Epilogue — End of Volume One - The Spectres of O'Hara
Polished ebony doors closed with a sigh that reminded servants of coffins. Inside the dim chamber of the Gorosei, five Elder Stars sat in a circle of faint lamplight, Veyla's encrypted report and confiscated photographs floating as red holograms between them.
Elder of Finance (bald with sword): "Spectre D. Ash — silver‑lit hair, blackened sclera, crimson pupils when roused. A child barely eight."
Elder of Science (curled beard): "And yet he channels enough latent will to stagger Vice Admirals. His escape has already spawned three royal inquiries."
Elder of Law (tall, scars): "White hair glowing silver… reminiscent of certain murals at Enies Lobby — murals linked to that name."
Elder of History (spotless robes): "Joy Boy."
The word shivered through the dark like a forbidden psalm.
Elder of War (katana across knees): "We sought Imu‑sama's judgment."
Finance: "Imu's silence breeds headaches; our hands remain tied."
History: "If this child is a herald rather than the hymn itself, early removal invites prophecy."
At length they wrote a single‑line decree for Sengoku:
"Observe and report. No overt action."
A command so unlike their usual ruthlessness that even they felt uneasy signing it.
Paper thunder rolled across Sengoku's desk: casualty lists, scorch‑marked maps, civilians unaccounted for. Two photos lay atop the chaos — Ash brandishing a crescent scythe against Admiral Akainu; Robin half‑frozen beneath an ice dome.
Tsuru stood beside him, lips thin. "The Elders are silent."
Sengoku rubbed his temple. "That silence worries me more than Akainu's report." He set a fresh bounty form in motion:
Spectre D. Ash
Demon Child
Alive
150,000,000
Nico Robin
Devil Child
Alive
100,000,000
Ink dried like spilled blood.
Akainu stormed in, bandages at his temples still smoking faintly. "Grant me a warship and a week. I will drag that brat's corpse to your desk."
Sengoku's voice hardened. "Denied. New World pirates multiply; I need your fist there, not hunting children."
Magma cracked across Akainu's knuckles. "He escaped my purging. That stain—"
Tsuru's haki‑laced glare cut him off. "Your stain grows if you abandon post."
Akainu swallowed rage like molten gravel, saluted, and left — vengeance deferred, not dead.
Outside, Kuzan leaned against a pillar, ice cigarette smouldering frost. Garp joined him, doughnut in hand.
"Kids alive?" Garp asked.
Kuzan shrugged. "One's floating. One slipped north."
Garp grinned sadly. "D's love surviving."
World Economic News Morgans EXCLUSIVE
"BUSTER CALL LEVELS SCHOLAR ISLAND — ANCIENT KNOWLEDGE BURNT TO ASH!" the headline screamed across every café table from Dawn Island to Drum.
Pictures showed blackened roots of the Tree, burning scrolls swirling like paper snow. A grainy last‑page photo captured a white‑haired boy leaping through smoke, scythe raised.
Morgans' excited pen called him "Demon Child — Reaper of O'Hara." Circulation soared; truth blurred.
A salt‑stained cutter rocked in a quiet cove far north of O'Hara. Robin, coat wrapped tight, studied bounty posters by lantern light. Tears dotted Ash's image.
"Two demons, hm?" she whispered. She traced his new scar showing beneath torn shirt, then pressed the poster to her heart.
"I'll survive, Ash. We both will."
She stowed the paper with her glyph notes, stepped onto deck, and set course toward refuge lands marked by Saul long ago.
Waves slapped the broken beam Ash clung to. Fever wracked him, but the pain in his back kept him conscious. Dawn painted the sea bronze; smoke plumes behind marked the funeral pyre of O'Hara.
Codex scrolled sluggish diagnostics:
WRP 46/100 — Burn trauma stable — Conqueror signature latent.
Skeyth's voice murmured: "Storm passed; root unbroken."
Ash croaked a laugh. "Root on fire, but still." He ripped cloth strips from charred shirt, wrapped the scythe handles to hide their gleam.
A shadow loomed — a merchant brig. Sailors hauled him aboard, startled at crimson eyes. Their captain, a kindly grandma named Liddy, offered water. "Found you halfway to Calm Belt, lad."
Ash drank, rasped, "Thank you. Name's Ash — just Ash."
Liddy shrugged. "Many ashes today. Rest."
Below deck, Ash slept among burlap grain sacks. He dreamed of magma fists and burning leaves, but also of Robin sailing free.
Deep beneath the sea, jailors cursed as they manoeuvred a frozen statue of Jaguar D. Saul into a reinforced cell. Magma‑sealed shackles locked his arms though ice still coated him.
Head Jailer Magellan read the transfer sheet: "Attempted interference with Buster Call. Await indefinite review."
The world would not hear; indictments were sealed, news overshadowed. In the dim red gloom, frost steamed from Saul's beard, hinting at life beneath.
News clippings fluttered on the Gorosei table.
History Elder: "The boy lives. The weapon lives."
War Elder: "Admiral failure."
Finance Elder: "Imu-sama still silent."
Law Elder: "We wait and watch."
Science Elder: "Next encounter shall be… instructive."
They stamped a secret file crimson: "Spectre D. Ash — Observation Priority Alpha."
Two days later, the merchant brig docked at a small West Blue archipelago. Ash's wounds scabbed, back an angry star‑burst scar. Liddy pressed a worn compass into his hand. "Find your heading, child."
Ash bowed, eyes bright. "You helped a demon."
She grinned. "I helped a survivor. Buy me a new ship when you're king of something."
He laughed — first real laugh since O'Hara.
That night ashore, he unrolled Codex mission tree:
Heal and train — unlock Bond Level 2.
Gather a crew across all Four Blues — strength in numbers.
Chart a course to the Grand Line when the crew is ready.
Record every lost truth the fires tried to erase.
One day, repay magma with cold fear.
Ash traced the scar on his back, then lifted Skeyth toward moonlight. "We'll be legends that terrify tyrants."
The scythe gleamed like a new constellation.
From a Marine outpost far south, Akainu gazed over a red sunset, fists smoking. Somewhere out there, a white‑haired child breathed. The magma inside the admiral bubbled hotter.
North on a chilled deck, Kuzan leaned over rails, ice coffee steaming. He whispered to the sea, "Stay alive, kids."
And atop the world's tallest root, a torn fragment of charred parchment fluttered — the last page of an unknown scholar's notes — carried skyward by rising heat, aiming for another dawn.
End of First Arc