The massive merchant galleon glided smoothly through the waters of the New World, its heavy hull parting the sea like a steel leviathan. The sky above was unusually clear—a rare phenomenon in these treacherous waters, where storms were as common as gulls and tempests could rise without warning.
Today, however, the sea was calm, the skies bright, and the wind steady—a day so peaceful it felt unnatural, as if the world itself were holding its breath.
The crew, ever wary of the unpredictable moods of the New World, allowed themselves a rare moment of leisure. Deckhands lounged near the rails, some sharpening blades, others laughing over shared stories and mugs of watered wine. The sails flapped lazily in the breeze, and the sound of gulls echoed above.
Near the bow, an older man, weathered by years of trade routes and storms, stood with his hand shielding his eyes from the glare of the sun. His weather-beaten face creased further as he squinted toward a small blot on the horizon.
He called out to a younger man nearby—his nephew, recently brought aboard to learn the ropes of seafaring life.
"You see that...?" the old man said, pointing toward a small, almost unimpressive speck in the distance. "That's Alchemi Island."
The younger man leaned on the railing, squinting at the speck on the sea's surface. It looked like nothing more than a patch of rock and sand, barely big enough to merit the name "island."
He frowned. "That's the infamous Alchemi Island, Uncle...? It's so small."
There was no awe in his voice, no reverence. Just mild disappointment. The older man let out a quiet sigh, but he didn't blame him. To someone who hadn't heard the old tales told by trembling lips in the dark corners of a tavern, the island looked like nothing.
But to those who knew, it was the scarred remnant of something that once rivaled cities. The old man's voice lowered, almost a whisper.
"That's not the whole island... That's what's left of it. What remains... after the monster devoured it."
The young man blinked. "You mean Bonbori?"
But before the name could fully leave his lips, the older man moved with surprising speed and strength, clamping a calloused hand over the boy's mouth.
"Are you insane?! Don't say its name out loud!"
His eyes darted around the horizon, the once-clear sky now feeling just a shade too still, too silent—as if the sea itself were listening. The younger man, startled, pushed his uncle's hand away.
"Uncle, you're being paranoid," he said, brushing off his tunic. "It's just a myth. A drunken sailor's tale. Some oversized fish they exaggerated into a sea god. When was the last time anyone actually saw this so-called island-devouring monster that's supposedly over a thousand years old? Come on. It's a bedtime story for pirates."
But before the old man could argue back, a new voice cut through the air, low and calm—but heavy, like a blade sliding from its sheath.
"You asked when someone last saw Bonbori..."
The two turned in surprise. A cloaked figure, previously unnoticed, stood beside them. He leaned casually on the railing, one gloved hand resting atop the wood. His hood was drawn low, hiding his features, but the sea breeze lifted it just enough to reveal the shadow of a scar running down his cheek before he adjusted it back into place.
His gaze, however, never left the distant island.
"It's not that people stopped seeing Bonbori…" he continued, his voice calm and deliberate, "It's that no one who has seen it ever lived long enough to speak about it."
A sudden gust swept over the deck, strong and sharp, whipping through the sails and howling through the rigging. It almost felt like the wind itself had reacted to the man's words—as though something ancient and vast had stirred beneath the waves.
The young man laughed nervously, the tension crawling up his spine. He looked to his uncle, expecting him to dismiss the stranger. But the old sailor's expression had turned pale, lips tight, and eyes wary.
He'd seen something his nephew hadn't. Respect. Fear. Recognition.
The young man sneered, trying to shake off the atmosphere and regain control of the conversation.
"So you're trying to tell me there's an ancient beast lurking in the depths of the New World, one so powerful that even the Sea Kings fear it?" he scoffed. "And let me guess—it holds the secret to eternal life? That's what the legends say, right? Doesn't that sound just a little too absurd to believe?"
The stranger didn't turn to him. Didn't flinch. His voice remained quiet—almost too quiet—but somehow it cut through the noise of the wind and waves like a whisper in a cathedral.
"Absurd? Maybe. But tell me this, boy—"
"If it was just a story... why are there no ships, no records, no logbooks of those who ventured too close to Alchemi Island and returned?"
The young man opened his mouth to answer—but found he had no reply. Because there were none.
The merchant lanes swerved around that region. Navigators marked it with vague warnings: "Unstable currents. Avoid." But no one ever explained why. No one dared.
The cloaked man's voice softened even further, now barely audible.
"Some things are forgotten because they're unimportant. Others... are forgotten because remembering them is too dangerous."
The sky, once cloudless, now bore a faint haze over the horizon, like a shroud forming far in the distance. And for the first time, the young deckhand felt something stir deep within his chest.
But the young man, despite the lingering unease crawling down his spine, managed to compose himself. He folded his arms across his chest and tilted his chin defiantly, as if trying to shake off the fear settling in his gut.
"Yeah, maybe you're right," he said, locking eyes with the cloaked stranger. "I don't have any proof that Bonbori is just a myth. But by that same logic, you don't have any proof that it's real, either. Do you?"
His voice rang sharp against the hush that had fallen over the deck, bold words thrown like stones into still water. The cloaked figure didn't turn. Didn't even flinch. Instead, he chuckled softly.
"Proof..." he muttered—not to the boy, but to himself. The word tasted bitter on his tongue, as if mocking him.
What did he know of proof? He had no maps marked with the monster's path. No recordings, no relics from the wreckage. The sea had taken everything—everything. But he had survived. He alone. He was living proof, whether the boy believed it or not.
The wind picked up again, lifting the edge of his cloak, revealing a glimpse of a scarred hand clenched into a fist. The memories were never far. He still heard the screams of his crew as the ship cracked and splintered beneath them.
He still remembered the sickening silence that followed—the moment the sea turned red. His best friend, his brothers-in-arms, his crew—all of them torn away in a single, soul-rending moment.
And Bonbori… it had watched. It knew. What further proof did he need?
His body bore the tale. His heart still bled for it. The absence of his crew was proof enough. And now, all that remained of his life's purpose was a singular vow: He would hunt that monster. Across every corner of the New World. No matter how many years it took.
He would find it. He would kill it. And when he stood upon its dying form, he would offer its blood to the sea, so that his fallen crew could finally rest in peace.
But he said none of this aloud. He let the silence speak for him. The young sailor, impatient and emboldened by the man's lack of response, stepped forward, ready to press his point further—until his uncle grabbed him by the shoulder, pulling him back firmly.
The older man's eyes were wide, and his face had turned a shade paler than before.
"Don't," he whispered sharply.
The younger man blinked, confused. "What? Why?"
His uncle didn't answer with words. Instead, he leaned in and spoke low, so only his nephew could hear.
"When the wind blew his hood back earlier… I saw it."
The young man furrowed his brow. "Saw what?"
The older man swallowed hard, his voice barely above a whisper.
"A mark. Tattooed on the side of his neck. Clear as day… The sigil of the Donquixote Pirates." The young man's breath caught in his throat.
Despite the older man's attempt to whisper discreetly, the cloaked figure heard every word. His senses were sharp—sharper than any of them could imagine—for he had long since awakened his Observation Haki. Every flicker of fear, every whisper of doubt, every heartbeat pounding on this deck—he could feel them all.
Yes, he had once been just another treasure-seeker, chasing myths and gold like so many other fools. But now? Now he was something more.
A pirate. A soldier of the Donquixote Family.
They had found him broken—adrift in a shattered skiff, eyes hollow from loss—and instead of offering death, they gave him purpose. The Donquixote Family, for all their ruthlessness, believed in Bonbori. And they had made their stance clear: if he could find it, they would fund him, arm him, even stand beside him in battle.
Not out of vengeance like him, no. They had other goals—the other half of the legend. The whispers of a secret hidden within the beast's belly. The secret to eternal life.
But that wasn't his concern. He didn't care for immortality. All he wanted… was justice.
Revenge.
He would find Bonbori. If not today, then tomorrow. Or the day after. But he would find it. And when he did… he would sing a requiem for his fallen crew—his family. Just as the older man tried to think of a way to excuse them from the brewing tension, a bellow roared across the deck.
"You bastards! Is this what I pay you for?! Drinking and chatting while death creeps over the horizon? Get to your stations—NOW!"
It was the captain, his voice rough like gravel and carried by urgency. And then, the world began to change. At first, it was subtle. A breeze that shifted from gentle to sharp. The sky, once blue and clear, now wore a shade of bruised gray—clouds thickening with alarming speed.
The sea, too, began to stir. Waves that had once lapped lazily now grew taller, more violent, slapping against the galleon's hull with a growing ferocity. The sails snapped taut, the rigging groaned, and the wooden boards beneath their feet creaked and trembled like the heartbeat of a dying beast.
Then, the first thunderclap rang out, like a cannon from the heavens. A flash of white lightning cut across the darkening sky, illuminating the shape of Alchemi Island in the distance—still small, still silent.
But ominous.
The winds howled like wailing spirits, and the skies opened up. Rain descended in sheets, icy and relentless. It battered the deck, stung bare skin, and turned every surface slick and treacherous. The crew scrambled into action, tying down cargo, reefing sails, shouting commands over the wind that screamed louder with each second.
The New World had shown its teeth.
But amidst the chaos—one man did not move. The cloaked figure remained exactly where he had been, standing at the bow like a statue carved from stone, his cloak whipping violently in the storm. Rain drenched him, wind lashed at him, and the ship rocked dangerously beneath his feet—but he stood steady.
Unshaken.
His eyes, hidden beneath the shadow of his hood, were fixed on one point alone: Alchemi Island.
He didn't flinch. Didn't blink. Even as the ship groaned and pitched, even as sailors shouted and lightning scorched the clouds above, he stood with the calm stillness of a man who had stared death in the eye—and vowed to return the gaze until death blinked first.
Each flash of lightning illuminated his face just for an instant—jaw clenched, lips tight, eyes burning with resolve. The storm would pass. It always did. But his storm—the one inside him—would rage until Bonbori's corpse floated upon these cursed waters.
*****
Room of Authority, Mary Geoise
"So you want us to approve a fourth Admiral seat…" Elder Mars spoke slowly, his voice like gravel sliding over glass. "…and promote Vice Admiral Kuzan—'Aokiji'—to fill that seat?"
The last time such an idea had been proposed—decades ago—the Five Elders had endorsed it. Not out of necessity, nor for the good of the world, but because of the man they had planned to elevate.
Monkey D. Dragon.
Back then, the suggestion to create a fourth Admiral seat had not been born of strategic foresight, but rather a calculated political move—a chain disguised as honor. They believed that promoting Dragon to Admiral would serve a dual purpose: tighten the Government's grip on Garp and shackle the man's bloodline to the ideals of Justice, silencing one of their greatest wild cards before he ever had a chance to rebel.
But the plan backfired—catastrophically. Dragon had not been tamed. He had not bowed. Instead, he had vanished. And from the shadows, he had built a storm. The man they had once hoped to control now bore a different title—The World's Worst Criminal, leader of the Revolutionary Army, the greatest existential threat to the Celestial Dragons and the World Government itself.
Since that betrayal, the very notion of adding a fourth Admiral had become taboo, a bitter memory of how arrogance had nearly cost them their authority.
Elder Mars arched a weathered brow, his gaze unwavering beneath the shadow of his wide-brimmed hat. The folder on the table before him remained untouched—not out of disinterest, but because the Five Elders had already absorbed its contents long before this meeting. As protocol dictated, they had been briefed. But unlike most government affairs, this one carried a weight that made even them pause.
Before the Gorosei stood Fleet Admiral Sengoku, his crisp white coat draped like a mantle of responsibility. Beside him towered Commander-in-Chief Kong, broad as a fortress, his eyes sharp as ever. Though they were titans in the eyes of the world, in this silent, ominous chamber—the throne room of true power—they stood like disciplined soldiers awaiting judgment.
The Five Elders regarded them in silence. Even after all these years, Sengoku's stoic expression gave nothing away, but they knew. They knew of the fire that still burned behind his composed eyes. He was Garp's closest ally, after all—a man who harbored deep disdain for the Government's darker decisions.
But he followed orders. That's what made him valuable. Not his strength. Not his wisdom. But the fact that when the Five Elders spoke, Sengoku obeyed, no matter how much he loathed the command. And he was obeying again now.
"Elder Mars," Sengoku began, his voice calm but carrying the weight of storm tides behind it. "I trust I don't need to spell out why this request isn't a formality—it's a necessity."
The room fell still.
A silence settled over the chamber—thick, oppressive, heavier than storm clouds over Marineford. The towering windows of Pangaea Castle let in golden shafts of light, yet nothing warmed the chill between the walls.
Kong, standing like a wall of steel beside Sengoku, said nothing. His mere presence underscored the severity of the moment. But the Elders, cloaked in stillness as ancient as the stones beneath their feet, showed no reaction. They didn't need to. Their silence spoke volumes.
They had known. Of course, they had known. Their web of intelligence rivaled the finest agencies in the world—even Cipher Pol operated under their shadow.
Sengoku continued, voice growing taut with urgency.
"Donquixote Rosinante lives."
The words echoed like cannon fire in a hollow sea.
"Our latest intel confirms it. He survived the confrontation with Garp. Everyone here understands what that means. He is not just a fugitive. He is a threat to the world's order itself."
No response. But beneath their unreadable expressions, the Elders felt it—the tightening grip of unease. They remembered Sabaody, the operation they had buried in secrecy. The one that cost them dozens of Celestial Dragons—Tenryūbito blood spilled in the sacred grove, and yet the world was never told.
They had told the world Rosinante had perished. But he hadn't. He had slipped through the fingers of Garp the Fist, the Hero of the Marines. A miracle... or perhaps a deliberate failure.
There had been whispers. Whispers that Garp had let Rosinante go. That it was no accident. But no one dared speak them aloud—not even the Gorosei. Garp was the one man in the world whose will even the World Nobles couldn't bend. The best they could hope for... was that his fist never turned on them.
Sengoku took a step forward, his coat trailing behind him like a mantle of justice.
"And as you also know from our latest intelligence... Rosinante has made contact with Edward Newgate."
The air itself changed. A coldness filled the chamber—not of temperature, but of certainty. A primal understanding.
Whitebeard.
The Strongest Man in the World. A living legend. A force of nature whose very name could shake the balance of global power. The last time the Donquixote family aligned with the Whitebeard Pirates, the New World bled, and the Marines lost any illusion of control over it.
And back then, Rosinante hadn't even taken the field. Sengoku's voice hardened.
"Imagine what it would mean if Rosinante and Whitebeard—two pirates, each with bounties exceeding five billion berries—stood side by side."
He didn't elaborate. He didn't need to. Everyone in the room understood. The weight of that hypothetical alone could sink entire fleets.
It was unspoken but known: If war returned to the New World on such a scale, the World Government would have no choice but to expose its trump cards, revealing powers long buried and secrets hidden beneath the foundations of the world. And in doing so, they would lose control of the narrative, the illusion of supremacy, and perhaps, the balance itself.
Worse, the possibility still loomed that the Donquixote family possessed an Ancient Weapon. Cipher Pol had found no evidence—but a lack of proof did not equal safety. Not when it came to them. Not when it came to Doflamingo and whatever hidden legacy Rosinante now carried.
Even the Revolutionary Army didn't trouble them as much as the Donquixote lineage. The implications were terrifying.
Rosinante—who once walked the halls of Mary Geoise, who had intimate knowledge of the Government's inner workings, secrets even the Cipher Pol didn't dare record—was now in league with the most dangerous pirate alive. Sengoku drove the final nail.
"If even a fraction of the rumors about the Donquixote family's legacy is true... then not even all three Admirals will be enough to contain what's coming. We must act first. We cannot—will not—wait for Doflamingo or Rosinante to make the first move again."
The Five Elders sat in shadowed silence. Then, finally, Elder Mars moved. He laced his fingers beneath his chin, the light from the flame-dancing chandeliers catching the age in his beard. His eyes—cold, calculating—met Sengoku's.
"Very well."
He opened the folder on the table before him at last. The contents—formality. The decision had already been made in the silence of that chamber.
"We will authorize the creation of a fourth Admiral seat."
"And Vice Admiral Kuzan shall be promoted to Admiral—effective immediately."
A pause. And then, a sharp note in his voice.
"However—understand this clearly—we will not authorize the deployment of all four Admirals to the New World."
He met Sengoku's eyes directly, a spark of sovereign command in his tone.
"Assign Sakazuki to remain here, and oversee the defense of the Holy Land. No matter how grave the threat beyond the Red Line... the safety of the Tenryūbito comes first."
Sengoku's jaw tightened. It wasn't a request—it was a decree. He had expected resistance. He had even anticipated an argument for Borsalino instead of Kuzan. But no—the Elders were taking this seriously. For once, even they recognized the storm on the horizon.
But they were also drawing a line. No matter the threat, no matter the war that brewed... Mary Geoise would remain protected. Even if the rest of the world burned.