Marco's sharp eyes narrowed as he peered through the spyglass, the salty wind tugging at his golden-blond hair. A deep frown creased his face as he lowered the scope.
"Pops… it's Garp's ship," he announced grimly. His voice carried across the deck, drawing the attention of the nearby commanders. The tension that had begun to settle after the recent events thickened once more, like an unspoken storm brewing on the horizon.
Whitebeard, seated upon his massive throne-like chair at the center of the deck, remained unfazed. He exhaled deeply, his grip tightening ever so slightly around the shaft of his naginata. His sharp, battle-hardened eyes flickered toward Marco before turning toward the sea.
Far in the distance, cutting through the waves like an unstoppable force of nature, was a Marine battleship. But not just any battleship. This one moved with the weight of history itself—its very presence sent ripples across the ocean.
The white sails bore the insignia of the Marines, fluttering defiantly against the wind. The thick wooden hull, reinforced with steel plating, gleamed under the golden sunlight. Every detail of the vessel—from the battle-worn masts to the heavy iron cannons lining its sides—spoke of countless campaigns. Despite the gentle sway of the waves, the ship's approach was steady and deliberate, an ominous promise of what was to come.
At the prow of the vessel, atop the massive dog-headed figurehead, a lone man stood. Arms crossed, feet planted firmly, as immovable as a mountain.
Monkey D. Garp.
The man's very name carried a weight that dwarfed even the massive warship beneath him. The Hero of the Marines. The man who once fought toe-to-toe with the Pirate King himself. The living legend whose fists had shaped the world. And now, he was heading straight for Whitebeard.
A deep, rumbling chuckle broke the silence.
"Gurararara… Send word to the fleet. No one is to impede him."
Whitebeard's voice was calm, yet absolute. Vista gave a curt nod before turning to relay the command to the other ships in the formation. The order spread like wildfire, and soon, the massive fleet adjusted. Gaps opened between the ships, parting just enough to allow the Marine battleship passage.
The Moby Dick's crew watched in silence as the warship advanced, cutting through the sea without hesitation. The smaller vessels shuddered as it passed, their sails rippling from the force of its wake.
And then, it arrived. The massive Marine battleship pulled directly alongside the Moby Dick's aft side, its approach reckless in its confidence. The sea churned violently, waves crashing against the hulls of both ships. The Moby Dick groaned under the sudden force, its mighty frame swaying from the sheer displacement.
Then—he moved. No hesitation. No caution. No fear. With a single, effortless leap, Garp shot through the air like a cannonball. The wind howled around him, his broad frame casting a shadow over the deck. And then—
BOOM!
Garp landed. The entire ship trembled. Deck planks groaned under the sheer force of his impact. A tremor rippled through the Moby Dick, causing loose barrels to shake and roll. Some of the weaker men stumbled, struggling to regain their footing as the aftershock of his arrival spread across the deck.
But Garp remained unmoving. Arms still crossed. Grinning. That signature, devil-may-care smirk stretched across his weathered face, as if he had simply stepped off a dinghy instead of executing a landing that would have shattered any lesser ship's deck.
For a long moment, there was only silence. The sea breeze whispered between the towering sails. The distant cries of seagulls echoed overhead. The sound of waves lapping against the hull filled the void.
Then, Whitebeard exhaled, shifting slightly in his chair. He studied the man before him, the corner of his mouth twitching in amusement.
"You never change, Garp."
The Marine snorted, his grin widening as he glanced around at the gathered pirates.
"Bwahahaha! And you're still sitting on that oversized chair like some damn emperor."
His voice was rough, filled with years of battles, of laughter, of loss. Marco tensed, his instincts screaming at him to stay on guard. The entire crew remained on edge, hands hovering over weapons, waiting for the moment this peaceful entrance turned into something else.
This was no ordinary meeting. This was Garp the Marine Hero, standing aboard the flagship of the Strongest Man in the World. And the world itself seemed to hold its breath.
Whitebeard's gaze remained steady, his piercing eyes locked onto the figure before him. His massive frame did not shift, but there was an unmistakable weight in his words, a quiet storm brewing behind them.
"What brings you here, Garp...? Are you looking for a fight?"
His deep voice rumbled across the deck like distant thunder. His eyes flickered toward the bandages peeking from beneath Garp's shirt, the fresh scars carving across his body like remnants of a war not yet healed. Whitebeard was a monster himself—he knew when another monster was not at their peak. And right now, Garp was worn, battered.
Yet, the old Marine still stood there, as unruly as ever. Garp let out a boisterous laugh, the sound rolling across the deck like crashing waves. He smacked his knee, shaking his head as if Whitebeard had just told the world's funniest joke.
"What a boring ship!" Garp bellowed, grinning ear to ear. "You lot don't even know how to welcome a guest, huh? What kind of pirates are you?"
His voice carried the same mocking tone it always did, but not a single pirate dared to contest him. He was a legend, a man whose fists had once clashed with the greatest the seas had ever known. The Whitebeard Pirates were no fools—they knew better than to provoke Monkey D. Garp without reason.
Casually, as if he owned the place, Garp plopped himself down onto an empty crate, resting his arms behind his head. Then, without a care in the world, he began digging his nose, lazily gazing around the deck as if waiting for a grand feast to be arranged in his honor. The sheer audacity of the man was almost comical.
Whitebeard watched him for a long moment, unreadable. Then, his eyes flickered toward Marco and Thatch. No words were spoken, but they understood immediately. Without hesitation, they turned and disappeared below deck.
Not long after, a feast fit for an emperor was laid out before Garp. Towering plates of roasted meats, freshly baked bread, hearty stews, and bottles of the finest rum now covered the deck. The scent of sizzling fat and rich spices filled the air. The table groaned under the sheer weight of the spread.
And Garp, without hesitation, dug in. He tore through the food with reckless abandon, ripping meat from the bone, stuffing his face as if he hadn't eaten in days. He drank straight from the bottle, sloshing down the rum with all the grace of a man who had no concern for poisoning or tricks. He showed no wariness—no hesitation—despite being aboard the ship of the world's strongest pirate.
The Whitebeard Pirates watched in silence. Some were uneasy. Others, intrigued. A few, downright irritated. But none acted. Whitebeard let him eat. Minutes passed as the Hero of the Marines feasted like a king in enemy territory. Then, finally, Whitebeard exhaled, lifting his massive tankard of rum.
He took a slow, deliberate gulp before setting it down with a heavy thud. His eyes, sharp as ever, narrowed. The air grew thick. The tension that had been bubbling beneath the surface solidified.
"Tell me, Garp... why are you here?"
His voice was quieter this time. Not a question. A demand. He had indulged the old Marine long enough. Whatever reason Garp had for stepping foot onto his ship, it was time to hear it. Each passing second only made the Whitebeard Pirates more on edge. And Garp, still chewing, still grinning, met Whitebeard's gaze. For the first time, there was no laughter in his eyes.
Garp paused mid-bite, chewing slowly as if weighing his next words. Then, with an audible gulp, he swallowed the mouthful of food and finally spoke.
"Shouldn't I be the one asking you that, Newgate?"
His voice, once filled with laughter and mockery, now carried a quiet intensity. His eyes, sharp and unyielding, locked onto Whitebeard with an edge that had long been tempered by war.
"Why are you here...? So close to the Red Line?"
The air around them grew heavy, the once gentle sway of the ocean shifting as if the sea itself sensed the change in atmosphere. Garp leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees.
"This isn't your domain... are you trying to provoke the Marines? Are you looking to start an all-out war?"
It was a question laced with something more than curiosity—an accusation, a warning. Then, the sea itself seemed to tremble. An unseen force rumbled through the air like a distant earthquake. The calm ocean breeze turned violent, churning in invisible torrents as an overwhelming pressure began to rise.
Garp's aura surged. A tidal wave of Conqueror's Haki exploded from the Marine hero, roaring outward like a tsunami crashing against an unshakable cliff. The entire ship groaned under the sheer force of his will, wooden beams creaking and bending as if the very air had gained weight.
The weaker crewmates staggered, gasping for breath, their bodies trembling as an unseen hand pressed down upon them. A handful of men collapsed instantly, their eyes rolling back as consciousness was stolen from them in an instant. Garp's presence was no longer that of a man—it was a storm.
But Whitebeard was no pushover. With a deep, rumbling breath, the strongest man in the world rose from his seat. His massive frame cast a shadow over the deck, and with nothing more than a glance—his haki answered.
Like the heavens themselves responding to a challenger, Whitebeard's own Conqueror's Haki erupted, crashing head-on against Garp's aura with the force of two titans colliding.
The sky itself darkened.
The very heavens trembled as their haki met in the air, an invisible clash of wills so intense that lightning arced violently across the sky. A monstrous shockwave erupted from the point of impact, splitting the clouds apart, tearing a jagged rift through the skies above them.
BOOM!
The Moby Dick trembled as an earsplitting crack rang through the heavens. The sea, once calm, exploded into chaos, waves surging in every direction as the air itself shattered under their combined force. The very atmosphere groaned, space itself seeming to distort where their haki clashed.
Many of the Whitebeard Pirates collapsed on the spot, their bodies hitting the deck like falling leaves in a storm. Even those who remained standing struggled, beads of sweat rolling down their faces as they fought against the weight of two absolute kings.
Only a handful remained upright—Marco, Vista, Jozu, and a few of the strongest commanders. But even they gritted their teeth, sweat beading on their brows, their very souls screaming at them to submit.
The sea raged. The sky split. And at the center of it all, two legends stood unyielding. For a moment, nothing else existed. Only the clash of wills, the unshakable presence of Whitebeard, the Strongest Man in the World, and Garp, the Hero of the Marines.
"Gurararara… I'm a pirate, Garp! I go where I please!"
Whitebeard's deep, thunderous voice rolled across the sea, a sound so powerful it sent ripples through the ocean itself. The very air around him seemed to tremble with the weight of his words. He leaned forward slightly, the massive naginata in his grip pressing into the wooden deck.
"Why? Are those lizards up there feeling uneasy about me being here?"
His grin widened, his white mustache twitching as he roared with laughter, his voice carrying across the fleet. There was no fear in his tone—only defiance, the kind that had kept him standing at the top of the world for decades. Garp exhaled sharply, his expression hardening.
"Go back to the New World, Newgate."
His voice, though calm, carried the weight of an ultimatum. He took a deliberate step forward, and in that instant, the entire ship seemed to groan under the shift in pressure.
The disparity in their sizes was undeniable—Whitebeard, a towering behemoth, stood like an immovable mountain, his very presence commanding the battlefield. Garp, though smaller in stature, radiated an aura so overwhelming that to those watching, it felt as though he stood just as tall.
"You don't want to force my hand," Garp warned, his tone carrying neither fear nor hesitation. It was not a threat. It was a fact.
The ocean stilled for a moment. The wind died down, as if the world itself was holding its breath.
Whitebeard's eyes sharpened. His grip tightened around his naginata, his muscles flexing ever so slightly. Then, his voice dropped, deep and taunting.
"Are you even in a condition to fight me, Garp?"
Garp's fingers twitched, but he remained silent as Whitebeard continued.
"From what I've heard… your little protégé did quite the number on you, didn't he?"
The words hung heavy in the air, thick with implication. The entire crew stiffened. A few of the Whitebeard Pirates exchanged uneasy glances, their hands hovering over their weapons. Whitebeard tilted his head slightly, his smirk unwavering.
"Is the kid alive? Or did you end up killing him too?"
The words struck like cannon fire. The tension reached its breaking point. Garp's jaw clenched, his fist tightening so hard his knuckles cracked. For a split second, the ocean lurched, the waves crashing against the hull of the Moby Dick as if reacting to the sheer fury brewing within the Marine hero.
Yet—he did not take the bait. Instead, Garp let out a slow breath, steeling himself. Then, with a quiet but deadly certainty, he countered.
"Would you like to take the chance, Newgate?" His voice was low, steady—deadly. "Maybe you'll never get another opportunity like this…"
He took another step forward, his stance shifting ever so slightly—a predator ready to pounce. His right hand curled into a fist, his legendary strength barely contained. The air around him shimmered, a force so raw and powerful that it sent tiny cracks skittering across the wooden deck beneath his feet.
For a moment, it felt as though the world itself might shatter. The Whitebeard Pirates tensed, their bodies screaming at them to move—to do something—before the sheer will of these two titans crushed them where they stood.
Then— Silence.
The only sound was the distant crash of the waves against the hull and the quiet, rhythmic creak of the ship beneath them. Whitebeard's smirk lingered, though his eyes gleamed with something far more serious. Garp did not waver. They stood there, two living legends, a single moment away from tearing the heavens apart.
****
Dressrosa, New World
A golden sunset painted the sky in hues of amber and crimson, casting elongated shadows over the Donquixote Family's training grounds. The rhythmic clang of steel against hardened flesh and the crack of shockwaves echoed across the battlefield, but at the very edge of the chaos, Doflamingo sat undisturbed—a king observing his kingdom.
Reclining in a luxurious easy chair, the infamous Heavenly Demon exuded an air of effortless authority. His signature rosy-lensed glasses glinted under the dying light, obscuring the sharp, calculating gaze beneath. In one hand, he held a cup of tea—meticulously crafted by Señor Pink, who stood nearby, ensuring the brewing process remained untouched by the surrounding destruction. A thin wall of strings shimmered faintly in the air, shielding the delicate tea set from the dust and debris kicked up by the battle before them.
Across from him, Dora sat with arms crossed, her jaw set in frustration, the flames of resentment against Lucci still burning in her eyes. A week had passed since the fateful clash between Garp and Rosinante, and yet the sting of being held back from rescuing her defeated mentor had not faded. Her fingers dug into her sleeves, her lips pressed into a tight line as she glared at the battlefield where Lucci was locked in combat.
Doflamingo, however, had long since shed the unease that once gripped him over his brother's fate. Rosinante was fine—he had said so with unwavering confidence, brushing off any further inquiries. Yet only he knew the truth. Hidden beneath his coat, nestled safely within his grasp, was the Vivre Card of his little brother.
When he had first checked, the edges had been burnt, tattered—a clear sign that Rosinante had been on the brink of death. But now? The card had stabilized. Rosinante was alive. And knowing his little brother, he was likely drifting through the sea, biding his time, playing his own game. Doflamingo smirked to himself. He'll come back when he's ready.
Suddenly—
BOOM!
The earth shook beneath them. A powerful gust blasted across the training grounds as two monstrous forces clashed. Lucci's fist, wreathed in blackened Haki, collided head-on with Issho's descending blade. The very air seemed to crack, a massive shockwave rippling outward, sending loose stones and dust flying in every direction.
Señor Pink grumbled under his breath as he strengthened the string barrier, ensuring not a single speck of dirt disturbed Doflamingo's tea. Doflamingo chuckled darkly.
"Tch… It would've been far more entertaining if they fought to the death."
His long fingers flicked the newspaper aside, letting it land carelessly on the teapoy beside him. The front page detailed the brief but earth-shattering confrontation between Whitebeard and Garp near the Red Line. In the end, the Whitebeard Pirates had withdrawn, retreating back into their stronghold in the New World. A minor clash—perhaps. But the world had felt it. Just as he reached for his tea, a mocking voice laced with amusement drifted through the air.
"I never would've guessed that the infamous Heavenly Demon would grovel for help from another pirate..."
Doflamingo's jaw twitched ever so slightly. A single vein bulged at his temple. Seated gracefully in a chair not far from him, legs crossed with a cup of tea in hand, was a woman who carried herself with the air of nobility—as if she still ruled over the world.
Agana.
Once an Admiral, once a Celestial Dragon, now a prisoner—or at least, that's what the world believed. In truth, she had integrated so seamlessly into the Donquixote Family that no one truly regarded her as a captive anymore. She moved freely, came and went as she pleased, and carried herself with the same confidence she had in her prime.
And that, more than anything, irritated Doflamingo. A slow smirk curled across his lips, though his fingers tightened subtly around the teacup.
"Fufufufu... You've certainly made yourself at home, haven't you?"
He leaned back, tilting his head in amusement. "I wonder... How would the Elders feel about discarding you if they knew you were enjoying your captivity here?"
Agana laughed softly, taking a sip of tea. "If they had cared about me enough and had truly valued me, they wouldn't have discarded me like I was some trash to be your plaything not long ago."
She set her cup down, her piercing gaze shifting back toward the training grounds, where Lucci and Issho continued their brutal duel. Despite her relaxed demeanor, there was a sharp glint in her eye—an unmistakable hatred for those who had left her to die without dignity.
Doflamingo noticed it immediately. He watched her, eyes narrowing slightly behind his lenses. He didn't trust her. Not entirely. Yet, their mutual hatred for the Celestial Dragons and the Elders had forged an unspoken truce, an uneasy understanding that kept their interactions just shy of hostility.
Still… he wasn't a fool. Without ever voicing it aloud, he had ordered Shyarly to keep a discreet watch over Agana. Few within the family even knew the true extent of Shyarly's powers. Even fewer realized just how much she saw.
Agana, oblivious—or perhaps entirely aware—of Doflamingo's scrutiny, smirked to herself as she observed the clash between the blind swordsman and the young teen. She had seen countless monsters groomed by the World Government. She had trained among the best, fought against true monsters, and had once been considered a supreme genius herself.
Yet even she had to admit— The sheer quality of talent within the Donquixote Family was unparalleled. Her gaze settled on one in particular.
Rob Lucci.
The boy moved like a shadow, his body twisting through the air with an unnatural grace as he met Issho's attacks head-on. Even against the crushing force of gravity itself, he adapted, pushing beyond his limits with every clash.
For the first time in years, since she had faced Rosinante in battle, Agana felt something unfamiliar. A challenge. A threat. She wanted to fight him. To test herself against him. To see just how far this boy—this monster—could go. Her fingers itched to draw her blade, but she merely smiled and took another sip of tea, her thoughts her own… for now.
Doflamingo, sensing something, smirked as he turned back to his tea.
"Fufufu… Interesting times, aren't they?"
Agana lifted her teacup to her lips, ignoring Doflamingo's pointed remark with the effortless grace of someone accustomed to navigating verbal traps. She had long since learned that indulging his provocations was akin to dancing with a viper—fascinating, but ultimately futile. Instead, she chose to focus on the tea itself, an exquisite blend that carried the perfect balance of bitterness and warmth.
She had to admit, despite her years among the most lavish luxuries of the Celestial Dragons, Doflamingo's butler was truly a master of his craft. Her sharp gaze flickered toward Señor Pink, who stood nearby with arms crossed, observing the battlefield as impassively as ever. His perfect attire—a tailored suit and matching accessories—was a perfect contrast to his undeniable expertise in nearly everything he put his hands to.
A man of contradictions. Much like his master. Agana exhaled softly, allowing herself the briefest moment of appreciation. Doflamingo had truly lucked out, finding such a rare and capable subordinate.
And then—
"Tell me, Agana… would you like to join the Donquixote Family?"
The words came so casually, so unexpectedly, that for the first time in years, Agana's perfect composure cracked. Her body tensed, her breath caught—and before she could stop herself, she choked on her tea. A violent cough, a splutter—a rare, humiliating moment of imperfection. The once dignified former World Noble, the woman who had trained alongside the greatest warriors of the world government, who had stood among the untouchable nobility of the world—now sat hunched forward, trying desperately not to drown in her own drink.
Doflamingo's grin stretched wider, his amusement unrestrained.
"Fufufufu… Did I catch you off guard?"
Agana wiped her mouth, her sharp eyes snapping to him, the faintest flicker of irritation flashing across her face before she quickly masked it. Damn him. She should have expected it.
The Heavenly Demon never did anything without reason. Everything he said was deliberate, every move carefully placed. And now, here he was, tossing out a proposition as if it were a casual afterthought, when in reality, it was anything but. Join the Donquixote Family? Her first instinct was to scoff—to reject the offer outright.
She was Agana, former heir to the Figarland Bloodline, a Celestial Dragon turned exile. She had once stood atop the world, wielding power that only a select few could comprehend.
And yet…
As her gaze flickered over the battle raging before them, watching Lucci and Issho exchange monstrous blows, she felt a quiet hum of intrigue settle within her. Here, in the heart of the Donquixote Family, power was not granted by bloodline, nor dictated by bureaucracy. Here, strength ruled. Ambition was sharpened like a blade, and warriors were forged in the fires of battle, and more importantly, everyone had a place and their own identity; none here was a puppet.
A place where monsters were born. She placed the teacup down gently, regaining her poise as she leaned back into her chair, leveling a cool, unreadable gaze at Doflamingo.
"And what would I gain from such an arrangement?"
Doflamingo chuckled, his fingers lacing together as he regarded her with an expression that was equal parts entertainment and calculation.
"Power. Freedom. Purpose."
He tilted his head, his grin widening. "The world has cast you aside, Agana. The Figarland family won't take you back. The Celestial Dragons won't acknowledge you. But here? Here, you could be something more."
The words slithered around her like chains, each syllable dripping with a sinister allure. Something more. A lesser person might have scoffed, dismissing the offer as the manipulations of a snake. But Agana was no fool. She knew that beneath the mockery, beneath the smirks and taunts, Doflamingo did not offer things lightly.
This was not a test. This was an invitation into the true core of the Donquixote family. A path to redefine herself, redeem herself, a path to satiate her vengeance, a way to bring down the monster known as Figarland Garling. She exhaled slowly, tapping her fingers against the armrest of her chair as she considered her answer carefully. The silence between them stretched, thick with unspoken tension.
Then, after a long pause— She smiled. A slow, knowing smirk, her amusement finally mirroring his own.
"I'll think about it."
Doflamingo laughed—deep, guttural, victorious. "Fufufufu… Take your time."
For now, the game continued. But Agana knew. The moment she entertained the thought—she had already taken the first step.