The laughter faded, and the elderly Whitebeard withdrew the bold aura that had once shaken the seas.
His towering figure turned around. His deep gaze passed over Marco and Lucian Thorn, looking toward the other end of the island.
There, faint sounds of a lively banquet could be heard—cheering and joyful voices.
It was his family, holding a grand farewell party for Oden, filled with both reluctance and heartfelt blessings.
"Go have a look."
Whitebeard's deep voice rang out without a hint of hesitation.
"We can't let those brats find out. It'll cause unnecessary commotion."
Marco immediately nodded. He understood very well: two "Whitebeards" appearing in the same era—once exposed—would trigger unimaginable chaos.
Lucian said nothing. He simply followed quietly behind the two of them.
The three didn't head toward the bustling harbor. Instead, they walked silently along the island's edge, taking the long way to the other side.
The farther they got from the banquet, the quieter their surroundings became.
The sound of waves crashing against the rocks replaced the music and laughter.
The salty sea breeze dispersed the heavy scent of alcohol.
Eventually, they stopped at the base of a towering cliff.
This was the most remote corner of the island—jagged rocks, rarely visited.
Whitebeard raised his head and looked to the top of the cliff.
Marco and Lucian followed his gaze.
There, at the cliff's edge, sat a figure—alone and massive like a mountain.
He faced away from them, staring out at the endless blue sea.
Golden hair, like a lion's mane, billowed wildly in the wind.
His captain's coat wasn't worn but draped over his shoulders, the purple skull emblem on the back blazing dominantly under the sun.
Next to him sat a giant gourd, larger than a man.
He neither turned nor made a sound.
And yet, even just his back radiated a pressure so terrifying it could make the world kneel.
It wasn't an intentionally released intimidation—his mere presence was the law of this sea.
But beneath that overwhelming dominance, Lucian keenly sensed something else.
It was a lingering sense of… loss.
A heaviness born from a friend's departure, leaving only frustrated grief behind.
His current state of mind was like a dormant volcano—calm on the surface, but inside, power and emotion were building, ready to set the world ablaze.
Marco's breathing quickened.
He looked at that back, then at the aged "Pops" beside him, overwhelmed by a dizzying sense of time dislocation.
That back—he knew it too well.
It was the man he had followed his entire life, at his most radiant, invincible state.
"Gurararara..."
Whitebeard beside him let out a low chuckle.
That laugh carried nostalgia—and a bit of self-mockery.
He gazed at the version of himself atop the cliff like he was watching a stubborn child.
Lucian stepped quietly to Whitebeard's side, lifting his head to look at that weathered face.
He didn't suggest what to do, nor did he ask what came next.
He simply spoke in a tone filled with absolute trust:
"Pops."
"Say hello to your past self… in your own way."
Marco was startled, instinctively wanting to stop him.
Say hello?
How?
Say hello to that version of Pops?
That was peak Whitebeard, burning with pent-up fury!
Even a hint of provocation could trigger a world-ending disaster!
But the aged Whitebeard wasn't the least bit worried.
He understood what Lucian meant.
He grinned—a playful, amused smile spreading across his face.
"Gurararara..."
"You're right."
"Can't just walk up there. Might scare the past me."
As his words ended—
His right hand, weathered with age, slowly lifted.
No buildup.
No exaggerated stance.
Not even a shred of Haki wrapped around it.
He simply threw a punch toward the empty sky.
Buzz—!
There was no earth-shattering boom.
No cracks in the sky.
Not even a visible ripple in the air.
Instead, a gentle wave spread out from his fist.
It wasn't the destructive power of the Tremor-Tremor Fruit.
It was... a message.
A unique signal—an individual imprint that only Whitebeard could perceive.
The vibration was faint, yet impossibly pure.
It passed through rocks and trees without disturbing a single leaf or twig.
Like a messenger, it carried greetings from the future, drifting silently toward the cliff's peak, unbound by physical laws.
Marco held his breath. He could feel the wave brush past him.
That feeling… was all too familiar.
That was Pops' power!
The power of the Tremor-Tremor Fruit!
But it was also different.
Peak Whitebeard's shockwaves were wild and overwhelming—like tsunamis ready to swallow the world.
But this current one was calm—refined—like it had been tempered by time.
Like someone who had seen everything... and returned to the beginning.
Lucian's lips curved upward slightly.
He knew.
The plan was halfway to success.
A face can be disguised.
A voice can be mimicked.
But this—this soul-deep imprint born from a Devil Fruit's core—was an unforgeable code.
This greeting said more than any words could.
It said—
"I'm here."
Atop the cliff.
The sea wind howled.
Peak Whitebeard tilted his head back, pouring liquor from the giant gourd like a waterfall down his throat.
The fiery liquid trailed from his mouth, soaking the crescent-shaped mustache on his chest.
His eyes stared at the endless ocean, yet they were unfocused.
His mind still echoed with the image of that idiot wearing a straw hat, clinging to his leg with snot and tears.
"Oden, that guy... I'm entrusting him to you, Roger."
He had said it like it was nothing.
But inside, he was so frustrated he wanted to flip the entire sea upside down.
Just then—
His movements stopped.
The pouring liquor halted.
In those hawk-like eyes, a flicker of intense shock flashed.
He slowly set down the gourd.
Because he felt a ripple.
A ripple so familiar… and yet so unfamiliar.
It was coming from beneath the cliff.