"You're lucky I stepped in when I did," Garp said, his voice low but sharp, like the crack of a whip in the dim brig. He sat on a stool across from the chained and broken form of the so-called Demon Heir, his eyes cold, unwavering. "Because if it had been Gaban or Rayleigh… your death would've been anything but pleasant."
The flickering lantern cast long shadows on the rusted walls of the ship's prison hold. The only sounds were the creak of metal and the rhythmic crash of waves outside.
"I hate pirates, yes…" Garp leaned forward, elbows on knees. "But I hate traitors even more. You turned on your own family."
Chains clinked as Douglas Bullet stirred in the darkness. Blood still soaked through the remnants of his tattered uniform. His right shoulder and part of his torso were severed, his remaining arm tightly bound in thick seastone shackles that shimmered with faint menace. His breath was ragged, but his eyes gleamed with fury—and madness.
"Ah… the legendary Marine Hero, personally escorting me to my grave," Bullet sneered. "You must really think you've won."
He tugged against the chains, testing them with his one remaining arm. "Do you really believe this will hold me forever?" His tone was mocking, but underneath it lay a raw, venomous edge.
Garp didn't blink.
"Why?" he asked bluntly. "Why did you go after Roger's crew? They took you in. Raised you. You owe them everything."
At that, Bullet let out a sharp, barking laugh—cold and bitter.
"Kahahahah…..Raised me? That's the greatest joke I've heard in years!" he spat. "Roger feared my potential. He saw what I could become and chose to suppress it—to cage me so I'd never surpass him."
But before his voice could rise any further, Garp let out a bellowing laugh, deep and resonant, shaking the brig's walls.
"Bwahahahaha! You really are delusional, kid," he said, standing tall as the steel shackles rattled.
"You think someone like Gol D. Roger—who stood at the summit of the world—would fear someone like you? You're not even half the man he was."
The words hit like cannon fire.
Bullet's grin twisted into a scowl, his teeth clenched as rage flared in his eyes. Garp's mocking tone had struck a nerve—the one thing Bullet could never bear: being told he'd never surpass Roger.
But Garp wasn't done.
"Do you even understand what you've done?" he asked, voice now heavy with gravity. "You may have just reawakened the deadliest crew to ever sail the seas. The Roger Pirates laid down their swords. They had no reason to fight anymore. And now… now you've given them one."
A silence followed. Bullet's shoulders rose and fell with labored breaths. Then… a slow, wicked grin crept onto his face.
"For someone who holds the title of Marine Hero," he whispered, "you're still so naïve, Garp…"
From the shadows, Bogard, leaning against the wall with arms crossed and hat tilted forward, opened his eyes. His gaze sharpened like a drawn blade.
Bullet leaned forward, his voice a low snarl. "What if I told you… that the Roger Pirates never truly disappeared into the shadows? What if they left behind something… something that could change everything?"
Bogard's hand drifted toward his sword.
"Oh?" Garp's brow arched.
"What if I told you," Bullet hissed, eyes gleaming with mad delight, "that the Roger Pirates hold in their possession an eternal log pose—one that points directly to Raftel. No need for the Poneglyphs, no need for deciphering ancient scripts. Just a straight, unbroken path to the Final Island… to the One Piece."
The words echoed like thunder in the hold.
Garp's eyes narrowed. Bogard's grip tightened on the hilt of his blade, the light catching on polished steel. The silence was thick, suffocating, as the implications detonated in their minds.
"And now," Bullet grinned, "I wonder what the World Government would say if I gave them this little piece of knowledge. Do you think they'd pardon me, Marine Hero? Give me a second chance in exchange for a map to the end of the world?"
His laughter was mad, unhinged. "Because while they pretend not to care, we both know the truth. The World Government has been desperately hunting Raftel for over eight hundred years. They fear what lies there… and they crave it just the same."
Garp's jaw clenched, the veins in his arm pulsing.
"If you think I'll let you use this to throw the world into chaos, you're more of a fool than I thought," he growled.
Bullet's eyes burned.
"I'm not trying to escape, Garp. I'm not begging for mercy. I know where I'm headed… but if I'm going to fall, I'll make sure I take the whole damn world with me. Let the hunt begin."
"Unless you kill me right here, right now… I will crawl out of that hell you're sending me to," Bullet growled, his voice echoing through the gloom like a slow-burning fire. "And when I do… I'll finish what I started."
He leaned back, the shadows swallowing half his face, but his eyes gleamed like twin embers in the dark.
"I hope you live long enough to witness that day, Garp. The day I climb the throne—and rule over this entire world."
A cold, feral cackle rolled from his lips, reverberating against the steel walls of the brig. The sound wasn't loud, but it carried a venom that made even the most hardened of marines outside the cell tense at their posts. Bullet's form slumped back into the shadows, broken, bloodied—but utterly unbent.
Garp stood in silence for a moment, gaze locked on the figure that had once walked alongside legends. Then, slowly, he turned his back.
"You'll die long before you ever sit on a throne," he muttered, voice quiet, but filled with certainty.
"And if not by my hands… then by the wrath of the very monsters you've provoked."
But even as he said it, a flicker of unease passed through him. Because Bullet's words weren't hollow bravado. No—he had planted a seed. And it was already taking root.
The reason he had shared such a closely guarded secret—one he had clung to through every battle, betrayal, and betrayal—wasn't for leverage. It wasn't to strike a bargain.
It was vengeance.
If he couldn't kill Roger's crew himself… then he would unleash the entire world upon them. He would let every pirate, every kingdom, every warlord and government dog know of the eternal log pose to Raftel. Let them salivate at the thought of the One Piece. Let them turn their greed and ambition into a blade aimed squarely at the hearts of Roger's former crew.
That would be his revenge. Not swift. Not honorable. But cruel, calculated—and absolute. And if the world did take the bait? Then the age of legends would erupt into a storm of blood.
A few minutes later, atop the deck of the Marine warship, Vice Admiral Garp stood motionless, the salty breeze ruffling his white coat. His sharp gaze was fixed on the distant silhouette of Nanohana Port, the desert city faintly outlined by the evening sun. But his mind wasn't on Alabasta. Not truly.
It was on the words still echoing in his head—Douglas Bullet's twisted prophecy.
"An eternal log pose to Raftel..."
The implications were too great to ignore. Behind him, footsteps approached quietly.
"Do you believe him?" Bogard asked, his voice low but steady. "That the Roger Pirates really possess a log pose leading directly to the Final Island?"
Garp didn't respond immediately. He stared ahead, arms crossed, the ever-present frown on his face deepening.
"If it's true…" Bogard continued, "the World Government wouldn't hesitate to strike a deal with Bullet. You know they care more about results than principles."
Garp's jaw tightened.
"That's the problem," he muttered. "Truth or not… the mere idea of such a thing existing could throw the world into a frenzy. Pirates, revolutionaries, bounty hunters… even kingdoms. Everyone would be clawing at the Roger Pirates like wild dogs if word got out."
He turned, his expression dark, resolute.
"We can't let that happen."
Bogard nodded slightly, sensing the weight of his commander's burden.
"The Roger Pirates… they've been quiet for years since Roger's death. Retired. And I want it to stay that way," Garp said. "They've had their era. The world doesn't need another war stirred up by their ghosts."
There was a rare somberness in his tone now, almost regretful. Because Garp, of all people, understood what the return of those men would mean—the real monsters of the sea taking to the tides once more.
"As for Bullet's claim… let him rot in Impel Down," Garp added, turning to face the sea once again. "We'll make sure no one believes a word he says. This ocean's already chaotic enough without another damn legend waking up."
Bogard didn't reply, but the flicker in his eyes said it all—they both knew that sealing this secret wouldn't be easy.
Because if Bullet had already spoken to them, there was no telling who he might talk to next. And in a world where truth and legend often blurred, even a whisper could ignite a war.
****
Arabasta, Grand Line
The royal palace of Alubarna shimmered like a jewel in the golden embrace of the desert sun. Its sandstone walls, carved with ancient hieroglyphs and adorned with sapphire-inlaid murals, bore the weight of over four thousand years of history—a kingdom older than most nations still standing. Today, that legacy was on full display, for a guest of rare and controversial stature.
Sir Crocodile, one of the Seven Warlords of the Sea, ascended the grand staircase leading to the palace gates. His long, fur-lined coat billowed behind him in the desert breeze, his piercing gaze unblinking, his ever-present smirk curled into something colder—calculating.
Lily, his silent and sharp-eyed companion, walked just a step behind, scanning every detail of the palace with almost reverent curiosity. The weight of history pressed in from all sides, and even she could not help but be drawn in.
Contrary to his expectations, Crocodile had received a formal invitation from the royal family of Arabasta—a banquet held in his honor. It was a move that intrigued him. The Nefertari line had never been known for folly.
Though King Cobra held the throne publicly, the whispers of the world told a different tale: that the true power behind Arabasta's crown was his queen, Nefertari Titi—a woman as enigmatic as she was sharp.
To invite a pirate—even one with the legal protection of a Warlord—into the heart of one of the oldest surviving royal families in the world was a bold, deliberate move. And Crocodile intended to find out why.
As they ascended the staircase, they passed row after row of soldiers lined in parade formation. Thousands of men stood rigid in gleaming ceremonial armor, their spears raised in perfect unison. Their golden sashes fluttered in the breeze, and the sigil of the solar lion gleamed proudly on their chestplates.
A show of strength, Crocodile mused, sparing the soldiers a brief glance. But ultimately meaningless.
He didn't bother to hide his amusement, shaking his head slightly. Soldiers like these might awe peasants and dignitaries, but to someone who had stared down the New World, this was little more than ornamental pomp.
At the top of the final step, standing tall in his royal regalia, was Igaram, the Chief Royal Guard and one of the most loyal servants to the Nefertari family. Clad in the official military blue robes of Arabasta's high command, trimmed with silver and bearing the crest of the royal house, Igaram looked every bit the kingdom's sword and shield. A formal sash crossed his chest, pinned with the gold medallion denoting his title, and a curved scimitar rested ceremonially at his side.
His face was composed, his white curls tucked neatly beneath his officer's turban, but his eyes—sharp and unwavering—betrayed his disdain. He did not like this. Not one bit. But duty bound him.
"Welcome to the Royal Palace of Alubarna, Sir Crocodile, Warlord of the Sea."
Igaram's voice was as polished as his uniform, his tone laced with strained courtesy. The words carried the weight of formality, not warmth. Every syllable was carefully chosen. Crocodile raised an eyebrow at the stiff welcome, then offered a thin smile—equal parts amusement and provocation.
"I appreciate the invitation," he said, his voice slow, smooth as shifting sand. "It's not every day that a pirate is received with such... ceremony."
"By the will of Her Majesty, Queen Titi, and His Majesty, King Cobra, we honor all guests who stand under the flag of diplomacy," Igaram replied, without flinching. "You are to be treated as a dignitary of the World Government."
"Hmm. Let's hope that courtesy doesn't prove… regrettable."
The tension between them hung in the air like static before a storm. And yet, neither man flinched. They were both veterans of their own kind of war—one fought with blades, the other with veiled words and measured glances.
With a formal bow and a sweeping motion, Igaram stepped aside, allowing Crocodile to enter the palace. As he crossed the threshold into the hallowed halls of the desert kingdom, Crocodile's smirk widened slightly.
So, Queen Titi… let's see what kind of ruler hides behind the golden mask of tradition.
Crocodile was surprised when he was not escorted to the throne room but led instead straight to the grand banquet hall. As the towering doors creaked open, he stepped into a chamber that exuded the sheer weight of millennia-old sovereignty.
The vast hall was a testament to Arabasta's legacy—a fusion of architectural brilliance and cultural heritage passed down over four thousand years.
Polished marble floors shimmered under the glow of suspended crystal chandeliers. Intricate murals lined the vaulted ceilings, depicting battles, diplomacy, and prosperity of eras long past. The very walls whispered history.
At the center of it all was an immense banquet table, carved from ancient desert oak and inlaid with gold filigree, stretching down nearly the length of the hall. Gathered at its sides were the powerbrokers of Arabasta—generals, high-ranking officials, royal ministers, and nobles, each seated in a precise order dictated by rank and influence.
Along the periphery of the room, silent and unblinking, stood an elite cadre of royal guards—a stark contrast to the ornamental soldiers outside. These men wore battle-worn armor, their eyes cold, their postures disciplined.
These were not parade toys; they were veterans of blood-soaked campaigns, their presence a quiet message that the kingdom was not as defenseless as it might appear. And yet, to Crocodile, they were just more bodies that would fall like straw if they couldn't wield Haki.
His gaze swept across the room, ignoring the simpering ministers and soft-spined officials. Politics bored him. His eyes instead shifted to the head of the table, where sat the monarch of this ancient realm—King Nefertari Cobra, his expression dignified but weary. The unease on the king's face was evident, and the burden of rule sat heavily on his shoulders.
And seated beside him was the true axis of power—Queen Nefertari Titi.
She radiated poise and grace, her demeanor serene, yet her eyes missed nothing. Draped in layers of royal silks, the soft swell of her belly was visible even beneath the folds of her regal attire.
So… the next heir to the Nefertari throne is soon to arrive, Crocodile mused silently, his smirk barely restrained. How unfortunate that the kingdom he's meant to inherit won't exist by then.
As Crocodile mentally took stock of the room, so too did Queen Titi. Though she smiled warmly, her mind was racing. Crocodile had always been dangerous, but him choosing to "settle" in Arabasta under the guise of his Warlord status was no coincidence.
She had no solid proof, only the chilling instinct of a queen who had ruled beside a king for decades—a woman who knew the scent of treachery masked in charm.
Her eyes briefly flicked to the teenage girl at Crocodile's side. The girl stood calmly, composed beyond her years, but Titi's instinct picked up something deeper—an undercurrent of coerced loyalty. That girl wasn't with Crocodile by choice. She was clever enough not to reveal it on her face, but Titi saw through her act. She made a note to dig into the girl's identity later.
Just as Crocodile eased into his seat with a predator's grace, his eyes narrowed toward the few empty chairs beside Queen Titi. They were ornately decorated, indicating seats of high importance.
"So," Crocodile said casually, voice laced with subtle challenge, "are we expecting more guests?"
He already had a working knowledge of the Arabasta court and knew that everyone of official importance was already present. Empty chairs beside the queen could mean only one thing—a hidden player yet to be revealed.
Queen Titi's smile didn't waver. "Our apologies," she said, her voice like smooth honey over steel. "A few guests are still on their way. It seems they're running a little late."
Crocodile's smirk deepened. He could feel the undercurrent beneath her words. Something more was at play. Still, he made no comment—none of these people were true threats to him. Not yet.
At last, King Cobra rose to his feet, a ceremonial goblet in hand. The room quieted instantly. Despite his lean frame, his voice held the commanding tone of a man born to rule.
"Let us begin. Today, we welcome one of the Seven Warlords of the Sea—Sir Crocodile—to Arabasta. May this banquet serve as the beginning of peaceful collaboration between strength and stability. We honor the presence of a protector recognized by the World Government, and we hope your time in our land is both fruitful and enlightening."
He raised his glass in a formal toast, echoed half-heartedly by the others around the table. Some hands trembled, and more than a few pairs of eyes avoided looking directly at the Warlord sitting among them.
Servants began to file in with trays upon trays of food—roasted desert fowl, stuffed cactus fruits, spiced dune rice, and rare seafood imported from the coast. Despite the banquet being held in Crocodile's honor, most attendees nibbled their food cautiously. The atmosphere was thick with unease. The idea of breaking bread with a man known for annihilating his enemies without blinking had dulled many appetites.
Crocodile, however, was completely at ease. He sipped his wine slowly, his eyes observing everything: who spoke to whom, who avoided whom, who looked worried when the queen leaned over to whisper to her husband. It was all information, all pieces of a puzzle that would soon belong to him.
Let them play their little games, he thought, swirling the wine in his goblet. They don't yet realize that the lion has already entered the den.