Snow fell in thick curtains over the mountain town, muffling the sounds of daily life. Hooves clattered dully on wet cobblestone. Voices carried less far. Even the wolves in the forest above seemed subdued.
Blackbeard's crew moved through the streets like shadows, their usual swagger replaced by something quieter. More dangerous.
"Zehahaha..." Blackbeard's laugh came out flat, without its usual fire. He didn't look back at his crew. "You all felt it too, didn't you?"
Shiryu struck a match, the flame briefly illuminating his scarred face. "Something was wrong with him."
"Not wrong," Van Augur said, adjusting his rifle strap. "Controlled. Like the moment before you pull a trigger."
Doc Q's horse snorted, breath steaming in the cold air. "Think it was really him? Gunnar?"
Blackbeard stopped walking.
The crew gathered behind him as he turned, snow already dusting his shoulders. His eyes were lost in shadow beneath his hat.
"Gunnar wasn't just some brother to Thatch. Wasn't just another one of Whitebeard's sons." Blackbeard's voice dropped lower. "He was a test. A damn experiment. Some Government officials tried to copy the old man's blood, his strength, everything that made him a monster."
Burgess shifted uncomfortably. "Oh?"
"He barely managed to survive." Blackbeard looked up at the falling snow. "But I watched him fight. Saw him move faster than Marco, hit harder than Ace. When he got angry, the ground itself seemed to listen. I've seen him grow in unnatural rate"
Van Augur frowned. "What makes you so sure he was a successful experiment?"
Blackbeard was quiet for a long moment, his eyes distant. "Because nobody else noticed what I did. What even Whitebeard saw but never said out loud." He turned to face his crew fully. "That boy's strength didn't come from training. It came from time itself."
"What do you mean?" Doc Q wheezed.
"Every mission he went on—and there weren't many—he came back stronger. Not from experience. Not from pushing his limits. His power just... grew. Naturally. Like a damn plant reaching for sunlight." Blackbeard's voice carried a mixture of fascination and dread. "It was unnatural, even for someone carrying Whitebeard's blood."
Lafayette tapped his cane thoughtfully. "And if that was really him back there?"
"Then we're in trouble." Blackbeard's knuckles were white against the ship's rail. "It's been four years since Gunnar's death, And I killed Thatch. Four years of that freak getting stronger without even trying. If his power kept growing..."
He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't need to.
"If he's dead, then why worry?" Burgess asked, though his voice lacked its usual confidence.
Blackbeard's expression darkened. "Because if that man in the tavern was Gunnar, he would have killed me the moment he heard what I did to Thatch. Wouldn't have hesitated. Wouldn't have let me walk away." He paused. "He would have made sure there wasn't enough left of me to bury."
"So you don't think it's him?" Lafitte's voice was barely audible over the wind.
"I don't know what to think." Blackbeard glanced back toward the tavern, its windows still glowing warm against the storm. "Could be another experiment. Could be something worse. But whoever he is..."
He started walking again, faster this time.
"We don't want to find out."
The ship's deck creaked under their boots as they boarded. Blackbeard was already barking orders before the gangplank was secured.
"Get those sails up. We leave tonight."
"What about supplies?" Burgess asked, still confused by their captain's urgency.
"We'll make do." Blackbeard's tone left no room for argument. "Next island will have what we need."
Lafayette studied his captain's face carefully. "And if it really was Gunnar back there?"
Blackbeard stared out at the snow-covered town, his hands gripping the ship's rail.
"Then the one man I've ever been afraid of just walked back from the dead."
The wind picked up, and for the first time in years, Marshall D. Teach felt truly cold.
***
A day later,
The playground carved into the mountainside was alive with children's voices, the last patches of snow melting into muddy grass where snowmen had stood weeks before.
A girl with white hair raced across the open ground, wooden sword in hand, her long legs carrying her faster than the other children could follow. She slowed deliberately, laughing as she let them catch up.
"That's not fair, Iris!" one boy called out, breathing hard. "You're too fast!"
"I'm going easy on you!" she called back, gold eyes bright with mischief.
From the edge of the playground, a man watched.
Ace kept to the shadows of the pine trees, his orange hat pulled low. He'd been tracking Blackbeard for weeks, following rumors and half-truths from island to island. The trail had led him here, to this mountain town where locals said a crew of pirates had come and gone in unusual haste.
"Blackbeard?" he'd asked at the tavern. "Big man, rotten teeth, laughs like a dying seagull?"
"Came through yesterday," the bartender had said. "Left real quick though. Seemed spooked."
Now Ace sat on a fallen log, trying to figure out his next move. The trail was cold again.
His attention drifted to the children playing. One in particular caught his eye—the girl with the white hair and golden eyes. Something about her seemed familiar, though he couldn't place why.
"Longleg tribe, maybe?" he muttered to himself. But her proportions weren't quite right for that. And those eyes...
He shook his head. He wasn't here to study local tribes. He had a traitor to catch.
By sunset, Ace was gone, disappearing into the sea as quietly as he'd come.
***
Later that night, the fire in the hearth had burned down to glowing embers. The tavern was quiet now, the laughter and clatter of the day long faded into memory. Only the soft crackle of wood and the occasional whisper of wind outside remained.
Iris lay curled up beside Ragnar on the old bearskin rug, her small frame tucked under his arm. The candlelight flickered gently, casting long shadows across the wooden walls. Her stuffed bear was nestled between them, its button eye catching the glow.
"Papa…" she said softly, her voice barely louder than the fire. "Can you tell me about Mom?"
Ragnar's eyes, half-lidded with sleep, opened slowly. He looked down at her—her white hair splayed across his chest, her golden eyes wide with quiet wonder.
He was silent for a moment. Then he exhaled, long and slow.
"I don't remember much about where I came from," he began, his voice low and steady. "I was raised in an orphanage. Cold place."
Iris blinked up at him. "That's sad."
He smiled faintly. "It was. But then I met her."
"Mom?"
He nodded. "She was… different. I don't remember her face clearly anymore. But I remember how she moved. Long legs, like yours. Always walking ahead, like the world couldn't catch her."
Iris giggled and hugged him tighter. "Was she nice?"
"She was tough," he said, eyes distant. "Stubborn as a mountain. But gentle, too. She had this way of looking at you like she already knew what you were going to say. Like she saw through everything."
He paused, then added, "When we had you… it was like the world finally made sense. Like all the noise in my head went quiet."
Iris was quiet for a long moment. Then, in a whisper: "What happened to her?"
Ragnar didn't answer right away. His hand gently stroked her hair.
"She was taken from us," he said finally. "Too soon."
Iris didn't ask by who. She didn't need to. She just pressed her forehead against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart.
"I wish I'd known her," she murmured.
"You will," he whispered. "Through me. The way you stand up for what's right."
She smiled softly, eyes beginning to close.
"Am I like her?"
Ragnar leaned down and kissed the top of her head.
"If she were alive," he said, his voice thick with emotion, "I think you'd look just like her. And I know… she'd be proud of you."
Iris yawned, her breath warm against his chest. "I'm glad you remember her."
"I'll always remember," he said, holding her close. "Because you're the part of her I get to keep."
The fire crackled gently, and the candle burned low. Outside, the snow fell in silence. Inside, father and daughter drifted into sleep—wrapped in warmth, memory, and the quiet promise of love that endures.
***
The next evening, the sky wore the colors of fire—burnt orange, deep crimson, and fading gold. Snowflakes drifted lazily through the air, catching the light like falling embers.
Iris sat atop a thick wooden log, her legs swinging back and forth, boots never quite touching the ground. She hummed a tune to herself, one she'd heard from a traveling bard weeks ago. Her breath puffed in little clouds, and her cheeks were pink from the cold.
Nearby, Ragnar stood with an axe in hand, his gaze fixed on a thick pine tree. His coat was off, sleeves rolled up, revealing the scars and strength of a man who had lived through wars and legends.
"I thought we were just gathering wood," Iris called out, tilting her head.
"We are," Ragnar replied, not looking back. "But I'm teaching you something, too."
He closed his eyes.
Then opened them again—now jet black.
His breath slowed. The air around him shifted, subtle but undeniable. A pressure spread outward—not violent, not loud, but deep. The snow beneath his boots began to flake away, as if retreating from something ancient.
His fingers gripped the axe lightly.
Then—
Whuuuummmm.
A pulse. Black mist flickered around the blade, dancing like smoke.
He swung.
The axe struck with a heavy thunk, but the tree didn't fall. It barely dented.
Iris blinked. "That's it?"
Then came the sound.
Crack.
The tree slid in two, clean as glass. The top half slumped over with a whisper, snow cascading from its branches.
Iris's jaw dropped. "Whaaat?!"
"That's Ryuu," Ragnar said, lowering the axe. "Flow-state Haki. I don't force it into the blade. I let it move through. Like water. Like breath."
"Can I do that?!"
Ragnar turned, his gaze softening. "One day. You're my daughter, aren't you?" He ruffled her hair. "But maybe when you're my age."
"I don't wanna wait that long," she pouted.
"Then train harder," he smirked.
Before she could reply, a low growl rolled through the woods.
From the shadows, a massive bear emerged—its fur matted with frost, eyes glowing red. It was taller than any man, muscles rippling beneath its coat. It snorted once, then charged.
Iris gasped. "Papa!"
Ragnar didn't flinch.
He stood firm… and exhaled.
BOOM.
A ripple blasted outward—soundless, invisible, but crushing. The bear froze mid-leap, eyes rolling back, legs folding like twigs. It hit the ground with a heavy thud, unconscious before it landed.
Iris stared, eyes wide as moons. "Was that—!?"
"Conqueror's Haki," Ragnar said, turning back to her.
"No fair!" she stomped. "You've got all the cool ones!"
Ragnar chuckled. "You'll get there. You've already got the most dangerous part of me."
"What's that?"
He tapped her chest gently. "Heart."
Iris paused, then smiled—proud, glowing.
The snow began to fall again, soft and slow. The sky dimmed to twilight. And beneath it, father and daughter stood together—warrior and spark, blood and bond—carving a life from ash and legend.