The night had grown deep.
Dragging his exhausted body, Rayleigh finally returned to Shakky's Rip-Off Bar.
Hours earlier, during the Marines' large-scale hunt for Ace, the young man had fought back fiercely despite his injuries — and miraculously, he managed to slip through the encirclement.
Seeing that, Rayleigh chose not to intervene.
Instead, he quietly watched the boy — so much like Roger — until Ace's figure disappeared from sight.
Later that night, half a bottle of Tiger Tonic went down Rayleigh's throat in one go.
The potent brew surged through his veins like wildfire.
His pupils dilated. His voice trembled with pride and misplaced confidence.
"Tonight… I'll reclaim my honor!"
Shakky, clearing dishes with a cigarette dangling from her lips, didn't even look up.
"Oh, please. The only thing you ever manage to do is drool on me. What else can you do?"
Rayleigh: "!!!"
One chaotic night later...
The old lion lay sprawled on the bed, hollow-eyed, skin pale and waxy.
Meanwhile, Shakky leaned back contentedly, smoke curling from her mouth, eyes half-lidded in satisfaction.
For all the Tiger Tonic in the world, age was undefeated.
If ever there was a man who embodied "too weak to benefit from tonics," it was Silvers Rayleigh.
As Shakky stretched and considered a second round, Rayleigh suddenly tensed and snatched up a Den Den Mushi.
"—Vice-Captain?" came a surprised voice on the other end.
Rayleigh's tone was heavy.
"Roger had a son — he's Whitebeard's Second Division Commander, Ace. The Marines know. He's trapped at Sabaody. Reinforcements will only keep coming."
He wasn't about to leave Ace's fate entirely in the hands of Whitebeard or anyone else.
The man on the other end was one of the few who could intervene effectively — Red-Haired Shanks.
Shanks' voice dropped, calm but laced with killing intent.
"Understood, Vice-Captain. I know what I must do."
After a few more words, the line went dead.
Rayleigh slumped back against the bed, torn between worry and the brutal reminder of his body's limits.
Shakky stubbed out her cigarette and gave him a knowing smirk.
The Tiger Tonic bottle sat empty beside the bed.
Rayleigh's body, however, had clearly tapped out.
"Second Brother… what's wrong with you? This was always your favorite fight…"
Marineford – Fleet Admiral's Office
"Garp, you idiot!!" Sengoku's roar shook the room as he shouted into the Den Den Mushi.
"You raised Roger's son — do you have any idea what you've done?!"
On the other end, the snail mimicked Garp's carefree face perfectly.
"Ah? So you found out, huh?" Garp chuckled, picking his nose. "Tell you what — let me handle the capture. I'll personally deliver him to Impel Down! Catching grandsons is what I do best."
Sengoku's jaw clenched so hard his teeth cracked.
"If we capture Ace, the Marines will announce his parentage to the entire world — and execute him publicly!"
He slammed the receiver down with enough force to make the desk groan.
Meanwhile, far away on the Grand Line, Garp's usual grin had vanished.
This time was different.
This wasn't Luffy getting away with a prank.
The World Government itself was moving. They would not rest until Ace was captured — or dead.
After a long silence, Garp turned to his adjutant.
"Handle the mission for now. I'm heading back to Marineford."
Morning at the Multiverse Tavern
Ron woke to something soft pressing against his chest.
Blinking his eyes open, he found Rem's delicate face inches away.
"Master… wake up," she whispered timidly. "Mr. Rayleigh is here. He looks awful — you should check on him."
"…Huh?" Ron muttered, still half-asleep. "Soft seat's turning into a hard seat…"
At that, Ram, who was nearby, twitched violently.
"M-Master!"
Her cheeks flushed bright red as she realized what he meant, then she huffed and fled the room.
Ron chuckled, got dressed, and stepped into the bar — only to find Rayleigh sitting silently at the counter, nursing a drink.
A small, ornate box rested beside him.
And yes — Ram was right. Rayleigh looked terrible.
His face was pale, his eyes hollow, his whole body drained like a man who'd lost multiple wars in one night.
"Moderation, old man," Ron said dryly, sitting behind the bar. "Don't survive the era of pirates just to die of that."
Rayleigh took a long drink, glaring over the rim. "You're still young — you wouldn't understand. This is about a man's dignity."
His hands trembled as he gripped the bottle.
Finally, he sighed and pushed the box toward Ron.
"This belonged to Roger. His sword. I want the world to see its edge again — through you."
Ron opened it — inside lay a long, elegant blade, reminiscent of a Western sabre, its polished surface still gleaming cold despite two decades of slumber.
A Supreme Grade Blade, one of the Twelve Supreme Meitō.
Ron stared for a moment, then shrugged.
"I don't plan to cut anyone with it."
Without hesitation, he hung it on the wall behind the counter like a decorative ornament.
Rayleigh: "WHAT?!"
That was Roger's blade — a priceless weapon of legend — now reduced to bar décor.
If any Marine with half a brain saw it, the entire island would erupt in chaos again!
"Don't sweat the details," Ron said with a lazy grin. "You've earned free drinks today, by the way."
Rayleigh stared, then sighed.
If Ron dared hang it openly, it meant he was confident enough to handle any fallout.
He finished his bottle, cast one last look at the blade on the wall — Ace — and left without another word.
He needed to keep his eyes on the real Ace now.
If the boy got caught right under his nose, Rayleigh would never forgive himself.
The tavern stayed quiet the rest of the morning.
Then, just before lunch, the bell over the door chimed.
Tea Dolphin strode in, uniform scorched, cloak of justice riddled with burn holes, face streaked with dust.
"Boss, I'm starving. Got anything to eat?"
Ron nodded. "Perfect timing. Lunch is just ready."
Before he could say more, the bell rang again.
Black Tiger burst through the door, grinning from ear to ear.
"Boss! That old man's advice actually worked — I think—"
Tea Dolphin turned. Their eyes met.
The bar fell silent.
For a moment, both men froze — each staring at the other like they were looking in a mirror.
Two soldiers. Same posture. Same energy. Same kind of idiot.
A clash of kindred fools had just begun.
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