A thin plume of smoke curled lazily toward the ceiling as Shakky exhaled, her sharp eyes never leaving the three young girls seated across from her. The air was warm, thick with the scent of sea salt and fresh parchment, the gentle hum of Dressrosa's bustling streets filtering in from beyond the balcony.
"It's time you return to Amazon Lily," Shakky said at last, tapping ash from the end of her cigarette. "Rosinante won't be coming back to Dressrosa anytime soon. There's no point in waiting for him here."
Across from her, Boa Hancock sat stiffly, her fingers curling into the fabric of her dress. "But… but I want to thank him personally."
Her voice was soft yet insistent, filled with a rare kind of stubbornness. She had waited in Dressrosa for days, despite the growing impatience of her fellow Kuja warriors, who were eager to return to Amazon Lily. But Hancock refused to leave.
The reason she gave was simple—she wanted to express her gratitude to the man who had saved her. The real reason, however, was buried deep in her heart. The memory of Sabaody, of chains and fear, of the dark abyss she had thought she would never escape. And then—he had appeared. A whirlwind of black and gold, laughter that mocked the very idea of fear, hands that shattered shackles like they were nothing but twigs.
Whenever she thought back to that moment, her heart pounded in her chest. She clenched her fists under the table, frustration bubbling within her. She couldn't even understand why. Shakky studied her carefully, then smirked. She had seen this before. That look. That hesitation. That spark.
It was a curse.
A curse she had once suffered from herself—the kind that had made her abandon her title as Amazon Lily's empress and set sail to chase something greater.
"Hancock," Shakky said suddenly, her voice carrying a teasing lilt. "Do you like that kid?"
Hancock froze. Her eyes widened, a deep crimson blush creeping up her cheeks. "W-What?!"
Her two younger sisters, Sandersonia and Marigold, snapped their heads toward her, their own eyes growing round as saucers.
"Eh?! Big Sis likes someone?!"
For a brief moment, Hancock wanted to deny it, to lash out, to stomp her feet like a child. But then— A phantom pain seared across her back. That accursed brand. A reminder of the shackles that had once bound her. A symbol of her weakness. Her blush faded, her expression shifting into something colder, something hardened.
She took a deep breath, inhaling through her nose, and when she spoke again, the lovestruck girl was gone—in her place sat the young empress of Amazon Lily.
"It doesn't matter," Hancock said, her voice even, her tone firm. "I have no right to pursue someone like him."
Silence stretched across the room. Shakky observed her with quiet amusement, exhaling another puff of smoke. "Oh? And why's that?"
Hancock's fingers curled into her lap. "Because I am weak."
The words were simple. Honest. And yet, they cut deeper than any blade. Rosinante was a man who stood at the pinnacle of the world—a force that moved with the freedom of the sea itself. She, on the other hand, was a girl who had once been in chains, a girl who had been helpless against the cruelty of this world.
If she even dared to stand beside him—she would only be a liability. Her heart burned with shame. No. She refused to let that be her fate. If she ever wanted to walk alongside him, to be seen as his equal and not as someone to be saved, she needed to change.
She needed to become stronger—so strong that no chains, no man, no world power could ever shackle her again. So strong that she could stand at his side—not as a helpless girl, but as a warrior. A deep, unwavering resolve settled into her chest, hardening like tempered steel.
Shakky smiled, watching the fire light up in Hancock's eyes.
"Hmmm… Not a bad answer," she murmured, flicking away the ash from her cigarette. "Then, I suppose we should get you home. You have an empire to build, don't you?"
Hancock exhaled, her fists unclenching as she nodded. Yes. She had a long road ahead of her.
Shakky exhaled slowly, the ember at the tip of her cigarette glowing faintly in the dim light. Her sharp eyes studied the young girl before her—the future Empress of Amazon Lily—who sat with her fists clenched, a storm of emotions swirling in her deep blue eyes.
"He wasn't always this strong, you know."
Hancock flinched slightly at the sudden words, lifting her gaze from the table to meet Shakky's knowing eyes.
"What…?"
Shakky leaned back, tapping a trail of ash into the tray beside her. "Do you know that Rosinante bears the same mark as you?" she said, her voice carrying a weight that made Hancock's breath hitch. "The same symbol, burned into his skin… the same chains, the same suffering." Hancock's heart ached with the realization that Rosinante had endured the same pain and torment as her.
The room felt colder. For a moment, Hancock forgot to breathe. He bears the same mark?
It was almost impossible to believe. Rosinante—the man who had descended like a storm upon Sabaody, who had shattered their chains as if they were made of glass, who had smiled despite being surrounded by countless enemies—he had been a slave too?
Shakky's gaze drifted absently to the side, landing on an old rifle mounted on the wall—a relic of a time long past. A small, nostalgic smile tugged at her lips.
"Unlike you," she continued, her voice distant as if recalling a memory from long ago, "he never saw it as a mark of humiliation or slavery. He wears it as a reminder—a scar that drives him forward." Hancock's hands trembled slightly on her lap.
She had spent every second of her freedom hating that mark, hiding it, fearing the day it might be exposed. It was a brand that represented everything she despised about her past, a brand that made her feel dirty, weak, broken. But he… He bore it openly. He did not let it weigh him down—he used it. The difference between them had never felt so vast.
Her fingers curled into fists. "Can I… become as strong as him?"
Her voice was hesitant, unsteady. Even as she spoke, a seed of doubt took root in her heart.
She had already resolved to become stronger, to cast away her weakness—but deep down, she feared it was impossible. Even Shakky, who had once been the strongest Amazon Lily had ever seen, was no match for Rosinante.
If someone as great as Shakky had been left behind in the tides of power, then… What chance did she have? Shakky chuckled softly, shaking her head. "You remind me of him when he was young," she mused, taking another drag from her cigarette. "Rosinante wasn't always strong. There was a time when he was just like you—lost, uncertain… and suffering through things much worse than you can imagine."
Hancock's eyes widened. Worse than being a slave? Shakky exhaled, a somber glint flashing through her eyes. "Maybe… it's the pain and the punishment that shape a person," she murmured. "Maybe suffering is what molds the strongest among us."
Hancock remained silent, absorbing the weight of those words. Could she do it? Could she turn her pain into something more? Could she transform her shame into strength, her fear into power?
Shakky smirked, her gaze turning teasing. "Who knows? Maybe if you grow strong enough, you'll finally catch that kid's eye."
Hancock's face turned crimson in an instant. "W-WHAT?!" she sputtered, flailing slightly as her sisters snickered beside her.
Shakky only laughed, enjoying the reaction. "What, you think strong men don't admire strong women?" she teased.
Hancock pressed her hands against her burning cheeks, heart hammering wildly in her chest. But beneath the embarrassment, something else stirred. A new kind of determination. One day… she would stand before him not as a helpless girl, but as someone who can look into his eyes. No matter how long it took, she would make it happen.
She would carve her name into history—not as a victim, not as a slave. But as the Empress of Amazon Lily. And when the day came that she stood before Rosinante again…
She would no longer be the girl he saved. She would be his equal.
****
Dawn Island, East Blue
"Jiji...!"
A high-pitched, excited cry rang out across the golden shoreline as a tiny figure burst from the sand, kicking up grains with surprising agility.
Barely three years old, Portgas D. Ace sprinted across the beach, his little legs moving as fast as they could carry him. His wild black hair bounced with every step, his face bright with unfiltered joy. His round, sun-kissed cheeks were flushed with excitement, and his small hands flailed slightly as he ran, his energy boundless.
Out in the vast blue, a massive warship cut through the waves, its imposing hull a stark contrast to the tranquil beach. The towering figurehead of a snarling dog loomed over the water, its fierce expression a symbol feared by pirates across the seas. The ship's white sails bore the proud insignia of the Marines, billowing in the wind as the vessel steadily made its way toward the shore.
And standing atop the dog figurehead, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, was Monkey D. Garp. The legendary Marine hero was clad in his usual pink, short-sleeved shirt and blue knee-length trousers, a look that seemed far too casual for a man of his stature. His arms were crossed over his broad chest, his posture relaxed yet exuding the raw presence of a warrior who had stood at the pinnacle of the world's strongest.
But for all his legendary might, Garp's eyes softened the moment he caught sight of his grandson. His grin stretched wide, the deep lines of age and countless battles creasing his face as pure delight blossomed in his expression. This was no battlefield, no clash of titans—this was home.
Ace, still running at full speed, stumbled slightly as he reached the water's edge, his tiny feet sinking into the wet sand. He hopped back onto solid ground, bouncing on the balls of his feet as he waved frantically, his voice full of uncontainable excitement.
"Jiji! Jiji! You're back!"
Garp let out a booming laugh, the sound rolling across the beach like distant thunder.
"Bwahahaha! Of course, I'm back, brat!"
Ace beamed, practically vibrating where he stood. To him, Garp wasn't the Marine Hero, the man who struck fear into the hearts of the world's greatest pirates. He was just his Jiji—the man who always came home, no matter what.
As the ship drew closer, seagulls circled overhead, their cries mixing with the crashing waves. The sunlight shimmered against the ocean, casting a golden glow upon the scene. Ace's excitement could no longer be contained.
Garp strode through the familiar paths of Dawn Island as many of the islands inhabitants welcomed him as he walked towards Ace's home, his heavy footsteps crunching against the dirt road as he made his way toward the small house nestled near the cliffs a place not far from the house of Dadan and her gang.
Perched comfortably atop his broad shoulders, little Ace clung to his grandfather's head, tiny hands gripping onto his black and gray hair as he wrestled with a particularly stubborn piece of candy Garp had given him. His small teeth gnawed at the treat, his brows furrowed in fierce concentration.
In one hand, Garp carried a massive burlap sack slung over his shoulder, bulging with toys, sweets, and various trinkets—all of it brought back from his latest travels. The very same hands that once shattered mountains and struck down legends now carried gifts with the tenderness of a doting grandfather.
Walking beside him, Bogard observed the scene in silence. The famed Marine Hero—feared by pirates across the seas—looked nothing like the warrior who had once clashed with Gol D. Roger himself. Instead, he was just an old man who spoiled his grandson rotten.
Garp's deep voice rumbled like distant thunder, breaking the silence.
"Has there been any trouble while I was away?"
Bogard, ever the dutiful right-hand man, kept his gaze forward. "It's been peaceful here in East Blue. I report to Loguetown once a month, but the rest of my time is spent here on the island."
Garp nodded, satisfied with the answer. But then, Bogard hesitated—just for a fraction of a second. A pause so brief that most men wouldn't have noticed. But Garp wasn't most men.
His steps slowed slightly, and his sharp eyes shifted toward his longtime companion. He had known Bogard for years—since they were both much younger men—and he knew when something was weighing on his mind.
"Spit it out," Garp said bluntly, his voice carrying that edge of authority that made even the fiercest Marines stand at attention.
Bogard let out a slow breath, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword as he mulled over his words. It was not his place to speak on matters of family, but at the same time, he felt uneasy keeping it from Garp. His gaze flickered toward Ace.
The boy was still struggling with his candy, completely unaware of the weight of the conversation happening around him. And yet… Bogard knew. Ace knew. Rouge had told him. The knowledge of his heritage—of being the son of the Pirate King—was something no three-year-old should have to bear. And yet, Rouge had chosen to reveal it to him.
Bogard disagreed with her decision. It wasn't the child's burden to carry. He was too young to understand the full weight of it, and yet Bogard had seen the change in him. The way his expression darkened when he thought no one was watching. The way his small hands clenched into fists when others spoke of Roger as a villain.
It wasn't fair. Ace should have been allowed to grow up without that shadow looming over him.
Garp noticed the shift in Bogard's expression, and his own gaze darkened. He knew there was something he wasn't being told—something important.
His grip on the sack tightened slightly, the leather of his gloves creaking.
"Is this about Ace?" His tone was low, firm.
Bogard exhaled through his nose before finally answering.
"You should speak with Rouge-san."
For a moment, there was only the sound of the wind rustling through the trees, the distant crash of waves against the cliffs. Garp looked up at the little boy sitting on his shoulders, completely oblivious to the weight of his own existence. The child he had sworn to protect. His heart ached. But for now, he forced a grin and reached up, ruffling Ace's hair roughly.
"Bwahahaha! Looks like I'm gonna need to have a talk with your mama, kid."
Ace just grunted, too busy trying to pry the candy off his teeth to care.
****
Outside the small house, the air was filled with laughter and the rustling of fabric as Ace excitedly rummaged through the massive burlap sack Garp had brought back for him.
Around him, a group of bandits sat cross-legged in a circle, their eyes gleaming with barely contained excitement as they egged him on.
"C'mon, kid! Show us what else is in there!" one of them urged, leaning in closer.
Ace's little hands dug deep into the sack, his face lighting up each time he pulled out something new—a wooden toy ship, a set of miniature Marine and pirate figurines (which he scowled at and tossed aside), and an oversized hat that swallowed his head whole when he tried it on.
As the boy was busy inspecting his loot, one particularly sneaky bandit saw his chance. His fingers inched toward Ace's pile of candy, moving slowly—carefully—until he finally snagged a piece and popped it into his mouth.
"Oi, you bastard!"
A thunderous crack rang out. The thief barely had time to chew before a heavy club slammed into the back of his skull, sending him sprawling face-first into the dirt. He groaned, his hands twitching slightly as the stolen candy rolled out of his mouth.
Towering over him, a young woman stood with her weapon still raised, her eyes gleaming with menace as she chomped on a sweet of her own—the only person Ace had shared his candy with.
"You're stealing from a little kid now?" she scoffed, cracking her knuckles menacingly. "Tch… Let me break your legs, you filthy thief!"
The rest of the bandits could only watch in silence, their faces a mix of amusement and grief. None of them had gotten so much as a crumb from Ace's treasure trove, yet here was their leader, munching away like royalty.
"Damn brat plays favorites," one of them muttered under his breath.
Another bandit nudged him. "Shut up before she hears you. You wanna end up like that idiot?"
They all turned to look at the groaning man on the ground, who weakly raised a trembling hand, as if pleading for mercy. Inside the house, however, the atmosphere was far from lighthearted.
The air was thick with tension. Garp sat at the wooden table, his broad shoulders hunched forward, his large hands clasped together tightly. His brows furrowed deeply, and his jaw was set in a hard line.
Across from him, Rouge stood with quiet resolve, though a faint shadow of apology flickered in her eyes. Bogard remained silent, standing to the side, letting them speak. Finally, Garp broke the silence.
"So you told him."
His voice was low, heavy, carrying none of the usual carefree laughter that so often accompanied his words. Rouge's lips parted slightly, but before she could respond, Garp's palm slammed onto the table, making the entire house tremble.
"He is barely a child, Rouge-san!" His voice rose, edged with frustration. "Why would you burden Ace with such a thing?! Do you even understand what this means?!"
Rouge flinched but did not waver.
"I do."
Garp shook his head, his fists tightening. "Then you should know what happens if the wrong people get wind of this. Did you ever consider the fact that little Ace might not realize the true weight of this matter and disclose it to someone...?" His voice was rough with emotion. "Do you think the world will ever let the son of Gol D. Roger live in peace?"
His words carried weight—a weight that Rouge had already considered, over and over again. Still, she met his gaze with quiet determination.
"Ace has the right to know who he is."
Her voice was soft yet firm, unyielding like the tides.
"And what good will that do?" Garp challenged. "Do you think a child can handle the weight of a name that nearly drowned the world in blood?"
Rouge's hands trembled for a moment before she clenched them into fists.
"I won't lie to him," she whispered. "I won't hide his truth. Because one day, someone else will tell him—and if it's not me, it will be someone who doesn't care about him the way I do."
Garp exhaled sharply, his hands running over his face. He felt like he was caught between two impossible choices. He wanted Ace to grow up happy, free, unburdened. But now—now, that was impossible. A heavy silence stretched between them.
Finally, Garp sighed. His large, battle-worn hands, the same hands that had held Ace when he was just a tiny infant, rubbed at his temples as if trying to ease a headache that would never go away. Then, without another word, he pushed himself up from the table, his chair scraping against the floor.
Rouge watched him carefully, wondering what he would say next. For a long moment, he simply stood there, staring at the ground. Then, finally, he spoke.
"If Ace is to bear that name, then he will need to be strong."
His voice was quiet but resolute.
"Stronger than anyone else."
And with that, Monkey D. Garp—Hero of the Marines—turned and walked out the door to see his grandson.