Not joining up?
That line again?
Watching the Golden Lion ball his fist and sell his grand dream, Ozz felt a flashback to Edd War. If memory served, Shiki had pitched Roger with this exact speech. Word for word. Not even a new coat of paint.
Ozz's mouth twitched. Dead fish eyes. If he wanted the world, he would have gone and taken it already. Twenty years of obsessive prep, the odds were there. Why wait around for an old lion to split the bill?
"Save it. My answer is the same as Captain Roger's. I only do what I enjoy." Ozz smiled. "Ruling the world bores me, Shiki."
The reply was pure Roger. Same tone. Same grin. Shiki froze for a heartbeat, and for that heartbeat he saw the old King.
Then the moment passed. The lion did not have fangs to spare anymore. His legs were gone. A helm-wheel lodged in his skull. Sword and Haki far from their peak. Even his Fuwa Fuwa no Mi would not bite on Ozz. Not this Ozz. A man who had crossed steel with peak Whitebeard and was no worse than Roger in a straight brawl.
After a pause Shiki snorted.
"Fine. Refuse. But monsters like you will churn this era soon enough." His gaze went distant and bright. "We will be old. You will not. Show these greenhouse brats what real pirates look like."
The Golden Lion read currents well. He always had. The man who once sniffed out Roger's route and rumors of Ancient Weapons still knew how the wind blew.
His eyes slid to the seagull on Ozz's shoulder. Whitebeard's did too.
"Lavish, brat. Feeding a Mythical Zoan to a seagull."
Two veterans did not need an appraisal guide to see the truth. Whitebeard, so-called Strongest Man in the World, had managed one Mythical Zoan in his long career and he had given it to Marco. This thing on Ozz's shoulder was something else entirely. A top-tier treasure, tossed to a bird.
Add in who Ozz really was and the whole display felt very Celestial Dragon.
"When your people span the seas, Devil Fruits are not scarce," Ozz said, suddenly very awake.
He had been waiting to bait a certain someone.
"You have to reward talent. Otherwise no one works."
Maybe it was a trick of the ear, but Shiki and Whitebeard both thought Ozz spoke a little louder, like he wanted someone on deck to hear.
"So the truly strong fruits go to my most useful hands." He reached into his coat. "Like the ones I picked up lately."
He pulled out a string of Devil Fruits. Not two. Not three. Seven or eight. Skins the wrong colors, patterns that bent the eye. Mythical Zoan spirals. Logia swirls.
Jaws popped. Even grizzled pirates stared like children at a candy stall.
One man almost fell overboard. Teach's eyes bulged at a single fruit near the tail of the string. Dark patterns like night pulled tight. His throat worked.
The dream he had chased for decades was dangling from Ozz's fingers.
The Logia Yami Yami no Mi.
Why was it in the Black Emperor's pocket?
If he had the strength, Teach would have stabbed Ozz right there and swallowed the fruit whole. He did not. He could only swallow his own spit and watch Ozz flick the string, tuck it away, and pat his coat as if he had just pocketed cheap oranges.
Teaching moment: watching your white moonlight get threaded onto someone else's fruit kabob is a special kind of pain.
The three old names chatted on. The future Emperor stood like a grunt.
"Back then when we traded blows with Roger, there were two brats with you," Whitebeard said, knives in both hands in the memory. "One of them was loud. Red nose. He shouted that he would dye my beard red."
"Who said my nose is red," a phantom voice screeched in Whitebeard's head, and he chuckled.
Shiki blew smoke. "The red-haired kid and the funny clown. Dead yet?"
"Shanks and Buggy." Ozz's smile softened. "Good times."
He conjured three bottles that cost a noble's ransom and passed them around.
"They are both still sailing. Not famous yet. The era will remember them."
"The title of Sea Emperor will have their names on it."
Whitebeard drank, serious now. He did not have money for these vintages. He had never tasted them. He let it roll and burn and nodded. If Ozz spoke this way, the names mattered.
He had heard whispers of a rising Red-Haired brat. The other name was new.
Buggy, huh.
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