"Eh…? EHHHHH?!" Buggy's face twisted into something that defied anatomy itself—eyes bulging, mouth stretching wide, nose twitching as if it might pop clean off. He leaned back, then forward again, staring hard at Scopper Gaban as though sheer disbelief might physically knock the words back into the old man's mouth.
"W-waitwaitwait—hold on!" Buggy spluttered, waving his hands wildly. "You're telling me that that little Ace—Garp's grandson, the snot-nosed brat running around East Blue—is actually Captain's son?! Gaban-san, did you get hit on the head one too many times back in the day?!"
Gaban didn't even bother responding immediately. He simply took a slow sip from his cup, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips. Buggy's eyes darted sideways.
To Shanks. And that's when it hit him. Shanks wasn't laughing. He wasn't shocked. He wasn't even surprised. He was calm—too calm. Buggy's jaw dropped.
"…No way," Buggy whispered, dread and awe colliding in his chest. "You're serious."
Shanks met his gaze and gave a small, knowing nod. Buggy staggered back like he'd been punched.
"S-so… so that means…" Buggy swallowed hard, voice trembling as something uncharacteristically sincere crept in. "That means Ace is really… Captain's blood…"
Then— "SHANKSSSS!"
Buggy whirled on him, grabbing Shanks by the collar and shaking him violently, his limbs flailing in pure emotional overload.
"You bastard! You knew, didn't you?! You knew Ace was our little brother and you didn't tell me?!"
There was no anger in his voice. Just raw, unfiltered joy. The kind that made his eyes shine. Captain's legacy wasn't gone. It was alive. Breathing. Somewhere out there under the same sky.
Shanks burst out laughing, grabbing Buggy's wrists to stop the shaking. "I had my suspicions, yeah," he said casually, scratching his chin. "You were just too stupid to connect the dots."
"YOU SON OF A—" Buggy spluttered, then froze mid-rant. Something else clicked. His expression shifted from joy… to horror.
"Oh no. No no no no no." Buggy's eyes widened again. "That kid idolizes that bastard Rosinante, doesn't he?!"
Shanks raised an eyebrow. Buggy grabbed Shanks' arm with renewed urgency. "We can't let that happen! Absolutely not! We can't let Rosinante steal our little brother away from us! We're sailing back to East Blue right now!"
He started dragging Shanks toward the deck with surprising strength for someone panicking this badly. That's when a lazy, amused voice drifted in from behind them.
"Yeah, sure," Gaban drawled. "Go ahead, Buggy. Try snatching that kid from under Garp's nose."
Buggy stopped dead. His foot hovered in mid-step.
"…Garp?" he repeated slowly.
Gaban nodded, far too pleased. "The Hero of the Marines. That Garp."
Buggy went pale. Flashbacks assaulted him—fists like cannonballs, laughter that shook the sea, a man who threw iron cannonballs by hand and called it 'training.'
"…Oh," Buggy croaked.
Gaban continued, merciless. "Even Rayleigh tried poking around once. Got beaten to a pulp and thrown halfway across the island." Buggy's knees visibly trembled.
"Right," he said weakly. "Yes. Of course. Definitely not doing that."
Shanks finally sobered, placing a hand on Buggy's shoulder. "Don't act hastily," he said quietly. "It's safer for Ace to grow up as Garp's grandson." Buggy looked up at him.
"If the world finds out who Ace really is," Shanks continued, voice low and serious, "the World Government will stop at nothing to erase Captain's bloodline. Garp is the best shield he could have." Buggy clenched his fists.
"…So we wait."
Shanks nodded. "Dawn Island's our resupply point anyway. We can watch from a distance. No rush. And we don't even know if Ace knows the truth yet."
Buggy sniffed, turning away, trying—and failing—to hide the grin creeping back onto his face.
"Heh," he muttered. "Captain's kid, huh…"
"W–wait… doesn't that mean—" Buggy's voice faltered, the manic energy draining from his face as a far more dangerous thought surfaced. "Now that you know about Ace… isn't there a chance that they might learn about it too?"
The words hung heavy in the air. Almost unconsciously, Buggy's gaze drifted to Shanks' left arm—or rather, to what lay etched upon it. That mark. Dark. Subtle. Wrong.
Ever since Shanks had told him about the covenant, Buggy had never been able to look at it the same way. It wasn't just a scar. It was a brand—an oath of allegiance to the so-called Great One, a shackle that granted absolute dominion if its master ever drew near. A leash disguised as power.
Buggy swallowed. For the first time, fear—not for himself, but for someone else—tightened his chest. Shanks noticed. He always did.
Though his expression didn't change, something sharp and quiet passed behind his eyes. It hurt—more than he let on—that Buggy now looked at him with caution. But Shanks didn't blame him. Hell, Shanks himself didn't fully understand how deep the covenant's influence truly ran.
That uncertainty was precisely why he had done everything in his power to keep his distance from the Holy Land ever since learning the truth about Ace. One wrong step. One stray thought. One moment of proximity.
And Ace's identity could be laid bare—willingly or otherwise—before the Celestial Dragons.
That was a risk Shanks would never take. He had tried everything. He had searched for answers in forgotten texts, in whispers among the giants, in the depths of the sea itself. He had even gone so far as to attempt self-mutilation, gritting his teeth as his blade hovered over his own arm—only to realize it was meaningless.
The moment true intent to sever the mark formed in his mind, he felt it. A presence. Watching. Waiting. The covenant wasn't just etched into flesh. It was etched into will. Gaban exhaled slowly, breaking the silence.
"I don't think you need to worry about that—for now," he said, his tone measured but grim. "As long as Shanks doesn't return to the Holy Land, Ace should be safe from direct influence."
Buggy let out a shaky breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
"But," Gaban continued, eyes narrowing as they flicked to Shanks' arm, "that thing on him is a ticking time bomb. The longer he bears it, the deeper the connection grows. Covenants like that don't stay shallow forever."
Buggy's blood ran cold. Shanks turned his head slightly, meeting Gaban's gaze. Gaban didn't flinch.
"Don't even think about it," he said flatly. "Even if I helped you sever the arm, it wouldn't matter. If your will isn't strong enough, you can't break the connection by force."
His voice dropped, heavy with certainty.
"And trust me, Shanks… your Haoshoku isn't strong enough yet to defy the will imprinted in that curse." The words landed like a hammer. Shanks closed his eyes and let out a quiet sigh—not of anger, but of resignation. So close. That was one of the reasons he had come to Elbaf. One of the reasons he had sought out Gaban in the first place. And it still wasn't enough.
Buggy, meanwhile, stood frozen. "…H-hold on," he stammered, eyes darting wildly between the two. "Did you just say—sever your arm?!" He spun on Shanks, face twisting between horror and outrage.
"Are you insane?!" Buggy shouted. "You were actually planning to cut your own arm off and you didn't think to tell me?!"
Shanks opened his mouth— "Don't you dare shrug!" Buggy yelled, grabbing him by the collar again, but this time his hands were shaking. "You idiot! That's not something you decide on your own!"
For all his bluster, Buggy's voice cracked. He laughed sometimes. He screamed often. But fear like this? That was real.
"…Damn it," Buggy muttered, teeth clenched, eyes burning as he stared at the cursed mark again. "You're really carrying something awful, aren't you…"
Shanks didn't answer. He didn't need to. Buggy hesitated. That alone said everything. For a man who usually blurted out whatever crossed his mind without a second thought, the pause was heavy—measured, almost uncharacteristic. But in the end, concern won out over pride.
"…Do you think," Buggy said slowly, voice lower now, "Rosinante might have a way to—y'know—get rid of that thing, Gaban-san?"
The name landed like a stone dropped into still water. Shanks' brow lifted a fraction. Of course Buggy would think of him. They both knew it. Ever since Shanks had accepted the covenant, Rosinante had kept his distance—deliberate, unmistakable. The easy warmth that once defined their bond had faded into something colder, sharper. They weren't enemies… but they were no longer carefree friends either.
Rosinante had made his stance painfully clear. Cross this line, and I will stand against you. Not as a pirate. Not as a rival. But as a calamity. Neither Shanks nor Buggy wanted to imagine a world where the Red-Haired Pirates had to face that monster. Gaban folded his arms, eyes narrowing as he weighed the name with care.
"Rosinante…" he murmured.
To Gaban, the younger generation was full of prodigies—Shanks and Buggy foremost among them, the spiritual sons of Roger's crew. But Rosinante was different. He was cut from the same cloth as Garp himself, a monster honed by the harshest crucible imaginable.
The last time Gaban had met him—here, on Elbaf—he had felt it. That unease. That gap. Gaban could no longer measure the depth of that young man. And that terrified him. Even now, at his peak, with age yet to dull his blade, Gaban knew the truth: He had no confidence in beating Rosinante.
"…If it's that brat," Gaban said at last, a reluctant edge in his voice, "he really might have a way."
Buggy's eyes widened, hope flaring instantly.
"Maybe you should try, Shanks," Gaban continued. "Approach him. If anyone might understand how to sever a covenant like that, it's Rosinante."
Shanks said nothing. But Gaban saw it—the hesitation flickering behind those crimson eyes. Shanks didn't want to rely on anyone else. He never had. Even coming to Gaban had been a decision weighed down by weeks of thought. Shanks had his pride, and more than that—he had his rivalry.
Rosinante wasn't just a friend. He was a mirror. And Shanks refused to ask for help from someone he still intended to surpass.
"Shanks," Buggy blurted out, stepping forward. "I can talk to Ross! If I really ask, that bastard would help us—no question!" He laughed nervously, waving his hand as if to brush the seriousness aside.
"Sure, he'll never shut up about it. He'll remind us for years that we went crying to him for help, but who cares?! We can deal with that!" Buggy grinned, desperate but genuine. "If Gaban-san thinks there's a chance, then that means Rosinante definitely has a way!"
Shanks looked at him. Really looked at him. And his smile—when it came—was painful. Soft.
Grateful. Heavy with things left unsaid.
"Forget it, Buggy," Shanks said quietly. "We'll find a solution ourselves." Buggy stiffened. "Shanks—"
"Now that I know it's possible to break the connection with a strong enough will," Shanks continued, eyes steady, "I'll work toward that. I'll handle it."
There was no anger in his voice. Only resolve. Buggy opened his mouth to argue—to whine, to threaten, to blackmail his way into forcing the issue like he always did. But then he saw Shanks' face. And he understood. This wasn't stubbornness.
This was pride—the kind that defined men like Shanks. The kind that would rather bleed than kneel. The kind that refused to let another carry his burden, even if it meant suffering longer. Buggy clenched his fists, torn in half.
One part of him screamed to run to Rosinante immediately, damn the consequences. The other stayed rooted, unwilling to trample on the pride of the man who had stood beside him since childhood.
"…Tch," Buggy muttered, turning away. "You're such an idiot." But his voice was thick. And for once, Shanks didn't laugh.
****
"You're fortunate," I said lightly, tearing into the slab of roasted meat that had been offered to me, juices dripping down my fingers, "that the minks share a bond with the Kozuki clan."
I chuckled as I chewed. The flavor was bold—smoky, rich, laced with unfamiliar herbs and a technique unlike anything I had tasted before. Mink cooking had a primal edge to it, honest and unrefined, yet layered with care. Novel. Memorable.
Had circumstances been different, this deck would have been slick with blood. Instead, I sat as an honored guest aboard the Nox Pirates' newly acquired galleon. They had braced themselves for annihilation when young Pekoms had struck back against me after they defeated the pirates—many of them clearly expecting me to finish what they had started—but I had no intention of slaughtering them.
Not when the Minks had stood beside the Kozuki for centuries. Not when, in the coming storm against the World Government, allies like them would be invaluable. Across from me, Pedro sat cross-legged on the deck, posture straight despite the fatigue etched into his young face. He bowed slightly, tail flicking with restrained tension.
"I sincerely apologize for Pekoms' rude behavior," Pedro said earnestly. "And… I am truly grateful that you chose to spare us."
My gaze drifted to the side. Pekoms lay propped against a crate, wrapped in layers of fresh bandages, his normally fierce lion features dulled by pain and humiliation. He muttered something under his breath—half-growl, half-protest—before a sharp smack landed on the back of his head.
"Shut it," Zepo hissed.
The older mink's eyes were hard, far more shaken than he let on. Zepo understood just how close they had come to oblivion. He knew—without a shred of doubt—that had I taken Pekoms' reckless assault as a true insult, every mink aboard this ship would already be feeding the depths. I swallowed another bite and leaned back slightly.
"I never expected to see this many minks away from Zou," I said, glancing upward. "And flying a Jolly Roger, no less."
My eyes followed the black flag snapping in the wind atop the mast—bold, defiant, unmistakable. Beside the galleon, my own caravel was tied securely, being dragged along in its wake, creaking softly as the waves carried us forward. Pedro scratched the back of his head, offering a sheepish laugh.
"Well… everyone wanted to make sure we had a Jolly Roger of our own," he admitted. "Even if we're just an expedition party, we thought it was only fitting."
There was pride in his voice. Naivety too—but the kind born of youth and unbroken dreams. I studied him more closely then. Despite being around the same age as me, Pedro carried himself with the weight of responsibility far beyond his years. And yet, beneath that calm exterior, I could sense it—the awareness. He knew how thin the line had been. He knew that even if one of the Dukes of Zou had been present, victory against me would have been uncertain at best.
I met his gaze again. "An expedition party…?" I said thoughtfully. "I wonder what exactly the minks are searching for in a sea as vast—and as merciless—as this."
My tone was casual. Deceptively so.
"An expedition implies a goal," I continued. "Surely you didn't sail into the New World without one."
I already knew the answer. But I wanted to hear how they framed it. The New World was not forgiving to the careless. Too many factions lurked in the shadows, hunting whispers and half-truths. The Poneglyphs were no longer some forgotten relic of the past—many knew what they represented. Many sought them.
The Roger Pirates were not unique in their ambition. They were unique in their means. Roger's Voice of All Things. Kozuki Oden's mastery of the ancient script.
Without someone who could truly decipher the Poneglyphs, even possessing one meant nothing. Countless crews had reached that dead end—armed with fragments of history they could not read, chasing a truth forever out of reach.
I watched Pedro carefully, measuring every breath, every flick of his ears. If these minks were careless with secrets like that… They wouldn't survive long in this sea.
Pedro didn't answer immediately. For just a fraction of a second, his ears twitched, the subtle tell of a mind working at full speed. Then his expression softened, shoulders easing as if my question had carried no weight at all. When he finally spoke, his tone was light—almost embarrassed.
"To be honest…" he said, rubbing the back of his neck, tail swaying lazily behind him, "it really wasn't anything that grand." I raised an eyebrow but said nothing, continuing to eat, letting the silence stretch.
"We were born on Zou," Pedro continued, glancing briefly at the other minks scattered across the deck. Some were patching sails, others tending to wounds, but all of them were listening. "A place that's safe. Isolated. Beautiful… but also very small, in its own way." He laughed quietly.
"Everyone talks about the outside world like it's some endless storybook. Islands that float in the sky, seas that burn, kingdoms that vanish overnight." His eyes gleamed with something genuine now—wanderlust, unfeigned and sincere. "At some point, we just… wanted to see it for ourselves."
A simple story. Too simple.
"We didn't want to grow old wondering what might've been out here," Pedro went on smoothly. "So we gathered whoever was willing, painted a flag, and set sail. An expedition, sure—but more like a journey of experience than anything else."
He shrugged. "If we survive long enough, we go home with stories. If we don't…" His smile tightened just a little. "Well, at least we'll have lived."
It was flawless. Not a single word too many. No grand claims, no contradictions. Just youthful recklessness wrapped in honesty—exactly the kind of explanation that made people stop digging.
The younger minks nodded along instinctively, some grinning, others puffing their chests with quiet pride. Even Zepo crossed his arms and snorted in agreement, as if the idea of it all being an impulsive adventure made perfect sense.
I chewed slowly, eyes never leaving Pedro. Interesting. He hadn't lied with fear. He hadn't stumbled. He hadn't overcompensated. He had simply redirected the current—like a seasoned sailor turning a ship just enough to avoid a reef without anyone noticing.
For someone barely past his teens… that level of composure was rare. I swallowed, wiped my hand against my coat, and let out a soft chuckle.
"Heh… impulse-driven adventurers, huh?" Pedro met my gaze calmly, golden eyes steady. "Something like that."
The deck creaked beneath us as the ship cut through the moonlit waves, the night wind carrying the scent of salt and blood long since washed away. On the surface, the conversation had ended.
But beneath it—I smiled faintly. Pedro had just proven that the minks weren't merely strong.
They were careful and smart.
I let out a low chuckle, the sound barely carrying over the creak of the deck and the hiss of the waves. Reaching for another slab of sea king meat, I leaned forward, elbows resting on my knees. The firelight caught my eyes as my voice dropped—soft, almost intimate, meant for him alone.
"Let me give you a friendly reminder, Pedro," I said quietly. "Out here on the seas… there are people who can see what's really moving inside your head. And lying to people like that doesn't hide the truth—" I took a slow bite, chewing deliberately. "—it only outlines it."
For the second time since I'd boarded their ship, Pedro stiffened. "Unfortunately for you," I continued calmly, "I happen to be one of those people."
Pedro's ears twitched sharply. For a heartbeat, his expression didn't change—wide eyes, a polite mask of confusion, the look of someone who had nothing to hide. A perfect act. If I hadn't already peeled him open. Then I spoke a single word.
"Poneglyphs."
The reaction was instant. Pedro shot backward, claws scraping against the deck as he created distance in a flash, instincts screaming louder than reason. The fire between us flickered violently as his haki spiked without restraint, the air itself tightening. Around us, the younger minks froze mid-motion—hands tightening on weapons, eyes darting between us in alarm.
"That's what you're really chasing," I said evenly, unfazed. "Isn't it?"
I took another bite of the sea king, the sound of tearing flesh obscene in the sudden silence. Pedro's breath came sharp and uneven. His pupils were dilated, fur standing on end, every predatory instinct demanding either flight or a suicidal strike. His mind was racing—I could practically feel it unraveling.
"How…?" he managed, the word slipping out hoarse and disbelieving.
How could I know? How could anyone know? I didn't answer him. I didn't need to. I simply chewed, swallowed, and met his gaze with a calm so absolute it was terrifying.
The moonlight spilled across the deck, painting long shadows between us. The truth he'd tried so carefully to bury now lay exposed—not because he'd spoken it, but because the seas had teeth.
And I had just reminded him—some monsters didn't need confessions to see straight through you.
The deck seemed to tighten around us. Every mink within earshot went rigid, muscles coiling, weapons half-drawn yet frozen in place. Their heightened senses screamed danger, but none of them dared move—not when the pressure in the air felt like an invisible hand closing around their throats. Even the sea itself seemed to still, the only sound the soft crackle of the fire and the distant slap of waves against the hull.
I spoke again, unhurried, each word deliberate—measured. "You know," I said lightly, "whether you choose to believe it or not… I'm something of a poneglyph enthusiast myself." A ripple went through them. Ears flattened. Tails stiffened. Several of the younger minks instinctively took a step back.
"I've always been fascinated by relics of history," I continued, as if discussing the weather. "Especially the ones like the one you guard on Zou." That was it.
Pedro's world shattered. His chest tightened as if the air had been ripped from his lungs. For a heartbeat, he genuinely forgot how to breathe. His worst fear—no, the fear he had never allowed himself to name—had just stepped out of the shadows and spoken with absolute certainty.
He knows. This wasn't rumor. This wasn't guesswork. This man wasn't fishing—he was stating fact. The secret the Minks had guarded for centuries. The oath bound in blood to the Kozuki clan. The burden passed down through generations beneath the Whale Tree.
Pedro's legs trembled, sweat soaking into his fur as his eyes widened in horror. His mind raced uselessly, grasping for explanations that refused to come. How could anyone outside Zou know? That knowledge alone should have been impossible. I didn't slow down.
"The poneglyph hidden beneath the Whale Tree," I went on calmly, "is special—even among its kind." The words landed like a blade between the ribs. "I've always wanted to see it with my own eyes."
I turned my gaze fully to Pedro. He flinched.
By now, sweat was pouring down his face, his body locked between instinct and terror. He couldn't attack. He couldn't run. He couldn't even shout a warning. The weight of what I knew pressed him into the deck harder than any physical force ever could.
I knew where it was. Exactly where.
"I wonder," I said casually, as if asking a favor between acquaintances, "if you'd be willing to spare me a small piece of the Vivre Card you're carrying."
The silence that followed was absolute. A few minks visibly recoiled. One dropped his weapon without realizing it. Another swallowed so hard it echoed in the stillness. Zepo's eyes burned with fury and fear in equal measure, his fists clenched white, knowing full well that drawing blood here would doom them all.
"So I can pay Zou a visit," I finished softly.
Pedro stood there, shaking, heart pounding like a war drum in his ears. In that moment, he understood the truth with terrifying clarity—this wasn't a negotiation. This wasn't curiosity. This was a monster politely knocking on the door of a secret the world was never meant to know.