The deck of the Moby Dick was a tinderbox of raw nerves and simmering rage, and Gunnar had just struck the match. His declaration to leave immediately, in his battered state, was met with a wave of protest.
"Are you insane?!" Haruta exclaimed, running to block his path. "Look at you! You look like one of the infirmary's practice dummies for stitching! You'll fall apart before you even reach Half Way!"
"Haruta's right," Thatch added, stepping forward, his expression grave. "We're all itching for a fight, Gunnar, but this is reckless. At least give yourself a few days. Let Marco work his magic."
Gunnar didn't even slow down. He brushed past Haruta as if she were a gentle breeze. "Every second I wait is a second she's in their hands. I'm not waiting."
Ace and Isshin, already moving toward the smaller vessel, the Striker, were stopped by Jozu. The massive man placed a diamond-hard hand on each of their shoulders, his grip gentle but unyielding.
"And you two?" Jozu rumbled, his deep voice filled with concern. "You're just going to let him go off like this? Ace, you were just pulled from the sea. Isshin, your Haki is drained from fighting an Admiral. This is a suicide mission."
"It's his wife, Jozu," Ace said, his voice low. He met the giant's gaze, his eyes still burning with frustration. "If it were Deuce, or anyone from the Spade Pirates, I'd be doing the same damn thing. We can't stop him. The best we can do is go with him, make sure he doesn't do something that gets them all killed before they even see the coast of Totto Land."
Isshin simply nodded. "His path is set. Ours is to walk it with him."
Marco, having stabilized Whitebeard for the moment, flew over, landing in a soft flutter of blue flame in front of the Striker's gangplank. His face was a mask of exhaustion and exasperation.
"Gunnar, stop. Think for a moment, yoi," he pleaded. "This isn't just about you. It's about the child. What good will you be to Smoothie or your unborn baby if you bleed out in the middle of the ocean?" He gestured around at the wrecked flagship, at the wounded pirates. "Look at us! We are vulnerable. We need our strength consolidated here, protecting Pops. Sending three of our strongest fighters away now is a tactical nightmare."
Gunnar finally stopped, his hand on the railing of the Striker. He turned, his crimson eyes locking onto Marco's.
"And what is your tactical solution, Marco? We wait? We let Big Mom use her as a political pawn? Marry her off to some other brute? Or worse, use the child as leverage against Pops?" He took a step forward, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "She is carrying my child. My blood. She is carrying the grandchild of Whitebeard. There is no plan, no strategy, no tactical advantage more important than getting her back. Now."
The raw, possessive power in his voice silenced Marco. This wasn't just a commander arguing tactics; it was a husband and a father speaking.
From his cot, Whitebeard's voice, though weak, boomed with authority. "Let him go, Marco."
All eyes turned to the old man. Whitebeard was pushing himself into a sitting position, wincing as the fresh stitches across his chest pulled tight. A nurse rushed to his side, but he waved her off.
"Pops, you shouldn't…" Marco started.
"I have spent my life gathering a family," Whitebeard said, his gaze sweeping over his crew before landing on Gunnar. "I have lost sons. I have buried brothers. I will not stand by while my grandchild is held captive by that avaricious hag." His eyes narrowed, filled with a fire that defied his injuries. "Gunnar's rage is a wildfire. It is better to aim it at the enemy than to let it burn this ship from the inside out."
He looked at Ace and Isshin. "You two. Your duty is clear. You are not just his backup. You are his leash. Keep him from getting himself killed. Bring them all back."
"Yes, Pops!" they both answered in unison.
The decision was made. A heavy, somber mood fell over the crew. This felt different from their usual boisterous departures for battle. It felt like a funeral procession before the death had even occurred.
Namur, the fish-man, surfaced alongside the Striker. "The currents are against you. I can guide you through the fastest, most hidden routes. It will shave days off your journey."
"We'd be grateful, Namur," Ace said, relief clear in his voice.
As Gunnar, Ace, and Isshin boarded the small, sleek vessel, the rest of the commanders gathered at the railing of the Moby Dick to see them off.
Vista, his chest tightly bound, stepped forward. "Gunnar," he called out. "Your form was crude, but your quake… it had his spirit. Do not forget the power you wield." It was the highest praise the swordsman could offer.
Gunnar simply nodded, not turning around.
The Striker's sails were unfurled. They were plain, unmarked—a ghost ship for a ghost mission. As the vessel began to pull away, Gunnar stood at the prow, a solitary, bandaged figure. The Vivre Card in his hand trembled, a tiny, fragile beacon of life pointing the way.
He didn't look back at the family he was leaving behind. He couldn't. His gaze was fixed on the horizon, on the impossible destination. He could feel every strained muscle, every searing stitch, every fractured bone in his body. He knew the odds. He knew this was madness.
But as he held the piece of paper, he could almost feel her. Her scent on the sea breeze, the memory of her laughter, the fierce love in her eyes. That was all the strength he needed.
Ace came to stand beside him, clapping a hand on his shoulder. "We'll get her back."
Isshin stood on his other side, silent as a stone, his hand resting on his katana. His presence was a promise.
Gunnar looked at the trembling Vivre Card, his knuckles white.
"I know," he whispered to the sea. "Heaven and hell can't stop me."
***
The journey was a blur of saltwater, sea charts, and simmering tension. For three days, the Striker sliced through the treacherous waters of the New World, guided by Namur's uncanny knowledge of the ocean's secret pathways. They bypassed whirlpools that could swallow fleets and navigated through thick, unnatural fog banks that would have stranded any other ship for weeks. On the fourth day, the air began to change.
The salty tang was replaced by a cloying, saccharine sweetness. The sea itself seemed to lose its deep blue hue, shifting to pastel shades of pink and lavender in the bizarre light. The clouds above were no longer water vapor, but fluffy, white mounds that looked suspiciously like spun sugar.
"We're here," Namur said, his head breaking the surface of the syrupy water beside the ship. "This is as far as I can go. The sea from here on is mostly juice. It'll clog my gills."
Isshin stood at the prow, his sharp eyes scanning the horizon. "The air is heavy. Her Haki permeates everything."
Ace leaned over the railing, a look of disgust on his face. "It smells like a candy shop exploded. How can anyone live here?"
Before them lay the sprawling archipelago of Totto Land. It wasn't a single island, but a collection of thirty-four, each dedicated to a different ingredient or confection. There was Cacao Island, famous for its chocolate buildings; Jam Island, with its flowing rivers of marmalade; and Cheese Island, dotted with fortress-like structures of parmesan and cheddar. In the center of it all, visible even from this distance, was the impossible silhouette of Whole Cake Island, its chateau piercing the sky like a monstrous, frosted wedding cake.
Gunnar unfurled a map they'd "acquired" from a defeated Big Mom subordinate months ago. It was a dizzying, colorful mess.
"According to this, there are dozens of potential locations," Gunnar grumbled, his bandaged finger tracing a path. His wounds had begun to heal, the constant pain dulling to a persistent ache, but the fury in his eyes had not abated. "The Whole Cake Chateau is the most likely, but there are other palaces, villas, fortresses… She could be on any one of these thirty-four islands."
He pulled out the Vivre Card. It had stopped trembling and now pointed with unwavering certainty toward the massive central island.
"At least we know which one," Ace said, trying to sound optimistic.
"That's the most heavily guarded island in her entire territory," Isshin stated flatly. "Walking in the front door is not an option."
They spent the next hour finding a suitable hiding place, eventually guiding the Striker into a secluded cove on the coast of Peanut Island. The cove was hidden behind a waterfall of thick, flowing caramel that cascaded into the sea. They anchored the ship deep within the cavern, the sound of the falls masking their presence.
The three of them gathered on the deck, the air thick with the smell of roasting peanuts and burnt sugar. They shed their pirate attire for something more discreet. Gunnar donned a simple dark tunic and trousers, the fabric straining against his muscular frame. Ace wore a loose-fitting shirt and dark pants, his iconic hat left behind on the ship. Isshin chose a simple, gray ronin's hakama. Over their clothes, they each wore heavy, hooded cloaks of a deep, midnight blue, designed to obscure their faces and figures.
"Alright," Gunnar said, pulling his hood up. His voice was a low, dangerous rumble. "The card points to the chateau. We move under the cover of darkness. We find a way in, locate her, and get out. No detours. No distractions. We are ghosts."
Ace smirked, pulling up his own hood. "Ghosts who can punch really, really hard."
Isshin said nothing, his form already melting into the shadows of his cloak. He was a ghost by nature.
Gunnar looked at the Vivre Card one last time before tucking it safely away. The paper felt warm against his skin, a constant, silent promise. "Let's go bring my wife home."
---
Aboard the Moby Dick
The atmosphere on the flagship was thick with a strange mixture of anxiety, boredom, and paternal concern. The ship was still undergoing repairs, the sounds of hammers and saws a constant backdrop to the crew's conversations.
In the main galley, Thatch was attempting to juggle three flaming cooking pans, a nervous habit he'd developed since the departure of the Striker.
"I give him two days," Thatch declared, narrowly catching a falling pan. "Two days before he gets impatient and decides to punch a hole through the side of the chateau."
"Two days is generous," Vista said, sipping a cup of tea, looking utterly unbothered. He was polishing one of his sabers with a silk cloth. "I'd wager he's already picked a fight with a sentient cookie by now."
Jozu, who was bench-pressing a small cannon in the corner, let out a deep chuckle. "Gunnar doesn't pick fights with cookies. He eats them. Then he picks a fight with the baker."
A wave of laughter rippled through the gathered commanders.
Marco, perched on a railing and meticulously preening his feathers, sighed. "It's not Gunnar I'm worried about. It's Ace. You combine Gunnar's stubbornness with Ace's temper… that's a recipe for an international incident, yoi."
"At least they have Isshin," Haruta chimed in, knitting a tiny, ferocious-looking baby hat with a skull and crossbones on it. "He's the calm one. He'll be the voice of reason."
"The voice of reason?" Thatch scoffed, finally giving up on his juggling. "Isshin's idea of reason is finding the most efficient way to cut through a problem. Literally. If Gunnar says 'punch a hole through the wall,' Isshin will just point out where the wall is weakest."
Another round of laughter. Despite the grim situation, the banter was a relief, a way to keep the encroaching dread at bay.
Whitebeard sat in his massive chair, which had been repaired with large, ugly steel bolts. He was listening, a faint, amused smile on his face. He took a sip of what the nurses assured him was "medicinal broth" but what he insisted tasted like dishwater.
"They'll be fine," he rumbled, his voice regaining some of its old strength. The commanders fell silent, turning to their captain.
"That boy Gunnar," Whitebeard continued, a twinkle in his eye, "is a force of nature. He is a storm. And storms do not ask for permission to make landfall. They simply arrive." He looked at his gathered sons, his expression turning warm and proud. "And he has two of my finest sons at his back. And a fish-man in the sea. They will cause trouble. They will break things. They will undoubtedly make a mess so large we'll have to sail over and clean it up."
He let out a deep, rumbling chuckle. "And when that time comes, we will be ready."