The storm had passed.
Snow fell softly over Drum Island, its gentle silence broken only by the distant hum of wind through the mountains.
Inside Kureha's old timber clinic, the Nyx Pirates sat quietly, the tension that had once hung over them finally lifting.
Ginny was resting, her face pale but peaceful beneath the glow of the oil lamps. The angry, shimmering blue marks of Sapphire Scale had faded to faint traces — scars of survival.
Beside her, Kuma knelt — the massive, stoic man trembling like a child. His head bowed low, tears running silently down his face as he whispered her name again and again, as if saying it too loud might shatter the moment.
"Ginny… you made it…"
Ada stood nearby, arms crossed loosely, her usual sternness replaced with quiet relief. "You should thank her," she said, nodding toward Kureha, who was casually sipping sake from a gourd.
Kureha snorted, wiping her mouth with the back of her sleeve. "Heh, I told you she'd make it. You people worry too damn much."
Perona floated near the ceiling, hugging her ghost plush. "You literally said she had a one-in-a-thousand chance of living!"
The old doctor laughed. "And yet here she is. One in a thousand, baby!"
Bullet crossed his arms from the corner of the room, shaking his head. "She's got more attitude than half the Marines we've crushed."
Hiyori smiled softly, sitting near the stove with Okiku, both watching the recovering Ginny in quiet awe. "I've never seen anything like this… the color, the heat, even the smell of the disease—it's gone."
Kureha grinned, flicking ash into an empty tray. "You're damn right it's gone. And you're lucky you found me. No one else in these seas remembers how to treat Sapphire Scale."
Lilith's mechanical eye glowed faintly as she scanned Ginny's vitals. "Stabilized. The cellular degeneration has halted. The cure was effective."
Kureha puffed a long drag of smoke, leaning back. "Heh. You hear that? Even your robot agrees with me."
Lilith frowned. "I'm not a robot. I'm a cyborg."
Kureha winked. "Same difference, sweetheart."
The crew chuckled softly — the tension that had haunted them since Ginny's collapse finally melting away. Even Mihawk, who had been standing silently by the window, allowed his arms to relax.
But it didn't last long.
Kureha's eyes drifted toward the small crib in the corner of the room — where a baby girl slept peacefully, wrapped in blankets. Her tiny hands twitched with dreams, her breath faint, her hair like rose-colored silk.
"However," Kureha said at last, "the little one's story isn't so simple."
Ada turned immediately, her gaze softening. "Bonney?"
Kuma's head lifted, eyes wide. "What do you mean?"
Kureha exhaled another plume of smoke. "Her case is… different."
The doctor rose to her feet, limping over to the crib with surprising grace for her age. She looked down at the child — the faint shimmer of blue beneath her skin visible even through the dim light.
"She was born with Sapphire Scale in her blood," Kureha said slowly. "A hereditary transmission. The disease didn't infect her — it formed with her."
Perona floated closer, whispering. "You mean she's… always had it?"
Kureha nodded. "Exactly. It's dormant now, thanks to the treatment her mother underwent — but when she gets older, her body will change, and so will the disease. It'll wake up again, stronger. Meaner."
A heavy silence filled the room.
Kuma's fists clenched against the floorboards. "Can you cure her… when it comes back?"
Kureha sighed, turning back to him. "Maybe. But I'll need materials that this frozen island doesn't have. Reagents that only exist in World Government labs… and something else."
Lilith's eye flickered. "You mean… Vegapunk."
Kureha pointed a wrinkled finger at her, grinning. "Smart girl. That old fool's the only one besides me who's ever studied the disease properly — and he had the Government's money behind him. Brilliant bastard, but too deep in the Government's leash."
Ada's eyes narrowed slightly. "Then we'll find what you need. Whatever it takes."
That made Kureha pause. The firelight reflected in Ada's crimson eyes — eyes that had seen wars, revolutions, gods, and kings fall.
Kureha chuckled under her breath. "You've got that same look he did, you know."
Ada blinked. "He?"
"Gol D. Roger," Kureha said, smirking faintly as she took another sip of sake. "I saw him once, when he came to this island before the end. Eyes like yours — burning with something the rest of the world's too scared to name."
The name dropped like a stone into still water. The room froze.
Mihawk's eyes opened a little wider. Even Bullet stopped chewing on the bread he'd stolen from the kitchen.
"You knew Roger?" Fisher Tiger asked, voice low.
Kureha nodded. "Knew him, treated him, drank with him. Fool smiled even when he was coughing blood. That man laughed his way into history."
Ada's gaze lowered slightly, the faintest flicker of memory crossing her face. She had sailed those seas — heard that same laughter on the deck of the Oro Jackson.
Kureha's eyes met Ada's. "You carry that same letter — the D. And I don't need to ask if you understand what it means. The world's afraid of that name for a reason."
Ada's lips curved faintly. "The Will of D."
The old doctor grinned. "Exactly. You know it, don't you? You've felt it. That hunger — not for power, but for freedom."
Ada's expression remained calm, but something flickered in her gaze — pain, pride, and memory intertwined. "They tried to erase it," she said softly. "Changed his name. Buried his will."
Kureha leaned back against the counter. "The Government thinks it can erase history by changing names. But the truth? The D's never die. They just pass the torch."
Lilith tilted her head. "You mean like reincarnation?"
Kureha shook her head. "No, sweetheart. I mean will. It doesn't need blood. It doesn't need a name. It's a storm that never stops rolling."
The room fell quiet again. Outside, the wind howled faintly through the snow.
Okiku, who had been silent all this time, bowed her head respectfully. "Then perhaps it's fate that our captain carries that same will."
Kureha turned toward the window, watching the snow drift beyond the glass. "Fate, huh? Maybe. Or maybe the world just hasn't learned its lesson yet."
She took another long sip of sake, her voice dropping lower. "Roger smiled the day he died. People said he was a madman. But I saw something else — acceptance. Like he knew his will would live on."
Ada said nothing for a moment, her mind replaying the laughter of a man who once stood at the bow of a ship and declared he'd found everything the world hid from him. The man she once sailed beside. The man whose son she'd just saved from fire.
When she finally spoke, her tone was quiet — but firm. "The world may forget his name… but not his will."
Kureha smirked. "Then maybe it's up to your generation to remind them."
Later that night, the snow outside thickened, blanketing Drum Island in white silence.
Ginny slept peacefully, Kuma sitting vigil beside her. Ada stepped outside with Kureha, the wind biting but clean. The lights of the village glowed faintly below the mountain, distant and small.
"She'll live," Kureha said, lighting another cigarette. "Both of them. For now."
Ada nodded, her gaze on the horizon. "That's enough."
Kureha looked at her, eyes narrowing. "You've got the look of someone carrying too much. You know what happens to people who bear the world's burdens alone?"
Ada smiled faintly, pulling her cloak tighter. "They keep walking."
Kureha chuckled. "Heh. You D's really are something else."
Ada turned, her eyes gleaming crimson beneath the falling snow. "We don't walk for glory. We walk because someone has to."
Kureha grinned, smoke curling around her words. "Then keep walking, girl. Because the sea's not done with you yet."
The wind howled softly through the peaks as Ada descended the snowy path toward her ship. Behind her, Kureha's laughter echoed faintly — wild, unbreakable, eternal.
The snow kept falling, erasing their footprints — but not their will.