The lookout's frantic shouts turned into stunned, incoherent babbling.
Below, on the decks of the Moby Dick and the surrounding ships, conversations died. Every pirate stared, jaws agape, at the impossible sight racing towards them.
It was Ace's small, high-speed ship, yes... but it was being towed by a whale so colossal it dwarfed the Moby Dick itself. It was moving at a speed that made the sea boil, a tiny lighthouse perched jauntily on its scarred head. Crowded onto the deck of the small ship was the most bizarre collection of figures imaginable.
Marco, his mind already racing, took flight and landed lightly on the railing of the returning vessel. He had to take a full second to process the scene.
There was Ace, grinning like he'd just pulled off the world's greatest prank. Beside him, a grumpy-looking old man with a peg leg (Zeff) was yelling at the spray. A terrifyingly large man radiating pure killing intent (Bullet) was polishing a massive piece of metal. A cackling, gaudily-dressed weirdo (Festa) was preening at the air. An old man with a flower in his hair (Crocus) looked ancient and wise. And... was that... Aokiji? The former Admiral (Kuzan) was already constructing an ice chair on top of the whale's head.
The First Commander's usual calm, unflappable demeanor finally cracked.
He looked at Ace, his expression a perfect mask of utter disbelief. "Ace..." he began, his voice strained, as if holding back a migraine. "We sent you for a chef."
"Long story, Marco," Ace grinned, clapping his brother on the shoulder. "Let's just say we picked up some... unexpected allies."
The reactions from the main crew, watching from the Moby Dick, ranged from awe ("Is that... Crocus? From Roger's crew?!") to pure terror ("That's Bullet! The Demon Heir!") to sheer, bewildered confusion ("Why... why is there a whale?").
Even Silver D. Morgan, standing impassively on the Moby Dick's deck, raised a single, grizzled eyebrow. He recognized Crocus and Bullet. That these men... rivals and legends from his own time... were now allied with this boy? The world, it seemed, was growing stranger by the minute.
Priority number one was Whitebeard.
Crocus wasted no time. He was escorted to the infirmary, the hopeful, desperate eyes of the Whitebeard Pirates following his every step. Morgan stood silently in the doorway, a grim observer, his arms crossed.
Crocus approached the massive bed where the Emperor lay, a mountain range under white sheets. The medical staff watched, their hands trembling. Crocus took a deep breath, the power of the Cell-Cell Fruit humming within him. He placed his aged hands gently on Whitebeard's chest.
A warm, gentle light, like a sunrise contained, emanated from his palms. It wasn't a violent surge, but a deep, cellular knitting. The frantic, weak beeping of the heart monitors instantly smoothed, deepening into a steady, strong thump-thump... thump-thump. The grey pallor of Whitebeard's skin began to recede. At the shoulder where his arm had been torn away, the scarred, dead tissue seemed to pink, to live, as new cells began their impossibly slow work.
"It will take time," Crocus said, his voice quiet but firm, sweat beading on his brow. The fruit was powerful, but healing a legend was draining. "Days for the arm. But the internal damage... I've stabilized it. He will live long enough."
As if hearing the words, Whitebeard stirred. His one good eye fluttered open, weakly focusing on the man beside his bed. A faint grunt, a sound barely audible but filled with decades of history, rumbled in his chest. Recognition.
Crocus smiled, a genuine, warm expression. "Rest now," he whispered. "Your son needs you whole."
Whitebeard's eye closed again, lapsing back into a deep, healing sleep.
A collective breath, held for what felt like months, was released. Hardened pirates sagged against the doorway, some covering their faces. Their father was going to live. Morgan gave a single, almost imperceptible nod and turned away.
Life aboard the Moby Dick settled into a new, bizarre normal. Laboon, overjoyed, was a constant, joyful, and catastrophically large presence. Feeding him became the crew's single greatest logistical challenge. Jozu was tasked with hunting Sea Kings, which he hurled like giant meatballs towards the whale's waiting maw. Bonney, still in her twelve-year-old form, immediately declared Laboon her "food rival," leading to comical standoffs over particularly large carcasses.
Bullet, true to his nature, was a problem. His boredom radiated like heat. Ace finally confronted him. "If you need to break something," he ordered, "break the Sea Kings that get too close. Consider it fleet defense training." Bullet just grunted, hefting a newly formed cannon the size of a house, finding the task minimally acceptable.
Zeff's arrival in the galley was a coup d'état. He declared the space a "disaster zone," threw out half their supplies, and began barking orders at the giant, hardened pirate chefs, who were now utterly terrified of him. Bonney would frequently storm in, demanding impossible ingredients for the Elbaf cake.
"I need sugar spun by cloud-sheep! And flour ground from singing beans!" she'd demand. "Cloud-sheep?!" Zeff would roar back, slamming his peg leg. "Are you a chef or a daydreamer, you pint-sized menace! We cook with food here!"
Amidst the chaos, moments of quiet connection occurred. Crocus, taking a break on deck, found Morgan silently sharpening his colossal axe. They stopped. Two men who had stood on opposite sides of the world's greatest war, now bound by the strange fate of Roger's son. They exchanged a single, loaded look, acknowledging the history, before moving on. Kuzan, meanwhile, had found his preferred napping spot: curled up inside the lighthouse on Laboon's head.
With Whitebeard stable, Ace gathered his core team in the map room. Marco, Jozu, Vista. The new crew: Crocus, Zeff, Bullet, Kuzan. Morgan stood near the door, observing.
Ace pointed to Elbaf on the map. "We have our doctor. We have our chef. We have... reinforcements." His gaze flickered towards Morgan. "And Laboon gives us speed no fleet can match. We're days ahead of schedule."
He looked around the room. "Big Mom wants a game. Fine. But she picked the location: Elbaf. A land of giants who hate her. That's not a coincidence." He tapped the map. "She thinks we're weak. She thinks Pops is out of the picture. She's using this 'game' as an excuse to bring her entire fleet, crush us, and may be conquer Elbaf in one move?."
"We play by Elbaf's rules. Honor. No tricks that the giants would see as betrayal. Let Linlin be the one to break their laws. Let her be the villain, like she was."
He stood tall, the weight of leadership settling comfortably on his shoulders. "All ships, prepare for arrival! Laboon!" he called out, his voice carrying across the deck. "Take us to Elbaf!"
The joyful cry of the giant whale was their answer. The entire Burning Crown fleet, led by the Moby Dick surging forward in Laboon's wake, cut through the waters of the New World. On the prow, Ace stood resolute, the giant's rune given by Shanks clutched tight in his hand. The wind whipped through his hair, his eyes fixed on the horizon.
"Elbaf," he said, his voice a low promise carried on the wind. "Let the games begin."
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