The cabin of the Moby Dick was eerily quiet, the kind of silence that follows a miracle. Only the soft creak of the ship's hull and the distant roar of waves reminded them they were still at sea.
The crew had long since been evacuated from the ship to maintain focus and safety—only a few remained: Marco, Jozu, myself, little Princess Mansherry, and the man at the center of it all—Edward Newgate, Whitebeard.
Mansherry had just collapsed onto her rear, her tiny body drenched in sweat. Her breathing was labored, chest heaving as she leaned back, her fluffy tail twitching feebly. Even though she hadn't used her own vitality, channeling and regulating the life force of over two dozen Sea Kings was an unimaginable burden for someone her size. Her golden aura had flickered throughout the ritual like a star on the verge of going supernova.
"I-It's done…" she whispered, voice barely audible as her eyes fluttered closed.
Before she toppled over completely, I stepped forward, carefully scooping her into my hands. She stirred slightly, murmuring nonsense, already slipping into sleep. I gently tucked her into a padded pocket sewn inside my coat—a space that had been custom-made just for her, knowing she often passed out this way after long sessions of miracle healing.
And then we turned to witness the miracle.
Whitebeard was sitting upright, shoulders broad and posture regal. The pale, veined skin that once sagged with age now rippled with youth. His once weathered muscles now brimmed with strength—his frame seemed too large for even the reinforced bed beneath him. The feeding tubes, oxygen support, and the ever-present IVs were gone.
No wheezing breath, no bloodied coughs. Only silence… then the crack of his knuckles as he flexed his fists—slowly, experimentally.
Marco stood beside him, his phoenix-blue eyes wide in disbelief. Even he, the best doctor in the New World, couldn't begin to fathom the level of cellular regeneration they had just witnessed. The trauma, both physical and spiritual, caused by decades of using the Tremor-Tremor Fruit—gone. The sluggish nerves, the hollow bones, the bleeding capillaries—reversed.
"Oyaji…" Jozu's deep voice broke through the silence, thick with emotion. "How do you feel…?"
Whitebeard didn't answer immediately. His attention was on his own hand. He stared at it like a man reacquainting himself with a long-lost brother. Then, without warning, he clenched his fist. The air itself cracked—a subtle ripple of raw seismic energy surged through the ship's reinforced walls, making the very wood groan. But this was no wild outburst. It was precise, contained. Controlled. His powers—his will—no longer fought against the confines of a broken vessel. They were aligned again, in perfect harmony.
He stood. And the cabin trembled. Not from his Devil Fruit—but from sheer presence.
The towering figure of Whitebeard rose from the bed like a titan reawakening. Each breath filled the room like a drumbeat. Marco instinctively stepped back, eyes gleaming with awe. For the first time in decades, the Emperor of the Sea no longer bore the weight of time on his shoulders.
"It's been… twenty years," Whitebeard muttered, flexing his arms as the blood rushed with youthful fervor. "Since I last felt this alive."
He turned toward me then—his eyes no longer clouded by age or illness, but sharp, piercing, and impossibly clear. There was a fire behind them, one that had been buried under decades of pain, fatigue, and the burden of a broken devil fruit. A fire that now blazed anew. And then… something rare. Something unthinkable.
He bowed.
Not much. Barely more than a tilt of the head. But from Edward Newgate, the man the world knew as Whitebeard, the most feared pirate of his era, that single gesture carried the gravity of mountains. A tidal wave of silent respect.
"I now owe a debt," he said, his voice like a mountain rolling through thunder—deep, commanding, ancient, and proud. "To the Donquixote family."
Marco froze, eyes widening in disbelief. Even Jozu, ever the stoic, blinked as if his mind couldn't process what he'd just heard.
"To send that child," Whitebeard continued, his voice steady and resolute, "and to reveal the true strength hidden beneath your family's shadowed veil... just to heal me. You knew what it meant. You knew the risks. Because no matter how cordial the surface, at the end of the day—we are rival pirate factions. That truth has never changed."
His jaw tensed, and yet… his tone did not harden. Instead, it deepened, rich with something that came rarely to men like him—genuine respect.
"And yet, despite that... you still did it."
He straightened slowly, the light catching on his newly healed frame. The creaking ship, the salt in the air, the vast empty sea around them—everything seemed to stand still.
"This wasn't charity. It wasn't strategy. This was an act of honor. And I won't forget it." He paused. "Not now. Not ever." Then his gaze locked with mine—piercing and unwavering, like a blade tempered in fire and truth.
"Tell your brother," he said, voice dropping low, weighted with purpose. "Tell Doflamingo… that whatever may come, this debt is etched into my bones." I nodded, solemnly. There was no room for pleasantries in that moment—only a sacred understanding.
Behind him, Marco let out a long breath, tension rolling off his shoulders like mist before a sunrise. Then, with a familiar grin tugging at his lips, he muttered under his breath, "You're gonna be a nightmare for anyone who dares cross us now, Oyaji."
Whitebeard's response came not with words—but with a laugh.
"Gurararara..."
The thunderous, seismic sound reverberated across the Moby Dick, echoing off the walls, through the wood, across the sea. Not with cruelty or mockery—but with the unshakeable joy of a man who had rediscovered his strength, his purpose... his prime.
Even the ship seemed to recognize it—groaning under his weight as he stepped fully into the center of the deck. The ocean breeze caught the hem of his cloak as if heralding the return of a king.
He stretched his arms once, slowly, testing the breadth of power flowing through his body. No wheezing. No coughing. No pain. Just unfiltered vitality. Then he clenched his fist—and the air cracked.
Reality itself trembled.
A thin spiderweb fracture danced across the sky above them—faint, invisible to most, but to those attuned to Haki and power, it was unmistakable.
"Tell me, Rosinante…" Whitebeard's voice rumbled like a rising tempest, low but fierce, a challenge wrapped in thunder. "Would you care to cross blades… with the only pirate in the world carrying a bigger bounty than yours?"
The tension in the cabin thickened instantly, like a storm front closing in. But it wasn't malice that colored his tone—it was liberation. The voice of a warrior no longer chained to sickness, who had been caged by age and agony for far too long. Now, healed to his prime—and beyond—Whitebeard no longer spoke as a man recovering. He spoke as a man reborn.
His knuckles flexed, and the faintest pop echoed in the air as space itself quivered beneath the raw, contained pressure of his awakened Devil Fruit. The very atmosphere responded to him. The Moby Dick creaked in anticipation.
Whitebeard wanted to breathe again. To move freely. To fight. And the man before him—me—was not just anyone. I was the one who had faced Garp and walked away breathing. The one whose name haunted Navy intelligence reports. The one with a bounty second only to his.
A perfect first test.
"O-Oyaji…" Marco stepped forward, urgency in his voice. "You've just recovered. Don't—"
But his plea was lost in the silence that followed Whitebeard's words. Because I was already smiling.
The kind of grin you don't fake. The kind that a warrior gives when their blood sings and their soul stirs with anticipation. A chance to spar with the Strongest Man in the World—not in decline, not held together by tubes and pills, but in his full terrifying glory. This was an honor. A challenge. And a fire I couldn't ignore.
"I thought you'd never ask," I said, my hands already resting on Shusui's hilt as I stepped forward, ignoring Marco's raised voice and Jozu's incredulous stare.
Marco moved as if to stop me, but even he knew it was useless. This wasn't recklessness. This was reverence. A duel, not out of rivalry, but out of mutual understanding. Two pirates. Two monsters. Two forces of nature, preparing to clash.
"You're both out of your damn minds," Marco muttered, scrubbing a hand through his hair, but even he stepped back. Because deep down, he wanted to see it.
The air between us vibrated—crackled with something beyond tension. Haki.
Black and red lightning danced at our feet, rippling outward in chaotic arcs. Sparks snapped against the walls, crawling up the wooden beams of the Moby Dick's central deck as if the ship itself held its breath.
Whitebeard stepped forward, each footfall a quake in itself. The massive bisento slid into his hand with terrifying ease, as if returning to its rightful place. Its blade glimmered like a crescent moon catching firelight.
"Follow me, Rosinante…" Whitebeard's voice was deep and calm, but it carried the quiet roar of a storm barely restrained. His broad hand reached for the long white coat slung over a chair and with practiced ease, he swung it over his shoulder, the symbol of his power—the skull-marked Jolly Roger—fluttering behind him like a war banner caught in a rising wind.
"I know just the place where we can unleash our strength and fight to our heart's content… without holding back."
He strode out of the cabin like a force of nature, the very floor seeming to tremble beneath each step.
I lingered only for a moment, turning toward Marco, who stood rooted in place—torn between disbelief and caution, clearly unsure if this madness was something he should try to stop or simply let unfold. His eyes flickered to Whitebeard's retreating back, then to me.
I gently opened my coat, inside the small cushioned pocket where Mansherry had finally drifted into deep sleep, utterly spent. Her tiny frame rose and fell with soft, even breaths, sweat still dotting her brow from the monumental effort she had just exerted. Her healing powers had turned the tide of fate itself. A miracle. And now she needed protection.
I reached into it and, with the utmost care, lifted her into my palm, her tiny hands twitching in slumber. I stepped closer to Marco and handed her off, placing her securely in his firm, steady grasp.
"Keep her safe. Just for a few minutes, Dora will be here." I said softly.
Marco's eyes met mine, golden brows drawn low, concern etched into every line of his face. But he nodded. He understood—this was something no one could stop. With a breath, I focused. My mind pulsed outward—not with sound or speech, but thought. Intent.
A whisper along the current of the mind, sharpened by my Devil Fruit.
Dora. Come. Now. Bring Leo. Take care of Mansherry.
Even hundreds of miles away, I knew she would hear it. Dora, with her Lightning Logia, was in perfect sync with frequencies the world couldn't hear. She would respond. I had already taught her the technique to manipulate lightning for communication.
I turned then, my coat sweeping behind me, boots echoing against the deck as I exited the cabin. The moment the door swung closed behind me, I felt the hum in the air—like the sea itself was holding its breath.
****
Dessrosa, New World
"Fufufufufu... So you're telling me you caused all this ruckus—bypassed the castle sentries, snuck into the palace—just to meet me and pledge your allegiance?"
Doflamingo's voice echoed with amusement as he sat languidly atop his ornate throne, the gilded architecture of the chamber reflecting the glint in his sunglasses. Before him knelt a man around his own age, unflinching and undaunted despite the precarious situation. What Doflamingo saw in his eyes wasn't fear. No—what he saw was worship. The kind of loyalty that could drive a man to crawl through fire and blood for a single cause.
His smile widened as he turned to his companion.
"What do you think, Senor? Do you think he's telling the truth?" he asked, eyes flickering with interest.
Senor Pink, calm and composed in his ever-unbothered manner, had the young man pinned by the shoulders, forcing him to his knees against the polished marble floor. His grip was ironclad, yet he spoke with his usual stoic detachment.
"I don't know, Master Doffy. This isn't the first time he's tried sneaking in... but I have to admit, he's got guts. Risking his life just to step foot in the palace? Maybe he deserves a chance to explain himself. For all we know, he might truly wish to serve you."
Doflamingo chuckled again, deep and rich, the sound bouncing off the high ceilings of the throne room.
"Fufufufufu… You hear that? My dear friend Senor here thinks you might actually be sincere. But me? I'm not so easily convinced. Maybe you're here with some hidden agenda. Worst-case scenario..." he leaned forward, voice dropping an octave, "you're a spy working for the World Government."
The words were meant to provoke—and they succeeded.
At the mere mention of the World Government, the kneeling man's face twisted into raw disgust. For the first time since entering the throne room, there was anger in his expression. Deep, personal, bone-deep anger. Doflamingo's amusement didn't wane—it sharpened. That reaction told him volumes. He already knew there was something deeper at play. After all, if this man were truly an enemy, he would've been executed long before making it to this throne.
"Doflamingo-sama," the man spat with fervor, "I swear by my life, by the person I hold dearest—I have no ties to those bastards. I came here because I need power. Power to get vengeance. And I know the Donquixote Family is the only way to get it."
He struggled against Senor's grip, trying to reach for something, to show something—but he couldn't move an inch. Doflamingo stood from his throne, descending step by step with lazy elegance. He gestured to Senor, who released the man and stepped back without a word.
Standing directly in front of him now, Doflamingo tilted his head slightly, peering down with sharp curiosity.
"So it's not loyalty that brought you here—it's revenge. You understand that aligning yourself with me is the fastest path to power... is that it?"
The man nodded, silent but determined.
"Then tell me..." Doflamingo said smoothly, "why should I believe a single word coming out of your mouth?"
The man didn't speak. Instead, he removed his shirt with steady hands and turned his back.
Senor Pink's brows furrowed, his usual indifference breaking momentarily as his gaze landed on the unmistakable mark branded into the man's skin—the Hoof of the Soaring Dragon. The Celestial Dragons' slave mark.
"One of the many we rescued from Sabaody?" Senor murmured from behind.
But Doflamingo didn't respond. His eyes remained fixed on the symbol, unreadable.
"Yes," the man said. "I was a slave. Ready to be sold like cattle… until Young Master Rosinante saved me. I owe him my life. And to repay that debt, I want to dedicate myself to the Donquixote Family."
There was a pause. Doflamingo observed him in complete silence before finally speaking.
"Your name?"
"Tesoro," he replied, voice steady despite the pounding in his chest.
He was betting everything on this moment. Not for himself—but for Stella, the girl who was saved alongside him, now living quietly in Dressrosa. He had vowed to protect her. But to do that, he needed strength—true strength. And the only way to gain it was to walk the path of power, no matter how treacherous.
Doflamingo gave a low chuckle as he walked toward an antique cabinet lined with rare, exquisite firearms—each one a relic from another era. From a shelf, he pulled out a beautiful ivory-handled flintlock pistol, polished to perfection. Beside it, nestled in velvet compartments, were its components: powder horn, lead ball, wadding, and flint.
With a craftsman's precision, Doflamingo began to load the weapon: He opened the pan, tapping in the fine black powder. Carefully, he poured gunpowder down the barrel, followed by a small wad of cloth, then the lead ball, which he tamped down with a long iron ramrod, each movement deliberate.
He primed the flash pan, then gently cocked the hammer back, the click echoing softly in the quiet tension. Finally, he turned back to Tesoro, extending the loaded pistol. Tesoro hesitated, confused. Senor spoke, voice as casual as if he were offering tea.
"Prove your loyalty. Give us your life—here and now."
For a moment, Tesoro froze. This wasn't what he expected. But as the realization hit him, so did a sense of clarity. This wasn't a family of saints. This was a family of pirates. And if he didn't have the courage to stake his life, why should they stake anything for him?
Without a word, Tesoro took the pistol, cocked it fully, and pressed it to his temple. Doflamingo's expression didn't change. He merely watched. Tesoro's eyes fluttered shut. He took a long breath. Stella—her smile, her laughter, her safety—flashed through his mind.
Click.
Bang!
The sound of the gunshot echoed like thunder. But the reaper never came. Tesoro opened his eyes, dazed. His ears rang. He looked at the gun in his hand. The barrel was now sealed shut—twisted with razor-thin threads of steel, bent and warped, the bullet still lodged within.
"Fufufufu... What do you think, Senor? Was he faking it?" Doflamingo asked, amused.
"No..." Senor said, stepping closer. "He doesn't even know Haki. He accepted death. Genuinely."
Doflamingo's grin returned, this time darker, more serious. He turned to Senor.
"Bring it."
Senor's eyes widened slightly. This wasn't just a test. Doflamingo was making a move. He nodded and slipped into the inner vault. Tesoro knelt, still reeling.
Doflamingo approached once more, voice low but firm.
"I consider kneeling a sign of weakness... unless it's for love. If you truly wish to be one of us—this is the last time you ever kneel. Not to me. Not to anyone."
The words hit like a blow. Tesoro, trembling, rose to his feet, something changing in him. He had come to use the Donquixote Family—but now, he truly wished to belong.
Minutes passed. Tesoro stood silently, the tension in the throne room thick enough to cut with a blade. He could feel Doflamingo's gaze on him—piercing, almost invasive—as if the Heavenly Demon were peeling back the layers of his soul, searching for lies, hidden motives, or weakness.
Then, the heavy double doors creaked open once more.
Senor Pink entered with his usual deliberate stride, unbothered as always. In his hands was a small, finely crafted chest—dark mahogany, lined with gold, with the Donquixote Family's emblem engraved into the lid. Without a word, he walked to Tesoro and placed it firmly in his hands.
Doflamingo stepped forward, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.
"Take it. This will help you gain the power you so desperately seek. But power means nothing unless you prove you're worthy to wield it. Show me, Tesoro—show me why you deserve to be one of us."
Tesoro's heart pounded like a war drum. With trembling fingers, he unlatched the chest and slowly lifted the lid. A soft click echoed like a gunshot through the quiet chamber.
His breath caught.
Inside rested a Devil Fruit—golden, ornate, and pulsing faintly with arcane energy. Its swirling patterns gleamed in the low light, coiling like serpents in perpetual motion. It radiated promise. Power. Destiny.
"This…" Tesoro breathed, eyes wide. "This is a Devil Fruit…"
He looked up, stunned, seeking an explanation—but Doflamingo only smiled knowingly.
Tesoro straightened, eyes blazing with newfound resolve.
"I will make sure to put this to good use. I swear to serve the Donquixote Family with everything I have—"
But Doflamingo raised a hand, chuckling softly. He walked forward and, to Tesoro's surprise, threw an arm around his shoulder like they were old comrades sharing drinks rather than criminals shaping the future.
"No, no, no… You misunderstand, Tesoro."
His voice dropped low—almost intimate—but laced with venomous intent.
"I don't want you to support me. I want you to build an empire. One of gold, greed, and grandeur. I want you to offer your hand to the World Government, play their game, earn their trust. Grow so deeply into their roots that if—no, when—you were to pull away…"
He leaned closer, sunglasses reflecting the glint of the fruit in the chest.
"...the entire damn tree falls."
There was silence. Tesoro's lips slowly curled into a smile—a calm, calculating, deadly smile. The kind of smile that foretells the birth of a man who will one day be feared by the world.
"Consider it done, Master Doflamingo."
Doflamingo clapped him once on the back and stepped away. Senor Pink, without ceremony, handed Tesoro a small satchel containing a leather-bound manual—the training methods of Haki—and a sealed scroll with emergency contacts, business links, and black-market codes. Tools for the foundation of a kingdom built on wealth and deception.
Tesoro, who had entered this room only moments ago as a vagabond with vengeance in his heart, now stood as a man entrusted with a mission that could reshape the power structure of the world.
He turned, heading toward the massive throne room doors—when Doflamingo's voice rang out once more, halting him in his tracks.
"Tesoro…"
Tesoro paused and slowly turned back. Doflamingo was seated again upon his throne, draped in shadows and golden light like a god of mischief and malice, the Heavenly Yaksha himself. His expression was unreadable—neither smiling nor scowling.
"Remember this: trust doesn't come easily. Once broken, it's shattered forever. I don't forgive betrayal. I don't forget it either."
His next words dropped like a blade.
"And if that day ever comes, it won't just be you who suffers. It will be Stella as well."
Tesoro's blood turned to ice. For the first time since he'd entered this palace, his mask cracked. He had never once mentioned Stella. Had taken every measure to erase their connection. Not even whispers of her name were supposed to exist in relation to him. But Doflamingo knew. He always knew.
Tesoro flinched, breath caught in his throat. The weight of the warning was clear. This wasn't a threat—it was a promise. Doflamingo leaned back with a faint smirk, satisfied by Tesoro's reaction.
"As long as you remain loyal, the Donquixote Family will protect its own with everything we've got. But..." he left the rest unsaid.
There was no need. The silence said more than words ever could. Tesoro bowed his head, not in subservience—but in acknowledgment. And with that, he turned, the chest clutched tightly in his arms, the golden fruit inside glowing like the sun.
The man who walked out of that throne room was no longer a broken slave. He was a king in the making. A wolf clothed in gold. And in the not-so-distant future, the world would come to know his name: Gild Tesoro — The Golden Emperor.