The small caravel scraped gently against the moss-covered shore, and the four travelers stepped onto the legendary island. Before them stretched a world forgotten by time, a land where the air itself felt heavier, denser, and charged with the vitality of a bygone age. Even Dr. Kureha, who had sailed most of the Grand Line in her youth, closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, a crooked smile spreading across her wrinkled face.
"It's just as I remembered…" she muttered, her voice carrying both awe and nostalgia. "Even the air here feels alive."
The island's landscape rose in great emerald waves of towering ferns, their fronds larger than sails. Ordinary plants—species Robin recognized from her studies—had grown to impossible proportions, as though the island's strange climate and topography had amplified nature itself.
Trees rose like colossal pillars, their canopies blotting out the sun in places, while mossy trunks sprawled wider than cottages. Bright flowers the size of shields swayed lazily in the salty breeze.
Robin adjusted her hat, her dark eyes scanning every detail. For all her years of reading and research, many of the flora were entirely unfamiliar to her. She reached down and carefully lifted a wild transponder snail from a broken log. The creature blinked up at her with wide eyes, its antennae twitching. Normally, such a snail would fit neatly into her palm. This one, however, was nearly as large as a barrel—so heavy she had to use both arms just to hold it.
Robin chuckled softly. "Whoever named this island Little Garden must have had a very peculiar sense of humor."
Even little Law, who often wore his stoicism like armor, let his mask slip for a moment. His gray eyes widened as he took in the sprawling, primordial forest, his hand unconsciously tightening around the hilt of his dagger. For the briefest second, the young apprentice looked less like a child burdened by tragedy and more like a boy on the edge of discovery.
Lucci said nothing, his hawk-like gaze fixed on the treeline. His hands rested firmly on the small boat's edge, steady as ever, but his posture was taut, coiled—like a predator that had sensed another.
And then it happened. The forest stirred.
At first, it was only a faint rustle, the shaking of colossal branches somewhere deep within. But then the sound grew—a rhythmic crashing, the creak and snap of titanic trunks splintering. Entire trees toppled in the distance, falling like children's toys beneath some unseen force. The ground itself began to tremble, a low rumble rolling across the shoreline.
Then came the sound that split the air—a deep, guttural roar, so primal it seemed to vibrate in their very bones. The forest shuddered with it, as though the land itself acknowledged the beast that had made the call.
But the four travelers did not panic. They stood rooted to the shore, eyes fixed on the forest, watching, waiting.
The first shapes emerged from the treeline—massive stag-like creatures, towering at over a dozen meters tall, their antlers spreading like the branches of entire trees. Herd upon herd of them burst forth, their thunderous stampede shaking the mossy earth. Each pounding step sent tremors through the ground; rocks shifted, roots tore free, and the air filled with the heavy musk of wild beasts.
Law's eyes flicked upward—if one of those reindeer-like giants so much as stumbled in their direction, their bodies would be crushed beneath hooves as broad as wagons. But before the herd could reach them, the treeline behind the creatures split apart.
Something larger emerged. Something that made even the towering stags look small. With an ear-splitting bellow, a monstrous reptile lunged from the shadow of the forest. Forty meters tall, its massive head split the air with a savage snap. Jaws like a fortress gate clamped around the neck of one fleeing stag. The crunch of bone echoed across the bay as blood sprayed the mossy ground. The beast shook its prey once, twice, before flinging the lifeless carcass aside with contemptuous ease.
A tyrannosaur. A living relic of an age the world believed long gone.
But it was not sated. Its tail whipped, flattening a tree. Its jaws snapped again, tearing into another of the colossal deer, then another. Each movement was brutal, efficient—an apex predator reminding all who watched that this was its domain.
Robin didn't scream. She didn't recoil. Instead, she exhaled slowly, lowering herself onto a fallen trunk covered in velvet moss. With practiced calm, she pulled a small leather-bound sketchbook from her satchel, her hands steady as she flipped it open. Her eyes glittered with fascination as her charcoal pencil danced across the page. She was sketching—not just the form of the predator, but the raw power of its hunt, capturing a moment of living history.
"There it is…" she whispered to herself, her lips curling into a smile. "Proof that time still flows differently here."
The stampede that had threatened to crush them was broken in moments. The colossal herd scattered in all directions, their roars and bellows fading into the forest as the tyrannosaur claimed its kill. The shore was quiet again, save for the wet tearing of flesh as the beast fed.
Kureha stood with her arms crossed, her expression unreadable. "Hmph. Still the same damn island," she muttered, though her eyes gleamed with the fire of her youth. "Nature here doesn't just live—it devours."
Law glanced at her, then back at the feeding predator. Somewhere in his chest, a question burned: If life could endure here, unchanged for millennia… could answers to his own questions, his own curses, be buried here too?
But he said nothing. For now, the island had greeted them. And its greeting had been a roar.
The four watched in silence as the tyrannosaur tore into its kill, flesh ripping beneath teeth like jagged stone. But then, mid-feast, the beast paused. Its massive head lifted, blood dripping in thick rivulets from its jaws. Its nostrils flared. The air shifted.
It had caught their scent.
A low, guttural growl rolled from its throat, vibrating through the earth beneath their feet. The predator's eyes, primal and ancient, locked onto the four small figures perched on the shore. For the first time, its meal was forgotten. Something about these intruders stirred its hunger—or perhaps its curiosity.
It stepped forward, leaving the carcass behind, muscles rippling beneath scaled hide. Each stride made the ground quake. Its tail lashed as anticipation built. The apex predator of Little Garden had decided to hunt. Robin didn't even glance up from her sketchpad, calmly shading the last lines of her drawing.
"Don't kill it, Lucci," she said, her tone as casual as if she were commenting on the weather.
The pigeon on Lucci's shoulder shrieked with manic repetition: "Stupid reptile! Stupid reptile!"
Lucci rose to his feet in silence. His expression was unreadable, his gaze cold and flat. To him, this massive beast was nothing more than an overgrown lizard. He took a single step forward, and the atmosphere shifted like a storm breaking.
The tyrannosaur bellowed and surged into a charge, its thunderous sprint aimed directly at them. Trees shook in its wake, dirt exploded beneath its claws, and the ground quaked as though the island itself trembled before its fury.
And then—The world went silent.
The air grew heavy, suffocating, as Lucci's presence flooded the clearing. It wasn't a roar. It wasn't a sound at all. It was a pressure, a primal force that sank into the bones of every living thing nearby.
The tyrannosaur froze mid-charge. Its eyes widened in sheer terror, instincts screaming louder than hunger or rage. Its massive limbs clawed into the soil, gouging deep trenches as it tried desperately to halt its momentum. Clumps of moss and earth tore free beneath its claws, the ground ripped apart by its desperate struggle to stop.
Every fiber of its body shrieked the same truth: the figure before it was not prey. It was death itself. It wanted to run. To flee. To vanish back into the safety of the forest. But its body betrayed it—locked down as though shackled by invisible chains. Its colossal frame trembled, muscles quivering, unable to advance or retreat.
Step by step, Lucci moved forward. His stride was unhurried, predatory. Each footfall echoed like a drumbeat of inevitability. His aura was suffocating, an oppressive weight that made even the forty-meter reptile quake like a frightened child.
In that moment, the truth was undeniable. The tyrannosaur was not the apex predator of Little Garden. The apex predator had just revealed itself—and it walked on two legs, with cold golden eyes that devoured all other predators whole.
The great tyrannosaur that had once stormed from the jungle like the undisputed lord of Little Garden now trudged through the prehistoric forest with a swollen, blackened eye and a snout still streaked with drying blood. From its jaws came a pitiful whimper, a sound so absurdly out of place for a creature of its size that even the birds nesting high in the towering ferns cocked their heads in confusion.
Perched comfortably on its broad back were four figures who looked entirely too relaxed for people riding a forty-meter predator.
Robin sat cross-legged, her sketchpad balanced delicately on her knees as she calmly added new notes and illustrations of the flora they passed—towering cycads, colossal mushrooms, and vines that glowed faintly with bioluminescence. Law leaned against one of the beast's jagged ridges, his arms folded, trying very hard to maintain his usual air of disinterest, though his eyes flicked with curiosity whenever Kureha identified a new plant.
Lucci, the cause of the reptile's humiliation, sat silently near the creature's neck. His expression didn't change, but Hattori the pigeon puffed up proudly on his shoulder, cooing: "Stupid lizard, now you're a taxi! Stupid lizard!"
And then there was Dr. Kureha. She looked positively delighted, sitting with her makeshift cane which was specifically made to discipline the reptile beneath them in one hand like it was a riding crop, her crooked grin sharp enough to make even her companions uneasy. She leaned forward and tapped the tyrannosaur's bruised back.
"Are you sure this is the way?" she crooned in mock sweetness, though her eyes gleamed wickedly. "Because if you take us the wrong path, remember—I won't be as merciful as the brat was."
The beast shuddered violently beneath them, emitting a keening whine as its massive head bobbed up and down furiously, nodding like a terrified chick. The ground shook with every nervous step it took.
Kureha cackled, the sound echoing like a witch's laugh across the ancient forest. She was in her element, rattling off facts about herbs and rare fauna with every new sight they passed. "That vine secretes a resin that can numb a man's skin for days! Oh, and that flower over there? Brew it right, and it'll knock out a Sea King for a week!"
Each time she spoke, she punctuated her words by rapping her cane against the dinosaur's battered hide, making it yelp and quicken its pace.
Robin, who seemed to be learning something new with every step, tilted her head thoughtfully. "It's strange… a creature like this should never tolerate such treatment. Yet here it is, reduced to… this."
Law smirked faintly, his voice low. "Guess even apex predators recognize when something above them steps into the food chain." His eyes flicked at Lucci, who hadn't moved an inch, yet still radiated the quiet menace that kept the mighty reptile cowed.
But Kureha wasn't finished. She leaned down again, her grin sharpening. "Tell me, lizard—are there any creatures here that have been… fighting? Constantly?"
The tyrannosaur froze mid-step, its tiny eyes flicking nervously toward the north. Slowly, carefully, it nodded again, emitting another pitiful whimper.
Kureha's grin widened, her eyes gleaming with a light that was almost childlike beneath her wrinkles. "Still fighting…? So those two idiots are alive after all." She slapped the beast's head with the cane. "Take us there, lizard. Now!"
The reptile lurched forward with a pitiful roar, stumbling into a quicker pace. To see such a monstrous predator—once the terror of the island—now reduced to a whining chauffeur for four tiny humans was a sight that bordered on the absurd.
Once, the tyrannosaur had stalked through Little Garden without fear. Now, its swollen eye leaked tears as it carried its conquerors deeper into the jungle, like a scolded pup terrified of disappointing its masters.
****
Greenbit, New World
At the far edge of Greenbit, where the sea kissed the cliffs in a spray of salt and light, there lay a place unlike anywhere else on the island. It was a lone grave, yet to call it such was almost an insult. It was a sanctuary, a garden sculpted in reverence.
Plum blossom and red oak trees stood sentinel around the site, their pale pink petals drifting gently in the breeze. Each gust carried blossoms across the mossy stones, layering the earth in a soft carpet of color. In spring's bloom, it looked less like a resting place for the dead and more like a cradle for memory—beautiful, tranquil, eternal.
At its heart rose the mausoleum, grand yet solemn. Crafted from pale stone, its surface bore intricate carvings of waves, ships, and seas—symbols of a man whose life had belonged to the ocean. The craftsmanship was unmistakable; this was no pirate's hasty grave, but a monument worthy of a king.
At the base, fresh offerings of flowers and small carved trinkets were scattered—gifts placed by the Tontatta, who tended it with the same care they gave to the Donquixote family's resting grounds further inland. Here, even the smallest hands honored the weight of the greatest man's legacy.
Upon the monument, which was once unmarked, was now a simple inscription, etched deep into the stone: "Here lies Gol D. Roger, the man who conquered the world."
It was not boastful. It was truth, carved in eternity. And before this stone now stood Monkey D. Garp.
The Marine Hero—the man who had cornered Roger more times than anyone else alive, who had fought him across seas, islands, and storms. Yet here, as he looked upon the grave of his oldest rival and, perhaps, his truest friend, the mask of the indomitable warrior cracked.
For a long while, he said nothing. His broad shoulders were still, save for the faint rise and fall of his chest. His jaw clenched, his hands balled into fists at his side, as if the act of standing before this monument demanded every shred of strength he had.
He had not known. Not until this day. He had never imagined that, amid the chaos of Loguetown, the Donquixote family had claimed Roger's body and given him a resting place that was not a forgotten hole in the ground, but a shrine worthy of the Pirate King.
"…You damn fool," Garp muttered at last, his voice low, rough. "Even in death, you end up surprising me."
He stepped closer, running a calloused hand across the cold stone, tracing the letters of Roger's name. Memories came unbidden—Roger's booming laugh, the wild glint in his eyes, the way he'd grin in the face of death itself. The endless battles they had shared, neither willing to yield, both secretly grateful that the other existed.
A lump rose in Garp's throat, though he forced it down. A hero could not cry. A friend, however, could.
"You really did it, didn't you?" Garp whispered, his gaze lifting to the blossoms drifting down around the grave. "You conquered the world… but you never let it conquer you."
For the first time in decades, Garp bowed his head. Not as a Marine, not as the "Hero," but as a man paying his respects.
The sea roared against the cliffs, carrying away his silence, and in that moment the grave did not feel like a place of loss. It felt alive, wrapped in blossoms, watched over by the waves. It was not the end of a man. It was the continuation of his legend. And Garp—his rival, his friend—stood before it at last.
I stood a little further back, giving Garp the space he needed to mourn in silence. This was his moment, not mine. He deserved to face his friend without eyes watching him, without words breaking the quiet between them. After all, it was the first time he had stood before Roger's grave.
I had only revealed the truth to Garp a short while ago—about where Roger's body had been laid to rest all those years ago, far from the prying eyes of the world and the reach of the World Government. Kuzan remained at the palace, entertained by our hosts, blissfully unaware that the so-called Hero of the Marines was, at this very moment, standing before the final resting place of the Pirate King.
The silence was heavy, sacred even, broken only by the sea's constant hymn and the soft whisper of plum blossoms falling around the mausoleum.
And then—I felt it. Two presences approaching, old and familiar, carrying with them a weight of years and history. I didn't need to turn to know who they were.
Rayleigh and Shakky stopped just short of the clearing, their eyes catching the stone monument first before widening at the figure who stood before it. For a heartbeat, both seemed frozen, as if the sight itself was too surreal to comprehend. Then recognition set in.
Rayleigh's lips parted, his expression betraying a mix of surprise and nostalgia. "So… it's you," he murmured, more to himself than anyone else. He had expected anyone but Garp to be here, yet the sight of the Marine Hero—head bowed, shoulders heavy—before Roger's grave felt strangely… right.
The Dark King's gaze shifted toward me as he stepped forward, Shakky at his side, her usual calm smile softened by something more wistful.
A sigh slipped from Rayleigh's chest, not heavy with accusation, but with something gentler—acceptance. "So, you finally decided to tell him, huh?" His voice carried no edge, no caution, no bitterness.
There was no malice in him, no anger that Garp stood here at last. If anything, Rayleigh's eyes glimmered faintly with a quiet relief. After all, of all the people alive, Rayleigh knew best that if there was anyone Roger would have wanted to meet him here, across the veil of death, it was Garp. Rival, enemy, brother-in-arms—whatever the world called them, the bond between them had been unshakable.
"Well," I said softly, my eyes still on the two figures standing beneath the plum blossoms, "it was about time I told him. Surely, you don't have any objection to Garp paying his respects, do you?"
Rayleigh shook his head, a faint smile tugging at his lips as he reached into his coat and produced a sealed bottle of rum. The glass glinted in the dappled light, unopened, its contents reserved for one man alone.
"No objections," Rayleigh said at last, his tone warm, tinged with a quiet nostalgia. "I'm here to pay my respects myself. And I can tell you this much…" He looked toward Garp, who hadn't moved an inch, still rooted before the grave. "…Roger would be glad. Glad that after all these years, he finally got to meet his friend here, at the end of it all."
For all the years Rayleigh had carried the bitterness of Roger's death—the resentment that the Marines had paraded his captain's execution like a spectacle—it melted in this moment. The sight of Garp before the grave didn't sting him with anger. It soothed something instead. Because despite everything, despite the uniforms and the war and the endless chase, he knew Garp had loved Roger in his own way. And that was enough.
Even Shakky, whose eyes rarely betrayed her emotions, allowed herself a soft smile as she whispered, "Roger would be laughing right now, seeing those two together again—even if only like this." And as the blossoms drifted down like snow, it felt as though the Pirate King himself was listening.
The blossoms kept falling. Garp hadn't moved. His massive frame—once unshakable even against the strongest foes—stood still as stone before the mausoleum, his back to us. For a long while, there was only silence. And then, as the light shifted through the branches, I saw it.
A lone streak traced its way down the Marine Hero's weathered cheek.
Just one. No sobbing, no trembling, no collapse—just a single tear. Yet on the face of the man who could crush mountains with his fists, who could terrify the seas themselves with his laughter, that single tear was heavier than oceans. It was proof enough of the bond he had shared with the man who now rested beneath the blossoms.
Rayleigh froze at the sight, his breath catching for the briefest of moments. For decades, he had thought of Garp as only the implacable wall, the hound that chased Roger to the ends of the seas. But standing there, Garp was no longer the Hero of the Marines. He was just a man. A friend mourning another.
Garp's voice finally broke the silence, low and rough. "Damn you, Roger…" His fist clenched at his side, trembling—not with rage, but with the weight of years. "You left us too soon."
Slowly, deliberately, Garp turned. His eyes, reddened but steady, met Rayleigh's. For a heartbeat, the two titans of an older age simply stared at one another. No hostility. No enmity. Just recognition.
Rayleigh gave a small, tired smile. "It's been a long time… Garp."
"…Rayleigh." Garp's voice was hoarse, but not cold. For the first time in decades, their gazes met not across a battlefield, but before a friend's grave.
Shakky stepped lightly forward, placing a hand on Rayleigh's arm. "Roger would be laughing, you know," she said softly. "Seeing the two of you finally standing side by side without trying to kill each other."
That coaxed the faintest of chuckles from both men, though Garp's quickly broke into a sigh. He turned back to the monument one last time, shoulders squared but no longer weighed down.
Rayleigh lifted the bottle of rum he had carried all this way. With quiet reverence, he set it at the base of the mausoleum. "For you, Captain," he said, his voice steady despite the gleam in his eye. "Your favorite. And for the idiots you left behind to carry your memory."
The blossoms swirled around them, carried by the sea breeze, as if the island itself paid homage to the man who once conquered the seas and the world's heart.
For the first time in years, it felt like closure. Not just for Garp, not just for Rayleigh, but for Roger himself.
And beneath that serene canopy of plum blossoms, three of the Pirate King's closest—friend, rival, brother—stood together once more.