The sun over Kukuroo Mountain shone weakly, filtered by the dark clouds clinging stubbornly to the sky. A cold wind swept over the stone courtyard, where two figures stood—one ancient, like withered bark, the other young, eyes pale yet gaze piercing.
Maha Zoldyck stood with his hands behind his back, face expressionless, but his aura was like a coiled serpent—silent, deadly, ageless.
Roy sat cross-legged, his blind eyes staring directly at Maha.
"I'm blind," Roy said with a smirk, "but I can still see through your pretense."
A small vein bulged in Maha's temple.
"Oh?" Roy tilted his head, sarcasm sharp as a blade. "Finally willing to speak, old man? For a second there, I thought you'd become mute."
Maha's lip twitched, but he kept his composure. "Answer me—about Whitebeard."
Roy raised a brow.
"Why him? You've never cared about pirates. Same sickness and shared pity, perhaps?"
Maha's expression froze.
A direct hit.
He had tried to disguise it as idle curiosity. But Roy saw through him—he was projecting. Whitebeard was a symbol. A relic of strength. A giant at the end of his prime, burdened by sons, betrayed by one.
Just like Maha feared becoming.
Roy chuckled and turned his face toward the sky.
"You want to know about Whitebeard's end?"
"I'll tell you."
Maha said nothing, but his body leaned forward, ever so slightly—listening.
Roy's tone turned solemn.
"Whitebeard's twilight years were… ugly."
"Surrounded by sons he thought he could trust. He built a 'family,' called them all 'children.' He gave them names, shelter, protection."
He turned back toward Maha.
"But in the end, one of them stabbed him in the back. Literally."
Maha's eyelids twitched.
Roy continued, voice like thunder rumbling in a distant storm.
"Dragged into war by that traitorous 'son.' Pierced through the chest while he still believed in him. Even in death, he wasn't spared. His corpse was desecrated. His legacy stolen."
"Pitiful, isn't it?"
Maha's fingers trembled.
Roy's words weren't just about Whitebeard anymore.
They were about him.
Maha Zoldyck, the ghost of a legendary assassin, feared what lay ahead: becoming obsolete. Forgotten. Or worse—betrayed by his own bloodline.
"Couldn't he have had a happy ending?" Maha muttered. "A peaceful death, surrounded by filial children?"
Roy's laugh was cold.
"Who wants to read a happy ending?"
"True art is tragedy. A blade that cuts the reader's heart open and leaves scars. That's what they remember. That's what sells."
"And old man…" Roy's pale eyes glowed with silent mockery. "You wouldn't understand. You're no artist. Just a dusty relic hanging on the wall of the Zoldyck mansion."
Maha's face darkened.
But he didn't lose composure. "Roy, you underestimate the elderly far too much."
He stepped forward, placing a hand on Roy's shoulder.
"No matter what Whitebeard suffered, none of his sons ever truly surpassed him. No one inherited that title, that presence."
"Just like no one will surpass me."
Roy said nothing.
He couldn't argue that point. In One Piece, no one truly rose above Whitebeard—at least, not in heart.
"But," Maha added softly, eyes narrowing, "Whitebeard's power came from a lifetime of battle. You think a few years of swinging swords makes you capable of surpassing me?"
"You've got decades to go, boy."
Roy slowly stood up, his expression unreadable.
"Decades?"
A black line pulsed on his forehead, and a cold grin spread across his lips.
"You're talking in circles, using metaphors and comic characters to call me weak."
"Well, old man, since you're so worried about being surpassed—how about we test that theory?"
He raised a hand and whispered.
"System. Add all experience points—now."
Ding!
[Remaining Experience Points: 10]
[Fujitora Template Synchronization +5%]
[Current Synchronization: 55%]
A violent gust of wind surged around Roy. The stone tiles beneath his feet cracked. The courtyard darkened as an invisible pressure descended, growing heavier with each passing second.
Gravity. Pure, crushing gravity.
Even Maha's eyes narrowed—this was no illusion.
The air distorted. Birds in the trees dropped dead mid-flight. A faint golden ripple spread out in every direction as the domain of force expanded.
Roy raised his sheathed sword.
"You want to talk about Whitebeard?"
"Let me show you what it means… to carry the weight of a world."