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The journey from the Boneyard was, for the first time in months, not a hunt. It was an escort mission for the world's grumpiest house guest. Silver D. Morgan, was a monument of grim silence on the deck of the Moby Dick. He stood near the prow, his massive axe resting on his shoulder, his eyes fixed on the horizon, ignoring the chaos of the celebrating pirates around him.
The Burning Crown Pirates, for their part, didn't know what to make of him. They were used to powerful, eccentric allies—Kuzan was currently napping on an ice sculpture of a penguin he'd made—but Morgan was different. They gave him a wide, respectful berth.
All except one.
"Hey! Old man!"
Morgan's eyes flickered down. Jewelry Bonney, back in her adult form, stood before him, her hands on her hips, a scowl on her face. "You're in my spot."
Morgan just stared at her, his expression unchanging.
"My spot," she repeated, pointing to the piece of railing he was leaning against. "It's the best spot for watching the Sea Kings. So move it."
The nearby pirates froze, their blood running cold. Marco, who was watching from a distance, put his head in his hands. Oh no.
Morgan didn't move. He didn't speak. He just looked at her, his gaze as cold and dead as the bottom of the sea. Bonney, who had faced down Admirals and Emperors, felt a primal, gut-wrenching fear she hadn't known since she was a child. Her bravado evaporated. She squeaked, turned, and power-walked away without another word.
That evening, the crew threw a massive feast to celebrate their victories and welcome their terrifying new ally. The deck was a sea of food, music, and laughter. Morgan sat alone on a crate, silently nursing a bottle of ale, watching the chaos with the detached curiosity of a wolf studying a herd of sheep.
Ace, at the center of it all, was holding a strategy meeting with his commanders. "Our next target has to be Weevil and that witch, Bakkin," he said, pointing to a spot on a map. "Morgan's intel is our best chance to cripple Teach's new power base. We hit them here, at the 'Crossroads of Ruin', and we..."
His voice trailed off. His eyes glazed over. His head drooped forward, and with a soft thump, his face planted directly into a massive plate of spaghetti. He was fast asleep.
The commanders didn't even flinch.
"Well, there he goes," Marco said with a sigh, pulling a napkin from his pocket and gently wiping a noodle off Ace's cheek. "Jozu, you wanna take over?"
Jozu nodded. "Right. So, as the Captain was saying before his scheduled nap..."
Morgan just stared, his mind struggling to process what he had just witnessed. The fearsome fire fist Ace, the man who had faced down the Admirals and was hunting the son of Rocks, had a sleeping disorder. Roger was a fool, he thought, a flicker of memory of his old friend passing out drunk mid-sentence, but at least he was awake when he gave orders.
Later, after Ace had been woken up by the crew unceremoniously dumping a bucket of water on his head, a tense, historic meeting took place. Morgan was escorted to the infirmary. He stood in the doorway, his massive axe in his hand, and looked at the broken, one-armed figure in the bed.
Whitebeard's one good eye opened. The two old monsters, two relics from the God Valley era, stared at each other in silence. There was no friendship here. Only the profound respect of two who had survived the same storm.
"Morgan," Whitebeard rasped, his voice a low rumble. "You got old."
"So did you, Newgate," Morgan replied, his voice a gravelly echo. "And you got careless."
It was a blunt, brutal truth. Whitebeard just chuckled, a dry, rattling sound. "Gurarara... that I did." He looked at the axe in Morgan's hand. "Still searching for his bloodline?"
"Until the day I die," Morgan said, his voice an unbreakable vow.
"Good," Whitebeard grunted, a flicker of the old fire in his eye. "Kill the brat for me." He then closed his eye, the conversation over.
That night, the party raged on. Morgan stood alone at the stern, watching the stars, a silent, grim specter amidst the joyous chaos.
"Not a fan of parties, yoi?"
He turned. Marco was standing there, two mugs of ale in his hand. He offered one to the old king. Morgan hesitated, then took it.
They drank in silence for a moment, the sound of the party a distant backdrop.
"He's a good kid," Marco said, looking out at Ace, who was now laughing and arm-wrestling with his crew. "A damn fool, but a good kid."
Morgan followed his gaze. He saw the boy who had the smile of his old friend, Roger. He saw the boy who was loved by the son of his old rival, Newgate. He saw a idiot who fell asleep in his own food and was loved by his family for it. He saw a crew that was not bound by fear or ambition, but by a fierce, idiotic love.
He took a long drink of his ale. "The boy is a fool," Morgan grumbled, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. "Just like Roger was."
He looked at Marco, and for the first time, there was a faint, almost imperceptible crack in his forty-year mask of pure, cold hatred. A flicker of something that looked almost like hope.
"Good," he said, turning back to the sea. "The world needs more fools like that."
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Guys ,I am not even top 200 , Sad:(
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