The sun hung lazily over the horizon, painting the vast ocean in warm hues of orange and gold. The gentle rocking of a small fishing boat, no larger than a single mast's length, danced atop the calm waves. A lone fisherman sat at the stern, his bare feet resting on the wooden planks, humming a familiar tune as he cast his line into the endless blue.
Minami no shima wa~ …Atatakai!
Paina~…Purupuru!
Atama~…Pokapoka!
Aho~~ Baka~~!
His voice carried with the salty breeze, his rough yet hearty singing mixing with the rhythm of the sea. He had fished these waters for years, through storms and sunlit days, through lean times and abundant hauls. To him, the ocean was a dear old friend—a companion who always provided, so long as one respected its mysteries.
The man adjusted the wide straw hat shielding his weathered face from the sun, his fingers deftly tying a fresh piece of bait onto his hook. The song continued to roll off his lips with a lazy ease.
"Aho~ Baka~…."
He pulled his line slightly, feeling for the familiar tug of a bite. But nothing. The sea, which had always responded in kind, now felt strangely… silent. Too silent. A cold breeze brushed against his skin, and a shiver ran down his spine. The waves that had been gently rocking his boat stilled—completely. The air grew thick, heavy, as if the ocean itself was holding its breath.
Then, it happened.
A distant rumble. Deep. Low. Something ancient. His fingers instinctively gripped the edge of his boat, eyes scanning the endless horizon—until his heart nearly stopped. The ocean—had turned red. Not just a patch. Not a trick of the setting sun. The entire sea, as far as his eyes could see, was dyed the color of blood.
A slow, creeping horror crawled up his spine as massive, unearthly shapes began floating to the surface. Corpses. Not of men, but of monsters. Sea Kings—giants among creatures, lords of the deep, feared by even the strongest of warriors—now lay lifeless, their colossal forms rising from the abyss like fallen gods.
Some were so vast they could swallow his entire village in one bite. Others were tangled in grotesque shapes, their massive jaws still open in a silent scream, their eyes bulging with whatever horror had claimed them. The fisherman's breath hitched.
This was no battle between pirates. No act of man could have done this. No force of nature could have slain so many at once. His grip trembled on the edge of his boat. The red water lapped gently against its sides, warm—too warm. The scent of iron filled his lungs, thick and suffocating.
And then, he felt it. A pulse. A slow, rhythmic heartbeat that did not belong to any living thing he knew. It thrummed through the very sea itself. A presence. Something new. Something divine. The fisherman's mouth was dry, his song long forgotten. He had spent his entire life at sea, and in all his years, he had never seen something like this. The world had changed. And something had awakened beneath the waves.
A shudder ran through the old man's spine. He had spent decades on these waters, but never had he witnessed such devastation. If he could salvage even a fraction of these corpses, he could retire in luxury, never needing to fish another day in his life. But something about this scene unsettled him. He had lived long enough to know when to turn his back on fortune.
No. He would not take any chances.
Just as he reached for the oar, preparing to turn his boat back toward the distant shore—
"CRASH—!"
The sea erupted like a bomb had been detonated beneath its surface. A towering wall of water surged into the sky as a monstrous figure broke through, blotting out the dying sun. The fisherman's breath hitched. It was a Sea King—the largest he had ever seen.
Its sheer size defied reason, its body stretching for hundreds of meters above the water, its scales glistening like polished obsidian. A beast so colossal that it could swallow entire islands whole. But something was wrong— It was running.
The fisherman had seen many beasts of the deep, but never had he seen a Sea King flee in terror. Then, its eyes fell upon him. A moment of silence stretched between them—then the creature lunged.
The fisherman barely had time to react. There was no escape. His small boat was nothing but a speck in comparison, an ant before a hurricane. The massive maw of the Sea King descended, its fangs glinting like ivory swords, ready to crush him and his vessel in an instant. He closed his eyes.
Then— "Clink—!"
A sound like the heavens splitting apart rang through the air. The impact he braced for never came. Instead, something else crashed into the sea—a mass so heavy, so colossal, it sent waves rolling for miles. The fisherman forced his eyes open, his heart hammering in his chest.
The Sea King was gone. No—it had been cleaved in two. Its severed halves plummeted back into the water, each section so massive they created whirlpools upon impact. The fisherman's hands trembled as he struggled to comprehend what he had just witnessed.
His eyes darted across the bloodied ocean, scanning the floating corpses of countless other Sea Kings. What kind of demon could have caused such carnage? Then, he heard it.
"Good thing I found your boat... I thought I'd have to swim all the way back home..."
The fisherman turned, every nerve in his body tensed. Standing at the edge of his boat, wringing seawater from his torn pants, was a young man. His back was turned, his soaked golden hair clinging to his shoulders. Two katanas hung loosely in his grasp, their edges still dripping with fresh blood.
But that wasn't what made the old man's breath hitch in his throat. No, it was the brand. Scarred into the young man's back—seared into his very flesh—was a symbol the fisherman knew too well. A mark that never faded. A mark he himself carried throughout his life.
The Hoof of the Soaring Dragon.
A Celestial Dragon's slave. This young man had been a slave. A fellow sufferer of the same torment, the same chains. But then—his mind raced—was this young man the one responsible for all of this? Had he alone turned the ocean into a graveyard? Terror gripped the old man's heart. But beneath that terror, a flicker of something else sparked— Awe.
****
Marineford, Grandline
Inside a modestly furnished office—bare, save for a simple desk and a few scattered documents—Vice Admiral Monkey D. Garp sat in rare stillness. Despite being one of the highest-ranking Marines, he had never been one for paperwork or administrative duties. The stacks of untouched reports on his desk were evidence enough. His subordinates were more than happy to handle the bureaucratic burdens in his stead, allowing the Marine Hero to do what he did best—fight on the front lines.
Now, however, Garp was here, personally signing off on a set of documents that would temporarily transfer command of the SWORD Division to Vice Admiral Kuzan in his absence. His vacation to East Blue had already been approved, but there were loose ends he needed to secure before leaving.
Across the room, Kuzan stood with arms crossed, his sharp gaze lingering on the man who had returned from Sabaody three days ago. Garp had spoken little since his return, his usual boisterous nature subdued, his laughter absent.
The aftermath of the battle still sent ripples throughout the world. Sabaody Archipelago, once a crucial hub for pirates and merchants alike, was now nothing more than a scattered graveyard of shattered mangroves and sunken wreckage.
The destruction of the island had crippled the coating industry, forcing those who wished to reach Fish-Man Island to seek more treacherous and unpredictable routes beneath the Red Line. The world had yet to fully grasp the consequences of what had occurred, but for those who had witnessed it firsthand, the gravity of that battle was undeniable.
Kuzan's voice broke the silence.
"Do you think he made it, Garp-san?"
The question hung in the air like a lingering shadow. Garp's pen paused mid-signature. His broad shoulders tensed slightly before he exhaled, resuming his work.
"You underestimate him, Kuzan," Garp muttered, his voice carrying an odd mix of pride and guilt. "That brat won't die so easily. If he were that easy to kill, he would've died long ago—back during my training sessions."
There was absolute certainty in his tone, but the weight behind it was unmistakable. Kuzan, however, wasn't as convinced. His sharp eyes drifted toward the fresh scars lining Garp's body, barely concealed by the bandages wrapped beneath his shirt. Deep wounds marred his knuckles, a testament to the sheer intensity of his battle. To push the legendary Marine Hero to such an extent—even knowing how strong Rosinante had been—it was difficult to believe he had survived.
Yet, Garp still believed. Perhaps it was blind faith, or perhaps it was something only a mentor could sense about their disciple. Without another word, Garp reached for a folder resting beside him. He hesitated for a moment—his fingers gripping the edges as if second-guessing himself—but then, with a sigh, he finally handed it over.
Kuzan raised a brow. Garp rarely entrusted matters of importance to anyone outside of a select few. Normally, this would have been something he left in the hands of his loyal right-hand man, Bogard, but with him stationed in East Blue, Kuzan was the next best choice.
"Make sure you investigate this matter discreetly," Garp instructed, his voice lower than before. "Not even Sengoku himself should catch wind of this. Can you do that, Kuzan?"
The seriousness in his tone made Kuzan frown. Garp rarely acted in secrecy, let alone behind the back of Fleet Admiral Sengoku, his closest friend and comrade.
Curiosity getting the better of him, Kuzan opened the folder. His breath hitched. His normally laid-back expression hardened as his sharp gaze scanned the contents. A moment later, he closed the folder, gripping it tightly as his icy blue eyes locked onto Garp.
"Are you sure about this, Garp-san?"
The silence that followed was deafening. Garp did not answer immediately, but his heavy sigh was enough. He leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temple as though carrying a weight heavier than his fists could break. That silence was all the confirmation Kuzan needed.
A chill ran down his spine. Disappointment. Frustration. A flicker of anger. He wanted to say something—wanted to question Garp further—but he held himself back. Jumping to conclusions wouldn't help. He needed to see it for himself. For now, all he could do was take the folder and walk away, the weight of the revelation pressing down on him as heavily as the scars Garp now bore.
Just as Kuzan was about to probe further, the office door suddenly exploded open, nearly flying off its hinges.
"GARPPPP…!!!"
The bellow shook the entire room as Fleet Admiral Sengoku stormed in like an enraged sea beast. His face was flushed red with fury, his mustache twitching violently as he stomped forward, radiating an aura of absolute menace.
"YOU BASTARD! YOU FORGED MY SIGNATURE ON AN OFFICIAL DOCUMENT…!"
The sheer volume of his voice made Kuzan instinctively take a step back, wisely deciding that this was one battlefield he had no interest in engaging in. The tall admiral candidate casually retreated toward the nearest window, hands in his pockets, watching the impending disaster unfold with mild amusement.
Garp, however, was completely unfazed. Instead of reacting to the furious Fleet Admiral bearing down on him, the legendary Marine Hero simply dug his pinky into his ear, twisted it around lazily, then flicked the earwax away with a carefree yawn.
Sengoku's eye twitched. It was bad enough that Garp had illegally authorized his own leave, but when Sengoku had gotten a hold of the document in question, he was beyond insulted.
The forged signature wasn't even remotely close to his actual handwriting.
It wasn't just a bad forgery—it was so horrendously awful that even a child could tell it was fake. The loops and curves didn't match, the strokes were all over the place, and Garp had even misspelled Sengoku's name. It wasn't fraud. It was outright mockery.
"WHERE DO YOU THINK YOU'RE GOING?! THE GRAND LINE IS IN CHAOS, AND YOU THINK YOU CAN JUST WALTZ OFF ON VACATION?!"
Sengoku grabbed Garp by the collar, shaking him so hard that the desk rattled. Papers flew everywhere, some even landing on Kuzan, who simply brushed them off, silently enjoying the show. Still, Garp continued playing dumb.
He gave Sengoku his most innocent, sheepish grin as he raised his hands defensively. "Now, now, Sengoku… No need to get so worked up! I need at least a year to fully recover from my injuries. You saw the fight, right? It's best if I take some time off!"
His bullshit excuse only made Sengoku more furious.
"YOU THINK I'M AN IDIOT?! IF YOU'RE WELL ENOUGH TO FORGE DOCUMENTS, YOU'RE WELL ENOUGH TO WORK!"
Garp shrugged, grinning like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar. "I didn't wanna bother you with trivial matters, so I handled it myself."
"TRIVIAL—?!"
Sengoku's grip tightened, veins bulging on his forehead. He looked like he was about to detonate. At this point, even Kuzan was struggling to maintain a straight face.
"I mean, if you think about it," Garp continued nonchalantly, "this is actually your fault, Sengoku. If you signed it in the first place, I wouldn't have had to step in!"
Sengoku froze. For a brief moment, the Fleet Admiral was at a loss for words. Then, with a twitch of his mustache, he grabbed the nearest document off the desk and launched it at Garp's face.
"GET BACK TO WORK, YOU DAMN BASTARD!!!"
The paper smacked Garp straight in the forehead, but the Marine Hero barely flinched. Instead, he just chuckled, rubbing his nose as if he'd just won some kind of silent war. Sengoku took a deep breath, visibly trying to calm himself. His fists were clenched, his entire body trembling with barely contained rage. Finally, he exhaled through gritted teeth, pinching the bridge of his nose.
It was always like this with Garp. Always. But then—his frustration momentarily faded as his expression darkened. His eyes flickered toward the still-unrescinded bounty on Rosinante. The truth was, after the battle, the Marines had originally intended to scour the entire sea surrounding Sabaody and the Red Line, looking for any remains, any sign that would confirm Rosinante's demise.
But there was nothing. No body. No trace. Just a ruined battlefield and a shattered sea. And yet, despite everything, the bounty had not been removed. A heavy silence lingered between the two old veterans.
Sengoku studied Garp carefully. He knew his friend better than anyone. The carefree, reckless fool act? It was a mask—one Garp wore when he didn't want to talk about something serious. And right now, Garp was avoiding something serious.
Still gripping the forged vacation order, Sengoku exhaled one final time before dragging a chair for himself to sit. Sengoku sighed, finally giving up the fight. He knew there was no reasoning with Garp when he had his mind set on something. Keeping him cooped up at Marineford in his current state would only make things worse.
Garp wasn't just injured—he was haunted. And while Sengoku thought the old fool was exaggerating about needing an entire year to recover, he wasn't blind to the truth. His eyes flickered toward the fresh scars still marking Garp's form—deep, vicious wounds that had yet to fully heal, proof of just how brutal his battle with Rosinante had been.
The last time Sengoku had seen his friend this battered, this worn down, was decades ago. God Valley. That cursed battlefield. That day of blood and legend. Sengoku forced those memories away. Right now, he had more pressing matters to handle.
"Fine," he muttered, rubbing his temples. "So how long have you planned this little 'vacation' of yours?"
Garp grinned. "Three years."
A long silence followed. Sengoku's face instantly darkened. Kuzan, standing off to the side, nearly choked on his own breath. Even for his laid-back mentor, this was peak shamelessness.
"THREE YEARS?!"
Sengoku's veins bulged, his hands twitching as if he were resisting the urge to launch Garp straight into the sun. The Marine Hero simply nodded, completely unbothered. Sengoku muttered something under his breath, then snatched up a fresh sheet of paper, drafting a new order on the spot. His pen scratched furiously against the parchment, the sheer force of his writing nearly ripping through the paper.
Moments later, he slammed the signed document onto the desk.
"Six months, Garp. That's all you get. And when you come back, I expect you to bring Bogard with you."
Garp frowned instantly. There was a very good reason why he had stationed Bogard in East Blue. Sengoku, however, wasn't having it.
"Garp," he said firmly, "a Marine of Bogard's caliber is being wasted in a quiet sea like East Blue."
Garp opened his mouth to protest, but Sengoku raised his hand, cutting him off.
"I know what you're going to say. I'll have a competent Marine sent to take over Loguetown in his place. As long as we maintain a tight hold on that island, East Blue will remain secure."
The finality in his tone left no room for argument. Garp's fingers curled into a fist. He couldn't explain the real reason why he needed Bogard to remain in East Blue—not to Sengoku, not to anyone. So reluctantly, he nodded. But his mind was already racing. I'll need to find another way to protect Ace and Rouge.
Sengoku sighed in relief. At least that battle was settled. But there was one more thing. Something far more important that he needed Garp's assistance with. He steeled himself before speaking.
"Before you leave, I need you to deal with Whitebeard."
Garp's frown deepened. "What do you mean?" Sengoku leaned back in his chair, his eyes heavy.
"We need him to retreat back to his domain. The higher-ups are on edge—he's too close to the Holy Land."
A tense silence settled over the room. Both men knew what this meant. Ever since the battle at Sabaody, Whitebeard had repositioned himself dangerously close to Red Port. He hadn't made any moves against the Holy Land yet, but… they couldn't take any chances.
More importantly—Whitebeard's presence had completely diverted the Marines' resources.
For the past three days, the World Government had wanted to send a full force to scour the seas, searching for evidence of Rosinante's fate.
But they couldn't. Because all their focus had been forced onto Whitebeard. They had no choice but to prepare for a worst-case scenario—a war against the world's strongest pirate. The Elders had been breathing down Sengoku's neck, urging him to push Garp into taking action.
But Sengoku wasn't cruel enough to throw his friend into another battle so soon. Instead, he had convinced the Elders to allow a different approach—diplomacy. As of now, there was only one person in the Marines with enough power and prestige to bring Whitebeard to the negotiation table.
And that person… was Garp. Garp exhaled, running a hand through his hair as if mimicking Sengoku's earlier action.
"Tch. Damn it, Sengoku…"
The Fleet Admiral's gaze darkened. "If Rosinante is truly dead, then we need to prepare for the retaliation from the Donquixote family."
"Tch. As if I don't already know that…" Garp muttered, his tone laced with frustration.
Then, his gaze hardened as he met Sengoku's eyes.
"And let me say it again, Sengoku... that kid isn't gone. If my instinct is right, Rosinante is still alive."
There was no doubt in his voice—only unwavering certainty. Sengoku exhaled sharply, rubbing the bridge of his nose. Garp had already told him the same thing on the day he returned from Sabaody. That was the only reason the bounty on Rosinante hadn't been frozen yet.
A moment of silence passed before Sengoku finally asked, his voice quiet but heavy with meaning:
"Tell me honestly, Garp... did you let the kid escape?"
The air in the room shifted. For the first time in their conversation, the temperature seemed to drop. Garp's entire demeanor darkened. The very question felt like an insult.
Let him escape?
Had Sengoku lost his damn mind? Garp hadn't held back—not even for a second. And knowing Rosinante… that brat wouldn't have accepted it if he had. Realizing his mistake, Sengoku sighed, shaking his head. "Forget it. I already know the answer."
The fight had been real. The devastation at Sabaody was proof of that. But still…
"I'll let the higher-ups declare Rosinante's fate. But if the kid really does walk away from this, like you believe…" Sengoku trailed off, his voice growing quieter, almost as if speaking the words aloud made them real.
"...Then what kind of monster would he become?"
The question wasn't directed at Garp. It was an unspoken fear. Because if Rosinante truly survived this—if he clawed his way back from the brink of death—then the world wouldn't just be dealing with a survivor. They'd be facing something far worse. A silence stretched between them.
Finally, Garp answered.
"A monster that even I may not be able to contend with."
The admission felt like a weight settling over the room. Rosinante had always been strong—his potential had been terrifying even as a child. And every time he fell, he only came back stronger. But if he had survived Sabaody, after facing Garp at full power…?
Then the world was about to meet something new. Something deadlier. Something unstoppable. And Garp could only pray that the kid wouldn't lose himself along the way.
But Rosinante's fate wasn't just a matter of speculation. The Donquixote bloodline would not sit idly by. And if Rosinante was truly gone…
Then they wouldn't just seek revenge against the Marines. No—it would be something much worse. They would turn their wrath on the entire Celestial Dragon lineage. Because Rosinante wasn't just a strong fighter. He was the pillar that held the Donquixote pirates together.
And without that pillar, all hell would break loose. The fragile balance of power in the world would crumble. The Grand Line, the New World, the Four Emperors—everything would be thrown into chaos. Sengoku's voice was grim as he locked eyes with Garp once more.
"Doflamingo won't sit back after this." His tone carried absolute certainty. "And if we lose control of Whitebeard at the same time…" Sengoku's expression darkened. "...Then this entire era will drown in war."
The words hung between them like a death sentence. A long, suffocating silence followed. Finally, Garp sighed. He rolled his shoulders, flexed his bandaged arms, and gritted his teeth.
"Fine. I'll handle it."
Sengoku nodded, relieved yet wary. "Good." But despite the conclusion of their conversation, the tension lingered.