"I think we should stop here… before we end up destroying this entire sea."
Whitebeard's voice rolled across the broken waters like distant thunder—deep, commanding, yet tinged with reluctant respect.
He wanted to continue. I could feel it. In just two days of trading blows, he had wrestled his way into the very core of his Devil Fruit's awakening. His mastery of the Gura Gura no Mi had grown sharper and heavier—refined in the crucible of facing someone who could truly challenge him blow for blow. And I knew, from the glint in his eyes, that he was certain of one thing: if he were to fight Rocks D. Xebec again, the result would not mirror the last time.
My breath came out in a slow mist, drifting away into the warped sky. In both hands, Akatsuki and Shusui hummed—restless, unwilling to be sheathed. My own will pressed against the air like an uncoiled storm. Every fiber of my being urged me to keep going… yet the truth was undeniable.
If we pushed beyond this point—if either of us reached for the deepest reserves—the battle would no longer be contained. The destruction would escalate beyond even our control.
I now understood the strength of the man the world called the Strongest. And, perhaps more importantly, I understood that if this were truly to the death… I could face him without flinching.
Whitebeard had not shown me the full breadth of his awakened powers—I could feel that restraint. But neither had I unveiled the awakened ability of my own fruit. In raw Busoshoku Haki, he held a slight edge, the result of decades of tempering and battle-hardening.
Garp himself had once told me, "Busoshoku is not something you rush. When you reach the highest levels, progress comes only with time, with the maturity of your spirit and body."
And despite my Mythical Zoan physique, Whitebeard's prime body—now fully healed and further tempered by the constant strain of tremor powers—was an overwhelming wall of force.
Yet… when it came to Kenbunshoku Haki, I could run circles around him. My mastery was not simply the art of sensing; I wielded the Voice of All Things, paired with a lightning-fast perception that bent moments into eternity. Against such precision, Whitebeard was often forced to tank my blows—not through clairvoyance, but through the sheer battle-hardened instinct and muscle memory that only a lifetime of war could forge.
But it was the Haoshoku that truly rattled him.
He had never—in all his years, not against Roger, not against Rocks—felt another will press down upon his own like this. It was not enough to cripple him, not yet… But in raw depth, my Haoshoku eclipsed his. Potential was a dangerous thing, and in this, my storm burned brighter.
Yet he knew, as I did, that Haoshoku was not simply about the size of one's aura. It was the heart—the unyielding self—that decided its true measure. And such a measure could only be taken when lives were on the line. This was a spar, not a war. We had been testing each other's limits, not crossing them.
Even so, Whitebeard had no regrets. Asking me for this duel had been the right call. He cast his gaze around us… and the sight was almost surreal.
The island where our battle had begun? Gone—utterly erased from existence. Not a shard of rock or grain of sand remained. The world itself bore the scar of our clash.
The sea was no longer a sea. For nearly a hundred miles in every direction, reality itself had been rewritten. The horizon was fractured, as if the sky had been shattered like glass and left suspended in jagged shards. The weather had curdled into a chaotic spiral—clouds of black lightning snaking through the heavens, silver fissures tearing through the fabric of space, each one swallowing anything that touched it.
The ocean was a graveyard of warped physics—spirals of water climbing into the sky and then folding back into themselves, waves crashing into invisible walls, and whirlpools that led not to the deep but to empty voids. Space fractures hung in the air like wounds, distorting light and bending the sun into strange halos.
This was no battlefield. It had become a forbidden zone. A place that would outlast us both.
Sailors who passed this way in years to come would know nothing of what happened here. They would see the black storms, the silver wounds, the miles of dead sea where no fish swam—and they would give it a name. Perhaps The Broken Belt. Perhaps the Void Sea. Another unexplained terror of the New World.
But we would know. We would know that this was the mark of two men holding back—and still shaking the bones of the world.
I slid Shusui and Akatsuki back into their scabbards, though both blades fought me every inch of the way—their spirits restless from being denied more blood and battle. Shusui, in particular, screamed in my mind, its nascent soul like a child throwing a fit, unwilling to sleep after tasting the storm.
Click.
The sound was sharp in the air, and with it, my Haoshoku Haki ebbed like a receding tsunami. The world itself seemed to shift in that moment—the crushing, suffocating pressure I had wrapped around us for two days dissipated, as though a darkness capable of swallowing light itself had been lifted. Even Whitebeard's awakened tremors, in the height of our clash, had never breached that threshold.
I stretched my Kenbunshoku Haki outward, letting it sweep beyond the broken and distorted sea, past the chaos we had carved into the world. Hundreds of miles out, I found it — a survivor amid devastation: a small island, stripped bare of most of its life. What little vegetation remained were a few broken palms leaning at unnatural angles, and jagged outcroppings of rock that clung stubbornly to existence.
I glanced at Whitebeard and tilted my head toward the horizon. There were things we needed to discuss—matters too dangerous for the open sea. Until the time came when we could march openly against the World Government, he would remain the greatest deterrent in the New World, the unshakable wall keeping them from making reckless moves here.
As for me… the Donquixote name needed to vanish from the World Government's sight entirely, until the day of the end war.
With a nod, he understood.
We moved together, slicing through the turbulent winds. After a dozen minutes, we left the newly christened forbidden zone behind us, its storms and space-tears still raging like wounded beasts. Ahead, the small island emerged from the mist of salt and steam.
BOOM.
Whitebeard landed like a meteor. The sand trembled, the ground cracked, and the last two palms—battered survivors of the sea's wrath—finally surrendered, falling with a groan into the dust. By contrast, I touched down like a falling leaf, the grains of sand barely disturbed beneath my feet.
I scanned the island in silence. It was small—barely half a mile across—a survivor of some forgotten era. Shattered coral and splintered driftwood lined the shore. The rocks here were worn smooth, as if centuries of storms had failed to erase them. What caught my eye, however, was not nature's work but man's: a structure, long hidden, now betrayed by the storm's fury.
A section of sand had collapsed, revealing a trapdoor beneath. Its edges were weathered, the wood blackened with age, the hinges rusted to a dull green. I could see faint marks where it had once been camouflaged by the shifting sands—likely the work of hands that had been dust for centuries.
A forgotten pirate hideout. Whitebeard followed my gaze and let out a low chuckle. "Hmph… Seems like even nature's telling us to take a break."
He strode toward a massive boulder and dropped himself onto it, the stone groaning under his weight. His bisento—Murakumogiri—sank into the ground beside him, its blade catching the dim light. He took in the island with the easy, assessing glance of a man who had seen a thousand such places.
"I wonder if there's anything worth salvaging," he said with a grin, though his tone carried more curiosity than greed. "If they stashed some liquor here… well, I'll call it fate."
I chuckled under my breath, stepping toward the trapdoor. "Then let's see what secrets your fate has for us, Newgate san."
Behind me, Whitebeard began examining the scars across his arms and shoulders, fresh lines carved into flesh that had weathered a lifetime of war. Two days of battle had left him with marks he would carry — not because they were deep, but because they were earned.
****
The fire crackled and hissed, sparks dancing upward into the night like fireflies escaping into the dark. Over the open flame, a massive squid turned slowly, skewered on staves carved from the fallen palms.
The wood still smelled faintly of salt and sap, lending a subtle smokiness to the air. Its skin blistered and split in places, releasing fat that dripped into the embers with a satisfying hiss, the scent of the sea mingling with the aroma of roasting meat.
Above us, the sky had surrendered to night, painted in deep indigo and scattered with distant stars. The moon was a pale sliver, peeking through ragged clouds torn apart by winds that had not yet forgotten our battle. The island, stripped and skeletal in the dim light, seemed to crouch in the embrace of the restless sea — but here by the fire, it felt almost warm. Almost safe.
As if fate had heard Whitebeard's earlier wish, the old stash-house beneath the trapdoor had yielded treasure — not gold, but something far rarer in the New World's wilds: rum and brandy, sealed tight and aged in the dark. Dozens of bottles rested like sleeping giants, their glass sweating under my touch when I brought them into the firelight.
Most of the food hidden away had long since surrendered to rot and mold, claimed by the years. But here and there, tucked deep in sealed containers, I found survivors: honey thick as amber and just as golden, coarse sea salt that still tasted of forgotten shores, jars of dried beans, sacks of rolled oats, and a small cache of precious spices — peppercorn, cloves, and dried chili — their scent sharp enough to cut through the smoke.
It was enough to make something worthy of the moment.
I had split the squid open along its belly, rubbed its flesh with honey and salt, then packed the hollow with crushed peppercorns and cloves before binding it back together with strips of palm fiber. The fire's glow kissed its surface, turning the skin a deep, seared bronze. Every so often, I ladled a mixture of honey and rum over it, the flames flaring in appreciation as the liquid sizzled away.
Whitebeard sat across from me, a silhouette carved against the firelight. The orange glow painted his features in sharp relief — the strong jaw, the scarred cheek, the heavy brow shadowing eyes that still burned with the sharpness of a predator. A half-empty bottle of brandy rested in his massive hand, his other hand idly planted on the hilt of Murakumogiri, which stood anchored in the earth beside him like a monument.
The heat of the fire was a welcome contrast to the cool bite of the night air. Waves crashed somewhere beyond the black outline of the shore, their rhythm steady, ancient, and indifferent to men who could scar the sea itself. For a while, neither of us spoke. There was no need. The battle had said enough.
"Aaaaah…" Whitebeard exhaled deeply, the sound rolling out of his chest like distant thunder. He tipped the bottle of brandy back again, the amber liquid catching the firelight before disappearing into his throat.
Even for a man who had tasted the rarest drinks across the seas, this century-aged spirit was a treasure—smooth, rich, with a warmth that settled in his chest like the hearth of an old home. For a moment, the great captain's shoulders loosened, the tension of endless years at sea eased by the rare peace we now shared.
"Gurarara…!" His booming laugh carried across the crackling fire. "Brat… back then, when Roger used to fight Garp over taking you under his wing, I never understood that man's obsession. I thought it was just another one of Roger's whims. But now…" He tore a strip from the honeyed, spice-crusted squid with his teeth, chewing with the satisfaction of a man who had earned this moment.
"Now I see it. If I'd known you'd grow into a monster like this in less than a decade, maybe even I would've staked my claim. At least then I could've rested easy, knowing someone like you would be there to keep the others safe after I'm gone."
He scooped a handful of roasted, spice-dusted beans from a small wooden bowl, crunching on them between bites of squid, the smoky-salty aroma hanging between us.
I smiled faintly as I tore into my own portion. I understood exactly what he meant. Whitebeard knew his sons better than anyone. They were strong—some monstrously so—but against the caliber of enemies he'd faced in his journey, the true titans of the world, many might not walk away.
That was the burden of the title The Strongest Man in the World. His enemies knew better than to touch his family while he still drew breath… But what about after he fell? Even if his sons abandoned piracy, would the World Government—or the old grudges of the seas—ever leave them alone? The answer was obvious.
But if someone like me stood among them, the picture changed. Whitebeard could rest, knowing there would still be a shield the size of a continent standing in his place.
"Garp-sensei," I said with a chuckle, "would have fought both you and Roger at once if you'd tried to take me. He's stubborn that way."
Old memories surfaced unbidden—the blinding sunlight of my youth in the Marines, the sharp bark of orders from the man who trained me, and the bitter winds of Marineford on that day. I wondered, briefly, what might have been if the events of that day hadn't unfolded the way they did. Would I still be in uniform? I doubted it. But that was the past, and the past was unchangeable.
Whitebeard took another swig, his eyes narrowing slightly. "And yet… he didn't truly back you when you needed him, did he? If he'd wanted, he could've leveled Marineford to the ground and pulled you out. The Garp I know is capable of that much."
His words weren't laced with malice toward my old master—no, it was something heavier. Disappointment. A man like Whitebeard, in the same position, would have split the island in half before letting his son be taken.
I let out a low laugh, raising my own bottle of rum to my lips before answering. "That's you, Newgate-san. But Garp-sensei has his own sense of justice… one neither you nor I will ever fully understand. Because we're pirates."
The fire popped loudly, sending sparks spiraling into the dark. My gaze drifted into the flames. "I don't hold resentment toward him. He didn't save me because of weakness. He didn't save me because of strength. It was that thin, unbreakable line he's drawn for himself—his justice. The same justice that's kept him from becoming a monster far worse than any pirate alive."
I met Whitebeard's eyes across the fire. "If that man ever stepped across that line… if Garp-san ever lost faith in his justice… even Rocks D. Xebec would look like a part-timer by comparison."
Whitebeard's brows rose slightly, but he didn't speak. He just took another slow drink, listening.
"You've fought Rocks," I continued. "You know the madness in his eyes, the hunger to dominate everything. But that hunger is a fire that burns itself out—it's self-serving. If Garp ever broke… his fire wouldn't be for himself. It would be for burning the world down to erase the evil he once tried to contain. He wouldn't be a conqueror. He'd be the executioner of the seas. No kingdom, no crew, no island would be safe. Even the World Government, the Celestial Dragons—especially them—would crumble before him. And he'd keep going until there was nothing left but ashes."
The firelight flickered over Whitebeard's face, and for the first time in our long fight and long night, he looked… thoughtful. Not fearful, but as if he were imagining the truth of my words and finding it all too easy to believe.
"That," I said quietly, "is why Garp-san holds that line with all his might. Not for the World Government. Not for the Marines. For himself. Because if he lets go… the world will pray for Rocks to come back instead."
The fire roared as a log split apart in the heat. Somewhere in the dark beyond our camp, the sea hissed and sighed against the sand. And for a moment, there was no sound between us but the crackle of the flames and the slow chewing of a giant enjoying the best meal he'd had in years.
The fire crackled low, embers drifting up into the night like fireflies caught in some silent current. The scent of charred squid and sweet honey lingered in the salty breeze, mixing with the sharp bite of brandy that hung between us. Whitebeard sat across the flames, the glow painting the edges of his scarred face in gold and shadow.
"I heard you the other day…" he rumbled at last, his voice deep, measured—as though weighing each word before releasing it. "So… you truly believe there's something wrong with Teach?"
He didn't need to clarify when "the other day" was. I knew exactly the moment he meant. Two days ago, on the far side of the Moby Dick's deck, I'd spoken to Marco. I hadn't whispered. I'd wanted Newgate to hear. With ears as sharp as his, no distance on the ship could've dulled my words.
"Well," I said, leaning back slightly, my eyes locked on him across the fire, "you were meant to hear it, Newgate-san. If I'd wanted to keep it from you, I wouldn't have spoken at all. What surprised me wasn't that you heard—it's that you didn't react, even when I accused one of your sons."
His sigh was heavy, rumbling out of his chest like distant surf. He tipped the last of his brandy down his throat, tossed the empty bottle into the sand with a dull thunk, and reached unhurriedly for another. The cork popped with a small, hollow sound.
I didn't press him. I wanted to hear his answer without forcing it. Because deep down, I was certain of one thing: Whitebeard had noticed. Maybe Teach could fool the rest of the crew, but not the man who had ruled the seas for decades.
Teach's act—the easy grin, the lazy speech, the false air of harmlessness—was convincing to those who only looked at the surface. But Whitebeard had long since seen past it. He knew Teach wasn't weak. In a true fight, the man could give division commanders a run for their bounty. That wasn't speculation. It was instinct, sharpened by decades of surviving in waters where one wrong judgment meant death.
"Don't tell me you haven't felt it too, Newgate-san," I said, my tone dropping. "If you ask me, getting rid of him now would save you trouble later. Like I told you before—he's a viper. Strip away his mask and ask yourself… doesn't he remind you of someone? Someone you once called brother?"
Whitebeard's eyes narrowed slightly, but not in anger. In recognition.
"Don't tell me…" he began, "you're suggesting—"
"Rocks," I finished for him. "Or something tied to him."
"That's not possible. Xebec is—"
"Alive?" I cut in before he could complete the thought. "Are you sure? You and Shiki were the only ones to see Rocks after God Valley. Was the man you saw truly the same Rocks… or something else entirely? This world is far stranger than most are willing to believe, Newgate-san. Would you believe me if I told you gods and demons once walked upon it?"
For a moment, the firelight caught his expression—not shaken, but thoughtful, the look of a man revisiting memories he'd buried long ago. He had fought Rocks, felt the weight of that monstrous presence… but after hearing my words, could he swear it was the same man he had once known?
Finally, his deep voice broke the silence. "Hmph… Now I understand what you meant about Garp's justice. Like him, I trust my sons. Unless Teach truly does something to harm my family, I won't let you touch him."
The answer was no surprise. Whitebeard's loyalty to his crew was absolute. For Garp, it was justice. For Whitebeard, it was family. Both would stand unshaken, even if the world itself burned around them. I let the matter drop. My warning had been given—whether he acted on it was his choice.
The fire popped sharply, sending a spray of sparks into the darkness. The waves whispered against the shore. Silence stretched between us for long minutes until Whitebeard spoke again, his tone quieter now, less like the sea's roar and more like the murmur of a tide.
"Rosinante," he began, "I want to ask you something. You can choose not to answer, but… I'd be grateful if you did."
I raised a brow and gestured for him to go on.
"I'm sure you already know," he said slowly, "that Roger came to me after he conquered the Grand Line. Back then, I asked him what he planned to do — what a man who had taken the seas themselves would do next. And he told me…" A small, almost wistful smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "…he told me he wanted to settle down. Start a family. A real family."
The firelight caught in his eyes then, not as the reflection of a pirate's hunger, but as the glint of something gentler.
"So tell me, Rosinante… did he ever get the chance? Did Gol D. Roger… ever hold his own child in his arms?"
There was no rivalry in his voice now, no shadow of the man who had once clashed with the Pirate King. This wasn't Whitebeard, the Strongest Man in the World, asking about a rival. This was just Edward Newgate, a man who had built a family with his own two hands, asking after a friend—hoping, in some quiet, unspoken way, that Roger had found the same kind of peace before the end.
And in that moment, across the crackling fire and the salt-heavy wind, the vastness of the sea between our worlds seemed smaller than it ever had before.
For a moment, I hesitated. The answer was there on my tongue, but so was the promise I had made to Roger all those years ago—a promise sealed not in ink, but in the unspoken bond between men who had seen the edge of the world together.
I could have deflected. I could have said nothing. But as I watched Whitebeard sitting across from me in the wavering firelight—not the invincible giant who could shake the seas with a single swing of his bisento, but simply Edward Newgate, a man seeking a sliver of truth about a friend long gone—I understood.
This answer wasn't for curiosity. It was for closure.
"Newgate-san," I began slowly, my voice low, the fire snapping between us. "I made a promise. And because of that… there are things I can't tell you."
His massive frame didn't shift, but I felt the weight of his gaze settle on me like an anchor.
"All I can say," I continued, letting the pause hang heavy, "is that the blood of Gol D. Roger… runs strong."
The words left my mouth like an oath broken in part, my chest tight as if I had just tested the boundaries of the promise I had sworn to keep. For a heartbeat, he said nothing. Then… it came.
Not a booming laugh. Not the rumble of a taunt. But a slow, deep smile broke across his weathered face—a smile so real, so human, that for a moment the decades of battles and burdens melted away.
He understood. He didn't need names, didn't need dates. That single, cryptic truth was enough.
In his mind's eye, I knew he saw it—Roger, in his final days, not as the Pirate King standing above the world, but as a man who had found what he was searching for. Whitebeard's eyes softened, the corners creasing not from strain, but from quiet joy.
A friend's happiness, confirmed at last.
The firelight danced over his features, the ocean whispered beyond the shore, and for just that moment, the two of us sat not as pirate and pirate, not as warriors of an age fading into legend, but as men remembering another man who had once dreamed of something greater than the sea.