The heavy oak door of the Sun Chamber closed with a soft, definitive click, sealing the two most powerful men in the room, one in terms of raw, world-breaking power, the other in terms of narrative control, away from the rest of the world.
The opulent study, with its scent of old parchment and polished wood, became an impromptu stage for a conversation that would reshape global headlines.
Morgans wasted no time, his massive talon clutching a pen that looked like a twig in his grasp.
"Captain Ragnar. Let's begin with the obvious. You have just single-handedly dismantled one of the World Government's Seven Warlords, a system they have touted as essential for balance. What is your message to Mariejois?"
Ragnar leaned back in the plush chair, steepling his fingers. His golden eyes held a glint of amusement.
"Message? I don't send messages, Morgans. I deliver facts. The fact is, their 'balance' is a fiction propped up by convenient alliances with thugs and tyrants."
"Crocodile was a cancer festering in the side of a sovereign nation, and the World Government not only turned a blind eye, but they gave him a title and a license to operate. My message, if you must have one, is that their house is built on sand. And I am the tide."
Morgans scribbled furiously, a delighted cackle escaping his beak. "KAHAHA! Glorious! And what of the architects of this system? The Celestial Dragons who reside in the holy land?"
A look of profound disdain twisted Ragnar's features. It was the first truly strong emotion he had shown since the battle with Crocodile ended.
"The Celestial Dragons?" he repeated, the words dripping with venomous contempt. "Don't insult the noble, mythical creatures of the sky by associating them with those bloated, inbred parasites. They are not dragons."
"They are pigs. Celestial Pigs, wallowing in the muck of their own inherited privilege, squealing for more while the world burns to keep them fat. They are the ultimate symbol of the World Government's rot, a belief that bloodline grants divinity."
"I believe power grants divinity. And my power is a rising ocean that will one day wash their filth from the Red Line itself."
Morgans was practically hyperventilating with journalistic ecstasy. He was getting quotes that would get a lesser man vaporized by a Buster Call. This was history, it was raw and unfiltered.
"Your ambition, then? Is it not merely to be King of the Pirates? After all that is the dream of every pirate alive, and it would be a waste for someone like you to merely be the king of the pirates."
"King of the Pirates?" Ragnar waved his hand in dismissal. "That is a title, is a trinket. A means to an end. My desire is for the world, Morgans. The entire, wretched, beautiful, flawed world. I look at this planet and I see a garden choked with weeds."
"The World Government is the weed. The Celestial Pigs are the blight at its roots. The corruption, the slavery, the lies… it all needs to be cleansed. I do not seek to rule from a throne of gold in Mariejois. I seek to break the throne."
"I will tear down the Red Line, unite the four seas, and let humanity breathe free for the first time in eight centuries. The Great Pirate Era was a symptom of a sick system. And I am the cure."
For a long moment, the only sound in the room was the frantic scratching of Morgan's pen. He was transcribing verbatim, his mind already composing the headline:
'SEA SCOURGE DECLARES WAR ON THE WORLD: "THE CELESTIAL PIGS WILL DROWN"'. This was more than an interview; it was a declaration of war broadcast through the world's foremost newspaper.
Finally, Morgans looked up, his initial frenzy subsiding into a more calculating curiosity. He had one more question, one that had been burning in his mind since he saw the angel on the rooftop.
"Captain Ragnar," he began, his tone shifting slightly.
"A personal point of curiosity, if I may. Your crewmate, Isabella. The wound she sustained… it was a direct, piercing blow to the heart."
"A mortal injury by any measure of biology or combat. Yet, she stood, walked, and spoke. And with a touch from you, it vanished as if it were never there. How is such a thing possible?"
Upon hearing that, Ragnar's lips curved into a wide, knowing grin. It was a predator's smile, the smile of a man holding all the cards. He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a bewitching tone.
"Why, Morgans," he slowly spoke. "Do you also want immortality?"
The words hung in the air, they were simple and devastating. The pen slipped from Morgan's talon and clattered onto the desk. The mammoth news-coo felt a visceral jolt, a primal, greedy thrill that shot through his entire being.
To live forever? To witness every story, to shape every narrative, to see the rise and fall of empires across millennia? It was the ultimate dream for a chronicler, the final, unattainable prize.
His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat of desire. He, who prided himself on his unflappable demeanor, was utterly floored.
He tried to speak, failed, and swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. "I…" he croaked, then cleared his throat.
"Every living being desires to avoid death, Captain Ragnar. It is the base instinct of all life. But… a thing like that… it must have a price. A terrible price."
Ragnar's grin remained, it was a sharp and inviting grin.
"There is always a price. For you, it is simple. You will become my subordinate. You will use your newspaper, your network, and your unparalleled influence, to serve my vision. You will be my herald, the trumpet that announces the new dawn."
He spread his hands. "As for the other things… You can do what you want. Pursue your stories, chase your scoops, cause whatever chaos you desire. I don't restrict my subordinates at all. I only demand their ultimate loyalty."
Morgans fell into a deep, heavy silence. He looked down at his fallen pen, at the notepad filled with world-shattering quotes. He weighed a lifetime of relative independence against an eternity of purpose, of being at the very center of the greatest story ever told.
He thought of the power he had just witnessed, the casual way Ragnar spoke of toppling the world order. This wasn't just a pirate crew; it was a crusade. And Morgans could be its prophet.
He finally stood, his large frame seeming both imposing and strangely small in the grand room. He took a deep, shuddering breath, the air whistling slightly through his beak.
Then, with a deliberate, solemn motion, he dropped to one knee, bowing his head before Ragnar.
"Captain," he said, the single word laden with the weight of his decision.
Ragnar's smile was one of supreme satisfaction. "A wise choice." He rose from his chair and placed his hand on Morgan's feathered head. "Do not resist."
He closed his eyes, and a surge of incandescent, golden power erupted from his palm. The air in the room grew heavy, charged with ancient, celestial energy.
A huge, intricate magic circle, blazing with runes and geometric patterns that defied earthly mathematics, sprang to life on the marble floor beneath Morgans, bathing the entire study in a holy, terrifying light.
Morgans gasped, his body seizing as raw, divine power flooded his veins. It was agony and ecstasy intertwined, a feeling of his very cells being rewritten, his mortality being scorched away and replaced with something eternal.
He felt his bones humming, his blood turning to liquid light, his senses expanding to feel the very vibrations of the planet.
The light intensified to a blinding peak and then receded as quickly as it came.
Morgan knelt, panting, on the floor. The magic circle faded. He felt… different. Lighter, yet more substantial. Powerful beyond his previous comprehension.
He flexed his talons and felt energy crackle around them. And on his back, sprouting from between his shoulder blades, was a single, magnificent pair of broad, powerful, snow-white wings.
They were incongruous against his avian form, yet they felt as natural as breathing.
Ragnar observed the transformation with a slightly raised eyebrow. "Hmm. Interesting. A bird that only gained a pair of wings. I suppose the form reflects the essence."
Morgans slowly rose to his feet, his wings flexing and settling against his back.
He felt the rush of immortality, the invulnerability to disease and age, the slow but potent regenerative abilities, the connection to a source of power that dwarfed anything he had ever known.
He laughed, a booming, joyous, slightly unhinged sound that echoed through the Sun Chamber.
"KAHAHAHA! IMMORTALITY! THE ULTIMATE SCOOP IS ETERNAL LIFE ITSELF!" He looked at his hands, then at Ragnar, his expression shifting to one of absolute, fervent devotion. He dropped to one knee again, his head bowed low.
"Thank you, Captain. I swear my feathers, my pen, and my eternal life to your service. The world will hear our story."
Ragnar looked down at his newest, most powerful subordinate, the Angel of Propaganda. The game had just escalated dramatically. He had not only defeated a Warlord, but he had also just recruited the world's voice.