The wind was gentle that morning aboard the Moby Dick. The sea was calm—deceptively so. Seagulls wheeled overhead as the sun rose, casting gold across the waves.
Whitebeard sat in his throne-like chair, a massive mug of sake in hand. His eyes were half-lidded, his posture relaxed—but his grip trembled. Marco, ever watchful, noticed it first: the faintest twitch in the Emperor's fingers as he held up the morning newspaper.
On the front page was a bounty poster—fresh, crisp, and unmistakable.
RAGNAR
Crimson hair. Golden eyes like molten fire. Bare arms, scarred and sun-worn. No weapon. Just presence.
But for Whitebeard, it wasn't a stranger.
His throat clenched.
"…Gunnar?"
He whispered it. But the silence that followed was deafening. The crew nearby froze. Even the waves seemed to pause.
The red hair. The sharp jawline. The fire in the eyes. He looked so much like him—so much like the boy he had lost.
His mind went back when Gunnar was but a child.
Laughter rang across white sands. A younger Whitebeard, broad and invincible, ran barefoot with a small boy on his shoulders.
The boy giggled uncontrollably, arms spread wide like wings. His hair—half snow-white, half blazing red—danced in the wind.
"Faster, old man! Fly faster!" the boy shouted.
Whitebeard laughed, full and thunderous. "I ain't no bird, brat!"
"But I am! I'm a firebird! The fastest there is!" Gunnar declared, tapping his father's head proudly.
"You're my little firebird then," Whitebeard muttered, softer now. "My son."
They stopped by a tree. Gunnar jumped down and began drawing in the sand with a stick—a pirate flag with a sunburst behind it.
"What's that?" Whitebeard asked.
"It's our flag," Gunnar said, puffing out his chest. "Yours and mine. When I'm strong, I'll protect you."
Whitebeard crouched down. "It's a father's job to protect his son."
The boy only smiled. "You won't always be strong, old man."
The Scene suddenly shifted.
Smoke. Screams. The scent of death clinging to every breath.
Whitebeard stumbled through the carnage, his bisento gone, his strength ebbing like the tide. And then—
"Papa… help me…"
A child's voice.
He turned sharply.
There, crawling through the mud, was Gunnar—not the warrior, not the man—but a boy. His boy. White and red hair matted with blood and ash, eyes pleading, hand stretched out.
"Papa…"
Whitebeard ran. "Gunnar!"
He reached him. But just as his hand clasped the boy's—
BOOM.
The world went white.
Searing pain. Wetness across his arms. Silence.
When the smoke cleared, there was nothing but ash.
Whitebeard stood still, hands soaked in blood—not his own. Bits of cloth. Flesh. A single lock of red-white hair fluttered down, landing on his shoulder like a curse.
He screamed. A roar that shook the clouds.
"MY SON!"
***
Back to Present
Whitebeard didn't speak.
The paper slipped from his hand, drifting onto the deck like a feather. Marco caught it mid-air, eyes scanning the image.
"…It's not him," Marco said gently.
Whitebeard didn't respond. His shoulders heaved with each breath. He stared at the sea, unblinking.
"Pops…" Marco stepped closer, hand on his shoulder.
"I held him in my arms," Whitebeard whispered. "He laughed… "he promised to protect me. Then I watched him die… like a child."
Silence. Even the wind stopped.
"That boy," Whitebeard said, voice hoarse. "That Ragnar… he carries fire in his eyes. Same as Gunnar."
Marco looked again. It was true.
Whitebeard stood, towering and heavy with grief.
"If there's a storm coming," he said, "I'll face it. If the world burns again, I'll walk through it."
He clenched his blood-scarred fists.
"But I'll be damned if I lose another son."
And with that, he turned his eyes toward the horizon—toward the new fire threatening to consume the world again.
Toward Ace.
***
Over Marineford, Grey clouds, heavy with unshed rain, hung low, mirroring the oppressive weight in the air. The crescent bay, once a bustling naval hub, now stood silent—an arena awaiting its champions and casualties.
Across the water, a steel phalanx of Marine vessels stretched to the horizon. Sleek destroyers and hulking battleships formed a wall of iron and gunpowder, their cannons like cold, unblinking eyes. The sea itself seemed to hold its breath.
Onshore, the plaza was a sea of white and blue. One hundred thousand elite Marines stood in perfect formation, their boots planted like roots in stone. Rifles gleamed. Sabers waited. The Wall of Siege loomed behind them, bristling with artillery.
At the center of it all, the execution scaffold rose like a monument to finality. Bound in Sea Prism Stone chains, Portgas D. Ace knelt beneath the weight of the world. His bare chest bore bruises, but his eyes still burned. He stared forward, jaw clenched, defiant.
So this is how it ends, he thought. Pops… Luffy… don't come. This is my mistake. My burden.
Below the scaffold, three figures stood like statues.
Fleet Admiral Sengoku was a mountain of tension, arms crossed, jaw tight. His voice would soon echo across the world, but for now, he was silent.
Beside him, Vice-Admiral Garp stood rigid, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles had gone bone-white. His eyes never left Ace. His grandson. His guilt.
'Roger… you bastard,' Garp thought.'Even in death, you're still dragging us all down with you.'
To the side, seated on a raised dais, were the Seven Warlords of the Sea—or what passed for them now. A gallery of monsters in human skin.
Donquixote Doflamingo perched on the railing like a vulture, pink feathers fluttering in the breeze. His grin was wide, his sunglasses glinting.
"Fuffuffuffu! What a stage! The tension, the silence… it's delicious. I haven't felt this alive in years."
Bartholomew Kuma sat motionless, Bible open, unread. His gaze was unreadable behind his lenses, his presence like a shadow cast by something long dead.
Gecko Moria slouched in his chair, picking at a bowl of grapes. His stitched face was pale, but his eyes gleamed with morbid curiosity.
"Kishishishi… Let's see Whitebeard scream. Maybe I'll get a new shadow out of this mess."
Dracule Mihawk leaned against a marble pillar, Yoru resting beside him. His hawk-like eyes scanned the sea, calm and calculating.
"So… he's really coming," he murmured, more to himself than anyone else.
Then there was Ragnar.
He stood, arms crossed, coat fluttering in the breeze. His red hair was tied back, a few strands loose across his brow. His golden eyes swept the battlefield with a tactician's gaze.
"Impressive," he said, voice low but clear. "But numbers don't win wars. Will does."
Doflamingo glanced at him, amused.
"Still playing the philosopher, Red? Or are you just nervous?"
Ragnar smirked. "If I were nervous, I'd be sitting."
Moria snorted. "You'll be lying down soon enough."
Ragnar didn't even look at him. "You'd know."
Boa Hancock sat on her ornate throne, fanned by her Kuja attendants. Her beauty was blinding, her expression one of utter disdain.
"Hmph. To think I must endure the stench of men for this… vulgar display."
But her eyes flicked toward the sea, and for a moment, her mask cracked. Luffy… don't be foolish.
A high-ranking Marine stepped forward, voice amplified by a Den Den Mushi.
"ATTENTION! FLEET ADMIRAL SENGOKU WILL NOW ADDRESS THE WORLD!"
The plaza fell silent. The world held its breath.
And far beyond the horizon, the sea began to stir.
Sengoku took a measured step forward. His gaze, hard and unwavering, swept over the tens of thousands of Marines before him, then seemed to pierce through the very screens of the Den Den Mushi to address the distant, unseen audience.
"Men of the Marines! Citizens of the World!" His voice rang out with unwavering authority. "Today, here at Marineford, the pirate Portgas D. Ace, Second Division Commander of the Whitebeard Pirates, will face his final judgment! His execution is a testament to the unwavering justice of the World Government!"
A low murmur rippled through the Marine ranks—a sound of grim determination, nervous anticipation, and the dawning realization of the battle to come.
On the scaffold, Ace let out a harsh, defiant laugh.
"Enough with the speeches, old man! If you're going to kill me, then get on with it!"
Sengoku's eyes, like obsidian, fixed on Ace for a moment before he continued, his voice rising with solemn gravity.
"Many will question this decision. Many will wonder why we risk a full-scale war with one of the Four Emperors, Whitebeard, over a single pirate commander." He paused, letting the weight of his words settle. "The reason is simple, yet profoundly dire. The very existence of this man, Portgas D. Ace, carries a significance that transcends his deeds. A significance rooted in a bloodline so dangerous, so volatile, that it threatens the very foundations of our world."
Doflamingo leaned forward, his grin stretching wider, his shades catching the light.
"Fuffuffuffu! Oh, a dramatic reveal? This just keeps getting better and better!"
Ragnar's golden eyes narrowed, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. A bloodline? What card is Sengoku playing now?
Hancock raised an eyebrow, her disdain momentarily replaced by a flicker of curiosity. Even Mihawk, usually detached, shifted his gaze from the horizon to the Fleet Admiral.
Garp squeezed his eyes shut, his jaw clenched. A silent agony etched itself into his weathered face.
'Don't, Sengoku… Don't lay that burden on him in front of everyone…'
Sengoku's voice dropped, becoming a chilling pronouncement that echoed through the unnatural stillness.
"This man, Portgas D. Ace… his true crime, the unpardonable sin for which he now faces death… is not merely his piracy." He raised a hand, pointing directly at the kneeling figure. "It is the cursed blood that flows through his veins."
Ace flinched. His defiant posture faltered for a moment, a shadow of pain crossing his face.
"Listen well, Marines! Listen well, world!" Sengoku boomed. "There is a truth we have guarded for two decades. A truth so monstrous it could shatter the world order. A truth that must now be laid bare!"
The silence in Marineford was absolute. Every eye, every Den Den Mushi lens, was fixed on him.
Then, with the finality of a judge passing sentence, he declared:
"Portgas D. Ace! Your true father… is none other than the man who conquered the Grand Line, the man who stood at the pinnacle of all pirates… the Pirate King himself, Gold Roger!"
The words struck Marineford like a thunderclap.
A collective gasp surged through the 100,000 Marines.
"Roger's… son?!"
"It can't be!"
"The Pirate King had a child?!"
The exclamations flew, a cacophony of disbelief.
On the Warlords' dais, Doflamingo threw his head back and roared with laughter.
"Fuffuffuffuffu! Gold Roger?! Oh, this is sublime! The irony! The sheer, beautiful irony! The World Government raising the Pirate King's son only to execute him! Magnificent!"
Gecko Moria's jaw dropped.
"Kishishishi… Roger's own flesh and blood… No wonder Whitebeard cherished him so! What a prize!"
Ragnar's eyes widened, then narrowed in understanding.
"So, that is the heart of the storm," he murmured. "The lineage of the man who turned the world upside down."
Even Kuma, the impassive cyborg, seemed to register the revelation, though no outward sign betrayed him.
Mihawk's usual aloofness cracked. His gaze sharpened, fixed on Ace with new intensity.
"Roger's heir… So, that is the caliber of man Whitebeard would go to war for."
Boa Hancock's lips parted slightly. The name Gold Roger echoed with a weight even she could not dismiss. But her thoughts turned elsewhere.
Garp stood with his head bowed, shoulders trembling under the weight of the revelation. He could feel the eyes of the world on him.
But it was Ace who broke first.
Tears streamed down his face—not of sorrow, but of incandescent rage and soul-deep pain. He threw his head back and roared, his voice raw and defiant.
"Shut up! Shut your damn mouth, Sengoku! I have no father but one! My father… is Whitebeard!"
His cry echoed across the plaza, a desperate defiance against a truth he had spent his life denying.
Sengoku's expression remained unyielding.
"With the blood of Gold Roger in his veins, his continued existence is a spark that could ignite a new era of piracy. A catastrophe we cannot allow. Therefore, we will sever this cursed lineage. We will demonstrate to the world that no pirate, no matter their heritage, no matter their ambition, stands above the absolute justice of the World Government!"
He raised his voice to a thunderous command.
"Prepare for battle! Whitebeard and his armada will soon be upon us! We will crush them! We will execute Gold Roger's son! For justice! For the world!"
A roar of affirmation erupted from the Marine ranks, a sound of grim resolve.
The tension in Marineford, already unbearable, ratcheted up to the breaking point. The air itself seemed to vibrate.
Out on the vast, grey expanse of the sea, still deceptively calm, a change was coming.
On the distant horizon, almost imperceptible at first, like a mirage forming in the salty haze, the silhouette of a colossal ship began to materialize.
Its prow, shaped like the head of a whale, was unmistakable.
The Moby Dick.
Whitebeard was coming.
And the greatest war the world had seen in an age was about to erupt.