"Is it true…?" The question came quietly—but it carried a weight that did not belong in a place like this. Donquixote Mjosgard did not avert his gaze this time. His voice remained composed, but beneath it lay something sharper… something deliberate.
"Doflamingo shared… certain revelations about the Holy Land." A faint pause. "In order to make me his… he believed I deserved to know the truth." His fingers rested lightly against the edge of the table. "So I want to hear it from you."
A breath. "Is the throne truly empty…?" The garden seemed to still. "…or is that a lie?" His eyes narrowed ever so slightly. "And you… Gorosei-sama…" A dangerous line to cross. "…are you truly someone who has been granted eternal life?"
Silence followed. Not the gentle quiet of a garden, but the suffocating stillness before something breaks. Saint Jaygarcia Saturn did not respond immediately. For the first time since Mjosgard had started this entire conversation, the Elder paused mid-motion. His fingers stilled against the teacup. His gaze—ancient, immeasurable—lifted slowly to meet Mjosgard's.
Something shifted. Not outwardly. But in the unseen space between them. Because this was no longer a conversation between superior and subordinate. This was a man standing at the edge of forbidden knowledge—and choosing to step forward. Saturn studied him. Longer than necessary.
Weighing. Measuring. Re-evaluating. This was no longer just a useful pawn. This was someone who had begun to see.
"…You continue to surprise me, Mjosgard." His voice was softer now—but far more dangerous. "Each passing day, you become… more valuable." A faint tilt of his head. "And more dangerous."
The words were not a threat. They were an observation. "Most within the Holy Land," Saturn continued, "dismiss what Doflamingo spreads as rumors. Speculation. Madness."
A slight pause. "Even those who suspect… lack the courage to ask." His gaze sharpened. "But you…" A faint, almost imperceptible smile. "…ask directly."
The air grew heavier. Then Saturn leaned back slightly. "Tell me, Mjosgard…" He did not answer the question. Not yet. Instead— he turned it.
"Are you… interested in the secret of eternal life?" The words were simple. But beneath them lay something vast. Something ancient. Something that had shaped the world itself. Mjosgard did not hesitate.
"Of course I am." His answer was honest. Unfiltered. "I would be lying if I said otherwise." A faint exhale. "Who wouldn't want to live forever?"
For a brief moment—just a brief moment—something unreadable passed through Saturn's eyes. Not pride. Not amusement. Something else. Something… older.
"Immortality…" Saturn murmured, almost to himself. His fingers traced the rim of the cup again. "You speak of it as though it were a gift." A pause. Then—his gaze returned to Mjosgard. Sharp. Piercing.
"Tell me… if you were granted eternity…" His voice dropped slightly. "…what would you do with it?" The question hung in the air. Not rhetorical. Not casual. A test. Because the truth was—
Saturn had not denied anything. Not the throne. Not the immortality. And that silence…spoke louder than any answer he could have given.
****
Dawn Island, East Blue
The salty breeze rolled lazily across the shores of Fusha Village, rustling the palm leaves overhead as laughter rang beneath their shade. A crude wooden crate served as a table, and around it sat one of the most ridiculous gambling circles the East Blue had ever witnessed.
At the center of it all—sweating, scowling, and already regretting his life choices—was Buggy.
"Gyahahaha! You brats really think you can beat me?" Buggy slammed his hand dramatically onto the crate, cards fanned out like he was some legendary high-stakes gambler. "I've sailed the entire Grand Line and beyond! I've played cards with monsters! You're looking at the greatest card shark alive!"
Across from him sat his opponents. Four children. Little Luffy, barely five, sat cross-legged with his tongue sticking out in concentration, his cards held upside down. Ace leaned back casually, one leg propped over the other, smirking like he already owned Buggy's money.
Sabo adjusted his imaginary "gentleman's glasses," eyes sharp and calculating. And Uta… Uta simply smiled sweetly—the most dangerous one of them all. Behind Buggy, a short distance away, the rest of the Red Hair crew lounged against the sand, watching the spectacle unfold.
"Ten berries says Buggy cries this round," one of them muttered.
"Make it twenty," another replied, barely holding in laughter.
Back at the table— "Alright!" Buggy grinned, already imagining his victory. "Show your hands, you little amateurs!"
Ace placed his cards down first. "Pair."
Sabo followed. "Two pair."
Uta gently placed hers. "Straight."
Buggy's eye twitched. Luffy, with dramatic flair, slammed his cards down. "Uhhh… this one wins!"
Buggy leaned forward… then froze. "…That's not even a valid hand."
Luffy grinned. "But I got more cards than you!"
"That's not how the game works!!!"
"Wait—" Sabo suddenly leaned in, tapping the table. "Buggy, why do you have six cards?" Silence. All eyes slowly shifted to Buggy. Sweat trickled down his face.
"…Strategic advantage?" he tried weakly.
Ace snorted. "You were cheating?!"
"Oi! Don't act like you brats are innocent!" Buggy shot back, pointing accusingly. Right on cue, a card slipped out from Luffy's sleeve. Another fell from Ace's hat. Sabo quietly slid two extra cards under the crate with his foot. And Uta… Uta simply tilted her head as three cards peeked out from behind her back like they'd been there all along. The crew watching from afar burst into laughter.
"THEY'RE ALL CHEATING!"
"And Buggy's still losing!"
Buggy slammed both hands on the table. "THIS IS RIGGED! THIS WHOLE GAME IS RIGGED!"
"Pay up," Ace said calmly, extending his hand.
"Yeah!" Luffy chirped. "You said real money!"
Buggy clutched his pouch like it was his lifeline. "You greedy little demons…!"
Uta leaned forward, smiling innocently. "A deal is a deal, Uncle Buggy."
That did it. With the expression of a man watching his soul leave his body, Buggy slowly emptied his coin pouch onto the crate. The kids cheered.
Luffy immediately grabbed a handful. "I'm rich!!!"
"You were rich five minutes ago," Sabo muttered.
"Now I'm richer!"
Ace smirked, flipping a coin. "Man, pirates are easy."
From the sidelines, one of the crew wiped tears from his eyes. "Vice-captain, huh…?"
"Those little brats got him good," another laughed.
Buggy, meanwhile, sat frozen—utterly defeated—as the children divided his hard-earned money. "…I lost… to a bunch of toddlers…"
Luffy looked up at him with a wide grin. "Wanna play again?" Buggy stared at him. Then immediately grabbed his empty pouch, ready to walk away.
"NO MORE GAMBLING WITH CHILDREN!!!"
"You sure about that, Buggy-san…?" Buggy had barely taken three dramatic steps away—head hung low, soul crushed—when Ace's voice stopped him dead in his tracks. The clown slowly turned. And what he saw… made his eyes bulge so wide they nearly popped out of his skull.
Little Ace sat there, legs crossed like a seasoned crime boss, casually flipping through a thick stack of crumpled berries. Each note had been painstakingly smoothed out, straightened, and stacked with exaggerated care. The pile was… obscene.
Buggy's money. All of it. Ace licked his thumb and continued counting with theatrical flair. "One hundred… two hundred… wow, Buggy-san, you were hiding quite the stash."
Sabo leaned in, inspecting the pile. "Honestly, I'm impressed. Didn't think you had this much."
Uta smiled sweetly. "He did say he was the greatest, didn't he?"
Luffy, meanwhile, had both hands already buried in the pile. "SHISHISHI! It's so much!!!"
Buggy froze. A vein throbbed on his forehead. Then another. His trembling hand slowly reached forward, his voice cracking with emotion. "T-That's… mine…" The sunlight gleamed off the money like it was the One Piece itself. Buggy's despair… instantly transformed into burning determination.
"…Fine." He turned sharply, stomping back and dropping onto the crate with a thud. "Fine! ONE LAST GAME!" The kids looked up, amused. "I'm getting everything back!" Buggy slammed his palm on the table. "Double or nothing! I'll win it all in one hand—hook or crook!"
Ace grinned. "Confident, aren't you?"
"That's because I am the greatest!" Buggy snapped, though a bead of sweat betrayed him. Then Uta tilted her head innocently. "Uncle Buggy… what are you betting?"
Buggy opened his mouth. Closed it. Froze. His hand instinctively reached for his pouch. Empty. His boots? Gone. His coat? Already wagered two rounds ago and currently being worn by Luffy like a cape. A horrifying realization dawned upon him.
"I… have nothing left…" A heavy silence fell over the table. Then—a spark lit up in Buggy's eyes. "WAIT!" he suddenly shouted, slamming the crate again. "I've got something way more valuable!"
The kids leaned in.
Buggy puffed up his chest, pointing dramatically toward the distance. "How about… I bet Shanks' straw hat?!" The world seemed to pause. "…It once belonged to the Pirate King himself—"
THWACK!
A boot came flying across the beach like a cannonball and smacked Buggy square on the back of his head, planting his face straight into the sand.
"BUGGY!!!" Shanks' roar echoed across the shore. From the distance, the red-haired pirate stood with one boot still raised, his other already missing. "You bastard! I'll pluck that stupid nose of yours off if you even think about wagering my hat!"
The crew behind him burst into uncontrollable laughter. "HE SAID IT AGAIN!"
"Man's got a death wish!"
Back at the table—the children were already rolling on the sand, clutching their stomachs. "SHISHISHISHI!!!" Luffy kicked his legs in the air.
Ace wiped a tear from his eye. "You almost died just now…"
Uta giggled. "Uncle Buggy, you're amazing."
Buggy groaned, face still buried in the sand. "…I hate all of you…" But then—his eyes snapped open. Right there. Right in front of him. The stack of berries. Unattended. Unprotected. Glorious. Buggy's hand moved before his brain could catch up.
SNATCH!
In one swift motion, he grabbed the entire stack and bolted. "GYAHAHAHAHA! FINDERS KEEPERS!!!"
For a split second—silence.
Then—"HEY!" Ace shot up instantly.
"THAT'S OUR MONEY!!!" Sabo yelled.
"BUGGY!!!" Uta shouted, already chasing.
"COME BACK!!!" Luffy screamed, sprinting after him with wild laughter.
What followed was pure chaos. Buggy sprinted down the shoreline like a man possessed, clutching the money to his chest, cackling like a lunatic. Behind him, four tiny demons gave chase with terrifying speed.
"GET HIM!"
"CUT HIM OFF!"
"Luffy, catch him; that's all our meat money!"
"NIKUUUUUU!!!"
From the sidelines, the Red Hair crew watched the chase unfold across the beach—Buggy zigzagging wildly, tripping over driftwood, and nearly face-planting twice while four children closed in like seasoned bounty hunters. One of the crew shook his head, grinning. "...That's the vice-captain of our Red Hair Pirates, huh? You sure we didn't join the wrong crew…? "
Shanks sighed, rubbing his forehead. "…I have to sail with that idiot for the rest of my life, huh…"
In the distance—"NOOOO THEY'RE GAINING ON ME!!!" Buggy screamed.
Luffy launched forward, arms stretching out—"GOT YOU!!!"
"WAIT—NO—!" The beach erupted in laughter once more as Buggy was tackled into the sand, the money scattering into the air like confetti.
"They're growing up fast… aren't they?" Yasopp's voice carried a quiet weight as his sharp eyes followed the chaos unfolding along the shoreline—Luffy clinging to Buggy's leg, Ace trying to pry the stolen money loose, Sabo barking out strategies like a seasoned tactician, and Uta laughing as she darted in to snatch back a handful of berries.
For a moment, the world felt… simple. Shanks, lounging lazily against the trunk of a palm tree, glanced over with a grin. "Wouldn't your son be about the same age, Yasopp?"
The words slipped out casually. Too casually. The effect was immediate. Yasopp's smile faded—not dramatically, not loudly—but enough. His gaze lingered on the children for a second longer before shifting away, toward the endless horizon. The sea breeze tugged at his hair, but it did little to ease the heaviness that settled in his chest.
If there was one thing he couldn't laugh off…It was that. He already knew. Banchina was gone. And Usopp… was growing up without him.
"…You really know how to kill the mood, don't you, Captain?" Lucky Roux muttered, letting out a long sigh as he lowered the half-eaten turkey leg in his hand. For once, even his appetite dulled.
Shanks blinked—then scratched the back of his head sheepishly. "Ah… yeah… my bad." The laughter from the beach suddenly felt distant. A rare, uncomfortable silence settled among the crew. Then, a thin trail of smoke curled into the evening air.
"Speaking of growing up…" Benn Beckman's calm voice cut through the moment like a blade, steady and deliberate. He exhaled slowly, eyes fixed on the horizon where the sky burned gold and crimson. "We might want to start doing the same."
The others turned toward him. Beckman didn't rush his words. "We've been called the strongest rookie crew for a while now," he continued, tone measured. "But that title doesn't mean much anymore. Not in the waters we're sailing."
His gaze sharpened slightly. "If we truly intend to reach the One Piece… if we're serious about that dream of yours, Shanks… then we need to step into a different league." The air shifted. Subtly. But unmistakably.
"Are we still considered rookies?" Shanks asked, adjusting the straw hat atop his head, his tone light—almost absentminded.
Beckman scoffed, shaking his head. "We stopped being rookies a long time ago. The world just hasn't updated the name yet."
That was the truth of it. They had clashed with Emperor's crews—and lived. They had slipped through the jaws of marine admirals more than once. Their names were whispered across the seas, not with curiosity… but with caution. They weren't rookies. They were a storm waiting to be acknowledged.
For a moment, Shanks said nothing. The laughter of children echoed faintly behind him. The waves rolled in, steady and eternal. Then he inhaled deeply. And when he exhaled… something changed. The easygoing grin softened—not disappearing, but sharpening into something quieter… more dangerous.
His posture straightened. The air around him seemed to still. Even the crew felt it. This wasn't the carefree man who laughed and drank and gambled away afternoons. This was the captain.
"Yeah…" Shanks murmured, his voice low now, grounded with intent. His hand rested lightly on the brim of the straw hat—that hat—casting a shadow over his eyes. "I suppose it's about time."
He lifted his gaze toward the vast ocean ahead. And in that moment, there was no hesitation left in him.
"We've wandered long enough." The wind picked up, carrying the scent of salt and something far more ominous. A promise. A declaration. Shanks' lips curled into a faint, confident smile.
"So let's carve out our place in the New World." His voice wasn't loud. It didn't need to be. It carried. "We'll raise our flag… and make it clear to everyone out there—" The crew straightened instinctively. Even Beckman's eyes flickered with approval. "That the Red Hair Pirates..." A pause. Then—"…aren't just passing through."
In the distance, a wave crashed against the shore. Everyone present already knew this moment had been coming. It wasn't sudden. It wasn't impulsive. It had been building ever since that day in Elbaf—more than six months ago—when they had witnessed, with their own eyes, what it truly meant to stand at the apex of the world.
That day had stripped away any lingering illusions. The New World wasn't ruled by strength alone. It was ruled by monsters.
"So…" Hongo's voice broke the silence, calm but thoughtful as he leaned back beneath a neighboring palm, arms loosely folded. "Who do you have in mind, Beckman? Which of the Four Emperors are we going after?"
As the crew's doctor, Hongo wasn't one to shy away from risk—but neither did he tolerate recklessness. There was a fine line between ambition and suicide, and among the Emperors, that line was razor thin. Not all enemies were meant to be challenged blindly. Beckman didn't answer immediately.
The cigarette between his fingers burned slowly as his sharp gaze drifted across the horizon, weighing options that could very well decide the fate of everyone gathered there.
Then—"The Donquixote Pirates are out of the question." No hesitation. No room for debate. "With a monster like Rosinante among them…" Beckman exhaled, smoke trailing into the evening air, "…going after them would be nothing short of suicide."
Silence. Heavy. Absolute. No one argued. Not a single voice rose in protest. Because every man there remembered. They remembered Elbaf. They remembered the sky splitting. They remembered the World Tree—that ancient, immovable titan—cleaved as if it were nothing more than paper beneath a blade. And they remembered something else.
Something far more unsettling. Their captain's hand… trembling. Just for a moment. Just enough. Fear. Not hesitation. Not doubt. Fear. It had been a stark reminder—one none of them had spoken about since—that no matter how far they had come, no matter how strong they had become… There were still beings in this world who stood on an entirely different plane.
Rosinante was one of them. Beckman's eyes shifted subtly toward Shanks, studying him in silence. Watching. Waiting. Because pride… had broken greater crews than theirs.
And Shanks—for all his laughter, for all his recklessness—was still a man who carried a name, a reputation, and a will that could clash with emperors. If there was even a hint of wounded pride… If there was even a flicker of defiance against that decision… It would show now.
But Shanks said nothing. He sat there quietly, the brim of his straw hat casting a shadow over his eyes, the ocean breeze tugging gently at his cloak. No argument. No resistance. No ego. Just… understanding. A silent acknowledgment. That they were not ready to face someone like Rosinante. Beckman exhaled, tension easing from his shoulders.
Because that—more than anything—was why this crew stood where it did today. Shanks wasn't just strong. He wasn't just fearless. He was something far rarer. A captain who knew when not to fight. A man who would rather swallow his pride than gamble with the lives of his crew.
And in the world they sailed…that was a strength far greater than brute force. Lucky Roux let out a low chuckle, though there was respect in his eyes. "Guess that settles that."
"Yeah," Hongo nodded quietly. "We're aiming high—but not suicidal." The mood shifted—not lighter, but steadier.
"With them off the table…" Beckman's voice remained calm, but there was a weight behind every word now, the kind that came from experience—not speculation. "The next obvious target would be the Whitebeard Pirates."
A few heads subtly nodded. It made sense. If one sought to rise in the New World, there was no ignoring the name of Edward Newgate—the man who stood like an unshakable pillar at the center of it all. But Beckman didn't pause long enough for that thought to take root.
"…But I'd strongly suggest we avoid them as well." That drew a few glances—not disagreement, but curiosity. Beckman flicked the ash from his cigarette, his eyes narrowing slightly as he continued. "The issue isn't just strength. It's scale." His gaze swept across his crew.
"We're compact. Elite. Every one of us can hold our own in a fight—that's our advantage." Then his tone hardened. "But the Whitebeard Pirates… aren't just a crew."
"They're a fleet." A presence. A force of nature that spanned dozens of ships, hundreds of fighters—each division led by monsters in their own right.
"Engaging them doesn't mean clashing with one captain," Beckman continued. "It means wading into an ocean of enemies who fight like a family and die like martyrs."
Lucky Roux exhaled slowly. "Yeah… that's not a fight. That's a war."
"And we don't have the numbers for a war," Hongo added quietly. Beckman gave a slight nod.
"Exactly." He shifted his stance slightly, his tone lowering further. "And there's more." A pause. "The Whitebeard Pirates are currently acting as the vanguard—whether intentionally or not—against the World Government's attempts to push back into the New World." That drew sharper attention.
"If we move against them now," Beckman continued, "we're not just picking a fight with Whitebeard…" His eyes darkened. "…we risk disrupting a balance that's keeping far worse forces occupied."
A brief silence followed. Everyone understood what he meant without him needing to say it outright. The New World wasn't just pirates clashing for territory. It was a fragile, violent equilibrium. Tip one piece too far, and everything collapsed.
"And," Beckman added, almost as an afterthought—but one that carried significant weight, "interfering with Whitebeard right now could easily draw the attention… or even the wrath… of the Donquixote Pirates."
That alone was enough. No one spoke. No one needed to. They had already crossed that thought off their list the moment it formed. Beckman took one final drag before flicking the cigarette aside, grinding it into the sand beneath his boot.
"So—" He turned back toward the sea. "That leaves us with two." The wind picked up slightly, carrying the distant sound of waves crashing against the shore. "The Beast Pirates."
A name that brought with it images of brutality, chaos, and raw, unrelenting strength. A crew built on power. On survival of the fittest. Then—"The Blood Steel Pirates."
Less talked about. But no less dangerous. A crew known not just for strength but for cunning, discipline, and an almost militaristic structure under the lead of Scarlett that made them unpredictable in a different way.
Lucky Roux let out a low whistle. "So it's either walking into a den of beasts…" "…or stepping onto a battlefield where every move could be a gamble," Hongo finished.
Beckman gave a slight nod. "No easy paths." Shanks, who had remained silent through it all, finally shifted. His fingers tapped lightly against the hilt at his side—not restless, but thoughtful. His gaze drifted toward the horizon once more. The playful warmth from earlier was gone. Not replaced by coldness—but by clarity.
"Beasts… or steel, huh…" he murmured. A faint smile tugged at his lips. "Either way…" His presence sharpened—subtle, but undeniable. "…we'll have to prove we belong."
Behind him, his crew stood a little straighter. Not because they were ordered to. But because they felt it. This wasn't just another decision. This was the first real step. Into a world that would no longer see them as rising stars…but as contenders.