Marine Headquarters, Marineford.
Fleet Admiral Sengoku's Den Den Mushi rang urgently.
He answered. His face went dark.
"What?! Are you certain?!"
"Yes, Fleet Admiral. All our surveillance fleets in the New World have lost contact. The last transmission..."
"What was it?!"
The voice on the Den Den Mushi was frantic. "The final image and signal showed the Red Force Red Hair's flagship—in direct contact with the Moby Dick—Whitebeard's ship!"
The receiver nearly slipped from Sengoku's hand. He forced himself to calm down.
"Summon all senior officers. Emergency meeting!"
The New World.
Whitebeard Pirates, Moby Dick.
The massive whale-shaped figurehead overlooked the tumultuous sea. The deck was filled with a relaxed, spirited atmosphere.
Whitebeard Edward Newgate, massive as a giant, sat on his custom-built throne. Bandages wrapped his torso. He drank from a jug larger than most men.
A pirate ran up. "Pops! Red Hair Shanks is here. He wants to see you."
"Gurararara."
Whitebeard set down his jug with a thud. His deep voice was unconcerned. "Let him come. That brat brought good sake, I hope?"
Marco the Phoenix, First Division Commander and ship's doctor, yawned. He waved to the younger crew members. "You rookies, get back. Go below deck."
"Why?!"
Some of the younger pirates were confused, but they obeyed.
Then—
Step.
Step.
Step.
Footsteps, clear as a heartbeat, echoed across the gangplank connecting the ships.
Before anyone saw him, a presence descended on the Moby Dick. Invisible, but heavy as a mountain. A tangible shockwave of pure force.
"Gah!"
"What's happening?!"
"My head!"
"Can't breathe!"
The young pirates who hadn't made it below deck felt like hammers struck their skulls. They collapsed like wheat, unconscious.
The ship itself seemed to groan under the pressure.
Marco rubbed his temples, looking at the fallen crew. "Too late. Red Hair hasn't changed."
Jozu, Third Division Commander, arms crossed, spoke calmly: "Half-hearted mental fortitude can't stay conscious in that man's presence."
The veteran Whitebeard pirates murmured among themselves: "Haven't felt Haki this strong in a while."
"Stronger than before."
"Sorry about that."
Red Hair Shanks stepped onto the Moby Dick's deck alone, carrying a massive sake jug. His face was open, his smile apologetic. "I arrived and already made an enemy ship wary. My apologies."
Whitebeard's deep eyes fixed on Shanks—on the three scars over his left eye. Something like old memory stirred. He laughed low.
"Gurararara. Seeing your face, those wounds that bastard gave me start throbbing again."
"My apologies. But I didn't come to fight."
Shanks set the jug before Whitebeard. "I brought healing water from my home, the West Blue."
"Coming here radiating Haki like that—and you say you didn't come to fight?"
Whitebeard snorted—then laughed. "You bastard. Gurararara!"
Nearby, Marco looked at the unconscious crew, the scattered supplies, and shouted: "Red Hair! Look what you did! Pay for the deck repairs!"
Shanks laughed, unrepentant. "Marco. Still First Division Commander? It's been years. Want to join my crew? We need a ship's doctor."
"Go to hell!"
Soon, only Whitebeard and Shanks remained, with the massive jug between them.
"What kind of sake? Doesn't look like the high-grade stuff."
"From my home, West Blue. Good flavor."
Shanks poured himself a bowl and tossed the jug to Whitebeard.
Whitebeard cracked the seal. The rich aroma spread. He took a long drink. "Not bad."
"Shame. The men who knew the sea back then—Roger, Garp, Sengoku—there are fewer now."
"Yeah." Shanks drank, his gaze distant. "Twenty-two years."
Whitebeard studied this man—composed, his presence controlled. He sighed. "You've done well for yourself, Shanks. On Roger's ship, you were just a cabin boy."
He remembered those days. The Whitebeard and Roger Pirates had clashed often. The red-haired kid on Roger's ship had made an impression.
He thought of another. "What about that red-nosed kid who was always with you? Is he dead?"
Shanks smiled. "Buggy? We went our separate ways after Roger's execution. Last I heard, he's a pirate in the East Blue. Doing well enough, I think."
Something about his smile was odd.
"I see."
Whitebeard shook his head. For someone like him, twenty years was just a blink.
So many who had shaken the world—names that would become legend—had faded.
"The duel between you and Hawkeye. I only heard about it recently. For a man like you, losing an arm in the weakest sea—everyone was shocked."
Shanks touched his empty sleeve. His smile was knowing. "I bet that arm on a new era."
"Then no regrets."
"That's not what I came to talk about."
"Oh?" Whitebeard set down the jug.
"Teach."
Shanks's voice was low. "I want you to call back Ace. Stop him from hunting Teach. That man is dangerous."
"Gurararara."
Whitebeard was silent for a moment. Then he laughed—a sound like thunder. "Shanks, are you trying to teach me what to do?"
Teachbroke the one rule on this ship. Killing a comrade is unforgivable. Ace is Second Division Commander. Pursuing Teach is his duty!"
***
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