At the same time, in the Fleet Admiral's office at Marineford, Sengoku, Vice Admiral Tsuru, Gion (Momousagi) and the other top brass waited for news from the front.
After a long while, the Den Den Mushi rang. Sengoku flipped it open, and a solemn voice reported:
"Today's capture operation failed. Rayleigh appeared—he's the one who rescued Ace. We can now confirm Ace is Roger's son."
Suddenly another voice, a soldier's, cut in from the other end: "Admiral Akainu, we've confirmed Blackbeard's position."
"Encircle at once," Akainu growled.
"Continue your operation and report any changes immediately," Sengoku ordered, then ended the call.
The room fell into a heavy frown. The failed grab wasn't what bothered them most—given the current deployment, catching Ace was only a matter of time. What worried them was Rayleigh showing himself and stirring up such a commotion. If remnants of the Roger Pirates started to gather, things could spiral, civilians would panic, and the Marines'—even the World Government's—credibility would take a hit.
In the brief silence, Tsuru spoke evenly:
"The operation failed, yes. But Ron didn't tip Rayleigh off about Akainu's move. His stance is clear. If we can recruit him, he'll be a major asset in the next phase against the Whitebeard Pirates."
Sengoku's eyes brightened. He turned to Gion. "After yesterday, how likely is it we can bring Ron in?"
"Almost zero," she replied, face calm and cool even in such a serious setting. "But it's still worth trying."
Even after prodding him with words—and a few… more direct tests—he hadn't budged. Still, Gion remembered an old person's advice: If the thread won't pass the eye, lick it straight first.
Sengoku nodded, issued a few more instructions, and was about to adjourn when the doors burst open. A short-haired old man strode in, stuffing senbei into his mouth as he barked:
"From now on, the mission to capture Ace—I'm joining."
Meanwhile, in Ron's tavern.
As soon as Rayleigh finished his grand speech, Ron slapped a hand over his face.
Say it like that and Ace will only hate Roger more. A dutiful son might cheer at "free and unrestrained," but a boy who lost his mother young? Tell him his father "priced the most beautiful women" and he'll be out digging up the old man's grave by sundown.
Seeing Ron's expression, Rayleigh realized he'd blundered and hurried to amend it:
"That… 'pricing the ladies' bit—the Captain never did that!"
"You don't have to explain," Ace said coldly. "Whatever that bastard did has nothing to do with me."
Rayleigh wanted to cry. He'd meant to paint Roger as a man who defied oppression and chased dreams—a free soul. And then he'd gone and stuck his foot in his mouth.
"Have a drink first," Ron said, breaking the stalemate. He fetched a bottle and set it in front of Ace.
Ace didn't bother with a glass. He tilted the bottle back and took a long pull.
Gulp—
"Good stuff," he admitted. Better than most of what the Whitebeard Pirates stocked—rich aroma straight to the head, sweet entry, soft but full-bodied.
"If you like it, come by often," Ron smiled.
Ace gave a short nod. He looked as if he wanted to say something, then glanced at Rayleigh and swallowed the words. The wide tavern fell quiet again, punctuated only by the distant patter of gunfire and explosions outside.
"Freedom, huh…" Ace murmured, staring at the bottle.
He hated his father. If Roger hadn't turned himself in, his mother wouldn't have had to carry him for twenty months to evade the Marines—and she wouldn't have died from exhaustion the moment he was born. His birthday wouldn't be the anniversary of her death.
Since childhood, whenever he asked about his father, the answer had been unanimous: scum. Even as a child, just the rumor that he might be Roger's son drew contempt from common folk. He could beat them bloody, but one question always gnawed at him:
Was I right to be born into this world at all?
Between a mother's life given and a father's existence he despised, Ace grew up in a crack between love and hate. And yet, after a long, bitter road, he learned to love people again—because he met people who were kind. Life hadn't twisted him into a monster.
Time slid on. Half a bottle later, memories had Rayleigh's heart in a vise. He reached for them and felt them sift away like sand through his fingers—sourness and helplessness welling up.
"At the end," he said hoarsely, "what your father worried about most was you and Rouge."
The old man's left hand, strong enough to trade blows with Admirals, trembled as it held the glass.
"Worry? Father?" Ace's voice rose in a low growl. "If he cared so much, he wouldn't have turned himself in. My mother wouldn't have died!"
He regretted it the moment it left his mouth. He should have kept that man a stranger.
"I have only one father," he said at last, head bowed over the bottle. "Whitebeard."
Rayleigh snorted. "What kind of spell has that old man woven over you that you won't even acknowledge your own blood?"
"Because Pops is a real father," Ace said softly, eyes warm at the name. "On his ship, everyone is family. Without him… I still wouldn't know what it means to live."
Maybe because he'd lacked a father all his life, the warmth of that vast back and open arms had taken root in his soul. Against that, Roger, his biological sire, had never stood a chance.
Rayleigh sighed. "That hateful old man—still the same as ever." Then, more gently: "Your captain… had cancer before he turned himself in."
Ace stiffened. This—this was the answer he'd never dared to hope for.
Rayleigh drank deep and began to speak of those last days.
To reach Laugh Tale, Roger had begged a great doctor to stretch his remaining life. Even so, when they finally arrived, he had less than a year left. He spent what remained with Rouge.
The surrender had been planned. On Laugh Tale's glyphs, Roger learned he'd been born twenty years too early—and had no time left to try again. His execution would be the spark—a thunderclap to rattle the world awake, to drive men to seek his treasure. From among them, someone would inherit the will he carried… and reach the end of the world.
When Rayleigh finished, there were no jokes left in him, only a weary fondness.
"From start to finish," he said, "Roger lived and chose freely, true to the Will of D."
"In the end, what are pirates but headstrong fools—throwing feasts, singing 'Binks' Sake,' washing it down with rum?" He reached over and scrubbed a hand through Ace's hair, grinning. "And your father was the most headstrong fool of the lot."
Ace let him muss his hair, eyes unfocused. As he left the tavern later, he walked the shadowed alley in silence, replaying Rayleigh's words. Slowly, the outline of that man shifted—filled in—grew three-dimensional in his mind.
He would never forgive Gol D. Roger.
But the hate… felt a little less heavy.
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