Jack yanked on Gibbs' coat with both hands, desperation coursing through him.
Nothing.
He shook him again, more violently this time. "Gibbs!"
The young man's flawless face remained eerily still, not even a flicker of response.
Blood filled his mouth and pooled in the hollows of his collarbone, staining the white cotton of his shirt a deep crimson. His freshly grown, ink-black wings lay in tatters against the broken ground, one of them shredded where Redfield's final blow had sliced through bone and feather.
Jack couldn't tear his gaze away.
"No." He slapped Gibbs across the cheek, the sting sharp and biting. "Gibbs!"
Silence hung in the air, only the wind whispering through the devastated clearing.
Jack struck him again, harder this time, his own hand going numb from the impact. "Come on! Wake up!"
Still, there was nothing.
The wild, seething rage that had driven Jack's last desperate attack on Redfield began to ebb away, leaving behind a chilling emptiness.
His grip faltered, slipping from the blood-soaked fabric. He sank down into the dirt beside the old man who had journeyed with him from the dockyards of Java Island, through the nightmares of Loguetown and Alabasta, to this forsaken, cursed island.
Gibbs had faced down the future greatest swordsman. He had survived the Bloody Count once before. He had been on the brink of death, given a second chance at life, made whole and youthful—and then he had thrown it all away in an instant just to save Jack from a fatal blow.
Jack lowered his head until his brow nearly brushed against Gibbs' cold forehead.
"You absolute bastard," Jack murmured, his throat tight, his voice breaking like brittle wood.
No one interrupted.
"You miserable, drunken fool!" Jack shouted, yanking Gibbs by the lapels once more. "I specifically picked you! I gave you one job!" He shook the lifeless body with a frantic, ragged motion.
"Stay alive!"
Jack's eyes blazed as he peered into the still face. "You whine about everything! The weather! The rations! The ship! My navigation!" He paused, swallowing hard. "Especially my navigation!"
Van Augur remained silent, his one visible eye glued to the dirt.
A heavy, dragging footstep echoed behind them.
Crocodile approached, one sand-covered hand pressed firmly against the bleeding wound in her side. She looked like she'd been through a meat grinder, her coat charred, and her golden hook snapped off at the cuff.
Jack didn't turn around. "You drank all my rum!" he yelled at the corpse.
"Well—technically it's our rum, but that's beside the point! You snore loud enough to wake the dead! You believe every ridiculous sea curse spun by some drunken old sailor! You tell the same damn stories over and over, somehow making them twenty minutes longer each time!"
His fingers dug into Gibbs' coat so fiercely that the fabric ripped.
"And every single time I suggest a perfectly reasonable plan," Jack rasped, his voice dropping to a hoarse whisper, "you look at me like I've lost my mind."
Crocodile reached them, her bad leg buckling, but she grabbed Jack's shoulder, using him as support before letting herself sink heavily to the ground beside him.
Jack didn't even flinch at her weight. He just kept staring at Gibbs.
"You were supposed to keep doing that," Jack murmured. "You were supposed to keep telling me when I was being an idiot."
Crocodile glanced down at the young man's bloodied face. For once, the sharp, arrogant sneer had vanished from her features.
"He was a good man," she whispered softly. When Jack didn't respond, she shrugged weakly, blood staining her clothes. "Annoying. Drank too much. Talked way too much." A faint, bitter smile flickered at the corners of her lips. "...But good."
Heavy, uneven footsteps crunched through the underbrush. Augur limped out of the swirling dust storm, using a thick, charred tree branch as a makeshift crutch. His iconic cape hung in tattered rags.
"He was a drunkard," Augur remarked, adjusting his cracked glasses with a shaky thumb. "...But a dependable one."
Jack wiped his eyes furiously with the back of his sleeve, smearing soot and blood across his nose. "Fantastic. Just fantastic. The man finally earns a bit of respect from you all, and he has to go and die to get it."
Crocodile shot him a sideways glance. "You're actually crying."
Jack stiffened, his head snapping up. "I am not crying. It's just the dust."
"There's no wind, Sparrow."
"There was a massive bloody explosion!"
"That was ten minutes ago."
"It's extremely persistent dust!"
A dry, raspy wheeze escaped Crocodile's throat—the closest she'd come to a laugh all day.
"Ugh..."
The entire clearing went still.
Jack's head whipped down so fast his neck popped.
Gibbs' left eye twitched.
Augur's grip tightened on his walking stick. Crocodile's eyes widened.
A long, bubbling groan escaped Gibbs' lips. "Bloody... hell..."
Jack dropped him like a hot potato. Gibbs' head thudded back against the dirt.
"OW!"
Jack scrambled backward on his hands and knees, crashing right into Crocodile's injured side.
"WATCH IT, YOU IDIOT!" Crocodile hissed, clutching her ribs.
Jack pointed a trembling, dirt-covered finger. "He moved! You saw it! He made a noise!"
Gibbs slowly pried one eye open, squinting up at the dark sky through a fog of pain. "...Could everyone... please... stop shouting?"
Jack's jaw dropped. "GIBBS!"
Gibbs flinched, wincing sharply. "I literally... just asked you... not to shout."
"You're alive!"
Jack scrambled forward on all fours, his eyes wide with frantic disbelief. He leaned in and jabbed a finger hard into Gibbs' cheek.
Gibbs weakly swatted the finger away. "Stop poking me, Captain."
Jack poked him again. "Definitely alive."
"I will shoot you in the leg."
"Definitely Gibbs."
Crocodile let out a long, shuddering breath, her head thumping back against the rock behind her as her shoulders finally relaxed. Even Augur let out a faint sigh, leaning heavily on his wooden stick.
Gibbs grunted, trying to push himself up on one elbow. The moment he put weight on his shoulder—
"AGHH!"
He collapsed right back down. Jack caught him by the back of his shirt before his head could hit the mud again.
"Easy, first mate!" Jack cautioned. "Easy!"
"My whole body feels like it was run over by a Buster Call," Gibbs wheezed, gasping for breath.
"That tends to happen when you use your chest to take hits meant for others, you absolute idiot."
Gibbs opened both eyes, locking onto Jack's face. The panic had faded from Jack's eyes, replaced by a fierce, grounding intensity. For a long moment, they just stared at each other amid the smoke and shattered trees.
Then, Gibbs let out a breathless, exhausted laugh. "I think... I've had quite enough of dying for one lifetime, Cap'n."
Jack's response was immediate, firm, and utterly resolute. "Good. Because you're officially banned from doing it again. Captain's orders."
"I'll... try to remember that."
Gibbs glanced down at his hands. They were smooth, free of the liver spots and deep wrinkles of his old age. He flexed his fingers. The raw, terrifying vitality of youth was still there.
He turned his head slowly, his gaze landing on the massive crater just twenty yards away.
There lay Patrick Redfield, completely still.
Gibbs could still feel the memory of moments ago—the sensation of his claws digging into the Count's flesh.
The phantom connection. The thrilling, terrifying rush of Redfield's strength surging from the old pirate and flooding into his own body like molten fire.
"The fruit..." Gibbs murmured, his voice rough.
Crocodile glanced over, her brow knitted in concern.
Gibbs lifted his right hand, curling his fingers into a claw. "When I struck Redfield... I wasn't just drawing blood. I could feel it. His life force. His strength. His... his years."
Augur's eye sharpened at once. "Vitality theft."
"Aye," Gibbs whispered. "When I marked him... the Batto Batto no Mi took it. It absorbed his life."
Jack stroked his chin, a deep frown creasing his face. "So... you drank his age like blood?"
"Not literally, Cap'n."
"Good. That sounds terribly unhealthy. I'd wager it tastes like dust and a lifetime of boring lectures."
Gibbs brushed him off, his focus on his palm. "If this Devil Fruit allows me to drain the life force of others... then as long as I keep fighting, as long as I keep taking... I won't have to grow old again."
Crocodile's eyes narrowed into sharp, dangerous slits. "So, time is no longer a concern for you. You can restore your youth whenever it starts to fade."
"Aye," Gibbs replied quietly. "At least, it seems that way."
"A vampire's immortality," Crocodile murmured, looking at the young man with a newfound respect—and a hint of wariness. "You're practically immortal."
"Nearly," Gibbs corrected softly. "Still very much at risk of being blown to pieces, as my ribs are currently reminding me."
A shadow loomed over them.
Monkey D. Dragon emerged from the dissipating smoke. Unlike the others, the Revolutionary leader stood tall, though his green cloak was tattered, blood trickled down his temple, and his left arm dangled uselessly at his side.
His dark, tattooed face wore a grave expression as he gazed toward the crater.
Patrick Redfield lay motionless. The once-terrifying force that had weighed down the battlefield like a leaden shroud was now completely absent.
The Lonely Red—the fearsome figure who had fought alongside Roger, Whitebeard, and Shiki, the man who had escaped Impel Down through sheer dread—had met his end on a nameless, forgotten rock in the middle of nowhere.
Augur turned his head, his gaze landing on the shattered tree at the edge of the clearing.
Red—the artist—was slumped against the roots, his eyes closed as if he were in a deep, serene slumber. Nestled against his cold chest was the little tanuki, Pato.
The small creature wasn't crying. It lay there, clinging to the last remnant of its creator.
Jack followed Augur's line of sight. The wild, theatrical grin had completely vanished from his face.
He gently helped Gibbs lean back against a fallen log, then forced himself to stand. His knees trembled violently, his muscles protesting with every movement.
"We bury them," Jack said, his voice flat and unwavering.
Dragon turned to him. "Both of them?"
"Both." Jack's gaze shifted to the crater where Redfield lay. "He tried to kill us all. He was a miserable, arrogant old fool."
Crocodile let out a soft snort. "That's putting it mildly."
"Regardless," Jack said, locking eyes with Dragon. "He's dead now. And he doesn't deserve to rot in the ground alone."
Jack took a single step forward, and his legs immediately buckled beneath him.
The crocodile lunged sideways, aiming to catch him—only to have her leg betray her at the worst possible moment.
They collided, stumbling into each other and ending up in a messy, tangled heap against a broken boulder.
For what felt like an eternity, neither of them moved, both pretending they were propping the other up out of sheer kindness.
Jack cleared his throat, adjusting his tricorn hat with a shaky hand. "We'll bury them... right after a quick, highly strategic rest."
Crocodile panted, her eyes fluttering shut. "A very quick rest. Let's say... forty-eight hours."
Dragon glanced at the weary crew, then up at the sky. "Two days," he murmured. "We rest."
Fast forward two days, and Trans Town was eerily quiet.
The phantoms had vanished. No ghostly children dashed through the cobblestone streets. No illusory shopkeepers shouted from the market stalls. No phantom melodies drifted from the deserted taverns.
The town had finally been allowed to fade away.
At the highest point of the island, overlooking the vast, endless sea, stood a simple wooden cross firmly planted in the ground.
Beneath the fresh soil lay Patrick Red.
There was no grand monument—just his name, etched neatly into the dark wood by the tip of a sniper's knife:
RED
Pato stood right in front of the cross. The little tanuki hadn't said a word since the battle ended; he simply stared at the name.
Van Augur approached the creature, his torso heavily bandaged beneath a fresh, borrowed coat.
His signature spectacles had been clumsily fixed with wire, causing one lens to sit noticeably higher than the other. Slowly, with purpose, the sniper lowered his heavy, gloved hand onto the little creature's head.
Pato didn't flinch. He leaned into the touch, his gaze still fixed on the grave.
Behind them, the rest of the crew lingered.
Gibbs stood tall, his young shoulders squared off, but with all those bandages wrapped around him beneath his leather vest, he resembled more of a mummy than a pirate.
Next to him was Pintel, his arm snugly secured in a sling, while Ragetti sported white cloth wrapped around his head, chest, and knee, peering out from his one good eye with a squint.
At the back, Ivankov loomed, his massive purple hair slightly drooping, unusually quiet for once.
Not too far off, Crocodile leaned against the crumbling remnants of an old stone wall, her coat draped casually over her shoulders. Her broken hook had been unbolted, leaving the dark steel base of her prosthetic exposed at her wrist.
Jack stepped up beside her, the white hilt of Wado Ichimonji catching the light at his hip. He scanned the quiet bluff.
"Where are Dragon and the big guy?" Jack asked in a low voice.
Crocodile didn't bother to turn her head. "The northern cliff."
"Doing what?"
"Burying Redfield."
Crocodile shot him a sideways glance. "He was a monster. A ruthless, selfish bastard who brought half the Grand Line to its knees just to chase a dream of eternal youth."
"Can't argue with that," Jack replied.
"...But he was still Patrick Redfield," Crocodile continued, her voice dropping to a low, gravelly hum.
"A titan of the old era. He fought Roger. He fought Newgate. He stood against the World Government all on his own. No matter how far he fell at the end... a man like that deserves better than to be left for the scavengers."
Jack stared at the distant treeline for a moment, then nodded slowly. "I get it."
He turned his gaze back to Red's grave, where Pato stood, small and solitary against the vast ocean backdrop.
Reaching into his coat, Jack pulled out a silver flask and unscrewed the top with his teeth.
Crocodile shot him a disapproving glare. "You're drinking at a funeral?"
"I drink at weddings, christenings, and Tuesdays," Jack replied smoothly. "Funerals? They're just another occasion to raise a glass."
He tipped the flask, letting a dark, rich stream of rum flow onto the fresh earth at the base of the cross. "To the artist. May his canvas never run dry."
Pato turned his head just a bit, his big, tear-filled eyes gazing up at Jack.
Jack lifted the flask toward the little tanuki in a quiet, solemn toast, then took a long, deep swig himself. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve. "And here's to setting sail for whatever comes next."
Pato held Jack's gaze for a long moment. Slowly, the little creature wiped his nose with his paw... and gave a single, firm nod.
On the northernmost edge of the island, high above the crashing waves, stood another grave.
It was completely isolated.
Only two men stood before the plain wooden cross.
Monkey D. Dragon had his arms crossed over his chest, his green cloak billowing in the wind. Bartholomew Kuma stood beside him like an immovable mountain, his bible tucked securely under his massive arm.
Neither man spoke for what felt like an eternity.
Patrick Redfield lay beneath the dark earth. Neatly placed atop the mound was his crimson umbrella, its curved handle polished and gleaming.
Dragon stared down at the grave.
His mind replayed every split-second of their clash—every terrifying display of Redfield's Observation Haki, every effortlessly deflected strike, every moment the old pirate had read his soul before Dragon could even shift his weight.
"You are not your father," Redfield's mocking voice echoed in his memory.
Dragon slowly clenched his right hand into a fist, his knuckles turning white.
He had entered this battle believing he was strong. He was strong—one of the most dangerous men on the seas, or so the World Government had claimed. But standing here, on the ashes of the old era, he came to a chilling realization: strength was entirely relative.
Hidden deep within the sacred land of Mary Geoise, the World Government held an ancient power—an iron grip that had crushed nations for eight long centuries.
If he truly meant to dismantle that system from the ground up... what he had right now was far from enough. Not even close.
Dragon glanced down at his rough, calloused palm.
"I need to get stronger," he murmured, his voice low and heavy like iron.
Kuma remained silent, his stoic gaze fixed on the horizon.
Dragon's fist clenched tighter, his nails biting into his skin. "Much stronger."
Not to escape Garp's shadow. Not to prove anything to the lingering spirit of Patrick Redfield.
But for the war that was on the horizon.
Kuma slowly lifted his massive head.
Dragon followed his gaze upward.
For as long as they had been stranded on this cursed island, a thick, unnatural blanket of pitch-black storm clouds had smothered the sky, blocking out the sun.
Now, directly above them, a brilliant crack split through the gloom.
A single ray of golden sunlight broke through the darkness, striking the ocean below. Then another. And another.
The heavy, oppressive clouds began to roll back, torn apart by the rising sea breeze.
For the first time in decades, warm, radiant sunlight poured over the ruins of Trans Town. It washed over the shattered cobblestones, the faded wall paintings, the broken trees... and illuminated the two fresh graves resting at opposite ends of the island.
It shone down on a small, crimson tanuki standing tall before his creator's cross, his head held high.
The thick, heavy mist that had trapped the island in the past began to fade away into nothingness.
Kuma watched as the endless blue sky spread overhead, his quiet voice echoing over the cliffside.
"The storm is ending."
Dragon turned away from the grave, his green cloak catching the sunlight as he gazed out toward the open sea.
"No," Dragon replied softly, his eyes burning with unwavering resolve. "It has only just begun."