Year 1520 of the Sea Circle Calendar.
The New World. Aboard the Moby Dick.
The cool ocean breeze carried with it a faint salty tang. Across the deep blue waters, the shadows of countless News Coo birds rippled faintly.
Eryndor slowly stepped onto the pure-white giant ship, his golden hair tossed wildly by the wind.
"So peaceful…"
The words had barely left his mouth before a group of vicious pirates drew their blades and leveled them at him.
"Who the hell are you?! How did you get on board?!"
Eryndor chuckled softly.
"Didn't your old man ever teach you to respect your elders?"
The moment his foot touched the deck again, scarlet lightning surged, whipping the air into a howling storm.
The normally rowdy pirates collapsed one after another as he walked forward, each fainting without resistance.
The only sound left was the crash of waves against the ship's hull.
Among the fallen, Blackbeard lay drenched in cold sweat. Seeing no one else still standing, he quickly dropped to the ground with a thud, pretending to have fainted as well.
Inside, his mind reeled in terror:
It's him! That monster!
He hasn't aged a single bit! He looks exactly like he did back in Wano…!
Far off, the half-conscious Whitebeard opened his clouded eyes, IV tubes running across his massive body.
"…Eryndor."
First Division Commander Marco crossed his arms, his expression displeased.
"That's enough. The rookies can't handle it."
Eryndor waved casually, withdrawing his Haki, then glanced at the young man standing beside Marco.
"A newcomer? I've never seen this kid before."
Ace raised an eyebrow.
"Kid? You don't look that much older than me yourself!"
Eryndor only smiled and walked past in silence.
Irritated, Ace muttered, "Who the hell is this guy?"
Marco answered without turning his head.
"The Arbiter."
Ace's eyes widened in shock, disbelief flooding his face. His gaze slowly shifted to the golden-haired youth, impossibly handsome.
"The Arbiter—Eryndor! The great pirate who once stood equal to Father Roger himself… He's still this young?! But the wanted posters show him as an old man!"
Marco's expression remained unchanged.
"The Angel Fruit's power. The government faked his bounty poster."
Ace shook his head.
"Fake a bounty poster? For him? That's unheard of. Is he really that strong?"
Even Diamond Jozu, usually stern and serious, let out a rare laugh.
"You're still young. I hate to admit it, but this guy… in some ways, he's even more outrageous than Pops."
A shadow of memory clouded Jozu's face.
"You know of God Valley, right?"
Ace frowned.
"The place where old man Garp became a Marine hero?"
Marco smiled faintly.
"Eryndor was the brightest figure of the God Valley Incident."
"He slaughtered Celestial Dragons before countless Marines and government dogs—and then, in the chaos, escaped with over a thousand slaves intact."
Ace froze.
"That's impossible…"
Then he remembered something Garp had once told him years ago:
'Eryndor? Hahaha, now that guy's an interesting opponent.'
'The only pirate whose very name makes the Celestial Dragons tremble.'
By now, Eryndor stood tall amidst the sea of unconscious pirates, face to face with their captain.
Whitebeard set down a wine cup taller than most men and pinched a newspaper between his fingers.
In his massive hands, the paper seemed tiny. Yet the bold headline was clear:
[Fifth Emperor Eryndor declares: A universal wish-granting machine that fulfills all desires!]
Whitebeard burst out in booming laughter, echoing across the sea.
"Gurararara! Eryndor, you bastard—wasn't this sea chaotic enough for you already? Gurararara!"
The red lightning crackled again, the ocean itself trembling.
Eryndor stood his ground, sapphire eyes locking onto Whitebeard's.
"Is this how you welcome an old friend?"
Scarlet thunder rumbled, filling the heavens with oppressive might.
But soon, both men withdrew their Haki and shared a grin.
"Eryndor… your Haki is as fierce as it was at God Valley."
Eryndor sat cross-legged, accepting a massive tray of sake from the crew. He downed it in one gulp, sighing.
"God Valley, huh? No one's mentioned that place in ages. I'd nearly forgotten."
Whitebeard's eyes gleamed, reflecting an image long past—the sky-darkening wings of an angel.
"Anyone who saw it with their own eyes will never forget."
Eryndor laughed.
"Done too much in my life. I've never been the nostalgic type."
He took another drink, gaze drifting.
Memories surfaced—the day he first transmigrated.
No bloodline. No cheats. Not even the Age of Pirates had begun yet.
Only a world ruled by the suffocating fist of the World Government.
A home plundered, again and again, by both pirates and Marines—because they could not pay the Heavenly Tribute.
Tragedy upon tragedy, countless lives snuffed out before his eyes.
But there was one saving grace: this body held an extraordinary talent.
As a boy, Eryndor could lift an entire warship. In battle, his instincts were unmatched.
As a transmigrator with such power—how could he not set sail?
"I'll become the freest man in this world!"
And so the classic tale began. Sailing out. Gathering a crew. Adventuring.
Rising swiftly, glory unmatched.
His natural gifts, and above all, the bug-like Angel Fruit, propelled him to the peak of piracy.
The God Valley Incident, and countless others, turned his personal struggles into world-shaking news.
Stories of him passed down, generation after generation, until they became legends.
His name, "The Arbiter," resounded across the world alongside Roger and Whitebeard.
But now, looking back—becoming the freest man alive?
That crown had rested on his head for forty, maybe fifty years. He couldn't even remember anymore.
And all he felt now… was boredom.
Every gust of the Grand Line's wind had lost its flavor. The sea held no secrets left.
Perhaps he should've realized it back on Laugh Tale, when he saw the ridiculous truth of the world.
His strength had long since reached its peak—an Admiral's punch tickled like an itch.
Imu? That coward too afraid to even show their face—hardly worth a mention. Even their five lackeys were more interesting.
Rocks… he missed his sword at least. That had forced him to fight seriously.
Roger… as your rival, I owe you words.
You gave your life to ignite a new era, filling the sea with reckless dreamers.
Their passionate declarations. Their so-called new age.
In my eyes, nothing but childish games.
Their endless wars and struggles… nothing but noise.
Perhaps Rayleigh was right—we relics of the old era should step aside.
But this Devil Fruit… even time itself became a dull trick in its grasp.
Absolute, eternal freedom.
In the end, it was nothing but a cage.
"HAHAHAHAHAHA!"
On Laugh Tale, he had not laughed.
But now, like Roger, he couldn't help finding it all absurd.
Then one day, as he drank alone—
A voice echoed suddenly:
[Congratulations, Host, on transmigrating to the Type-Moon world.]
[Please complete the main quest—oversee the holding of a Holy Grail War.]
[As a newcomer to this world, the mission is dangerous. You may summon one Arbiter to assist you.]
Eryndor remained calm.
"You're half a century late, you know that? And are you blind? Did you say… what world?"
He turned to glance at the Second Division Commander, Thatch.
That guy's arms were thicker than his chest, but his legs were skinnier than bamboo poles.
"And you're telling me this is the Type-Moon world? Hahaha…"
For the first time in years, genuine laughter burst out of him.
Louder and louder.
"You want me to oversee a Holy Grail War? HAHAHAHAHA!"
It was absurd. Utterly, incomparably absurd.
And yet—maybe that very absurdity… was the only piece still capable of stirring the stagnant waters.
"…Interesting."