"Brother Ross… why does he look so weird…?"
Little Mansherry's soft voice carried curiosity and the slightest hint of concern as she pointed her tiny hand at the third division commander, who stood stoically with a few members of the Whitebeard Pirates. She was perched comfortably on my shoulder, her fluffy tail fluttering slightly in the warm breeze, wide eyes drinking in the unfamiliar sights around her.
Sphinx Island lay quiet beneath the soft sun, a small, rugged stretch of land dotted with the crumbling ruins of an ancient seaside town. But its true heart pulsed deep within—hidden in a valley behind a cascading waterfall, invisible to untrained eyes.
My Observation Haki traced the subtle bends of stone and mist, charting the secret path through the cliffs to the concealed village nestled in the cradle of the mountains. Few outsiders knew of it. Fewer still had ever walked its sacred paths.
"Look, look! Brother Ross—what's that? Is that the Sphinx you told me about?"
Mansherry pointed again, this time to a distant silhouette that loomed near the edge of the ruins. Her voice trembled with delight, her wonder contagious as we followed Marco toward the waiting ranks of the Whitebeard crew.
But while Mansherry marveled at the sights with childlike glee, the Whitebeard Pirates were far less composed. Their gazes were locked not on the scenery but on us—more precisely, on the eclectic, intimidating group from the Donquixote family that accompanied me.
At my side walked Dora, the towering giantess whose steps made the very earth tremble beneath us; Buffalo moved silently beside us, carrying Leo on his palm, while his other hand dipped into the side satchel, which was fillled to the brim with snacks, and Monet walked with the elegance of snow, her face barely twitching as she assessed the terrain with cold, calculating eyes. They were not just an entourage—they were a statement.
Especially striking among us was Dora, the towering giantess whose presence alone could silence a battlefield. Strapped to her back was a colossal, double-headed weapon that seemed forged from myth itself—one end a brutal battle axe, the other a thunderous warhammer.
She had christened it Stormbreaker, a name whispered in fear by those who had seen it cleave through steel and stone alike. The entire head of the weapon was forged from pure seastone essence, an impossibly rare material that nullified Devil Fruit powers on contact.
Even the World Government would balk at the mere suggestion of forging such an enormous weapon entirely from seastone—a resource so scarce and coveted that most would kill for a mere fragment.
But the Donquixote family didn't hesitate. They had the wealth. They had the power. And they had Dora—one of their most cherished members.
Adding to her fearsome image, coiled around her neck like some living scarf, was a massive serpent—its scales shimmered like polished jade, its eyes gleaming with ancient intelligence. Known only as the Sky Lord in Skypeia, the creature lay dormant for now, content to drape itself around Dora's massive shoulders. But should it ever revert to its true, monstrous form, its sheer size and power could bring chaos to this tiny island.
The earth itself seemed to rumble beneath Dora's steps as she moved, the weight of her power pressing down on the land like a mountain come to life. She was both spectacle and warning—living proof that the Donquixote family had not just survived the tides of the New World… they had mastered them.
"Is… is that a giant from Elbaf?" a Whitebeard pirate whispered, unable to take his eyes off her. "She might be taller than Little Oars… and what the hell is that around her neck? Is that… a Seaking?"
Jozu didn't answer at first. His eyes were narrowed, not just in awe, but recognition. Not of Dora. Not even the serpent. But of something much smaller. His gaze locked onto Mansherry.
To most, she appeared just a small dwarfish creature—a child even. But Jozu had read the forbidden records. Had seen the drawings buried deep in the void of history. He knew what she was.
"A Tontatta…" he muttered under his breath, reverent and disbelieving. A dwarf tribe believed extinct since long before the Void Century, their bloodline ancient beyond measure.
Around him, the men whispered, shocked by the figures walking amongst them, unsure of how to react to such powerful, mythical company.
"Shut up." Jozu's voice cut through the whispers like a blade. He turned to the nearest crewmate who dared speak. His tone was low and filled with quiet fury.
"They are our guests. You disrespect them—I'll personally keelhaul you across the Moby Dick's hull until your bones show."
Jozu had felt the weight of this visit the moment we stepped foot on the island. Honor meant something to the Whitebeard Pirates, and the Donquixote family had come here not as enemies, but as allies—in order to help the Whitebeard Pirates when they needed it most. For Jozu, that meant everything.
And even more than that, he knew what most of the lower-level Whitebeard crew did not. The young man leading the party was someone the world government placed equal to Whitebeard. To them, Rosinante was a cataclysm in human form, a storm cloaked in a pirate coat.
My bounty had surpassed 5 billion berries, a number that only the likes of Roger, Whitebeard, and myself have currently reached. Yet what made me a true threat wasn't just the number—it was the "Only Dead" tag branded across my wanted poster.
I didn't come here to make threats. I came to honor a debt. But if anyone insulted the family I bled for, the people who trusted me with their lives… They would not live long enough to regret it.
****
Soon enough, we found ourselves within the hidden village, nestled deep in the heart of the valley. Getting there hadn't been simple—Dora, with her gargantuan frame, couldn't pass through the narrow, concealed pathway behind the waterfall. Instead, she had to scale the mountain ridge itself, each of her thunderous steps echoing down the cliffs like distant cannon fire.
As we crossed into the village proper, my gaze was involuntarily drawn forward—toward the man seated on a massive, hand-carved wooden stool at the center of the gathering. Despite the modest setting—wooden homes, drying fish nets, and lanterns swaying gently in the breeze—Whitebeard was unmistakable. He didn't need opulence. His very presence warped the world around him. Even seated, he seemed to tower above the mountains.
Though he'd reined in most of his Haki, the atmosphere was thick, as if the very air had bowed in submission. The ground didn't feel still beneath him—it waited.
It had been years since I'd last stood before Edward Newgate. Time had passed, and yet somehow, he seemed stronger than I remembered. Wounded, yes—there were signs—but no less a titan. If anything, the scars had deepened his power. And the fact that he had survived a direct confrontation with Rocks... said everything.
Then his deep, booming voice rang out, rolling through the village like thunder.
"Gurararara... you little brat!" he laughed, a grin stretching under his iconic mustache. "Hasn't anyone taught you it's rude to probe an old man like that? Put away that nasty Observation Haki of yours."
I smirked. My scan had been subtle, almost passive. But for someone of Whitebeard's level, it might as well have been a flare in the sky.
Even that light brush had revealed the truth: injuries he downplayed—damage that lingered. Rocks D. Xebec hadn't let him escape easily without dragging something out of Whitebeard with him. That monster had carved his legacy into the flesh of gods.
"Come here, brat." Whitebeard's voice suddenly softened, though his grin remained. "Let me see how much you've grown. Last time I saw you up close… you were still that scrappy little thing on Garp's ship."
Then, without warning, he moved. With shocking speed for a man of his size, he rose from his stool, grabbed Murakumogiri—his legendary naginata—and in one smooth, fluid motion, swung it down with terrifying force.
The very earth cracked. This was the language of pirates. There were no handshakes. No bows. Only clashes—of strength, of will, of pride.
"Oyaji!!" Marco called out, alarmed, instinctively preparing to intercept. But even Marco, the Phoenix, knew—there was no stopping Whitebeard's momentum. I didn't move from my spot. I simply exhaled. I had expected this.
SCHWING.
My blade, Shusui, sang as it left its scabbard in a blur of black steel. We met mid-swing. Steel met steel. Murakumogiri crashed against Shusui with a deafening BOOM that shook the valley walls. The sky above seemed to stagger. Birds burst from the trees, startled by the sudden explosion of force. Dust and pebbles lifted into the air as the shockwave rippled outward, splintering the earth beneath our feet, cracking stone tiles, and knocking over anything not rooted to the ground.
We didn't use Haki.
This was pure, raw, unfiltered strength—a clash of titans, one from the old world and one forged in the fire of the new. Whitebeard's grin widened as our blades locked, the naginata pressing against my katana, neither yielding an inch. Muscles strained. The ground groaned. For a moment, there was only the sound of grinding steel and the wind howling between us.
Then, slowly, the clash broke. We both stepped back. Whitebeard laughed again, louder this time, heartily, without restraint.
"Gurararara… you've grown, Rosinante. Looks like you're no longer that brat clinging to the justice of others. You carry your own will. Garp surely did create a monster."
I sheathed Shusui in a single smooth motion, the blade humming as it returned to rest.
"And you haven't lost your touch, Newgate-san," I replied, brushing the dust from my shoulder. All around us, the Whitebeard pirates were silent. Some looked stunned seeing how I was casually mentioning Whitebeard's name. Others wore quiet, reverent smiles. They had just witnessed something very few ever saw: a true pirate's greeting.
Whitebeard stepped back, planting his colossal Murakumogiri into the earth with a thud that echoed across the valley. The moment his hand gripped the naginata's shaft, all signs of frailty vanished. In that instant, he was no longer an aged legend nursing wounds—he was Edward Newgate, the Tyrant of the Seas. The world's strongest man.
His grin widened beneath that great white mustache, and his laughter rolled like distant thunder.
"Gurararara… No wonder Roger was so desperate to bring you under his wing back then. And Garp, that stubborn bastard, fought him for it. Now I see why."
He exhaled heavily, then slumped back onto the massive wooden stool that served as his throne, the creak of old wood protesting beneath his weight. "You truly are a monster capable of surpassing all of us."
He gestured to the long bench across from him, inviting me to sit like an old friend welcoming a fellow warrior. Around us, the Whitebeard Pirates stirred with murmurs of shock.
Roger? The Pirate King wanted to recruit Rosinante? Even Garp, the Marine Hero, had tried to fight Roger? That wasn't just talent. That was the kind of power that shaped eras. Marco, caught off guard by the reckless welcome, couldn't hide his concern. He stepped forward, his expression tight.
"Oyaji, they're our guests. Why do you keep doing reckless things like this?"
He cast a brief glance my way—guarded, respectful, but cautious. He wasn't just worried about the outcome of a clash; he was worried about what this meant for their alliance. He knew well the whispers about Donquixote Doflamingo, the Heavenly Demon. An unhinged emperor whose mood was as chaotic as the seas. If Rosinante had even a fraction of that volatility, Whitebeard's "greeting" might have cost them everything.
Few truly knew the kind of man Rosinante had become. But Whitebeard only laughed harder, his booming voice rattling through the bones of every pirate in the village.
"Marco, you seriously underestimate the kid. Even if I swung at him with my full might, he'd still take it without flinching."
He turned to me, eyes gleaming like a child seeing the sea for the first time.
"Wouldn't you, brat?"
There was no malice in his words—only delight. A warrior's delight. He had found someone worthy, someone who could stand toe-to-toe with the old legends. I didn't answer.
Instead, I turned to Dora, who had been surveying the village with the calm detachment of someone used to being stared at. Her massive frame made even Whitebeard's commanders look small, but she stood silently, waiting.
"It's considered rude," I said aloud, loud enough for all to hear, "to visit someone's home empty-handed—especially a home as honored as yours."
As if on cue, Dora stepped forward, her every footfall like a minor quake. With one massive hand, she gently lowered the crate she had been carrying under her arm. The crate was enormous—large enough to be mistaken for a ship's cargo hold—and yet she moved it with effortless grace. She set it down beside the Whitebeard Pirates with a soft thud, then pried open the lid.
A soft gasp rose from the gathered pirates.
Inside were rows of massive casks and bottles, each carefully sealed, aged, and bearing markings from every corner of the world: the famed Icewine of West Blue, the Molten Brew of Arabasta, the legendary Black Kraken Rum from Amazon Lily, and even a rare Wano fire spirit—fermented in silence for over half a century. Each one was a handpicked gem of the seas, strong enough that even a single sip could knock an ordinary man out cold.
I stepped forward and offered a slight bow.
"I've heard tales of your fondness for strong drink, Newgate-san. I hope these selections are to your liking."
Marco's eyes widened. The gesture was generous—a true token of respect among pirates. But he also looked visibly distressed. Alcohol was strictly prohibited for Whitebeard since his recent collapse, and this collection… this was not just alcohol. This was artillery in a bottle.
He opened his mouth to protest. Too late. Before Marco could get a word out, Whitebeard was no longer in his seat.
One moment he was lounging casually—the next, he was by the crate like a phantom. No quake. No Haki burst. Just sheer speed that defied his size and age. The ground cracked slightly where he landed, and in one swift motion, he snatched up an entire barrel the size of a small boulder.
"To hell with the medicine."
With a grin that could split the sky, he punched a hole straight through the top of the cask with a single finger, lifted it to his lips, and began chugging.
The sound of liquid sloshing, the creak of the wood, and Whitebeard's deep, satisfied "GUUURAAARARARARAA!" rang through the village as golden liquor splashed down his front like a tidal wave. The sheer joy in his expression made it look like he'd been starving for this exact moment since returning to Sphinx Island.
Some of his sons winced. Others laughed. A few even began pulling out mugs of their own. The old man was unstoppable.
"OYAJI!" Marco shouted in protest.
But Whitebeard just wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and roared,
"Aaah… it burns! Yes! This is how a real drink should feel!" Whitebeard roared, slamming the half-empty cask against his chest with a thunderous thud, his massive frame shaking with laughter. "THIS—this is what a real gift looks like!"
He turned back toward me, his hand still gripping the enormous cask like it was a mere mug, golden liquor dripping down his mouth and chest. His eyes, gleaming with appreciation and fire, locked onto mine—not as a commander to a subordinate, but as one king to another. For a man like Whitebeard, who had received every treasure the sea could offer, this was not just a drink.
It was a gesture of respect. And he had received it in full.
"You know how to pay respect like a real pirate, Rosinante! HAH! If you weren't already head of your own damn family, I'd have made you my son right now!"
The crew burst into cheers and laughter, the tension shattered. The world had once known Whitebeard as a monster—but here, in this quiet valley, surrounded by those he called family, the king of the seas laughed like a child, drank like a storm, and welcomed his guests like a true emperor.
****
Within a modest wooden home nestled in the heart of the hidden valley, the air had grown still. The sun outside was beginning to dip behind the mountain peaks, casting long golden shadows through the open windows. Most of the Whitebeard Pirates had dispersed, allowing us the privacy I had requested.
The truth of Mansherry's identity—the wielder of the Heal-Heal Fruit—would no doubt become common knowledge among the crew soon enough. After all, everyone except her and myself had wandered off, leaving only Whitebeard, Marco, and Jozu within the house. The others would figure it out in time.
Still, I had no intention of revealing the exact nature of her powers. That knowledge was not to be shared lightly.
"I have one request before we begin the treatment," I said calmly, my gaze turning toward Marco, rather than the man sitting like a mountain upon the bed. As Whitebeard's doctor, this decision fell to him.
"Though I'm sure the crew has already deduced who the healer is, I'd like to keep the details of Mansherry's ability—how it works—confined to this room. Is that agreeable?"
Marco glanced at Whitebeard, who gave the smallest of nods. It was a simple enough request. But Marco added a condition of his own.
"While she's treating Oyaji… I'd like one of us present in the room." His voice was calm but firm.
Whitebeard raised a bushy brow, amused. He understood why Marco had said it. I let out a soft chuckle, unable to resist.
"Still don't trust us, Marco-san?" I teased lightly. "Afraid I might kill your old man under the guise of healing?"
I wasn't offended. If anything, I respected the caution. We were pirates—from rival factions no less. One couldn't afford to be naive, not even with temporary allies. Turning my attention to the small figure beside me, I spoke gently.
"Mansherry… it's your turn."
I lifted the tiny princess of the Tontatta Tribe and placed her atop a polished table beside the large bed, where Whitebeard now sat. Despite the giant before her—six and a half meters tall, his body marked with the scars of a thousand battles—Mansherry didn't flinch. She didn't even blink.
Her tiny form was dwarfed by the immense presence of the strongest man in the world, yet she stood proud. Unshaken. Because she knew who stood behind her. And in her heart, she knew: if even the sea itself rose against her, Brother Ross would not let a single drop touch her.
She stepped forward with dainty but purposeful steps, raising both her hands. Whitebeard watched her with a mix of curiosity and amusement, extending one massive finger toward her with surprising gentleness.
Mansherry placed her palms on his fingertip. A soft golden glow surrounded her, dancing like fireflies in twilight. The diagnostic power of the Heal-Heal Fruit activated, sending subtle pulses through Whitebeard's body. To his credit, he made no attempt to resist the foreign energy probing him.
Her eyes fluttered shut, her expression slowly shifting from concentration… to concern. Her tiny brows furrowed as she scanned deeper, tracing injuries layered over injuries—a patchwork of pain and old wounds. And beneath all of it… something darker.
She remained quiet for a full ten minutes, and then finally, she stepped back, exhaling slowly as the glow faded.
"Brother Ross…" Her voice was calm but carried a weight. "It's treatable. But it will take a tremendous amount of vitality to restore him fully. His injuries go deep. The Quake-Quake Fruit has already started to… creep into his bones. And there's something else… a sinister Haki is rooted in him. I can't purge that. He'll need to face that darkness himself once I begin."
I nodded slowly. Her diagnosis was sharp—just as I expected. The burden of the Gura Gura no Mi was unlike any other, and Whitebeard had carried it for too long. Fortunately, his condition was not as critical as Shiki's had been all those years ago. And Mansherry… she had grown stronger since then. Much stronger.
Marco, standing nearby, absorbed every word with the focused eyes of a seasoned physician.
"What do you need for the treatment, Rosinante?" he asked immediately.
He understood what most did not—fruits like Mansherry's were miracles bound in chains. Powerful, yes, but not without limitations. To mend damage of this magnitude, Mansherry would require vast amounts of vitality. And I had long forbidden her from sacrificing her own life force to save others.
Instead, we found another way.
"Marco-san," I said evenly, "as you've heard, Mansherry will need a massive surge of energy. We'll need Sea Kings. Preferably the ancient ones—the deep-dwellers. The older, the better."
Marco turned to Jozu. The Diamond Man's response was immediate.
"How many do you need?" he asked, voice like thunder. "Tell me, and I'll bring them. I'll clear out an entire nest if that's what it takes."
His words weren't bluster. His tone was deadly serious. He was ready to move mountains for Whitebeard—and if all it took was a horde of Sea Kings, he'd hunt the depths of the Calm Belt himself.
Mansherry, arms crossed and one hand supporting her chin thoughtfully, tapped her cheek with a small finger. Then she nodded.
"If they're the same size as the ones Brother normally captures… about two dozen should be enough. But they'll need to be alive. If they're dead, the vitality drains too quickly. Corpses won't do us much good."
Jozu nodded without hesitation.
"I'll have them brought back within the week," he said, and with a final glance to Marco, he strode out of the house—already preparing for the hunt to begin.
Now, there was nothing left to do but wait. To wait for the sea to pay its price so that the World's Strongest Man could rise to his peak once more.