The waves lapped gently against the hull of the Cooking George, the salty breeze carrying with it the scent of the open sea. The sun had begun its slow descent, casting a golden glow over the water, as if the ocean itself was bidding me farewell.
Zeff stood at the edge of the deck, arms crossed, a frown creasing his weathered face. He had never been the sentimental type, but there was a weight to his gaze—an unspoken understanding that this was the end of a chapter neither of us had expected to write.
"Are you sure you don't want us to take you all the way to Dawn Island?" he asked, his voice gruff, though there was a rare sincerity beneath it. "It isn't much further from here."
I smirked.
"Tempting offer, old man, but this is where I disembark." He exhaled through his nose, clearly dissatisfied with my decision.
A month had passed since I first stepped onto this ship, and in that time, I had left them with more than just stories. I had taught them the fundamentals of Haki, drilled them in its application until their bodies ached, their spirits nearly broken. And for Zeff, I had left behind something more—a written record of Rokushiki techniques.
I wasn't sure if fate would still weave the threads of destiny in the same way—if Zeff would still end up raising a fiery blonde-haired apprentice who dreamed of the All Blue—but something in my gut told me that the world was shifting to accommodate the changes I had made.
Better to leave the knowledge behind, just in case.
Zeff grunted, rubbing the back of his head. "Tch. You really don't do things halfway, do you?"
"Never."
I took one last glance at the crew. They had come a long way from the ragtag bunch I had first encountered, barely scraping by in the Grand Line. There was a newfound steel in their eyes—a tempered resolve.
Turning back to Zeff, I gave him a knowing look. "Make sure you're ready before you set foot in the Grand Line again. It's not a place for half-measures."
He scoffed but didn't argue. He knew it better than anyone.
"And about the Rokushiki techniques," I continued, voice lowering in warning, "don't go around flashing that knowledge to just anyone. If word gets out that you've learned these skills, the Marines—and worse, government agents—will be on you like vultures."
Zeff nodded, a glint of understanding in his sharp gaze. "Aye. We'll keep it to ourselves."
Satisfied, I turned toward the railing, stepping onto it with practiced ease. The island loomed in the distance—a quiet, sparsely populated place, far from the eyes of the world. It wasn't my original destination. But I hadn't made this decision on a whim.
My Observation Haki had picked up on something—a presence. A familiar aura I hadn't sensed in quite some time. And I wasn't about to ignore it. Zeff took a step forward, voice rising over the sound of the waves.
"Oi."
I glanced back. His frown had softened, just slightly.
"Thank you for everything." He exhaled, shaking his head. "If you ever need anything from the Cook Pirates in the future… just say the word."
I let out a low chuckle. "I'll keep that in mind."
Then, without another word—I launched myself from the ship, soaring toward the island, leaving the Cooking George and its crew behind.
****
The air inside the small food joint was thick with the aroma of sizzling meat and freshly baked bread. The wooden interior, worn from years of use, gave the place a homely feel, a stark contrast to the storm raging within the mind of the man seated at the dimly lit corner table.
He was draped in a heavy black cloak, its hood pulled low over his face, concealing the unmistakable features of the most wanted man in the world—Monkey D. Dragon. His usual air of unshakable resolve remained intact, but beneath the folds of his robe, a tiny bundle shifted, letting out a soft coo.
Nestled against his chest, swaddled in warm cloth, was an infant with a small tuft of messy black hair. The child stirred slightly, his tiny fists curling before he settled once more.
Dragon's fingers unconsciously tightened around the child, his thumb gently brushing against the boy's cheek. He had fought wars, toppled regimes, and stood against the might of the World Government without a second thought—but this? This was harder than anything he had ever done.
He let out a slow exhale, the weight of his decision pressing heavier on his chest than ever before. The child could not stay with him. The world he moved in was a battlefield, a place where ideals clashed, where death lurked around every corner. No child should have to live in such a place—especially not his.
A faint creak of the wooden floor pulled him from his thoughts. An elderly woman, her silver hair tied back in a neat bun, approached his table with a curious yet kind expression. She was the owner of this little establishment, her years of experience evident in the way she moved with practiced ease.
"You there, what would you like to have?" she asked, her voice carrying a no-nonsense tone, though not unkind.
Dragon hesitated. Food. Right. It was such a simple question, yet for a man like him—someone who had spent years surviving on rations in the harshest of environments—it felt strangely foreign. The old woman's gaze drifted downward, noticing the small figure hidden within his cloak. The moment she saw the child, her stern expression softened.
"He's going to wake up soon," she murmured knowingly, placing her hands on her hips. "You'll need to feed him."
Dragon's grip on Luffy instinctively tightened, but he said nothing. The woman gave him a look that held no judgment, only understanding. "I'll get you something to eat—and some milk for the little one."
Before Dragon could even respond, she had already turned toward the kitchen, calling out orders to her staff. For a moment, he simply sat there, staring at her retreating figure.
People often feared him. They whispered his name in hushed voices, spoke of his actions as if he were a force of nature rather than a man. But here, in this tiny, unremarkable food joint, he was just a father holding his son.
His lips, usually set in a grim line, curved into the faintest hint of a smile. Luffy shifted again, his little mouth parting slightly in sleep. Dragon's expression hardened once more. Foosha Village. His father. That's where his son would grow up. Away from war. Away from the revolution. Somewhere he could be free.
The food joint was quiet, the warm glow of lanterns flickering against aged wooden walls. A handful of weary travelers nursed their drinks in the far corners, their hushed voices blending with the gentle sizzle of food from the kitchen. The scent of grilled fish and steaming rice filled the air, but my attention was elsewhere.
I had found him. Seated in the farthest corner, shrouded in a dark cloak, was Monkey D. Dragon. Even with his hood drawn low over his face, there was no mistaking him. His presence was suffocating—a storm held back by sheer will. His shoulders were broad, his posture deceptively relaxed, but I could see it.
He was on edge. And for good reason. Cradled within the folds of his cloak, wrapped in soft fabric, was a tiny infant. His son. I let a smirk creep onto my lips as I stepped through the doorway, my boots clicking softly against the wooden floor.
"Well… well, now. That's not an expression I ever expected to see on your face."
Dragon didn't flinch, but I saw the shift—the sharp, minuscule tension that ran through his body like a coiled spring. His eyes snapped toward me, gleaming beneath his hood, unreadable as ever. But I knew. He was already preparing for a fight. His free hand remained hidden beneath his cloak, but I'd seen that posture before. A man ready to kill.
I held up my hands in mock surrender as I strode toward his table. "Relax, Dragon-san. If I wanted to fight, I wouldn't be standing here talking, now would I?"
I took the seat opposite him without waiting for permission, stretching my legs out lazily. He remained as still as a statue, watching me like a predator sizing up a threat.
"I was on my way to your hometown when I sensed your aura. Thought I'd drop by and say hello." I grinned. Dragon's silence was deafening. His stare bore into me, calculating, peeling apart my words as if dissecting every syllable for hidden meaning.
And why wouldn't he? As far as the world knew, I was dead. Donquixote Rosinante—obliterated by the Marine Hero at Sabaody. Yet here I was, alive, sitting across from the most wanted man in the world, acting as if this was a casual reunion between old friends.
Yeah, if I were him, I wouldn't believe me either.
Even now, I could feel it—the questions, the wariness, the unspoken threat hanging between us. Was I here for revenge? To finish what Garp started? Or worse… was I after his son?
I exhaled dramatically and shook my head. "Jeez, after all these years, do you really think I'm that kind of person?"
Dragon still didn't answer. His silence was as sharp as a blade, cutting through the air with the weight of everything he wasn't saying. Then, just as the tension thickened to its breaking point, the kitchen door swung open with a creak.
An elderly woman emerged, balancing a tray of food in one hand and a warm milk bottle in the other. She walked past me without a second glance, placing the meal in front of Dragon as if she had known him for years.
"You'll need to feed him soon," she murmured, her sharp gaze flicking toward the tiny bundle in Dragon's arms. "He'll wake up hungry."
The air in the food joint was warm, thick with the scent of seared fish and simmering broth. The lanterns above cast flickering shadows across the wooden floors, but the tension between Dragon and me was heavier than the night itself.
The most wanted man in the world sat before me, his cloak concealing a sleeping infant—a child far too small, far too fragile to be caught in the path of the storm that surrounded his father. And yet, fate had decreed that this very child would one day shake the foundations of the world.
I could feel Dragon's piercing gaze still locked onto me, the wariness never leaving his sharp eyes. He was still debating whether he would need to fight me. That was when the elderly woman turned toward me.
I saw the flicker of recognition in her eyes—perhaps she had seen my face on a bounty poster before, perhaps she knew the name Donquixote Rosinante, the man who had supposedly died under the Marine Hero's fist. But if she did, she didn't care.
People like her—people who had already lived their lives, who had come to terms with death—weren't easily shaken. She merely folded her arms and addressed me with a stern tone, one that reminded me of a grandmother scolding a particularly mischievous grandson.
"What will you have, kid?"
For the first time since I had entered the room, Dragon turned sharply toward her, his brows furrowing. Even he was surprised. After all, the man she was speaking to had a bounty nearing five billion berries—one that rivaled even the Pirate King's. Yet she addressed me as though I were some troublemaker from the neighborhood, not one of the most dangerous men alive.
I let out a chuckle, tilting my head in amusement. "What do you recommend, Grandma?"
The old woman snorted, waving a dismissive hand. "Fish bone broth and baked fish. Best in the region." Then, scowling, she added, "And I ain't a grandma! I'm still young!"
I couldn't help but grin as she turned on her heel, muttering about "young men these days having no damn sense."
As the kitchen door swung shut behind her, the tension in the room barely eased. Dragon wasn't as tense, but not because he trusted me. No, the presence of a civilian meant he wouldn't make a move—not here, not now. That was fine by me. I leaned forward, my gaze flickering downward toward the bundle in his arms.
Nestled within the folds of his cloak was a tiny infant. A tuft of inky black hair peeked out, his round, chubby face barely visible beneath the fabric. His small hands were curled into fists, his chest rising and falling in the deep slumber of a child untouched by the weight of the world.
A baby barely old enough to know hunger, barely old enough to recognize his own father.
And yet, this child would one day change the course of history. I knew it.
Maybe Dragon felt it too. The world just didn't know it yet.
I let out a slow breath, a smirk tugging at the corner of my lips. "That your son, Dragon-san?"
Dragon didn't answer. But he didn't need to. Because before me was the true protagonist of this world—one deemed by fate itself.
Dragon exhaled, his shoulders slumping slightly. "Why are you here, really?"
He finally spoke, his voice edged with reluctant acceptance. He knew there was no avoiding this conversation. Even someone as powerful as him wasn't confident about facing me head-on—not with his son in his arms. And the fact that he could sense no hostility from me meant he had no reason to act first.
I leaned back, crossing my arms with a smirk. "Would you believe me if I told you I came all the way to East Blue just to meet your son?"
Dragon's eyes narrowed. He couldn't tell if I was being serious or just toying with him.
"Thought my old man killed you in Sabaody..." he muttered, referring to Garp.
I chuckled at that, but before I could respond, the small bundle in his arms stirred. Then, as if sensing the tension in the air—or perhaps just realizing that his stomach was empty—the infant began to wail. A piercing, ear-splitting cry.
Dragon, the world's most dangerous revolutionary, the man feared by the World Government, the storm that would one day shake the heavens— panicked.
I watched, dumbfounded, as he awkwardly fumbled with the milk bottle, trying to feed his son. Tried being the key word. Luffy, however, had other ideas. He turned his head away, his face scrunched up in frustration, his tiny hands flailing in the air.
Dragon sighed, clearly at his wit's end. I stared. He stared back. Luffy kept crying. I sighed.
"Alright, let me."
Dragon hesitated. His arms instinctively tightened around the child, his sharp eyes scanning me with wary distrust. This was Monkey D. Dragon. The most wanted man on the planet. The embodiment of caution and calculated risk.
And yet, at this moment, he was just a father—one who had no idea how to deal with a crying baby. There was a long pause. A moment of hesitation. Then, with what I could only describe as pure, unfiltered reluctance, Dragon slowly handed over his son.
It was like watching someone disarm a bomb. I took Luffy into my arms effortlessly, shifting him against my chest. He was so small, so light—just a bundle of warmth and endless potential.
I had carried dynamite before. I had carried priceless treasures. I had carried the weight of my own past. But this... this was different. With practiced ease, I adjusted the bottle in my hand, tilting it just right, and gently guided it to the baby's lips. Luffy immediately latched on, greedily drinking the milk as his cries turned into quiet, satisfied gulps.
Silence. Dragon blinked. I smirked. "See? This is how you do it." He looked at me like I had just performed some kind of forbidden magic.
"You're... good at this," Dragon admitted, though his voice was laced with disbelief. I snorted. "Of course I am. Do you even know where I grew up?" Dragon frowned, but realization dawned quickly. The Donquixote Family.
One of the four Yonko's, an underground empire, yes. But for years, it had also been a goddamn nursery. Between Sugar, Anya, and all those children, I had spent more time wrangling infants than most parents did in a lifetime.
"Honestly," I muttered, rocking Luffy gently as he drank, "I don't know how you made it this far without someone calling child services on you." Dragon scowled, trying to make sense of what I mean by child services. After all, this world didn't have such a term, but he said nothing. I just laughed, watching as the tiny future Pirate King slowly drifted off to sleep in my arms.
Dragon silently watched as his son finished the last of his milk, his tiny hands twitching slightly before going still. Luffy had finally fallen asleep, his breathing slow and peaceful. As the tension in his shoulders eased, Dragon took a bite of his food, his expression unreadable.
"Does my old man know you're still alive?" he asked, voice steady but laced with curiosity. "Just the guilt alone of nearly killing his greatest protégé must be gnawing at him."
I chuckled, leaning back in my chair. "I'm sure he does. He knows I won't die so easily."
Dragon raised a brow as I absently rubbed my ribs, remembering the sheer force behind Garp's punches. "And besides..." I murmured, almost to myself. "I still owe him a good beating the next time we fight."
Dragon observed me carefully, as if trying to peel away the layers of my thoughts. "You really don't resent him for what happened?"
It was an honest question. A life-and-death battle between two men often severed any bonds they once shared. Mentor and student, father and son, friend and rival—when two warriors clashed with the intent to kill, all warmth was stripped away. That was how the world worked.
And yet...
I smiled, shaking my head. "Resent him? Why would I, Dragon-san?" He frowned slightly, waiting for me to continue.
"He's a Marine, and I'm a pirate. Sooner or later, we were bound to clash. That's just how this world works." My voice was calm, unwavering. "But that doesn't mean I forget where I came from. If not for that old man beating his lessons into me, I'd have been swallowed by this cruel sea long ago."
Dragon said nothing for a long moment, simply studying me. Then, as if sensing that despite my ease, he was still wary, I carefully handed Luffy back to him. He accepted his son almost instinctively, bundling him beneath his cloak once more.
Dragon glanced down at his sleeping child before turning back to me. "So even after everything, you still want to challenge my old man?" His voice held a quiet amusement. "You do realize even Roger couldn't best him at his peak, right? What makes you think you can?"
I met his gaze head-on, my grin widening. "Maybe Roger couldn't. But that doesn't mean I can't, Dragon-san." There was no arrogance in my tone—just pure, unshakable belief.
"No one truly knows the limits of strength in this world. And I know for a fact that Roger never reached his."** Dragon's eyes sharpened, reassessing me, as if seeing me in a new light.
"So I just have to surpass them." My grip tightened slightly over my swords. "Both Roger and Garp. And then, I'll push beyond that limit."
The air between us grew heavy, charged with something indescribable. Dragon had spent his life chasing a dream larger than himself—a vision that sought to reshape the world. And now, sitting before him was a man with a different kind of ambition.
Not to change the world. But to conquer it. And for the first time that evening, I saw something flicker in Dragon's eyes. Not wariness. Not skepticism.
Recognition.