The deck was quiet save for the soft lapping of the waves. The Sun Pirates' ship rocked gently a few miles off the coast of Whitebeard's stronghold, yet the mood that clung to its timbers was heavy, suffocating.
"Brother Tiger…?" Jinbei's deep voice broke the silence, carrying a rare tremor of hope. "Well… What did they say? Were you able to speak with Whitebeard-san…? Did he agree to mediate? "
The question died the moment Jinbei's eyes fell on Fisher Tiger. The towering fishman was not the proud, indomitable figure Jinbei knew—the man who had singlehandedly saved thousands of less fortunate fishmen discarded within the darkness of the fishman district with fire in his chest and freedom in his hands. No, now he looked… diminished. His shoulders were low, his eyes shadowed, the lines of battle and burden etched deeper into his face.
Fisher Tiger stepped onto the deck and lowered himself heavily onto an empty crate near the mast. His sigh carried the weight of oceans, and as it left him, the crew—his crew—instinctively pulled back. One by one, the Sun Pirates drifted to other corners of the ship, quietly preparing for departure, giving their captain the solitude he needed.
But Jinbei stayed rooted where he stood, his broad hands curling into fists, waiting—needing—to hear the truth. Because the future of Fishman Island hung on Tiger's words.
"I'm sorry, Jinbei…" Fisher Tiger's voice was hoarse, raw. He dragged a hand over his face as though trying to wipe away the failure. "I couldn't even speak to Whitebeard. They wouldn't let me past the first division commander. Marco himself refused me."
The admission cut like a harpoon. Jinbei's heart sank, but hope flared stubbornly in his chest.
"Brother Tiger, maybe—maybe if we press again? If we insist—"
"No." Tiger's voice cracked like a whip. He shook his head, the sharpness fading quickly into defeat. "No, Jinbei. It won't matter. Even if we stood before Whitebeard himself, he would not involve himself in this. Not in this matter, especially when we fishmen are in the wrong. Not between the Donquixote brothers and Fishman Island. Marco-san was clear." His gaze fell to the planks beneath his feet, heavy with shame.
"They will continue to honor their word to protect Fishman Island from outsiders. But play mediator in our quarrels? No. Not after… after I told them the truth."
The words hung between them like an executioner's blade. Jinbei took a step forward, desperation etched in his features.
"But maybe… maybe you shouldn't have told them everything, Captain! All we need is only a single chance to speak with the Donquixote brothers directly, then—"
Tiger's head snapped up, his eyes blazing with reproach. "And lie to the Whitebeard pirates, Jinbei? Is that what you want me to do..? You would have me weave falsehoods with the only remaining crew in the sea who still show us a shred of respect? You would have me repeat the same mistake we made with the Donquixote family, hiding the truth until it consumed us?"
Jinbei froze. The rebuke stung, not because it was harsh, but because it was right.
Fisher Tiger exhaled, his shoulders sagging. "No, brother. Lies would only poison what little chance we have left. If Whitebeard's sons had discovered we bent the truth, it would have soured any hope of friendship. Better they refuse us now than turn their backs later when we need them most."
The silence that followed was deafening. The gentle creak of the ship's hull, the distant cry of a gull—small, mocking sounds against the storm raging in their hearts.
Tiger's hands trembled as they rested on his knees. For a man who had once defied the so-called gods of the world, who had escaped from the chains of the holy land itself, the helplessness that weighed on him now was unbearable. He had survived amidst the Celestial Dragons' captivity without breaking, but here… here he could do nothing. Whitebeard's refusal was not born of malice, but of understanding—understanding that this matter was not something a third party should involve themselves in. And that, somehow, hurt worse.
He was not denied as an enemy. He was dismissed as insignificant. Jinbei swallowed hard, searching for words, for any thread of hope to cling to. "Then… what do we do?"
Tiger's gaze lifted toward the horizon, where the sun dipped low and painted the sea in blood-red light. His voice was low, steady, but thick with sorrow. "We endure, Jinbei. We must find another path to reach out to the Donquixote family. If Whitebeard will not mediate, then we will have to face the Donquixote brothers on our own and try and convince them to give us one more chance…"
The Sun Pirates' ship creaked as the anchor was reeled in, sails unfurling to catch the crimson wind of dusk. The crew worked in silence, their movements heavy with the unspoken knowledge that their captain carried the weight of failure on his shoulders. Behind them, the sea swallowed the coastline of Whitebeard's territory, and before them stretched only uncertainty.
Beside him, Jinbei remained still, silent as a stone guardian, though his heart churned with conflict. He had always believed his captain's will to be unbreakable, yet now, in the fading light, he saw doubt carving shadows into Tiger's face.
The silence lingered—long enough for the cries of gulls and the creak of wood to feel deafening. Finally, Jinbei clenched his jaw, resolve flashing in his eyes.
"Let me go to Dressrosa, Brother Tiger," he said, his deep voice cutting through the stillness like a blade. He turned to his captain, unwavering. "I will find a way to reach the Donquixote brothers alive, and I will arrange for a meeting—even if I must offer my own head in exchange. If peace is possible, I will carve it out, no matter the cost."
The deck itself seemed to pause at his words, the waves quieting as if the sea itself held its breath.
Fisher Tiger turned his gaze on Jinbei, eyes widening at the sheer steel in his brother's tone. For a moment, hesitation flickered across his features—because Jinbei's resolve was true, and Tiger knew he would gladly sacrifice himself to fulfill it. Yet Tiger also knew this was not the path.
Not for him, at least, because it had all started with his one mistake that he had made thinking it was all for the greater good of his own brethren.
He gave a slow nod, but it was not an agreement born of conviction—it was a mask, a gesture to soothe the fire in Jinbei's heart. In truth, Tiger's own mind had already charted a course far darker, far more dangerous. One that no one—not even his most trusted brother—could be burdened with.
The sting of Marco's rejection echoed in his chest. He had not told the crew how their meeting had truly unfolded. The first division commander had not been cruel, but his disappointment had been cutting. "You ask the Whitebeard pirates to step between you and them… but you've not told me why the Donquixote family turned their back against you fishmen in the first place..."
And so Fisher Tiger had spoken the truth. He had told them of his own and the Ryugu Kingdom's repeated betrayals of the Donquixote family's trust, of how the brothers had extended their hands in sincerity, only for those hands to be slapped away, again and again.
He had admitted the shame that the fishmen carried in their dealings with them. And when Marco's eyes had hardened, Fisher Tiger had known. Even Whitebeard himself would waver and second-guess his protection towards Fish-Man Island were it not for his friendship with King Neptune.
The realization had cut him deeper than any blade. Among pirates—among men who lived and died on the sea—there was a code. You could plunder, you could kill, you could even betray enemies. But when two parties became allies, when they bared their vulnerabilities and placed their trust in one another, betrayal was unforgivable.
The fishmen had betrayed that trust.
Tiger's jaw tightened, his hand curling into a trembling fist on his knee. For so long, he had seen humans and fishmen as divided by chains that could not be broken. But now he understood—the chains were forged by the same cruelty that crushed both races alike. The suffering of humans in chains, the agony of fishmen in oppression—it was the same wound carved by the same enemy.
The Celestial Dragons.
And in that moment, something within him shifted. The prejudice he had carried, the fire that had fueled him since his youth—it burned away, leaving behind something purer, sharper. He no longer saw fishmen and humans. He saw only slaves and free men. He saw only the oppressors and the oppressed.
And he understood what he must do.
His decision crystallized with terrifying clarity: to strike at the very heart of tyranny. To storm the Holy Land itself. To tear open the gilded gates of Mary Geoise and shatter the illusion of the "gods." To show the world—not just fishmen, not just humans, but all races—that the Celestial Dragons could bleed, that their chains could break, that freedom was not a dream but a fire that could spread.
Perhaps he would not return alive. Perhaps this would be the final voyage of Fisher Tiger. But if his blood could water the seed of hope, if his sacrifice could mend the rift between fishmen and the rest of the world, then it would be worth it.
He lifted his gaze to Jinbei, who still knelt beside him, waiting for an answer. The younger fishman's eyes blazed with loyalty, with desperation. Tiger managed a faint smile, weary but resolute.
Tiger rose, his massive frame towering against the canvas of a dying sky. The last rays of sunlight bathed him in molten firelight, gilding his shoulders and crown like the armor of a warrior who had already chosen his battlefield. For the first time since leaving Whitebeard's shores, his back no longer sagged beneath the weight of failure. There was no hesitation in his stance now—only resolve, solid and unyielding as the ocean beneath them.
Jinbei rose with him, instinctively stepping to his captain's side. He opened his mouth, but Tiger moved first, turning to grip his younger brother's shoulder with a firm, anchoring hand. His eyes—once heavy with doubt—now burned with clarity.
"I am grateful, Jinbei," Tiger said, voice low yet carrying the gravity of thunder. "Grateful that you would lay down your life for me… for our cause. But this burden—" his fingers tightened on Jinbei's shoulder like iron shackles "—it isn't yours to carry. Not yet."
Jinbei's frown deepened, confusion flashing in his dark eyes, but Tiger pressed on.
"It must be me," he continued, each word carved with unshakable conviction. "I will right the wrongs I committed back then. I cannot risk anyone else's life for the mistakes of my past. That blood is mine to atone for." His voice roughened, not with fear or sorrow, but with the tremor of a man finally embracing the truth he had run from for too long.
For a moment, Tiger's throat caught, his words choking him—not because despair gripped him, but because in this moment, for the first time in years, he felt utterly free. He was no longer chained by rage, nor blinded by prejudice. The fire that had burned within him since his childhood in the Fishman District—the dream to tear down oppression and liberate the downtrodden—shone again in its original purity.
Back then, as a discarded orphan, he had sworn to save them all: fishmen, humans, anyone crushed beneath the boots of tyrants. Somewhere along the way, that vow had been twisted, narrowed, until he had seen only his own kind as the victims. But now—now he saw more clearly. The suffering was universal. The chains of slavery did not discriminate.
His dream had returned to him. His freedom had returned to him. And he was ready to risk everything to make it real.
"I trust you, Jinbei," Tiger said, his voice steady as the tide. "I trust you to look after our brothers while I am away. If something should happen to me—" his gaze did not waver, even as Jinbei's eyes widened "—then you must lead them in my stead. Protect them. Guide them. You are the strength they will need."
Jinbei swallowed hard, struggling to make sense of his captain's words. "Brother Tiger… what do you mean? Where are you planning to go—?"
But Tiger only turned away, his gaze fixed on the horizon where the sea bled into the heavens, stained crimson by the fading sun. The firelight painted him in shades of both martyr and conqueror.
For Jinbei, there was only confusion. But inside Tiger's heart, the truth roared like a storm. He would not go to Dressrosa. He would not beg the Donquixote brothers for peace; rather, he would prove to them that the fishmen were worthy and deserved another chance. He would strike at the very root of the world's corruption, the very enemy the Donquixote brothers were fighting.
Mary Geoise.
He would climb its sacred walls, storm its palaces, and tear open its golden cages. He would free the slaves with his own hands, even if it cost him his life. He would carve into history the truth that no man—fishman or human—was born to be a slave.
But that truth was his burden alone. Jinbei could not know—not yet. And so Fisher Tiger stood at the edge of the deck, the sun setting behind him, his silhouette vast and unyielding. His voice was quiet, but his presence thundered through the hearts of those who looked upon him.
For the first time since his youth, Fisher Tiger was no longer running from his dream. He was walking toward it. And he knew the path would end in blood.
****
Room of Authority , Mary Geoise
"So… you forged an official order to make it appear as though we had summoned you?"
Elder Mars' voice cut through the chamber like a polished blade, each syllable measured, deliberate. He held the parchment delicately between his fingers, his sharp eyes scanning the perfect imitation of the World Government's insignia and the flawless replication of their seals. It was almost indistinguishable from their true summons. Almost.
A part of him was offended. The audacity, the gall, that someone would dare fabricate such a thing to breach the sanctity of their presence. And yet… there was amusement hidden in his expression as well. Few in the world possessed the nerve—or the recklessness—to attempt something so brazen.
Spandam stood before them, knees trembling, his sweat soaking the collar of his pristine uniform. The weight of the chamber pressed down on him, suffocating in its silence. He was flanked by the Director of Cipher Pol, whose porcelain mask reflected the torchlight, featureless and cold. Only the Director's eyes were visible through the slits: two lifeless voids that made Spandam's heart hammer louder.
His fate now rested in the hands of the Gorosei. The highest arbiters of the world. The five who sat above all law and justice. Men who could erase his existence with a mere word.
"You're Spandine's son, aren't you?" Elder Ju Peter finally spoke, his voice low, contemplative. His gaze was heavy as stone, pinning Spandam in place. "He was a man who served the World Government with… unfaltering loyalty, until his dying breath. Perhaps, for his sake, we will hear you out."
Ju Peter's tone darkened, his eyes narrowing. "But make no mistake, boy—if this is some pitiful prank, or a desperate bid for attention, then you already know what awaits you."
The room was silent again, broken only by the faint tapping of Elder Saturn's staff against the marble floor, each strike like a drumbeat of inevitability. Elder Nusjuro leaned back slightly, eyes half-lidded, but his hand rested casually on the hilt of his blade. Elder Warcury's lip curled into a faint sneer.
All of them saw what Spandam was—weak, cowardly, sniveling. And yet, beneath the shaking hands and watery eyes, there was a glimmer of cunning. A rat that survived not by strength, but by knowing where to hide, when to run, and when to bite. They understood one thing: he would not have risked the wrath of gods unless he believed—truly believed—that he held something worth the risk.
And then Spandam spoke. His voice cracked at first, betraying his terror. But as the words left his lips, the tremor lessened, replaced by a steady, poisonous conviction.
"Gorosei-sama… I believe I might know where the ancient weapon Pluton is… or, at the very least… I know someone who does."
The chamber changed in an instant. It was as though the very air had been sucked from the room. The subtle flicker of torch flames stilled, shadows drawing long across the polished marble floor. The ever-composed Gorosei, men who did not flinch at wars or empires falling, froze in perfect silence. Their gazes sharpened, no longer passive or indulgent—now they were daggers. Predatory. Unyielding.
Elder Mars' hand stopped mid-motion, the forged parchment crumpling slightly in his grip. Elder Saturn's staff ceased its tapping, the sound replaced by the faint echo of silence, heavy and suffocating. Elder Ju Peter's eyes narrowed further, his earlier contempt replaced by something far more dangerous: intrigue.
For the first time since the boy had entered, Spandam's life no longer hung by a thread of mercy. It now dangled on the razor edge of relevance. The name of an Ancient Weapon—the very key to an age long buried, capable of rewriting the world itself—had been uttered. And in that chamber, where the true power of the World Government resided, even the gods leaned forward to listen.
Elder Nusjuro's eyes, once half-lidded with boredom, widened in full as he gripped the hilt of his meitō. The faint rasp of metal sliding against its sheath broke the chamber's silence. His voice was low and lethal, each word vibrating with threat.
"You had better choose your next words very carefully, boy…"
The pressure in the room doubled, bearing down on Spandam like a crushing tide. Yet—surprisingly—his knees didn't buckle this time. His body still trembled, but his voice, though quivering at the edges, carried a sharp, almost desperate steadiness.
"My father…" Spandam began, swallowing hard, "during his time in Cipher Pol, he devoted himself to tracing the whereabouts of the Ancient Weapons. He documented every lead, every whisper, every fragment he uncovered. But before he could present his findings to the esteemed elders…" He hesitated, his voice lowering to a mournful hush, "…he perished in Ohara."
Spandam reached slowly into his inner coat pocket. The Cipher Pol Director's masked face tilted slightly, his gloved hand flexing near the hilt of his sword. If Spandam pulled a weapon, his head would part from his shoulders before the next breath. But instead, Spandam drew out a thick, timeworn leather-bound notebook.
The Director's shoulders eased—minutely—but his eyes remained locked on Spandam like a hawk tracking prey. Elder Saturn, silent as stone, lifted a finger in a subtle gesture. The Director stepped forward, plucked the book from Spandam's hands with precise care, and set it upon the glass teapoy before Saturn. Then he withdrew, silent once more, resuming his place like a shadow at the edge of the chamber.
Saturn opened the notebook, his old fingers turning through the pages with deliberate patience. Elder Warcury, seated closest, leaned over, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the contents. The book was no idle curiosity. It brimmed with handwritten notes, miniature maps, and copied fragments of documents—decades of work stitched together into one man's obsession.
It was not a book. It was a life's pursuit.
The Gorosei exchanged glances, each weighing the significance. In a hierarchy as vast and merciless as the World Government, such work—if submitted through the proper channels—would never have been credited to a mere captain like Spandam. His superiors would strip it bare, claiming the lion's share of recognition while he was tossed a scrap. The young man was cunning enough to see that. Cunning enough to come directly to them.
For the first time, Elder Saturn's eyes softened—if such a word could even be used for him. Approval flickered there, brief but undeniable, as he nudged the notebook across the table for the other Elders to examine.
Then his gaze lifted, fixing on Spandam like a predator testing the worth of its prey.
"Tell me, Spandam…" Saturn's voice was slow, steady, probing. "If you have taken such a reckless risk, it means you have already decided what it is you seek. The material your father collected is… impressive. But as it stands, these are merely speculations. Words on paper. Until they are proven, they are nothing."
The silence afterward was suffocating. The other Elders watched Spandam with veiled interest, their judgment hanging in the balance. This was no offer of reward—this was a test. A measure of the boy before them. Most servants of the World Government were obedient dogs, content to bark when told. But every so often, a different breed emerged: the kind of creature willing to bite, to claw, to gamble everything for a higher seat at the table. Saturn wanted to know—was Spandam one of them?
Spandam's heart thundered in his chest. He knew this was it—the line between life and death, obscurity and relevance. Without hesitation, he dropped to one knee, his head bowed low to the marble floor. His trembling voice grew firm, resolute, echoing in the chamber of gods.
"I understand, Elder-sama. Until proven, my father's life's work is but speculation." His hands clenched tight against his thighs. "So I beg you—grant me the chance. Allow me to prove that my father's findings were not mere dreams. Let me carry his work forward… and show the world that his pursuit of Pluton was not in vain."
The air stilled again, as if the chamber itself was listening. It was the first step. Spandam had placed his trembling foot on the lowest rung of a ladder that reached into the heavens—and into hell. A coward, yes. A schemer, absolutely. But in that moment, as his forehead pressed against the cold marble floor, Spandam was no longer just a rat. He was a rat with his teeth bared, ready to climb on the corpses of others.