknowledgement from would-be gods, but Noah wanted to rip acknowledgement out of the minds, hands and souls of the world. Such that even if they hated him, especially if they hated him, when they heard his name mentioned, a begrudging, irritating acceptance would still spill forth from their lips, a universal confession that they could not deny: 

“Yeah, he was the GOAT.” 

Noah’s eyes keenly swept the field, and he found it. His target. He blurred towards a seemingly empty space, using the Armament Haki boosted Soru, Moonwalk. He blitzed through the air at a speed that set the air on fire, spinning, dodging a rapidfire enclosure of strings all around him, before his right foot slammed into something hard and solid.

Noah grinned.

“Found you, Donny Boy.”

The air shimmered. Doflamingo’s form appeared, his right arm coated in Armament Haki, struggling to hold back the force of Noah’s right foot, which slammed into his arm. Doflamingo skidded back against the street, the much taller man relying on his larger size to try and bleed off Noah’s momentum as the force of Noah’s kick sent them both skidding across the ground as though it were ice.

Full of surprises, aren’t you, Donny Boy? Not bad, but this isn’t enough.

Doflamingo could create strings of varying colors. It was how his string clones functioned, as if the color of the strings could not be altered to match his clothes and attire; it would be otherwise impossible for the clones to fool anyone. 

Yet, it was the first time Noah saw that concept taken to another level, altering the color of his strings to use it as a form of optical camouflage and hide in plain sight.

It was impressive to others, but it wasn’t enough for Noah.

He needed more.

“This shit isn’t enough to get my heartbeat pumping! At least, try and get me to get my hands out of my pockets, Donny Boy! Come on! Come on! COME ON! FUCKING COME ON!”

Needle-sharp threads rained down from above. Noah kicked off Doflamingo’s arm, performing a backflip with his arms still in his pockets. Halfway through his backflip, he killed his own momentum with a casual Geppo until he was upside down and airborne. There, he began to spin his legs, performing an airborne headspin with his legs rotating faster and faster. 

“Fullbright!”

“Rankyaku!” 

Sharpened air and sharpened threads sliced into each other, and a screech of steel scraping steel seized the air. Winds and threads collided into each other, as the air itself hummed with the sound of something being drawn too taut, too tight, before snapping.

…What? What the…? Did I—

For a moment, Noah thought he had imbued his Rankyaku with Armament Haki; however, the wind blade wasn’t black. His Armament Haki was the secret of how he managed to avoid Doflamingo’s Parasite attack, which tried to control him. Making small, imperceptible movements with the aid of Soru, and relying on Armament Haki-imbued Rankyaku to create wind blades that sliced away at the strings which tried to control him. 

It was the same technique he displayed, once, and only once, in front of Saturn and Nusjuro. A technique to bypass Observation Haki through misdirection.

However, Noah was not aware that it was a technique so novel and unexpected that even Saturn failed to grasp it upon seeing it. Nusjuro had only noticed it because he was paying attention. Someone like Trebol would absolutely never see it. He would never notice it. Doflamingo, as well, had failed to grasp it completely. He had assumed, wrongly, that somehow, Noah was seeing the future and using that knowledge to evade his strings.

Noah wasn’t.

From start to finish, in this fight—

Noah had not used Observation Haki.

Noah landed on the ground, on a damaged street, his hands still in his pockets. His gaze snapped to the side, to a series of threads that were cut clean, and then he flicked it back to his enemy.

…what?

Doflamingo’s hand went up. A collection of rapid strings bundled up within his hands, glowing the red-hot of superheated steel. It burst forth with a force that sent a shockwave around the man, charging straight at Noah’s position.

“Overheat.”

Noah whipped out his left foot as though he were the eight-time winner of the Ballon d’Or.

“Rankyaku.”

There was a sharp, grating sound again, like swords clashing. Superheated strings and absurdly sharp air collided against each other. For a moment, both forces paused, meeting at the center, resisting each other, for a brief moment, then came the sound of a thread snapping. The blade of wind sheared clean through the bundle of heated thread, travelling down to the source of its origin.

“GURK!”

A massive, diagonal slash tore straight through Doflamingo’s body. The top of his clothes was sliced clean, revealing a thick sheen of blackened flesh underneath, Armament Hardening, provided only at the last moment. Off in the distance, behind him, a kilometer away, a tower was sliced cleanly in two. Then everything on the entire horizon was bifurcated perfectly diagonally. Everything. Buildings, structures, trees, plants— 

As though someone had taken a safety razor to the fabric of reality itself.

I didn’t. I didn’t fucking use…!

“Hey, Donny Boy…”

Doflamingo was on one knee, holding his chest. His chest had a large, unsightly laceration running from the top of his left shoulder blade down his stomach to the right side of his hip. The gash was bleeding profusely, bleeding to the point that the entire bottom portion of Doflamingo’s clothes was dyed red.

Despite using Armament Haki, he’d been grievously injured.

No, rather, it was more accurate to say that if he had not used Armament Haki at that last moment—

He would already be dead.

“Are you fucking with me?”

The genuine irritation in Noah’s tone took even Doflamingo by surprise. Noah removed his right hand from his pocket and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Are you fucking with me, now, Donny boy? The fuck is this, Donny Boy? The fuck was that? You’re telling me I can cut your strings using a base Rankyaku? Are you fucking with me? Do I look like someone you can fuck with? Huh?”

Noah vanished.

He grabbed Doflamingo’s face, his fingers digging deep, before slamming the man’s face into the earth with the force of a thunderclap. Burying it into the ground, he used Soru, taking Doflamingo along, scraping the man’s face across pavement, across grass, across dirt, across gravel and soil and stone before they arrived at a graveyard.

“ARE—”

He lifted the Doflamingo’s face and slammed it into a tombstone.

“YOU—”

He slammed it into another tombstone.

“FUCKING—”

A third.

“WITH—”

A fourth.

“ME?!”

Doflamingo spat out blood. He had used Armament Haki on his face to withstand most of the damage, but the force of each impact had chipped through until it broke. The entire right side of his face was bleeding as if flayed, having been shredded through dirt and ground.

His wound, the large gash in his chest born from Rankyaku, opened and worsened from the resulting trauma. He was losing blood at an absurd rate, getting weaker and weaker.

“Why aren’t you healing? Why the fuck are you bleeding so much? Stitch your fucking wounds! Stitch them with your strings! You’re a fucking string-man, Donny Boy!”

What Noah did not know was that Doflamingo had stitched his injuries, but they were still bleeding.

Once, Saint Nusjuro had commented that Noah had perfectly mastered Rankyaku. The words, at the time, had not been a thing Noah paid any heed to. However, the person who had told him those words was a swordsman, admittedly, one of the best in the world.

Noah’s base Rankyaku was perfected because Noah’s method of creating it was different from all others. Rankyaku could be altered according to the wielder, changed, and shaped into birds, rain and even wolves. 

Noah, however, simply focused on making it like a water-jet.

Why? Because waterjets and hydraulic presses were central to brainrot.

Thus, his Rankyaku functioned exactly as a waterjet would. On objects, the difference was barely noticeable from a normal Rankyaku. 

But on people? 

Damage from skin being pierced or sliced by a water-jet was not a cut. It was clinically categorized as a high-energy injection injury. Water jets behaved like invisible, contaminated, internal shrapnel, and thus, Noah’s Rankyaku acted in the same manner.

What Doflamingo had done in sealing the laceration was effectively stitching the wound of a man whose body was littered with shrapnel.

Weakly, wheezing, and coughing, Doflamingo grabbed onto Noah’s wrist, trying to tear his hand off his face, but found his strength failing to do so. His strength was not enough. His wounds continued to open and bleed more from the effort and the strain, and Noah’s hand was like a vice-grip latched onto his skull.

“I… Am…” he rasped. “Donquixote… Do… Fla…Mingo…!”

Strings stretched out of his fingers, strings imbued with Armament. He brought them down on Noah’s arm, and—

His strings snapped.

His Armament-imbued strings snapped as if they were made of rubber. Snapped, as if they were woollen yarn, the moment they connected with Noah’s arm, which shone black with Armament Hardening.

Noah’s Armament Haki was something he could not cut. 

Noah’s Armament Haki was something he could not break.

Noah’s Armament Haki was stronger than Doflamingo’s Armament Haki.

If one party had stronger Armament Haki, the only way to bypass it was by using overwhelming, raw, brute strength. However, in that regard, Doflamingo was not a strength-type fighter. He was a technique-type fighter.

That meant, unless Noah willingly nerfed himself and outright refused to use his Armament Haki—

Doflamingo could not so much as tickle him.

“I’m not fucking around anymore, Donny Boy,” Noah scowled. “Use your Awakening. At least give me one last fucking hurrah before you bite it.”

Doflamingo’s battered expression contorted in genuine confusion. “...A-awakening?”

“You—”

Noah stopped.

He stared straight at Doflamingo’s face.

“Shit.”

Noah cursed.

“As I thought, it’s too early. Too fucking early, too fucking early…”

He shook his head.

“Shame, Donny Boy. Fucking shame. I really would have loved to kill you at your peak. I thought we would have a helluva good show, Donny Boy. I thought you’d be my first big stepping stone to flexing on the world… but…”

Noah threw his head back and sighed.

“But in the end…”

Noah squeezed. A pair of iconic glasses snapped in half. A skull followed them, soon after. Snapping, and cracking, and popping, as Noah’s Armament-clad fingers used Shigan to dig deep, piercing through the frontal and nasal bones. A harrowing, blood-curdling scream cut the air. Doflamingo’s legs violently thrashed about, slamming into the dirt as his hands tried and failed desperately to free his skull of Noah’s iron claw.

“Noah Style...”

Deeper and deeper, still, Noah’s fingers delved into Doflamingo’s skull until they reached a soft, gelatinous mass hidden behind the bone, and ripped.

“Rot Removal.”

He pulled back, tearing clean a bloodied chunk of a man’s prefrontal cortex.

“In the end...”

Noah squeezed, crushing the brain-meat into a fine, dribbly, juicy pulp.

“You weren’t worth the glaze.”