The fog was a living entity. It coiled around the ancient trees of the island, muffling the sound of the waves and tasting of salt and damp earth. The Piece of Spadille was anchored in a hidden cove, a ghost ship in a phantom world. One by one, the crew disembarked, their boots making soft thuds on the moss-covered ground. The air was heavy, charged with an unspoken tension. This was it—the domain of an Emperor.
Skull was the first to break the silence, unrolling a sea chart on a flat, damp rock. His voice was a low, conspiratorial whisper that barely carried through the thick mist.
"Alright, here's the situation," he began, his finger tracing routes across the chart. "Whitebeard's territory is currently in a state of managed chaos. A coalition of rookie crews—the Hateful Eight, the Crimson Flag Pirates, and a few others—have made a coordinated push into his western sea lanes. It's a bold move, likely funded by an outside power looking to test the old man's strength."
He tapped a specific point on the map. "This has forced Commander Thatch and Commander Vista to lead their fleets to intercept them here and here. Jozu is reinforcing the main border. The result is that the core fleet is scattered. The flagship, the Moby Dick, is operating with a skeleton crew of commanders. In terms of pure strategic opportunity," Skull looked up, his eyes meeting each of theirs, "it's the most vulnerable Whitebeard has been in years. But 'vulnerable' for a monster like him is still a death sentence for most."
The perfect, terrible opportunity. A path had opened, but it led directly into the lion's jaws. The crew stood in silence, processing the immense risk.
Deuce, his face pale and drawn, moved to Jerry's side, away from the others. His voice was strained, barely audible. "Are we insane, Jerry? This is a calculated risk for a nation-state, not a pirate crew of twenty. We're talking about Whitebeard. There's no scenario where we win a head-on fight. Why is Ace so fixated on this?"
Jerry didn't answer immediately. He looked past Deuce, towards their captain. Ace stood apart from the group, his back to them, staring into the island's misty interior. He wasn't restless or fidgety. He was unnaturally still, like a man standing before the gallows, his posture a taut line of resolve and crushing weight. Jerry could feel it through his Haki—the maelstrom of courage, fear, and a profound, soul-deep sorrow churning within him.
"It's not about winning, Deuce," Jerry said softly, turning back to his friend. "It's not even about the fight. It's about getting an answer." He sighed, deciding to tell Deuce—the one to stand by them—deserved the truth, or at least a version of it he could understand.
"You remember the first time me met, that time Ace reveal his father to you" Jerry prompted. "The way he flinches when someone mentions the man. The nightmares you know he has. The obsessive way he talks about making his own name, not for fame, but like he's trying to erase something else. What have we been seeing?"
Deuce's brow furrowed in thought. "He's been running from something," he murmured. "From a shadow."
"Exactly," Jerry affirmed. "The world sees Gol D. Roger as a demon who unleashed chaos. They don't know the man, they don't know his real name, but they despise his legacy. They curse his very bloodline and wish it extinguished." He let that hang in the air for a moment. "Ace grew up hearing those curses, Deuce. Every single day, whispered in alleys, shouted in taverns. He's been carrying the weight of the world's hatred for a man he never knew, and he's been doing it all alone. He's confused about his own right to exist."
The pieces clicked into place for Deuce with devastating clarity.
"So, Whitebeard…" Deuce trailed off.
"Is the one man who stood equal to his father," Jerry finished. "Not as a rival king, but as a man who knew him. Ace isn't here to beat an Emperor. He's here to stand before the one person on this earth who can look at him, know everything he is, and tell him if he deserves to live. He needs to hear it from him."
A wave of empathy washed over Deuce, so powerful it almost brought him to his knees. The frustration and fear he felt were replaced by a profound sadness for his friend. His captain wasn't a fool charging towards death; he was a lost son searching for a father's blessing, even if it came from his greatest rival. The mission was still madness, but now, it was a madness he understood. His own life felt insignificant in the face of such a monumental quest for identity.
They returned to the group, their private conversation leaving a permanent mark on the mood.
"So that's the plan," Ace said, finally turning around. His eyes burned with an unnatural light. "We find him."
"And if he doesn't show?" Wallace asked, his deep voice rumbling with concern.
"Then we plant our flag," Ace declared, his voice ringing with absolute conviction. "And this island becomes the first territory of the Spade Pirates."
"Ace, we can't just barge in," Deuce argued, his voice now pleading for tactics, not retreat. "We need to scout. We need a fallback position. We need a real plan, not just… charging forward."
"The plan is to charge forward," Ace countered, his patience wearing thin. "We've come all this way…"
He was cut off.
An unnatural stillness fell over the forest. The chirping of insects ceased. The fog seemed to grow colder, heavier. It wasn't just a change in weather; it was a shift in the very atmosphere. An immense, palpable pressure settled over them, the calm but absolute authority of a true master of the sea.
"A plan?" a deep, resonant voice echoed from the impenetrable wall of mist before them. The voice was calm, yet it carried an authority that made the air vibrate. "Your plan has already led you into the heart of our territory. By any measure, that is a poor plan indeed."
The crew instantly drew their weapons, forming a defensive circle. Their eyes darted into the fog, searching for the source of the voice.
A hulking figure began to resolve from the grey haze. He was massive, a whale shark Fishman whose broad shoulders seemed to block out the world. He wore a simple, traditional yukata, and his hands, capable of crushing steel, were tucked peacefully into his sleeves. Two sharp fangs jutted from his lower jaw, but his eyes were what held their attention. They were ancient, discerning, and held no trace of malice—only the profound, unshakeable calm of the deep ocean.