Later that night,
The desk was a mess—scrolls, ink stains, and parchment scattered like a storm had hit. Gunnar hunched over, scribbling with a quill clenched in frustration.
He needed a third.
Not just a fighter—but someone worthy. Loyal. Strong. Preferably not a maniac. A rare combo in the Grand Line.
His mind drifted to names he shouldn't even know—futures that hadn't happened yet, but bled into his memories like distant dreams.
Eustass Kid?
Loud, explosive, full of rage. The guy would rather bite off his own arm than work under someone else. Too wild. Too angry. Definitely a no.
Trafalgar Law?
Smart, scary-smart. But colder than Gunnar's Ice. Besides, Law's entire arc was wrapped up in some Straw Hat alliance down the road. No dice.
Roronoa Zoro?
Strong. Loyal. Perfect soldier. But not for them. His loyalty will be shackled to Luffy, heart and soul. And he doesn't want to take him for himself.
Gunnar gritted his teeth, dragging a frustrated hand through his wild hair.
Names kept coming, and all kept failing.
Too wild.
Too selfish.
Too loyal—to someone else.
He wasn't just recruiting for a fight. He was recruiting for a family. For Whitebeard's dream.
Gunnar let the quill fall. He leaned back, eyes narrowing.
Somewhere out there was the right person.
***
The midnight air aboard the Moby Dick was cool and hushed, broken only by the rhythmic lapping of waves and the occasional creak of old timber. Gunnar sat lazily atop an overturned barrel, one leg dangling off the side, his posture casual but his gaze fixed skyward. Technically, he was on night duty. In truth, he was stargazing.
That peace shattered in an instant.
A ripple in the stillness—a subtle disturbance only his budding Observation Haki could register—snapped Gunnar to attention. His hand twitched toward his side just as a figure vaulted onto the deck with the fluid grace of a predator. A hand, calloused and strong, caught the railing before the newcomer landed silently before him.
He was young—barely into manhood—but his presence hit like a thunderclap. His features were sharp, feral, like a wolf pushed into a corner. Black eyes, cold and cutting, swept the deck with lethal intent. He wore a plain, dark kimono cinched with a weathered belt. At his hip rested a katana with an unusually long hilt. On his back, sheathed in worn leather, was an odachi so massive its very weight should've broken him—but the crimson shimmer leaking from its scabbard said otherwise.
This wasn't a swordsman.
This was a storm, wrapped in flesh.
Gunnar rose slowly, his grin as crooked as the match he struck. He lit a nearby oil lamp, its flickering glow casting long shadows.
"Well now," he drawled, eyes narrowing. "You always show up uninvited, or am I just special?"
The samurai's stare was icy and unwavering. "I'm looking for a man. Edward Gunnar. The only blood son of Whitebeard."
Gunnar's smirk widened. "Then you've found him."
The samurai didn't flinch. He pulled out a worn bounty poster, its edges curled from age and sea spray. The lamplight confirmed the face.
"Good," he murmured. "That makes this simple."
The odachi came free with a low, metallic whisper. Its crimson blade caught the moonlight as he raised it toward Gunnar's throat.
"Why did you slaughter Ken Ashina?"
Gunnar's expression didn't change—but the air around him grew colder, frost spiraling from his left eye. "Never heard the name. But if you're here to fight—"
The samurai moved.
Crimson steel screamed through the dark, cutting through Gunnar's rising tide of molten fury. His right arm exploded in flame—lava spilled across the deck, melting wood and scorching sails. But Isshin was already airborne, his blade aglow not with fire, but with Haki so concentrated it seared white-hot: Flame Vent.
Gunnar, lava dripping from his clenched fists, barked a laugh. "Gonna dance in the fire, huh, samurai?!"
Isshin didn't answer. He rammed his odachi into the lava, launching himself into a blistering arc. Gunnar's left hand slammed down—Glacial Wall—a slab of ice rose between them, thick as a mast and cold enough to crack air.
"Pathetic," hissed the samurai.
His odachi spun—Praying Strikes: Exorcism. A maelstrom of slashes shredded the wall into glittering fragments. Isshin plunged downward, blade-first, carving through the hail of ice. The odachi punched into Gunnar's collarbone with a sickening crunch, nailing him to the deck. Blood sprayed, hissing where it touched the crimson blade.
"Why," Isshin growled, his voice shaking with fury, "Did. You. Kill. Him."
Gunnar choked out a dry, blood-flecked laugh. "Who the hell… is Ken Ashina?!"
Isshin ripped the blade free. Blood fountained. The odachi trembled at Gunnar's throat once more, inches from ending him.
"No last words?" the samurai whispered. "Then die nameless."
But Gunnar's good arm flexed, the knuckles wrapped in a glow—then quaked. "Last words? Nah. Just… quakes."
The air fractured. A jagged ripple of Gura Gura energy surged through the blade and into the air itself. The deck exploded beneath them in a spiderweb of destruction.
Isshin's eyes widened. "You—!"
CRACK—BOOM!
The shockwave erupted, sending the samurai hurtling through the air. His odachi slashed the deck inches from Gunnar's neck before he tumbled backward, flipping, skidding, landing atop the fractured railing. Smoke curled from his haori.
Gunnar rose, slowly, groaning as ice began sealing the wound in his shoulder. A low, guttural chuckle escaped his throat.
Isshin's eyes flicked upward—the commotion had drawn the crew. Whitebeard Pirates now flooded the deck, eyes filled with alarm and rage. Time was up.
With a burst of strength, Isshin leapt—skyward, impossibly high, vanishing into the moon-soaked clouds.
"Not so fast, you little rat!" Gunnar roared. His magma arm lashed forward, forming a whip of molten death. It snapped toward the fleeing figure.
But Isshin's blade sang once more—one clean arc—and the whip cleaved in two. Magma rained harmlessly into the sea.
Then he was gone.
Silence reclaimed the deck, save for the faint groans of the _Moby Dick_ as it listed from the damage. Gunnar stood amid smoke and ruin, chest heaving.
Then—rushing footsteps. A flash of white hair.
"Gunnar!"
Smoothie pushed through the crowd, panic twisting her features. Her hands hovered, then gripped his arm—firm, almost desperate.
"Gunnar… what _was_ that?" she breathed, scanning the gash on his chest, the blood, the wreckage.
Gunnar leaned into her, pain setting in now that adrenaline had fled. He wiped his cheek, fingers coming away red.
"A pest," he muttered. "Claimed I killed his clan leader. Isshin Ashina."
Smoothie's brow furrowed. "Ashina? Never heard of them. And you—"
"I don't know him," Gunnar said firmly, though a flicker of doubt crept into his voice. "The name means nothing."
Her eyes dropped to his wound. She shuddered. "He almost… he could've…"
"I've had worse," he cut her off, but even he didn't sound convinced. His Devil Fruit worked slowly—stitching the wound with Ice.
Still, he managed a crooked smile as he placed his hand gently over hers.
"I'm alright, Smoothie. Just a little roughed up."
[A/N: Next Few Chapters will be focusing on Isshin!]