Elbaf was not an island; it was a monument.
As the Burning Crown fleet, led by the impossibly joyous Laboon, broke through the misty veil of the New World, the sight that greeted them silenced every pirate on deck. Before them rose a single, colossal landmass, a continent of jagged peaks and ancient forests that clawed at the sky. Dominating it all was the World Tree, a titan of bark and leaf so immense that its upper branches pierced the heavens, creating their own weather system of swirling clouds and ethereal light. The Moby Dick, a ship that had once felt like a floating fortress, was now a child's toy in a land built for gods.
Their welcome was as unyielding as the island itself. A phalanx of giant warriors, their faces grim and their rune-etched armor gleaming in the strange light, formed a living wall at the coast. Their leader, a giant with a beard like a grey waterfall and eyes as hard as mountain stone, stepped forward. He was Regent Jarl, the acting leader in the wake of King Harald's death.
"You are not welcome here, pirates," his voice boomed, a low rumble of authority and suspicion.
Ace stepped to the prow, the weight of his new, bizarrely powerful family behind him. He didn't shout. He didn't posture. He simply held up the small, carved wooden rune Shanks had given him. "We come as friends of the 'Red-Hair'," he declared.
The tension snapped. The wall of shields lowered. Jarl's stony expression softened into one of formal, stoic respect. "A Token of the Red-Hair," he acknowledged with a nod. "You are honored guests. But know this: Our king is dead, murdered by his own son, the accursed Prince Loki. We will tolerate this game of yours, but we will be its judges. Honor will be maintained."
The giants' hospitality was a formal, somber affair. They were led to a vast, open plain at the foot of the World Tree, a natural arena for the coming contest. But before they could even settle, the horizon turned a sickly, saccharine pink.
It was an invasion.
The entire fleet of the Big Mom Pirates descended upon Elbaf, a grotesque and overwhelming armada of singing, candy-coated ships that blotted out the sun. This was not the escort of an Emperor coming for a game; it was the full, terrifying force of a nation on the march. Charlotte Linlin herself stomped ashore, her three Sweet Commanders flanking her like harbingers of a sugar-fueled apocalypse.
"Maaama-mamama!" she cackled, her eyes sweeping over the colossal World Tree with a greedy, proprietary glare. "What a magnificent island! It will make a fine centerpiece for my new territory!"
The declaration was a slap in the face to the giants' pride. Regent Jarl's expression turned to stone, the air crackling with a tension that could shatter mountains. The game was a pretense. The conquest was the goal.
The first round was announced: a cooking competition. A battle of desserts.
In a colossal, open-air kitchen carved from the very rock of the island, two stations were prepared. On one side stood Charlotte Streusen, Big Mom's head chef, a man whose Devil Fruit could turn the very world into ingredients. On the other, a grumpy, one-legged old man was furiously inspecting his station, his scowl a weapon in itself.
"This oven is a disgrace! The heat distribution is a joke!" Zeff roared, kicking a giant-sized stove with his peg leg. "And these whisks! They're the size of boat oars! How is a man supposed to create art with this… this lumber?!"
"Just make the cake, you old fossil!" a shrill voice snapped. Jewelry Bonney, in her twelve-year-old form, stood on a crate, a clipboard in her hand, her face a mask of intense, producer-like focus. "The theme is 'A King's Joy'! I need notes of triumph, a hint of nostalgia, and a finish that tastes like victory! Can your ancient palate even comprehend that?!"
Zeff spun on her, his braided mustache bristling with rage. "Listen here, you pink-haired pipsqueak! I was creating culinary masterpieces when your parents were still learning how to chew! You want a king's joy? I'll give you a cake so divine it will make the gods themselves weep!"
He moved, a blur of motion. He didn't use the giant tools; he produced his own set of perfectly maintained knives and utensils. His hands were a whirlwind, dicing, mixing, and tempering with a speed and precision that was nothing short of supernatural. Bonney's jaw dropped. The grumpy old man was a monster. A true legend. A small, grudging smile touched her lips. This might just work.
While the sweet, chaotic battle of flour and sugar began, a different kind of work was being done in the shadows. Deep within the roots of the World Tree, in the cold, damp dungeons that held Elbaf's greatest shame, a shimmer in the air solidified into the form of Shiryu of the Rain. He stood before a massive, rune-sealed cell. Inside, a colossal figure was chained, his eyes covered, his presence a deep, cold well of pure malice.
Shiryu smiled, a thin, cruel line. "The Captain sends his regards, Prince Loki," he whispered, his hand resting on the hilt of his cursed blade. "It's time to wake up."
Back in the arena, the cooking competition was reaching its climax. Zeff and Bonney, a chaotic symphony of old-school mastery and new-world critique, had created a masterpiece. But just as the judges were about to be called, a new commotion erupted at the edge of the clearing.
A single, dark-green ship with a dragon figurehead had anchored silently at the coast. Three figures disembarked, moving with a quiet, purposeful confidence that cut through the chaotic energy of the pirate gathering.
The giants tensed, raising their weapons. The Big Mom pirates turned, their expressions wary.
Ace, who had been watching the bake-off with an amused grin, felt his Observation Haki flare, sensing the familiar, fiery presence. His grin vanished. His blood ran cold. It couldn't be.
The three figures stepped into the light. A young woman with a cheerful smile and a fish-man karate gi. A beautiful, dark-haired woman whose calm, knowing eyes seemed to see everything. And a young man in a top hat and goggles, his face framed by blond curls, a steel pipe resting on his shoulder.
His eyes swept the crowd, passing over the pirates, the giants, the Emperors. And then they locked onto Ace.
The world stopped. The sounds of the party, the sizzling of sugar, the distant roar of the sea—it all faded away into a deafening silence.
The man in the top hat took a step forward, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated shock and a decade of repressed grief and joy.
"Ace…?" Sabo's voice was a choked, broken whisper that somehow carried across the entire, silent arena.
Ace just stared. He was looking at the "S" he had crossed out on his arm and in his heart. He was looking at his brother.
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