-Real World-
Across the seas, the simultaneous appearance of Gol D. Roger and Edward Newgate sent a cataclysmic shockwave through the world. On the deck of his small ship, Ace stared at the Sky Screen, his heart a maelstrom of emotions too turbulent to name. There stood his biological father, the Pirate King whose shadow had defined and damned his entire existence, standing beside Whitebeard, the only man who had ever shown him what a father's love truly was.]
"Roger... and Pops," Ace whispered, the words catching in his throat like a fishbone. The impossible image of them side-by-side, not as rivals but as ghostly equals, filled him with a profound, bittersweet ache that threatened to buckle his knees.
In that moment, his obsessive manhunt for Teach felt hollow and insignificant. A primal urge took hold—to turn his Striker around and race back to the Moby Dick, to be with the man who had given his cursed life meaning. Ace had always cherished the bonds of family above all else; the thought of losing his father was an agony he couldn't bear to contemplate.
His feelings toward Roger were a tangled knot of resentment and a grudging, unspoken curiosity. Blood was just blood; it meant nothing compared to the years of guidance, acceptance, and love Whitebeard had given him freely. In Ace's heart, there was only one man worthy of being called the Pirate King, and it wasn't the one whose legacy had painted a target on his back from the day he was born. That honor, Ace believed, was being saved for his little brother, Luffy.
The Sky Screen had already delivered its grim prophecy: Robin's testimony had revealed that within five years, the Whitebeard Pirates would be struck from the roster of the Four Emperors, their place usurped by Blackbeard's ascendant crew. The sight of Edward Newgate's spirit now, emerging from the gates of hell itself, shattered any lingering, desperate hope that their father might somehow defy fate and survive the coming storm.
Aboard the Moby Dick, Marco stood beside the giant who had raised him from a boy. His perpetually calm demeanor finally cracked, the weight of inevitable loss pressing down on him. "Pops... I really, really hoped the Sky Screen was wrong about this one."
Tears flowed freely down the faces of hardened pirates, men who had faced down naval armadas without fear. Yet Whitebeard himself remained placid, a gentle smile touching his weathered features. He had made his peace with mortality long ago, having lived a life overflowing with adventure, treasure, and the one thing he had always wanted most: a family. Only one of his sons had ever truly disappointed him, and even that deep wound was beginning to heal.
"Don't stand around with such long faces, you idiots," the World's Strongest Man rumbled, his voice laced with its characteristic gruff affection. "I'm not dead yet! Sons, break out the finest sake we have—we're having a party! Gurarara!"
At Marine Headquarters, a controlled panic rippled through the ranks. Analysts scrambled to process the implications of Roger's spectral return. The seas were already a powder keg; the potential for the late Pirate King's spirit to influence world events was a variable they couldn't possibly calculate.
Garp sat at his desk in an uncharacteristic silence, mechanically crunching his way through a bag of rice crackers while his eyes remained glued to the Sky Screen. His rigid posture and the loud, rhythmic crunching did not escape Sengoku's notice.
"What aren't you telling me, Garp?" the Fleet Admiral demanded, his voice sharp with suspicion. "What secrets are you still hiding about that man?"
"Nothing! I don't know a single thing! You're just imagining it!" Garp protested with a vehemence that was far too loud and a triple denial that only served to confirm Sengoku's deepest suspicions.
On the sun-drenched Sabaody Archipelago, Silvers Rayleigh, the Dark King, raised his sake cup in a solitary toast to the screen. A melancholy smile touched his lips. "You look exactly the same as the day I last saw you, Captain. Still kicking up a storm even from the other side... though after a display like this, I seriously doubt Brook will be joining Luffy's crew now."
-Broadcast-
Back in the chilling atmosphere of the SMILE factory, Gladius tried to rally his partner's crumbling resolve. "Don't give up before we even throw a punch! We are executives of the Donquixote Family! This is the path we chose for ourselves a long time ago!"
Brook observed their escalating panic with the detached amusement of one who has seen empires rise and fall. During the heyday of his own Rumbar Pirates, both Gol D. Roger and Edward Newgate had been little more than ambitious rookies, chasing their dreams across the vast expanse of the Grand Line. The profound irony of having outlived them both was not lost on him.
"Gentlemen, if you would be so kind as to assist me with these titans," Brook requested with an unnerving politeness, as if asking for help carrying groceries rather than summoning the spirits of the dead. "I assure you, you will be compensated for your troubles."
After receiving the Soul King's promise—and privately naming their own desired rewards from the underworld—the two legendary spirits underwent a dramatic transformation. Their ethereal, translucent forms solidified, and their spectral calm was replaced by the focused, predatory intensity of warriors preparing for battle.
"I have prepared suitable vessels for your return to the world of the living," Brook announced, driving his cane sword, the Soul Solid, deep into the factory floor. He spread his skeletal fingers wide, channeling the chilling, otherworldly power of his Yomi Yomi no Mi.
"Yomi: Soul Binding Resurrection!"
Intricate black runes, pulsing with a sickly green light, crawled across the concrete like living tattoos. With a groan of protesting earth, two ornate, black coffins erupted from the ground, their lids creaking open to reveal a pair of Doflamingo's foot soldiers, captured during recent raids on the factory and lying in an enchanted slumber.
The grim ritual began. A vortex of gray ash swirled around the unconscious bodies, clinging to their forms like a supernatural shroud, coating them in thick layers of spiritual essence. Without a moment's hesitation, the souls of Roger and Whitebeard plunged into their new hosts, hungry for the familiar weight of flesh and bone after an eternity in the void.
The ash-covered figures began to twitch and convulse. Their limbs elongated, their torsos broadened, their very features morphing and reshaping beneath the supernatural cocoon. Cracks, like the fissures in ancient pottery, appeared along their skin. When their eyes snapped open, they blazed with the cold, dark power of the underworld.
"It's almost like having my original body back," Roger mused, flexing his newly formed fingers and rolling his shoulders. "I can probably manage about fifty percent of my former strength. Though, I really do miss having a proper blade in my hand."
Whitebeard tested his massive, borrowed frame with slow, deliberate movements, feeling the inherent limitations of the flesh. "The sensation is remarkably similar," he rumbled, his voice a low growl. "Though this technique of yours carries a heavy moral cost." His enhanced senses could feel the precise moment the host souls were ejected, displaced by their return to make way for legends. "I trust you will not abuse such a terrifying power, Soul King."
Machvise's fragile composure finally shattered into a million pieces at the sight of the resurrected pirates taking physical form. "What else can you possibly throw at us?" the golden-furred Beast Titan roared, his voice trembling with a primal fear. "Those are the actual Roger and Whitebeard! How in the hell are we supposed to fight living legends?"
Gladius forced himself to remain analytical, pushing past the cosmic horror unfolding before him. "The old era is over!" he declared, his voice louder than necessary, betraying the fear he was trying to suppress. "This is the time for the new generation! We can't let the Young Master down by cowering before a couple of ghosts!"
His tactical assessment wasn't entirely wrong. Roger was a swordsman without a sword. Whitebeard's devastating Gura Gura no Mi had been reborn into the world and now belonged to another, leaving him with only his immense physical prowess and mastery of Haki. Even legendary pirates had their limits when constrained by ordinary human vessels.
"Stay behind me," Gladius commanded, his Colossal Titan form beginning its ground-shaking advance toward Brook's position. "My size advantage alone will be enough to crush these illusions. Just remember—everything we're seeing is nothing more than elaborate trickery!"
Roger and Whitebeard exchanged a look—a silent communication that spoke volumes of their shared history, their countless battles, and their profound, mutual respect. Despite their legendary rivalry, they had always understood one another on a level no one else could.
"Seems we're being underestimated," they said in perfect, chilling unison, their bodies sinking into the familiar, terrifying battle stances that had once brought the entire Grand Line to its knees.
The two greatest pirates of their generation prepared to deliver a brutal lesson to the new world, to remind them precisely why their names still commanded fear and respect, even from beyond the grave.