Sphinx Island, New World
"So this is who you insisted I meet alone…?"
Whitebeard's deep voice rumbled like distant thunder, his massive frame casting a towering silhouette beneath the mast of the Moby Dick. There was a subtle accusation in his tone as he turned toward me, one brow raised beneath his white bandana.
He didn't understand—not yet—why I had insisted on privacy. Why I had barred even his most trusted sons from witnessing this meeting. I met his gaze evenly.
"I trust you, Newgate-san," I said quietly. "But that doesn't mean I trust your entire crew."
His eyes narrowed, the air thickening with a sudden, unseen weight.
"They came to us seeking asylum," I continued, tone still measured. "Until the day they choose to stand on their own feet, the Donquixote Family is responsible for their protection. After all… to some extent, I owe Oden-san—for the forbidden knowledge he shared with me."
At that, Whitebeard's expression darkened. His jaw clenched, the mention of Oden's name clearly stirring something deep and unresolved. The subtle shift in his posture was like watching a volcano begin to stir beneath the earth.
"Are you trying to tell me someone from my own crew would harm Oden's blood?" he asked, voice a tone lower now—rougher, more dangerous. The accusation stung him, but not because it was impossible. It stung because it wasn't.
I didn't flinch.
"The human heart," I replied evenly, "is a fickle thing, Newgate-san. Loyalty today doesn't always mean loyalty tomorrow. One can never be too careful… especially when the past walks in the skin of the future."
He held my gaze for a long, heavy moment. I knew he wanted to challenge my distrust, to rise in defense of his sons. But in the end, it was not pride that won—it was pain. The pain of failing Oden. Of arriving too late. Of watching his brother die and being unable to stop it.
So instead, he said nothing. He turned, finally, to the two figures standing before him.
A girl stood still, her small fists clenched at her sides, blue eyes wide but unblinking. Hiyori—the daughter of Oden and Toki. Barely a child, yet already shaped by the crucible of war, time, and quiet vengeance. She was frightened—of course she was. She was standing before the Strongest Man in the World. But she held her ground, not a single step backward.
Beside her, Denjiro knelt low, head bowed in deep reverence. Oden's brother in arms, now her shield and shadow. To Whitebeard, his silence was a statement: You are still family. Whitebeard's stern gaze softened as he looked down upon the little girl.
He studied her—closely. And something in his memory stirred. He saw not just her—he saw her mother's eyes. Her father's pride. The echoes of a time when the seas still held dreams, and not just blood and loss.
He took a step forward, and Hiyori flinched, her instincts tightening—but she did not move. She didn't need to. Whitebeard, a giant among men, knelt slightly to her level. With hands large enough to crush boulders, he reached out—slowly, carefully—and placed his palm gently on her head. His fingers ruffled her long black hair.
"You resemble your mother," he said, voice like a distant storm made soft by memory. "Toki was never afraid of the sea… and neither are you, are you, little one?"
Hiyori's lips trembled, but she didn't speak. Her eyes glistened. Whitebeard's gaze lingered.
"I don't know if you remember me," he murmured. "But I held you once—when you were no bigger than my palm. You were born on this very ship… while your parents sailed the seas beside me."
His voice cracked ever so slightly, the weight of decades pressing down on his shoulders.
"But I remember you."
Silence fell between them, filled only by the creaking of wood and the soft crash of waves against the hull. Hiyori, composed despite the tears threatening to fall, bowed her head deeply. And in that moment, a new promise was forged—not in words, but in unspoken understanding. A promise born of legacy, of grief, and the bonds between those left behind.
I let out a tired sigh. Whatever Whitebeard and the Kozuki family needed to discuss, I didn't wish to be part of it. There were ghosts in that conversation, ghosts I had no intention of stirring.
"Well, you all carry on with your chat," I said quietly, stepping away from the main deck.
I made my way toward the prow of the Moby Dick, where the sea breeze hit hardest. The world felt quieter here. Seated beneath the fluttering Jolly Roger, Marco had just disconnected a call from the transponder snail. He noticed me approaching and wordlessly gestured to the spot beside him. I took the seat.
"Jozu and the others have captured the sea kings," Marco said, gaze drifting across the deck to where Whitebeard now stood with Oden's daughter. "They are bringing back more Sea Kings than you asked for. They should arrive within a day or two."
I nodded. Then came the question—subtle, but not unexpected.
"Do you really distrust us that much, Rosinante?"
Unlike Whitebeard's challenge earlier, Marco's words weren't laced with offense. He wasn't accusing me—he wanted to understand. That was what made him different.
"Not all of you, Marco…" I replied softly.
"But why?" he asked again, genuinely searching for the answer.
I turned to him, offering a quiet grin—but it was hollow. The kind that never reached the eyes.
"Let me ask you something, Marco-san. If I told you that you're raising a viper in your midst—one who's waiting patiently for the right moment to strike, not just at your enemies, but at you… would you believe me?"
Marco stared, the words striking him harder than I expected. Skepticism etched itself into his features. He was the First Division Commander of the Whitebeard Pirates. A man who knew the heartbeats of nearly every crewmate. And yet—what I implied was unthinkable.
He didn't say it, but I could read it in his silence: Impossible. No one would betray Pops. Not one of us. I shook my head at his naivety. They were strong. Loyal. Brave. But in some ways… still children.
They hadn't learned that the worst enemies don't always come from beyond—they come from within. And sometimes, they come smiling. But Marco… he was beginning to understand. Slowly. The recent events had forced some of them to open their eyes. After a few minutes of silence, he spoke again.
"Rosinante… I'd like to ask a favor. Not just for me, but for all of us. You've been treating the injured members of our crew—helping everyone without complaint and expecting nothing in return. Would you consider healing one more person? And this time… the Whitebeard Pirates will owe you a debt."
I turned toward him, my smile gone, my tone flat.
"You're talking about Teach, aren't you?"
The surprise in Marco's face was brief. He quickly remembered who he was talking to—someone whose Observation Haki bordered on precognition. Of course I knew Teach was hiding in Sphinx Island, wounded and recovering. I had sensed him the moment I set foot near the archipelago.
"Sigh… yes," Marco said. "If it's possible, I'd like to ask the Tontatta Princess to heal him fully. He's not recovering well—"
I raised a hand, cutting him off.
"That's not going to happen, Marco-san," I said with finality. "Not now. Not ever."
His shoulders stiffened. He didn't expect a flat refusal—not like this.
"In fact," I added, voice sharpening, "if you'd like, I'd be happy to deliver his head to you right now. Trust me, Marco-san," I said evenly, my gaze fixed on the horizon. "One day, you'll thank me for it, perhaps."
Marco's brows furrowed, his stance tense. I could already feel the subtle flare of his Haki—controlled, yet on the edge of boiling over.
"The only reason I haven't acted against Teach," I continued, voice calm as the sea before a storm, "is to avoid any misunderstanding between our families. But don't fool yourself into thinking I'm blind."
I turned to face him now, eyes steady, unwavering.
"Teach is not who you believe he is. And you should be asking yourselves—why was he the only one who walked out of that incident alive?"
Marco stiffened. His jaw clenched, fists tightening slightly. The air between us grew heavy as his Haki pulsed stronger—like the rising tide of an unseen wave, seconds before it crashes.
From the far side of the ship, beneath the shadow of the main mast, I felt it—the quiet shift of a titan's attention. Whitebeard had noticed. Of course he had. But he didn't move, didn't speak. He simply watched.
He saw me sitting there, utterly unshaken. Even with Marco now standing just a few feet away, the pressure of his will brushing against mine like clashing currents, I didn't flinch. Not because I underestimated him.
But because I knew.
I knew that if I acted now, the entire course of history might shift too early. And for all their strength—for all their brotherhood—they still hadn't seen the serpent they were cradling at the heart of their crew.
Marco's voice was steel.
"Rosinante, we're grateful that you came to help Pops, but that doesn't mean you can cross a line like that. Teach is our brother. He's been with us since the beginning. Your accusation isn't something we'll take lightly."
He was furious. But confused too.
He remembered my earlier warning—about a viper hiding among them. He wanted to ignore it. Deny it. After all, everyone liked Teach. He wasn't just a crewmate; he was family. But even Marco couldn't deny the chill in my words. The way I spoke of Teach… like I knew something they didn't.
"You're lucky. Pops didn't hear that," Marco said coldly, his voice a low growl. "If he had, I don't know what would've happened to you."
His Haki was flaring now, subtle but unmistakable—a lion baring its teeth in defense of its pride. But I simply gave him a casual wave, unconcerned. Unapologetic. Even if Whitebeard stood before me, I'd say it just the same.
Teach is a villain. That's not a theory. That's truth. And no amount of blind brotherhood will change that.
Marco's eyes narrowed.
"Forget I ever asked for help with Teach," he muttered darkly. "But let this be known—if you so much as touch a single strand of his hair, the full wrath of the Whitebeard Pirates will come down on the Donquixote Family."
I paused, then chuckled—softly. Not out of amusement, but pity. They still didn't see it. Still clinging to the illusion of loyalty… to a traitor in disguise. I slowly rose to my feet, the weight of my presence growing with each word that followed.
"So now we're trading threats, are we?" I said calmly. "Here I was, offering you a friendly warning—a chance to prepare for the storm that's coming. But if it's war you're threatening me with, Marco-san…"
I stepped toward him, meeting his eyes without flinching.
"Then let me make this perfectly clear. Listen closely, and I will only say this once."
The wind shifted. Even the waves seemed to quiet.
"If, in the days to come, even one member of the Donquixote Family is harmed—by Teach's hand, by his actions, or by your silence—because you chose to protect him, then know this…"
My voice dropped into something darker. Final. I didn't need to raise it. The truth carried more weight than volume ever could.
"I will not stop at Teach."
Marco's breath caught, and though his stance remained firm, I could see the shadow of uncertainty creeping into his gaze.
"I will come for all of you. Every fleet. Every division. Every so-called 'brother' who stood beside the viper while he coiled tighter around your crew's neck."
My tone sharpened like steel drawn from its sheath.
"I will make sure the seas remember what happens to those who mistake loyalty for blindness. I will erase the name Whitebeard from the pages of history—not out of malice, but out of justice. Because you were warned… and you chose to ignore it."
Silence fell like a blade. Even from across the deck, I could feel Whitebeard's eyes on us. But he didn't interfere—not yet. Perhaps, deep down, even he knew there was truth buried in my fury. I turned, my coat catching in the sea breeze as I walked away, leaving Marco alone with the weight of my final words.
"If you protect a devil after knowing he's one… then you will share in the price of his sins."
****
The sun hung low over the shimmering expanse of sea, painting the waves in gold and amber. A lone fisherman stood in a small, weather-beaten boat, gently rocking with the tide. His wide-brimmed hat shaded his face, and a slow, tuneless whistle drifted lazily from his lips as he reeled in his net. To any observer, he was just another islander eking out a living from the ocean's bounty—harmless, solitary, forgettable.
But the truth was far from mundane.
This man was a Revolutionary—one of many carefully placed sentinels stationed across the seas. Unbeknownst to the world, the island behind him, believed to be lifeless and barren by the world's cartographers, was the current hidden headquarters of the Revolutionary Army. Not even the World Government suspected its significance.
The Revolutionary Army's security web stretched far and wide. From modest farmers in coastal villages to merchant sailors navigating trade routes, hundreds of agents worked in disguise—an invisible network that monitored every approaching sail, every cargo load, every whisper of the sea breeze. The system had been engineered with absolute precision over years. Their eyes were everywhere.
And this fisherman—codename "Harpoon"—was stationed dangerously close to the heart of it all. His job was to monitor the southern quadrant, particularly a blind spot in naval surveillance that had historically gone unused—until now.
With practiced ease, he pulled in his net, revealing a wriggling silver catch glinting in the dying light. He gave a tired grunt, flipped the fish into the basket, and prepared to cast again. But just as he raised the net, his body went still—mid-motion, frozen.
His whistle died in his throat.
There, on the distant horizon, emerged the silhouettes—sleek and vast—cutting across the sea in perfect formation. One, two… six… twelve.
Twelve war galleons.
They were flying merchant colors, sails painted in the hues of harmless trade companies. But Harpoon had seen enough to know: no merchant fleet could afford warships of that size, nor would they sail in such disciplined formation. The hulls were reinforced. Their sails moved with military precision. And worst of all—they were heading straight toward the headquarters.
No warning. No signals. No alerts from the other agents.
His heart kicked against his ribs. He scrambled, nearly tripping over the fish he'd caught moments ago, stumbling across the deck to a rusted, sea-stained metal case. His fingers fumbled with the latch before snapping it open, revealing a compact transponder snail nestled in its folds.
He lifted the receiver, breath shaking, but his voice came out clear. This wasn't the time to panic.
"Authentication code: Vulture-Five-Nine-North. This is Harpoon. Southern-southwestern quadrant. I repeat, SSW quadrant—forty nautical miles offshore. I've got visual confirmation of twelve galleons approaching from open waters, heading directly toward HQ. No identification. Flying merchant flags, but... these aren't traders, Captain. This is a masked fleet. Repeat: hostile disguise highly likely."
The snail blinked. Silence. Then, a sharp, clipped voice snapped back, strained with disbelief.
"Are you absolutely certain, soldier? A dozen ships? Did you just say merchant colors…? Are you absolutely sure it's notMarine insignia? Cipher Pol? How in the hell did they make it through our screen? How did they—"
Harpoon interrupted, his voice cracking under pressure.
"How should I know, Captain? I'm telling you what I see. There was no ripple, no sign, no scout flare. It's like they appeared out of the sea. Something's wrong. Terribly wrong."
On the other end, the command room of the Revolutionary HQ was already erupting into chaos. Officers barked orders, transponders rang in sequence, and runners dashed through underground halls relaying Harpoon's message to Dragon himself.
Deep beneath the surface of what the world believed to be a barren, lifeless island, the heart of the Revolutionary Army pulsed with activity. Inside the command chamber, high-ranking leaders sat around a large circular table as enlarged maps of the known world danced across the walls.
This was no ordinary meeting—Monkey D. Dragon, Supreme Commander of the Revolutionary Army, was personally overseeing monthly progress on two covert operations to liberate oppressed nations in the North and East Blue.
Livia, the revolutionary army's main strategist, stood ready to present her field report. But before she could speak, both Dragon and Zephyr turned their heads sharply toward the heavy iron doors of the chamber—drawn by a subtle shift in the air.
A second later, a rapid knock broke the room's focus, followed by the doors swinging open with a crash. The breathless communications officer stormed in, sweat streaking down his temple, clutching a trembling transponder snail.
"Supreme Commander—urgent report!" he barked. "Twelve unidentified war galleons have been sighted forty nautical miles from our southern quadrant! They're flying merchant colors, but they're moving in tight naval formation—and they're headed directly toward us."
For a heartbeat, the room stood frozen. Then it hit them—like a tidal wave of cold realization. They had been exposed. Dragon's eyes narrowed, sharp and unreadable, as gears turned behind his calm expression. Zephyr, however, was already rising from his seat, his voice booming like thunder.
"Where the hell is our perimeter fleet?! Can they intercept in time?!" he snapped, already pulling on his reinforced combat jacket. "If those ships make it here, we're looking at open war. This island houses not just soldiers—but families, children, civilians!"
"Zephyr-sensei," Dragon said evenly, striding toward the war table, "the fleet is scattered across the Blues and Grand Line, supporting multiple uprisings. The closest reinforcements are hours away. We won't make it in time."
His voice was steady, but the tension behind it was unmistakable. The entire Revolutionary command was reeling—this had never happened before. Their web of agents, their surveillance grid, their information network—flawless until today—had failed to detect the fleet until it was already bearing down on their stronghold.
"No distress signals. No alerts. No chatter on the underground channels," Livia muttered in disbelief. "It's as if they just... slipped through the cracks."
Or someone had created the cracks for them. Dragon stepped away from the table, his cloak billowing behind him like a banner of war.
"We don't have the luxury to speculate," he said coldly. "If they've come this far in silence, then they intend to bury this island without survivors. We'll meet them at sea—and buy enough time for the rest to evacuate. That's the only chance we have."
Zephyr's lips curled into a grim smile. "It's been a long time since I stood between death and the people I swore to protect. Let's see if these ghosts can bleed."
Within minutes, both men launched from the hidden harbor like missiles, using Geppo to rocket through the air, leaping from cloud to cloud, carving across the open skies with deadly purpose. The winds howled past them as the horizon began to take shape—and so did the shadows of the galleons.
From above, the ships appeared calm, their merchant flags fluttering in the wind. But Dragon could see through the lie. These weren't merchant vessels.
They were wolves in sheep's sails.
Dozens of war galleons, hulls reinforced with steel, gunports hidden behind false panels, and figures moving across the decks—too disciplined, too silent. No trade fleet moved like this.
Dragon's jaw tightened. "They knew exactly how to bypass our defenses… and how to get this close without raising alarm. This isn't an ordinary fleet."
The skies churned. What was once a calm, glassy expanse of sea now twisted into chaos as the air itself grew dense, heavy with power. The tranquil horizon was swallowed by dark clouds that rolled in like a tsunami of shadows, and the wind screamed in protest, howling with a wild, unnatural rage.
At the center of the storm stood two figures—levitating high above the ocean, using Geppo to defy gravity. The twin pillars of the Revolutionary Army. Zephyr's eyes narrowed as he felt it in his bones—this wasn't nature. The storm was being summoned.
Controlled.
His gaze shifted to the man beside him. Dragon's cloak whipped behind him like a banner in a hurricane. His right arm, now coated in obsidian-black Armament Haki, pulsed with elemental fury. The very ocean below them bent to his will, as tendrils of wind and lightning coiled above his palm. In the distance, the sea began to twist violently. A tornado was forming, a spiraling behemoth born of pure will—intended to annihilate everything in its path.
Dragon wasn't planning to wait. He was going to strike first—to erase the threat before it could land a single blow.
Zephyr followed suit. His half-cybernetic body—infused with seastone and enhanced over decades of battle—began to glow with blackened Haki. The air around him vibrated with raw kinetic power as if even gravity dared not anchor him.
This was it. The strongest vanguard of the Revolutionary Army was preparing to go all out.
But then— A subtle shift.
Movement.
Both warriors stopped mid-air, their Observation Haki flaring like a second heartbeat. Across the horizon, aboard each of the twelve war galleons, a flurry of activity erupted in eerie perfect synchrony. Sails unfurled. Rigging snapped taut. And in a single unified gesture, the false merchant flags were pulled down—fluttering away in the gale—and replaced with a different insignia.
A familiar one. The flag of the Donquixote Family. A chill ran down Dragon's spine.
"Donquixote..." he whispered.
Zephyr, equally tense, lowered his arms ever so slightly, eyes wide with disbelief. The same name fell from his lips like a curse wrapped in curiosity. "What in the hell are they doing here...?"
The fleet continued to advance. Unafraid. Unshaken. The monstrous typhoon—still spiraling in the sky—didn't slow their pace. Their hulls cut through the rising waves with unnatural precision. As if the sea itself had been parted for them.
"Impossible..." Zephyr muttered, scanning the formation again. "No one should know of our real HQ… and no pirate crew should've been able to make it this close to our HQ without alerting anyone."
"And yet here they are," Dragon said quietly, dismissing the cyclone mid-formation. The wind around him died instantly, collapsing the raging typhoon back into the calm before the storm. The two revolutionaries hovered in silence, staring down at the armada flying the Donquixote crest.
Enemies? Not yet.
But their mere presence—undetected, unchallenged, and boldly heading straight for the hidden heart of the Revolutionary Army—was a message in itself. How had they bypassed every single layer of revolutionary surveillance?
How had they known exactly where to go? Dragon's gaze hardened.
"Contact the command center. Tell them to delay the evacuation. We need to know why they've come… before we decide whether they leave in peace—or not at all."