Question—who was it that truly began the Great Age of Pirates?
Gol D. Roger?
No, not exactly. It wasn't Roger himself—but the man in the crowd, beneath the execution platform—the one who, at the very last moment, shouted the question that changed the world:
"Where is the One Piece?"
If not for that random bystander, Roger might never have said a word before his death.
Of course, even without him, the Great Age of Pirates was destined to begin. People had already started to speculate.
If Roger could reach the end of the Grand Line, then surely someone else could too.
Mislanda's gaze swept across the massive crowd filling the square.
Thanks to the Marines' massive publicity campaign, people from all corners of the world had gathered here.
Among them, Mislanda spotted several faces that he recognized—future legends of the sea.
Dracule "Hawk Eyes" Mihawk, Donquixote Doflamingo, Crocodile, Gecko Moria…
And then, in a shadowed corner, he caught sight of Shanks and Buggy—both of them crying silently.
As Mislanda scanned the scene, Roger stepped onto the execution platform. Mislanda immediately leapt down from the rooftop, pushing his way through the throng of people until he was near the front.
The crowd held its breath, staring up at the lone, proud figure standing atop the scaffold.
"Hey! Pirate King!"
A small, childish voice suddenly broke the silence.
Roger froze for a moment, recognizing the voice instantly. He turned his head toward the sound.
Every eye in the square followed his gaze—to an eight-year-old boy yelling up at the platform.
"That's… Mislanda?! What's he doing here?"
Shanks and Buggy's hearts lurched.
If Mislanda was here, then… Rayleigh must be nearby too!
Roger thought the same thing. His expression softened for just a heartbeat.
Rayleigh was here—he could feel it. Hiding in the crowd, somewhere unseen.
"Hahahahaha! Little brat, what are you shouting for?" Roger laughed heartily, genuine joy in his voice.
And then, in front of the entire world, Mislanda asked the question that would forever echo through history.
"Pirate King! You reached the end of the Grand Line—you must've found the great treasure, the One Piece! So where did you hide it?"
The crowd went wild, every eye fixed on Roger, desperate for an answer.
Inside the Marine headquarters overlooking the plaza, chaos erupted.
"Damn it! If he answers that—if he tells them anything—the world will descend into madness!"
The order came down immediately: Execute him now!
But before the executioners could move, Roger threw his head back and laughed—a deep, thunderous laugh that rolled across the city.
"Hahahahahahaha! I see, kid… I see what you're trying to do!"
Then he turned to the world and declared:
"My treasure? If you want it, go and find it! I left everything this world has to offer… out there!"
"Silence him! Don't let him speak another word!"
The executioners thrust their blades forward—
Shing!
Two blades pierced through Roger's chest.
And just like that—the Pirate King was dead.
Rain began to fall from the gray sky, as though the heavens themselves were mourning the passing of a king.
For a few silent seconds, the crowd simply stood there, stunned.
And then the square erupted—screams, cheers, shouts of madness.
Roger's final words had ignited something deep within every listener.
A dream.
The Great Age of Pirates had begun.
(Ding! Mission complete. Reward distribution in progress!)
"Hold on—let me find somewhere quiet first!"
Mislanda didn't stick around. He turned and forced his way through the frenzied crowd.
This was no time to linger—better to slip away while everyone's attention was elsewhere.
But just as he reached the edge of the square, a massive hand grabbed the back of his collar and lifted him clean off the ground.
He froze.
The man holding him was huge—broad-shouldered, strong-jawed, and wearing a Marine coat.
Vice Admiral Monkey D. Garp.
Oh, crap.
Cold sweat trickled down Mislanda's neck.
This was the Garp—the man who'd chased Roger across the seas for years. Compared to him, Mislanda was an insect.
Seeing the boy's fear, Garp chuckled.
"Oi, kid. Where're you from?"
"I'm… an orphan from Loguetown," Mislanda said quickly, forcing his voice steady. "Why? Did I do something wrong?"
In times like this, there was only one rule—act dumb and play innocent.
Luckily, Garp had never seen him before. The Marines had no idea that Rayleigh had adopted a child.
"I see," Garp said, his expression softening. "Alright, little guy. Just don't go shouting weird things again, got it?"
He set Mislanda back down gently.
"Thank you, sir!" Mislanda said quickly before darting away.
Across the square, Shanks—who had been ready to fight his way through to save him—finally exhaled in relief.
If Garp had recognized him, Mislanda would've been doomed.
This outcome… was the best possible one.
"Buggy," Shanks said quietly, "I'm going back to sea. Will you come with me?"
"Ha! After all the trouble you've caused me? No way! I'm staying in the East Blue!"
And just like that, the three youngest members of the Roger Pirates each went their separate ways.
Deep within a forest outside Loguetown, Mislanda crouched beneath the trees.
He could still hear the distant noise from the town, but right now, all he cared about was his reward.
The Perfect Dark-Dark Fruit.
A Logia-class Devil Fruit—one of the most terrifying powers in existence. It granted the user the ability to wield darkness itself, creating a gravitational pull like a black hole capable of crushing anything it swallowed.
It could even nullify other Devil Fruit powers upon contact—and, more terrifyingly, steal them altogether.
In the original story, Blackbeard had used it to steal countless powers—Whitebeard's among them.
But the Dark-Dark Fruit had major drawbacks: doubled pain, no elementalization, extreme vulnerability.
And yet, its potential was so great that Blackbeard had spent decades hiding in Whitebeard's crew, waiting for the chance to claim it.
The one Mislanda was about to receive, however, was different.
This was the Perfect Dark-Dark Fruit—no pain, full elementalization, immune to seastone and seawater.
It was, in every sense, flawless.
For Mislanda—an eight-year-old too young for serious training—it was the ideal gift.
He needed power, and this fruit would give him that.
A black vortex swirled open before him, and within it, a dark purple fruit patterned with spiral marks floated gently.
Without hesitation, Mislanda reached out, took it in his hands, and sank his teeth into it.