Faced with the choice between a newly discovered dragon egg and the loyal crew that had followed him through thick and thin, any reasonable man would know what mattered most.
"Haha, don't worry too much about it," Roger laughed, resting his hand on his sword hilt as he glanced toward the cave behind them. "The dragon egg's hidden here. If Brook can find it, then maybe fate wants it to be his. Let it stay with him. It'll take twenty or thirty years to hatch anyway!"
Noticing the solemn expressions on his crew, Roger suddenly burst into laughter. "We're pirates—the freest souls on the sea! Why bother worrying? Better to let fate decide!"
"Haha, yeah! Even if Brook finds the egg, who knows what'll happen in the next two or three decades?" someone chuckled back.
The crew relaxed with their captain's carefree attitude. As pirates who lived with death hanging over their heads daily, none of them had the luxury to plan for the distant future.
"Alright then! Help Brook find a few good-looking dragon eggs while we're at it," Roger grinned, raising his voice. "And let's wipe out the White Walker Pirates too!"
Their spirits reignited, the crew got to work collecting any half-dead or dried-up dragon eggs they could find—ones that might pass as valuable. They'd sell them to Brook, hand over the real deal if fate willed it, and clear out the local scum all in one go. A classic Roger-style win.
"Rayleigh," Roger turned to his right-hand man, "after you take care of the White Walker Pirates, contact Bug and tell Brook to swing by. Let him take the eggs and deal with the rebellion in Westeros himself."
The Roger Pirates didn't have time to play cleanup crew for an entire kingdom. That wasn't their role. But they could at least make sure the pieces were in place.
They had already retrieved the Poneglyph they came for in the Thousand Dragon Caves. Now, after finding a few of Brook's mission-targeted eggs, they'd be free to sail for their next great adventure.
If Brook eventually found the real dragon egg and the Poneglyph? Well, so be it. That was fate.
And if he didn't, then in twenty or thirty years, Roger's crew could always return, claim the egg, and raise a dragon of their own—assuming they were still around by then. After all, pirate crews could fall to enemies, vanish in storms, or disappear into the sea without a trace.
With that thought lingering only briefly, the Roger Pirates stormed out of the Dragon Tomb. Before long, they found a scout from the White Walker Pirates lurking nearby. Roger, never one for subtlety, took him down himself.
After a bit of... persuasion, they learned the location of the Night King's hideout. He was holed up on the winter island of Nowhere—just an hour or two by ship from Dragonstone. Even Desperate Iceland, infamous for its cold and harsh terrain, was within half an hour's sail. From the shores, one could see the jagged peaks of the surrounding islands.
Since the fall of the old Ice Demon, and with Willank slain by Rocks, the Ice Demon Pirates had long since disbanded. Most of the surviving ice giants had returned to the Ice Kingdom to live quiet lives. Only a handful had formed a new crew, but even they had been nearly wiped out by Rocks after provoking him.
Now, fewer than ten ice giants still drifted across the seas.
Their former territory had already been carved up between the Rocks Pirates and the Hell Pirates. Luckily for Westeros, it had fallen into the hands of the Hell Pirates—who, while ruthless, weren't nearly as reckless and destructive as Rocks' crew.
But it wasn't Rocks who destroyed the Kingdom of Westeros. No, that act of devastation came from the White Walker Pirates, led by the infamous Night King, Barrow. His assault left Westeros in ruins.
Only one member of the Targaryen royal family survived. She fled to the Isle of Doragonzo and begged Brook for help. That survivor—Daenerys—was young, a woman, and alone... but she still bore the blood of the Dragonline.
Whether that would be enough to rebuild her fallen kingdom was another question entirely.
To prevent any further damage to the Dragon Tomb, Roger and his crew set sail for Desperate Iceland. Their goal: crush the Night King, that twisted corpse-raider, once and for all.
Meanwhile, Brook's flying fleet was already en route to Westeros's waters. He had his eyes on the user of the Shadow-Shadow Fruit. That particular bounty had long been on his hit list.
---
Desperate Iceland.
Inside a dimly lit crypt beneath the frostbitten cliffs, the Night King—Barrow—was busy reassembling one of his top zombie soldiers. During his last raid on Westeros, Roger's crew had crippled him twice. Twice. That kind of humiliation wasn't easy to swallow.
The Roger Pirates were just too powerful. They were unofficially dubbed a "pseudo-emperor crew," second only to the two real overlord pirate groups. Their alliance with the Hell Pirates made them even harder to target. No one dared move against them openly.
Still, if Barrow could get his hands on a dragon corpse, his army of zombies would grow exponentially. With that power, he could either establish his own dominion or pledge allegiance to one of the big players. Either way, his worth would skyrocket.
"Captain! Roger's crew is approaching!" a trembling pirate burst into the room, panic in his voice.
Startled, Barrow yanked too hard on the corpse he was working on—tearing its arm clean off.
"Roger's crew?!" he roared, kicking the corpse aside. He stormed toward the trembling minion, tore off his shadow, and snarled, "You dare startle me like that?!"
"Captain! Please—I didn't mean—!"
But it was too late. Barrow tossed the man outside into the daylight. Without a shadow, he turned to ash instantly.
"Trash," the Night King muttered.
With his rage boiling, Barrow activated his Devil Fruit powers, summoning his undead army to intercept the Roger Pirates. But he wasn't done.
While the zombies charged forward, he made other preparations. One of his zombies—roughly his size—was dressed in his clothes and ordered to act as a decoy. Barrowhimself slipped into a small boat, sailing around the island toward Dragonstone, hoping to claim the dragon corpse while his enemies were distracted.
Let Roger handle the army. Barrow planned to outsmart him.
"I've survived this long by using my brain, not just my brawn," he muttered. "Let's see if muscle alone can stop me."
---
As Roger's crew landed on Desperate Iceland, they were met with waves of undead. But the pirates didn't flinch.
"These corpses are just victims of a filthy power," Rayleigh said grimly. "Let's give them peace."
"Haha! Hey Rayleigh, think Conqueror's Haki works on these walking corpses?" Roger joked, slicing down three zombies with a single swing.
"Let's find out," Rayleigh smirked, unsheathing his sword.
--------------
Rayleigh was stunned after hearing Roger's suggestion. If he wanted to test its effect… why not just do it?
"BOOM—!"
A surge of Conqueror's Haki erupted from Rayleigh, sweeping across the battlefield like a tidal wave. Thousands of zombies froze mid-step as thick shadows erupted from their bodies, flying off into the distance like wisps of black smoke.
"It actually worked!" Rayleigh exclaimed.
These zombies were animated by a mixture of the shadow wielder's will and the corpse's residual instincts. That fusion—guided by the power of the Shadow-Shadow Fruit—created a consciousness both undead and enslaved. Since shadows contained the essence of spirit, they were vulnerable to the overwhelming force of a true Conqueror's Haki.
The weaker minions didn't stand a chance. They dropped like puppets with their strings cut, their shadows banished.
"If I knew it'd be this easy, I wouldn't have wasted time fighting these walking bags of bones." Roger scoffed.
With his signature grin, Roger unleashed his own Haki. A second shockwave of power thundered across the battlefield, knocking back even the sturdier undead. In a matter of moments, the horde was nearly wiped out.
This allowed the rest of the crew to focus on the elite zombies—eliminating stragglers and hunting down the true enemy: the Night King, Barrow.
Suddenly, Rayleigh's gaze sharpened. "These shadows... they're drifting toward Dragonstone!"
His eyes followed the trails of black energy fleeing the battlefield, all converging toward the sea.
"Damn it! That guy's already on the move. He's heading straight for the Dragon Tomb!"
Roger's expression darkened. "He's trying to steal the dragon eggs! We need to move—fast!"
"No need, Roger," Rayleigh said calmly.
Roger turned. "Huh? What's wrong?"
Rayleigh pointed toward the horizon. In the distance, a massive flying fleet was already approaching. The ships hovered above the sea, gliding at terrifying speed—thanks to the combined powers of the Float-Float Fruit and the Wind-Wind Fruit.
Roger recognized the fleet instantly.
"…Brook."
Rayleigh nodded. "Yeah. Let's not crash his party."
Roger scratched his head with a chuckle. "Fair enough. Boys! Time to move out—we've got our own journey to finish!"
He'd originally planned to hand Brook a copy of the Poneglyph they'd found, maybe even ask for help translating it. But that would mean revealing the location of the dragon eggs—and that wasn't a risk he was willing to take just yet.
"Another time," Roger muttered.
He signaled his crew, and they boarded the Oro Jackson, setting sail in the opposite direction.
"As for the dragon eggs, just tell the Den Den Mushi to notify Brook. Let him collect the goods himself," Rayleigh added.
Meanwhile, high above in the golden spaceship, Hiruba watched everything unfold through the lens of his Glare Glare Fruit.
"Running from me, Roger? Afraid of little ol' me?"
Brook, standing atop the observation deck, looked thoughtful. His expression was distant—bordering on lonely. Was his strength now so great even legends like Roger and Rayleigh hesitated to approach?
Or perhaps… it was the prophecy.
"Dome…" he whispered. "They're avoiding me because of the Dome, aren't they?"
Still, Brook wasn't one to dwell.
Now was the time to harvest the spoils.
The so-called Night King had slipped past Roger's crew by directly targeting the Dragon Tomb—an impressive feat of cunning. But Brook wasn't impressed.
This man, Barrow, had overstepped. He'd killed a local king under Brook's protection and was now reaching for something far above his station.
And worse—he wanted the Shadow-Shadow Fruit.
Unacceptable.
Out at sea, Barrow was rowing with wild desperation, his eyes locked on the coastline of Dragonstone. His heart pounded with anticipation.
The tomb of dragons… his lifelong goal was finally within reach.
But then, he looked over his shoulder.
The flying fleet was catching up fast.
"Dammit!" he cursed, gritting his teeth. "No turning back!"
His boat surged forward, now aided by a shadow clone he'd split from his body. Together, man and shadow rowed in sync, accelerating faster than most sailing ships.
"If I can just get to the corpses—control them—Brook might recognize my value," he muttered. "I could be a cadre. I could be someone!"
He knew how the New World worked. Power defined rank. And with a small army of undead dragons, he might just earn a place among the elites of the Hell Pirates.
But he also knew… if they caught him now, before he had anything to bargain with, he'd be treated like an enemy.
On the golden flagship, Brook chuckled, peering through his telescope.
"He's still rowing? Hasn't this guy given up?"
"Interesting," Brook mused. "He even created a shadow clone to double his speed."
Charlotte Linlin licked her lips, already imagining how delightful his soul would be.
"Strong will. That's a high-quality soul," she said. "I want it."
Brook turned to Redfield. "Give him a little zap, will you?"
"With pleasure."
"Sixty Million Volts: Divine Judgment!"
A golden lightning bolt tore through the clouds, slamming down toward Barrow's tiny vessel.
If Barrow had stayed in the lower regions of the New World, Brook might've left him alone. But he'd come here, to Brook's doorstep.
He'd chosen war.
And Brook wasn't feeling charitable.
"No! I surrender! I surrender! I'll join the Hell Pirates!"
Barrow screamed as his shadow clone dissolved. Gathering every remaining scrap of shadow, he formed a massive Shadow Shield to intercept the lightning bolt.
It cracked and groaned as the attack struck, barely holding.
Brook, unfazed, gave the order. "Don't let him sink. Capture him alive."
Redfield nodded, swooping down to collect the battered pirate.
Brook turned away, done with the matter. He had more important things to do—like coaxing his daughter, who was now watching in awe.
On the deck, Daenerys Targaryen stood frozen. The man they'd feared—the so-called demon—had surrendered in seconds.
One move.
That was all it took for the Overlord of the Hell Pirates to break a rising terror of the New World.
She looked at Brook with awe in her eyes.
"So this is power," she whispered.
Not the petty squabbles of kingdoms. Not the pride of noble houses.
This was the true strength that ruled the seas.
And she was right in the heart of it.
<><><><><><>
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