The air in Marineford's war chamber was thick with tension. Sunlight filtered through tall windows, casting long shadows across the polished floor. Marines lined the walls, stiff as statues, watching the arrival of legends.
At the head of the table sat Fleet Admiral Sengoku, arms folded, gaze stern. Beside him stood Vice-Admiral Tsuru, her eyes sharp, her silence louder than words.
Gecko Moria was already seated, slouched like a sack of bones. He stabbed at a bowl of fruit with a clawed finger, muttering, "Kishishishi… What a waste of time."
Across from him sat Bartholomew Kuma, unmoving. His Bible lay open, untouched. He hadn't blinked since he arrived.
The doors burst open with a flamboyant laugh.
"Fuffuffuffuffu!"
Donquixote Doflamingo strolled in, pink feathers trailing behind him. His grin was wide, his shades glinting.
"Well, Moria! Still sulking like a stitched-up scarecrow?"
Moria didn't look up. "Better than being a flamingo with a god complex."
Doflamingo chuckled and dropped into a chair. "Touché. But at least I'm not rotting."
The doors opened again—this time, quietly.
Ragnar stepped in.
His red hair was tied back loosely, a few strands falling over a sun-worn face. He wore a dark coat with gold trim, open at the chest, revealing a scar that ran diagonally across his collarbone. A single gold ring hung from his ear. His golden eyes scanned the room with calm confidence
He took a seat, leaned back, and glanced at the others.
"Quite the crew," he said casually. "Looks like a tavern brawl waiting to happen."
Doflamingo smirked. "And you must be the new flavor. Ragnar, right? What's your gimmick—fight, peace, or just good hair?"
Ragnar grinned. "Mostly charm. But I've got a few surprises if you're curious."
Moria snorted. "Another pretty boy with a ship and a name. Let me guess—'Red King of the West'?"
Ragnar leaned forward. "Just Ragnar. I haven't been a pirate for long."
The doors opened once more.
Dracule Mihawk entered, coat flowing, Yoru on his back. His hawk-like eyes scanned the room. He took a seat at the far end, poured himself a glass of wine, and said nothing.
Doflamingo raised his glass. "Mihawk! Still drinking alone?"
Mihawk didn't look up. "Better than talking to fools."
Ragnar nodded toward Mihawk. "Smart man. Silence is underrated."
A loud crash interrupted the moment.
"ZEHAHAHAHAHA!" Marshall D. Teach, Blackbeard, stormed in, pie in one hand, rum in the other.
"Hope I'm not late! Had to grab dessert. Can't walk into marine territory on an empty stomach!"
He dropped into a chair beside Ragnar, offering him a bite.
"Want some, Brother? It's cherry—sweet and bloody."
Ragnar glanced at the pie. "I don't eat anything from Strangers. Especially friendly type,"
Teach roared with laughter. "Zehahaha! You've got bite—I like that!"
Sengoku finally stood, voice cutting through the noise.
"You were summoned for a reason. The world is shifting. The balance is cracking. You're not here to posture. You're here to decide what comes next."
Ragnar leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table.
Ragnar regarded Blackbeard with a cool, appraising stare. The man reeked of cheap rum, stale sweat, and something else… a dark, churning power that clung to him like a second skin.
Doflamingo chuckled, swirling a glass of wine he'd poured himself without asking. "Fuffuffuffu… You sound like a drunk philosopher, Teach. But I'll admit, you've got flair."
Moria, who had been half-asleep, perked up at the sound of laughter. "Hah! You all talk like you've already won. Whitebeard's coming, and he's not bringing flowers."
"Good," Ragnar said, reaching for a piece of bread and tearing it in half. "I'd hate to dress up for a funeral and not get a fight."
Mihawk, seated at the far end, glanced up from his wine. "You dress up for funerals?"
Ragnar smirked. "Only when I plan to survive them."
The room chuckled—except Kuma, who remained silent, unmoving, unreadable.
Sengoku cleared his throat, the sound like a cannon shot. "Now that all… esteemed members of the Seven Warlords of the Sea are present," he said, his tone tight with forced diplomacy, "we can begin."
He placed a folder on the table. "As you are aware, Portgas D. Ace, Division Zero Commander of the Whitebeard Pirates, is scheduled for public execution."
A ripple passed through the room. The Marines lining the walls stiffened. The Warlords, however, reacted in their own ways.
Moria leaned forward, eyes gleaming. "Whitebeard's pride will drag him here. And when he falls… I'll be waiting."
Doflamingo's grin widened. "Fuffuffuffu! Now this is a show I wouldn't miss for the world. The old titan crashing into Marineford? It's a tragedy with perfect lighting."
Mihawk swirled his wine again. "If he comes, it won't be a show. It'll be a reckoning."
Blackbeard raised his jug. "Zehahaha! Let him come! The world's been too quiet. Time to shake the pillars and see who's still standing when the dust settles."
Ragnar leaned back, resting one boot on the edge of the table. "You look too excited for a former Son of his. He's a storm. If he moves, the sea moves with him."
Doflamingo pointed his wine glass at Ragnar. "You sound like you admire him."
"I've heard his Stories. And maybe I do a little," Ragnar replied and thought internally, 'Not like they would believe i know what is going to happen on Marineford, who would believe a person from another world got transmigrated,'
Moria snorted. "You'll be admiring from a crater if you get too close."
Ragnar tossed a grape into his mouth. "Then I'll make sure the crater's worth the view."
Blackbeard laughed again, slapping the table. "Zehahaha! I like this guy! He talks like he's already written the ending."
Mihawk looked at Ragnar, then at Blackbeard. "The ones who talk the most rarely survive the final chapter."
Doflamingo raised an eyebrow. "And the ones who say nothing?"
"They write the last line," Mihawk said simply.
Sengoku slammed a hand on the table, silencing the room. "Enough. This isn't a tavern. This is war. You're not here to trade barbs—you're here to hold the line."
Ragnar leaned forward, eyes sharp. "Then tell us where to stand, Admiral. Just don't expect us to stand still."
The waters around Marineford were about to run very, very red.
***
The sea was calm that evening, a deceptive peace that hung heavy over the Moby Dick. The crew moved with quiet urgency, their laughter subdued, their steps careful. The looming war with the Marines was days away, and tension gripped even the most seasoned pirates.
Marco sat beside the massive figure of Edward Newgate—Whitebeard. The old man's breath was shallow, his chest rising and falling like the tide, slow and labored. Marco's fingers pressed gently against his wrist, checking the pulse that had once thundered like a drum of war.
Now, it was barely a whisper.
A soft scan from Marco's den den monitor flickered beside him, showing internal readings. The results were grim.
"Tch…" Marco clicked his tongue, eyes narrowing. He turned to a nearby crewmate—Vista, who had just approached with a fresh towel. "The injury from the clash with Big Mom… it's worse than we thought."
Vista's brows furrowed. "Worse? He's been walking, talking—"
Marco cut him off, voice low but firm. "His internal organs show no sign of healing. They're slowly collapsing. His lungs… most of the cells are necrotic. I can't even imagine the pain he must feel just to breathe."
He looked back at Whitebeard, whose eyes were closed, but not asleep. The old man was listening.
"Every breath is a war," Marco murmured. "And he's been fighting it alone."
Whitebeard's lips curled into a faint smile. "Don't talk like I'm already dead, Marco."
Marco didn't smile back. "You're not. But you're close. And this war… we shouldn't take it."
The crew around them fell silent. Even the waves seemed to pause.
"If we go to Marineford like this," Marco continued, "we're walking into a trap with our captain already half-buried. He won't survive a full-scale battle. Not like this."
Jozu stepped forward, fists clenched. "Then what do we do? Leave Ace to die?"
Marco stood, his wings flaring slightly in frustration. "No. But we need to rethink everything. We need a plan that doesn't rely on Whitebeard standing at the front lines."
He turned to Whitebeard again. "You've carried us for decades. Let us carry you now."
Whitebeard opened his eyes, the fire still burning in them despite the pain. "I'll stand for my son. Even if it kills me."
Marco knelt again, voice softer. "And it will. That's not a guess. It's a fact."
The crew exchanged glances, the weight of Marco's words sinking in. The war was coming, but the cost was already too high.
***
The memory came unbidden, like a storm breaking through calm waters.
Whitebeard sat silently on the deck, his breath shallow, but his mind ablaze with the past. Marco's words echoed in his ears, but his thoughts were elsewhere—on the battlefield where gods had clashed.
The skies had been torn apart by thunder, the sea boiling beneath the weight of two emperors. On the shattered coast of Elbaf, Whitebeard stood tall, his bisento buried in the ground beside him. His fists clenched, veins bulging, eyes burning with fury.
"This is for my son… Gunnar!"
With a roar that shook the heavens, Whitebeard launched forward, his fist engulfed in tremor energy. The air cracked, the earth split, and the very fabric of space seemed to ripple as his punch connected with Big Mom's chest.
The impact sent her flying through a mountain ridge, bones cracking, blood spraying. Her scream echoed across the battlefield, a mix of rage and disbelief.
But Whitebeard wasn't done.
Charging through the debris, he grabbed her arm mid-recovery and, with a monstrous twist, ripped it clean off. The sound was sickening, flesh tearing, bone snapping. Big Mom howled, her eyes wide with fury and pain.
"You dare—!"
She retaliated instantly. Her sword, Napoleon, plunged deep into Whitebeard's chest, piercing through muscle and bone. But it wasn't just steel—her Conqueror's Haki exploded inside him, a violent surge that ravaged his insides.
Whitebeard staggered, blood pouring from his mouth. His lungs screamed. His heart faltered.
But he didn't fall.
"You think this is enough to stop me?!"
With a final burst of strength, he grabbed her leg and twisted—tearing it from her body with a thunderous crack. Big Mom shrieked, collapsing to one knee, her body broken but her spirit unyielding.
And then—
A massive blast.
The clash of their Haki erupted outward, leveling the battlefield. Mountains crumbled. The sea split. The sky turned black.
When the dust settled, both emperors stood bloodied, broken, and barely breathing.
Back to Present
Whitebeard exhaled slowly, the memory fading. His hand trembled slightly, resting on his bisento.
Marco watched him, silent.
"She took a piece of me that day," Whitebeard murmured. "But I took more from her."
Marco nodded, but his eyes were filled with concern. "And now, you're paying the price."
Whitebeard didn't respond. He didn't need to.
The war was coming. And the old titan knew—his final battle was near.