Smoothie stood silently beside a towering pillar, her statuesque form casting a long, solemn shadow across the marble floor. Her expression was unreadable—cool, composed, and distant. While her siblings gasped and her mother cackled with greedy delight, Smoothie remained still. The chaos around her barely registered. In her hand, she absently squeezed the limp body of a giraffe, its juice dripping unnoticed onto the polished tiles.
Her thoughts drifted, pulled into the smoke and fire of a memory long buried.
The clearing was scorched, the air thick with ash and the scent of burnt earth.
Gunnar lay motionless, his body a tapestry of wounds—slashes, burns, bruises. His signature red-and-white hair was matted with blood and soot. His golden eyes, once fierce and untamed, flickered weakly like dying embers. He was barely conscious, his breath shallow.
Two figures stood over him.
Smoothie knelt beside her younger sister, her voice low but firm. "Pudding. Your Memo-Memo Fruit… you can use it, can't you?"
Pudding blinked, her three eyes wide with disbelief. "You want me to rewrite his memories? To erase who he is?"
Smoothie's gaze didn't waver. "Erase. Remove the Memories, the pain, the ties to Whitebeard and the life that forged him into a weapon."
"But that's everything," Pudding whispered. "His crew, his father, his purpose…"
Smoothie's voice was calm, but resolute. "After this moment, He will be living a quiet life. One that gives him peace."
Pudding hesitated, trembling. "Any memory you want to keep?"
Smoothie stood, her silhouette framed by the dying light. "Keep small flashes of me, to know he had a wife. But very small cuts."
Pudding's breath caught.
"Keep iris birth as it is, but in parts, removing all the fighting and all," Smoothie continued. "He deserves to remember that. Just make him remember him naming her,"
Pudding looked down at Gunnar's broken form. "If Mama ever finds out…"
"She won't," Smoothie said, her voice like steel. "And if she does, I'll handle it."
Silence hung between them, heavy and uncertain.
Finally, Pudding nodded slowly. "What will be the trigger? The key to unlock the truth, if it ever needs to be found? I can bury it behind a phrase..."
Here's a more polished and immersive version of your passage, with improved clarity, flow, and emotional depth:
What they failed to consider was the lingering memory of his past life. At the moment of his death in that life, and now—he was the same age.
Seventeen years had passed in the world of One Piece, a life erased from his mind. All that remained was the memory of his original life, now the only thread he could follow. It filled the void, leading him to believe he had been suddenly transmigrated into this world at seventeen—not born into it, not raised as a child.
The only missing piece in his memory was the mother of his child. Her image came in fragments, scattered and incoherent, impossible to decipher.
But he remembered his child. That memory endured.
What remained were flashes of the orphanage, the cruelty he endured, and fleeting glimpses of Smoothie. Everything else was buried, locked away beyond reach.
Smoothie gently caressed Ragnar's hair as he lay near death. She didn't just absorb moisture—she redirected it, altering the oil mixture on his scalp. Slowly, the white strands of his hair began to glow, turning a deep, blood-red hue on both sides.
***
A Day Ago, In the chamber after She was captured by Big Mom Pirates,
The chamber was silent now, save for the echo of retreating footsteps. Big Mom had left, her presence lingering like a storm cloud that refused to pass. Smoothie stood alone, her tall frame trembling, one hand pressed against the cold wall. The other rested protectively over her stomach.
She didn't cry at first. She couldn't. Not until the silence became unbearable.
Then the tears came.
The room had been dim, lit only by the flickering flames of a dozen candles. Big Mom loomed over Smoothie, her eyes wild, her voice low and venomous.
"Don't think of running," she hissed. "If I can't have the child… Whitebeard won't either."
Smoothie's breath caught. Her hand instinctively tightened over her belly. "Mama…"
"If you run," Big Mom continued, her tone sharp as broken glass, "War will follow. I will burn the seas to find you. I will kill the child myself before I let him become Whitebeard's legacy."
Smoothie's heart pounded. Her legs felt weak. She wanted to speak, to scream, but her voice was trapped behind a wall of fear.
"You think you can hide from me?" Big Mom leaned in, her breath hot and heavy. "You think you can protect something from me?"
Smoothie didn't answer. She couldn't.
Big Mom's eyes narrowed. "You betrayed your bloodline. You let yourself fall for that runt. And now you think you can raise a child that carries both our names?"
Smoothie's lips trembled. "He's not a weapon. He's not a legacy. He's just… my child."
"No child born of Me and Whitebeard will ever be just a child," Big Mom spat. "He will be hunted. Used. Feared. Or he will be mine."
Smoothie backed away, her breath shallow. "I won't let you touch him."
Big Mom's laughter was cold and cruel. "You think you have a choice? You're weak. You're sick with fear. And soon, you'll be alone."
Smoothie's voice cracked. "I'm not alone."
"You will be," Big Mom whispered. "Because when the world finds out, they'll come for you. Marines. Pirates. Everyone. And when they do, you'll beg me to take him."
Smoothie collapsed to her knees as Big Mom turned and left, her heavy footsteps echoing like thunder. The door slammed shut behind her.
In the silence that followed, Smoothie curled into herself, cradling her stomach. Her tears fell freely now, mixing with the candlelight.
"I'm sorry," she whispered to the child within. "I'm so sorry."
***
Few Weeks Ago
The sea breeze was gentle that evening, but the mood aboard the Moby Dick was anything but calm.
Marco sat on a crate near the ship's railing, his eyes fixed on the horizon. "He's not the same," he said, voice heavy with sorrow. "Pops… he had a heart attack last month. He's weaker now. Slower. He's… fading."
Smoothie leaned against the mast, arms crossed. "The strongest man in the sea… slowly being eaten away by time and disease."
Marco nodded solemnly. "He still is the strongest. But he's not the man he was. He's a shell of his former power. The world doesn't see it yet, but I do. Every time he coughs blood, every time he sleeps longer than he should…"
Izo stepped out from the shadows, his face pale. "I've seen him drop his bisento mid-swing. That never used to happen. His grip… it's not what it was."
Vista, polishing his sword nearby, added, "He hides it well. But after every battle, he's slower to stand. His breathing's heavier. He winces when he thinks no one's looking."
Smoothie clenched her fists. "After every battle, he loses a large chunk of his power, right?"
Marco looked down. "Yeah. And he's stubborn. He won't admit it. He still charges in like he's invincible."
Jozu, arms crossed, spoke up. "He's trying to protect us. He thinks if he shows weakness, the world will come for us."
Thatch, usually the cheerful one, was quiet. "I found him in the infirmary last week. Alone. Hooked up to IVs. He told me not to tell anyone."
There was a long silence.
Marco finally said, "We're his sons. We're supposed to protect him now. He doesn't need to fight every battle."
Izo nodded. "But he won't stop. Not until he's dead."
Vista sheathed his sword. "Then we fight harder. We stand in front of him. We make sure he doesn't have to lift that bisento unless it's the end of the world."
Smoothie looked up at the sky. "The world will learn soon. The age of Whitebeard is ending. But we'll make sure it ends with honor."
***
The Chamber of BigMom, Pregnant Smoothie, after being captured by Big Mom and Shiki.
Smoothie sank to her knees, the weight of her choices pressing down like the ocean itself. The cold stone floor bit into her skin, but she barely felt it. Her breath came in shallow gasps, her arms wrapped tightly around her midsection as if she could shield the life growing inside her from the world outside.
She thought of the child.
Innocent. Unaware.
Destined to be a pawn in a war between titans.
Her voice cracked as she whispered to the empty room, "What kind of life can I give you?"
The silence answered with nothing but the flicker of candlelight and the distant echo of waves crashing against the cliffs. Her tears fell freely now.
She thought of Gunnar, the man who had made her laugh when she thought she'd forgotten how.
She thought of Whitebeard, coughing blood in a darkened room, still trying to carry the weight of a world that no longer feared him.
And she thought of Big Mom's final words:
"I will kill the child."
The words echoed like a curse, wrapping around her heart like chains. Her mother—her own blood—had become the monster in her nightmares.
Smoothie rocked gently, her arms cradling her belly. She didn't know what tomorrow would bring. She didn't know if she'd survive long enough to see her child smile, to hear their first laugh, to whisper their name in peace.
But she knew one thing.
She would not let her mother win.
Even if it meant running.
Even if it meant war.
Even if it meant dying.
She would fight. For her child. For herself. For the future.
And in that moment, in the quiet of the chamber, Smoothie stopped being a daughter of Big Mom.
She became a mother.
***
Somewhere in the pirate world,
The sun was a melting ball of orange and pink, painting the sky in soft hues. Onedly free of the scent of blood and ozone.
For the first time in what felt like a lifetime, Ragnar felt the ship's foredeck, a small, makeshift table had been set up. A gentle sea breeze ruffled the tablecloth the crushing weight on his shoulders lighten, if only by a fraction.
He sat on a driftwood log, watching Iris.
Iris sat perched on a crate, her legs swinging happily, her mouth full of sea-salt fries. She held. A small, makeshift fire crackled nearby, warming a pot of simple fish stew. But Iris wasn't interested one up, examining it like a fine jewel. "This one is the perfect shape," she declared. "Like a little in the stew. She was completely engrossed in the mountain of ice cream a bewildered Marine cook had been ordered to prepare for her golden sword." She brandished it for a moment before chomping it down with gusto.
Ragnar sat opposite her, nursing. It was a colossal sundae in a wooden bowl, a chaotic masterpiece of vanilla and strawberry scoops, drowned in chocolate sauce a cup of black coffee. He had cleaned up, the blood and grime washed away, but a deep exhaustion clung to him like a, buried under a blizzard of sprinkles, and crowned with a single, perfect cherry.
Her face was a sticky, triumphant mess.
"Papa," she said, her voice muffled by a giant spoonful of ice cream, "you have second skin." A fresh white bandage was wrapped around his ribs, and a particularly nasty bruise was blooming on his cheekbone. He watched Iris, a faint, tired smile playing on his lips.
"Papa," she said, her voice muffled "You were so cool!"
Ragnar managed a small, tired smile. "I was?"
"Yeah!" She pointed her spoon at him, leaving a trail of chocolate sauce in the air. "You went whoosh! And the by potato. She swallowed. "You were so cool."
Ragnar blinked. "Cool?"
"Yeah!" she said, her eyes wide and shining with unabashed adoration. "When you did that thing with your fist— bad man went kaboom! And then you went grrrr and got all scary with horns and stuff, andFWOOSH!—and that big meanie went flying through the mountain! It was like—BOOM! Right the mean lady just fell asleep!"
She punctuated her story with dramatic sound effects and wild gestures, her initial terror having through! I saw the hole!" She demonstrated with her hands, creating a small explosion in the air.
He chuckled, a low been completely replaced by a child's awe at the sheer spectacle of it all. To her, it wasn't an, weary sound. "I'm glad you thought it was cool. I thought it was… a bit much."
Bloody battle; it was the most amazing thing she had ever seen.
"I was worried," he said quietly, his gaze drifting to the gentle waves lapping at the shore.
"I know," she replied, her tone suddenly serious. She insisted, shaking her head so vigorously her braids flopped. "He was a bully. And you showed him. You're the strongest papa in the whole world."
Her simple, absolute faith was a balm on swallowed her mouthful of sundae and looked at him, her golden eyes, so much like his own, full of an his raw soul. She hadn't seen a monster. She had seen her father protecting her. To her, the earnest wisdom that always caught him off guard. "But I knew you'd win. You're my papa."
She said it with such simple, unshakeable faith that it struck him harder than any of Weevil's punches.
And all she saw was her reached across the table and gently wiped a speck of salt from her cheek with his thumb. "Eat your dinner,"
He reached out and gently wiped a smudge of chocolate from her cheek with his thumb. "Eat."
She happily obliged, diving back into her pile of fries and the grilled sea-king steak he had cooked for them your ice cream, little spark. It's melting."
She grinned and dug back in with renewed vigor. They sat in comfortable silence for a while, the only sounds being the crackle of the fire, the whisper of the waves, in the ship's galley. They ate in comfortable silence for a while, the only sounds the lapping of waves against and the enthusiastic clinking of Iris's spoon against her bowl.
"Papa?" she asked after a few minutes, her the hull and Iris's contended munching. The world felt peaceful, distilled down to this small circle of warmth on a voice smaller now.
"Yes?"
"Is… is our tavern really gone?"
"Papa?" Iris asked after a while, her voice softer now.
"Hm?"
Air, heavy and sad. He looked at her, ready to give a simple, honest answer. But he saw the slight, "Are we still going home?" look she gave him.
He said carefully. "But the tavern wasn't just wood and stone, Iris. The tavern was us. It was Mira telling bad jokes, and the fishermen arguing over who caught the bigger sea king, and you leaving as Ragnar, the Warlord, could never go back to being just a tavern keeper."
He met her gaze, his golden eyes full of a sorrow she was too young to understand.
"Our home is a little different now," he said gently drawings on all the tables." He smiled softly. "The tavern is wherever we are. We'll just… have to build a new one someday."
Her face brightened at the thought. "Can the new one have a slide? A. "For a while, home is going to be… wherever we are together." He tapped the wooden deck beneath them big twisty one from our room down to the kitchen?
He chuckled, a genuine, rumbling sound that felt. "Today, it's this ship. Tomorrow, maybe it's an island with pink beaches. The day foreign in his chest. We'll see. Maybe."
She finished the last of her ice cream, scraping after, maybe one with trees so tall they tickle the clouds."
Iris considered this, her head tilted. "So," the bowl clean before letting out a contented sigh and leaning her sticky head against his side. Her small body was warm, "… we're on an adventure?"
Ragnar felt a lump form in his throat. He nodded, forcing a smile, real against a tired smile.
"I'm glad you got horns," she mumbled, her voice drowsy with sugar and exhaustion. "They were cool."
He wrapped an arm around her, pulling her close and resting his chin.
"Will we still have fries?"
He let out a real laugh the top of her head. He smelled the salt in her hair and the sweet scent of chocolate on her skin. Here this time, the sound rusty but genuine. "I will search the Four Blues and the Grand Line. I will fight, on this nameless shore, with the setting sun painting the sky in hues of orange and purple, the dying island felt Sea Kings and challenge Emperors if I have to. But I promise you, we will always have fries."
She gig a world away. He was no Warlord, no Sign of Terror, no son of an Emperor. At this Moment, He was just a father.
He was just agled, satisfied with his solemn vow. She finished her last bite of steak, then slid off her crate and came around father.
For the first time since Stussy had walked into his life the table. Without a word, she climbed into his lap, curling up against his bandaged chest with a contented sigh, her small body a warm, trusting weight.
Ragnar wrapped his arms around her, holding her close, his chin resting on the top of her white hair. He stared out at the setting sun, the last sliver of orange dipping below the horizon, leaving the world in a wash of deep orange.
***
The Den Den Mushi on Ragnar's desk awoke with a start, its eyes snapping open, its lips pulling back into a grim frown that perfectly mimicked the man on the other end.
"Purupurupuru… purupurupuru… GACHA."
"This is Warlord Ragnar," Ragnar answered, his voice flat. He was in the captain's quarters of his assigned ship, a logbook of falsified pirate-hunting activities open before him. Iris was on the deck above, chasing seagulls under the watchful eye of a terrified Marine ensign.
"Ragnar," the voice from the snail boomed, deep and authoritative. It was Fleet Admiral Sengoku. "Your presence is required. A formal summons for all Seven Warlords of the Sea."
Ragnar paused, his pen hovering over the logbook. He had known this was coming. It was part of the deal, the price for the shield he had bought for Iris. "Where?"
"Marine Headquarters. Marineford," Sengoku stated, his tone leaving no room for argument. "The World Government has made a decision. Portgas D. Ace, the Division Zero Commander of the Whitebeard Pirates, will be publicly executed."
Ragnar felt nothing at the name. It was just a name. A pirate commander. He had heard the news of the capture, of course, but it was just another story from a world he had left behind.
"An execution," Ragnar said simply. "And you need the Warlords to attend."
"Not just attend," Sengoku corrected, his voice hardening. "We anticipate a response. Whitebeard will not let his commander die without a fight. He will bring his entire fleet, his allies, everything he has. He will declare war on us."
Ragnar's knuckles whitened around his pen. A war. An Emperor's war.
"You are being summoned to fight, Warlord," Sengoku's voice cut through his thoughts, sharp as a blade. "You will stand with the Marines, with the full force of our Admirals and Vice Admirals, and you will face the Whitebeard Pirates. It is your duty as a Shichibukai."
Ragnar looked out the porthole. He could see Iris laughing as she tried to catch a retreating wave. "I'll be there!"
[A/N: If there is any part you want to be see, like any things you wonder what happened. Please feel free, I will write a chapter that clears the doubts there.]