Drip… Drip…
The rhythmic sound of blood hitting the creaky wooden deck echoed ominously in the stillness. The vibrant camaraderie that usually filled the Red-Haired Pirates' ship was absent.
The crew stood in a wide circle around their captain, their expressions a mix of unease and concern. Even the gentle rocking of the ship on the waves felt subdued, as though the sea itself acknowledged the tension in the air.
Shanks sat slouched on an old wooden crate, his hand gripping the hilt of his sword planted firmly in the deck. His crimson hair, matted with sweat and blood, fell in disarray over his face.
The left side of his face bore a deep, ragged claw mark—a vicious wound that stretched from his temple, across his eyelid, and down to his cheekbone. Blood seeped from the gashes, some of it already drying in uneven streaks, but the worst of it continued to trickle, pooling at his feet.
His left eye remained shut, and the surrounding skin was swollen, giving the haunting impression that he might have lost sight in it altogether.
Despite the obvious pain, Shanks's expression was far from one of agony. It was contemplative, almost detached, as if he were trying to piece together some elusive truth. The silence was oppressive, his crew's presence felt like distant shadows, though they were no more than a few feet away.
Ben Beckman leaned casually against the ship's mast, his sharp eyes fixed on Shanks with a calculated intensity. He puffed his cigarette slowly, the smoke curling in the salty air. Though his posture was relaxed, his brow furrowed as he observed his captain.
Beckman had seen Shanks in countless battles, even against the mightiest foes, and never before had he witnessed this kind of lingering stillness.
"Captain..." Yasopp started to say but trailed off, gripping his rifle tightly. Words felt hollow in the face of the silent storm brewing within their leader.
Lucky Roux shuffled his feet uncomfortably, his usual jovial demeanor replaced by a rare seriousness. He clutched the brim of his hat, twisting it in his hands as though trying to wring out his anxiety.
Below deck, the sounds of frantic activity carried up through the floorboards as the medics worked tirelessly to stabilize the wounded. The Red-Haired Pirates had fought many battles, and losing crewmates was not new to them, but this fight had been different. This wasn't about the casualties—it was about the inexplicable.
Buggy, standing off to the side with his arms crossed, glared at the silence with growing frustration. For once, the clown-like pirate wasn't cracking jokes or mocking his old friend. He couldn't bring himself to, not after what he'd witnessed.
"Shanks…" Buggy broke the silence, his voice unusually steady. He stepped forward, his usually exaggerated movements subdued. "You need to get that treated, damn it. If you sit here any longer, you're gonna lose that eye!"
Shanks didn't respond. His right hand twitched slightly, gripping the hilt of his sword harder. Buggy clenched his fists, his irritation bubbling over.
"You hear me? Stop sitting there like a damned idiot!" Buggy barked. His voice trembled, betraying his worry. "I know you're stubborn, but this isn't the time to brood!"
Shanks exhaled deeply, finally tilting his head toward Buggy. The movement was slow, deliberate, as though even acknowledging him required effort. His good eye locked onto Buggy, the calm intensity in his gaze silencing the pirate mid-rant.
"I'm fine, Buggy," Shanks said, his voice low but firm.
"No, you're not!" Buggy snapped, his worry overpowering his fear of Shanks's authority. "That wasn't some random punk who got lucky, Shanks. I saw it—whoever that bastard was, he knew exactly what he was doing; if you had reacted an instant later, he would have ripped your head off!"
The crew exchanged uneasy glances. They all knew who Buggy was talking about, but no one dared bring it up until now. The man who had inflicted the wound wasn't one of Whitebeard's famed division commanders or officers.
He was a shadow, a nondescript figure standing amidst the back ranks of Whitebeard's forces. At a glance, he hadn't seemed like much.
And yet, he had slipped through Shanks's defenses—something no one had ever done before. His movements were precise, almost inhumanly so. The claw-like strike that marred Shanks's face wasn't born of luck or desperation. It was calculated, deliberate, and it carried a sinister energy that still lingered like a dark stain on the ship.
"I didn't even see him move," Buggy admitted, his voice quieter now. "One second he was just standing there, and the next—"
"Enough," Shanks interrupted, his voice cutting through Buggy's words.
Shanks stood, pulling his sword from the deck with a deliberate motion and sheathed it. The crew instinctively straightened, their unease replaced with a flicker of hope. Their captain, bloodied and battered as he was, radiated an unyielding resolve.
"You're right, Buggy," Shanks said, surprising everyone. "Whoever... or whatever that was… wasn't ordinary."
The crew exchanged tense glances, but Shanks continued, his tone calm and thoughtful. "It wasn't just strength. It wasn't speed. It was something… much darker. Something I haven't felt in a long time."
"Then why the hell are you just sitting here!?" Buggy demanded, his anger masking his fear.
"Because," Shanks said, a faint smile tugging at his lips, "sometimes the best answers come when you're not looking for them."
Beckman finally stepped forward, his cigarette dangling precariously from his lips. "So, what do you make of it, Captain?" he asked, his voice even.
Shanks tilted his head slightly, his expression thoughtful. "I don't know yet. But I'll find out."
Buggy threw his arms up in frustration, turning away with a huff. "You're impossible, you know that? Fine! But don't come crying to me when you can't see out of that eye!"
The tension eased slightly, some of the crew chuckling at Buggy's antics. Shanks chuckled softly too, his good eye glinting with a mixture of amusement and determination.
"Don't worry, Buggy. I've got no intention of losing an eye just yet," Shanks said, his voice carrying an unshakable confidence.
"Maybe we should change our Jolly Roger to match the scar—y'know, the one our captain just got," one of the crew quipped, breaking the tense silence that had hung over the deck like a fog. His voice carried a mischievous edge, clearly meant to lighten the mood. "The one we've got now looks too plain anyway, don't you think?"
A few chuckles rippled through the crew, hesitant at first, then growing louder. Even in the midst of uncertainty, the Red-Haired Pirates were known for their ability to bounce back, to find humor even in the direst of circumstances. The tension that had held everyone in its grip began to ease, bit by bit.
Buggy, of course, took the opportunity to ham it up. "Plain? Plain!?" he barked, spinning dramatically on his heel and pointing a finger at the offender as though they'd just committed an unforgivable sin. "Our Jolly Roger is a masterpiece! A classic! You dare insult my impeccable taste?"
"You didn't even design it," Yasopp shot back, grinning as he leaned against the railing.
"Details, details!" Buggy waved him off with exaggerated disdain, stomping over to the center of the deck where Shanks still sat.
"What do you think, Captain? Should we go for something dramatic—maybe a big, menacing scar slashing through the skull? Or how about some glowing red eyes to really give it that terrifying 'don't mess with us' vibe?"
Shanks, who had been quietly listening to the banter, finally tilted his head. A small smile tugged at the corners of his lips, and a low chuckle escaped him. "I don't know, Buggy," he said, his voice light but tinged with amusement. "If we're going for accuracy, shouldn't we add a few claw marks on the deck too?"
The crew erupted into laughter, the sound carrying across the waves. Even Buggy couldn't help but grin, though he quickly crossed his arms and muttered something about "ungrateful captains who don't appreciate his brilliance."
Beckman watched from the sidelines, a cigarette perched lazily between his lips. The tension that had weighed on everyone since the battle had begun to lift, thanks in no small part to the crew's irreverent sense of humor. That was their strength—this ability to laugh, to keep their spirits high no matter what.
"Alright, alright," Lucky Roux said, wiping a tear from his eye. "But seriously, imagine how scary we'd look if we did update the flag. Pirates all over the Grand Line would be running for their lives."
"Or laughing their asses off," Yasopp added with a smirk.
Buggy jabbed a finger at Yasopp, his voice rising in mock outrage. "Don't make me paint your ugly mug on the flag, Yasopp. That'll scare anyone off, guaranteed!"
"Better than your nose," Yasopp fired back, earning another round of laughter.
But as the crew dispersed, Beckman lingered, his sharp eyes watching Shanks carefully. He knew his captain better than anyone, and beneath that easygoing demeanor, he saw it—a flicker of unease. Whatever had happened today, it wasn't over. The shadow of that figure would follow them, and Beckman suspected it would haunt Shanks until he uncovered the truth.
But as the noise swirled around him, Shanks's good eye drifted toward the horizon. His hand moved instinctively to the wound on his face, his fingers brushing against the jagged ridges of the fresh scar. The memory of the attack, the shadowy figure who had come so close to taking more than just his eye, lingered at the edge of his thoughts.
"Captain?" Beckman's voice cut through the din, quiet but firm.
Shanks turned to meet his first mate's gaze. Beckman didn't say anything more, but his look was enough to communicate his question.
Shanks stood at the edge of the ship, his grip on the railing so tight that his knuckles turned white. His hair, tousled by the sea breeze, fell over his eyes, which burned with an intensity that even his crew rarely saw. The weight of the conversation hung heavy between him and Beckman as the waves lapped rhythmically against the ship's hull.
"I fear we were deliberately led into a trap," Shanks said finally, his voice low but steady.
"Someone out there knows that I'm searching for a specific Devil Fruit and used that knowledge to manipulate us, pushing us toward a potential clash with Whitebeard's crew."
The crew nearby exchanged uneasy glances but remained silent, pretending to focus on their duties. They knew better than to interrupt a conversation between Shanks and Beckman, especially when it carried this much gravity.
Beckman leaned back against the mast, his ever-present cigarette dangling from his lips, its embers glowing faintly in the dusk. He exhaled a stream of smoke that curled and twisted in the wind.
"But why? What benefit would anyone get from making our crew clash with Whitebeard's? It doesn't make sense. Awkward as it sounds, we're still just a crew of rookies compared to them." His voice was calm, measured, but there was an edge of concern in his tone.
Shanks turned to him, a weak smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Rookies, huh? Is that what we're calling ourselves these days?" There was a flicker of humor in his expression, but it didn't reach his eyes.
"Even then," Beckman continued, not missing a beat, "it doesn't explain your hostility toward that man. You're not the type to hold a grudge just because someone scratched your face. So what's really bothering you?"
Shanks's smirk faded, replaced by a grim look that made even Beckman pause.
"No, Beckman. It's not just about the scar. The presence of Whitebeard pirates on Redlark Island might have been a coincidence. Maybe they were just there to stop a Devil Fruit trade happening within their territory. But Teach? He wasn't there by chance. He was there looking for something—something specific, just like I was. And that's what's troubling me."
Shanks turned his gaze back to the horizon, his eyes narrowing as if trying to pierce through the haze of uncertainty.
"The fact that Teach and I were both hunting for Devil Fruits at the same time isn't the worst part. What really worries me is that whoever orchestrated this knew about both of us. They knew what we were looking for, and they made sure our paths crossed."
Beckman raised an eyebrow, his analytical mind racing. "You think Teach was hunting for the same devil fruit as you?"
Shanks shook his head. "I'm not sure. Maybe it's the same fruit. Maybe it's something else entirely. But the fact remains—there's someone out there pulling strings, someone who wanted me and Teach on that island at the same time. And if they know about the Gomu Gomu no Mi… if they know its significance… then this is bigger than Teach. Much bigger."
Beckman studied Shanks carefully, noting the tension in his captain's stance. Shanks was many things—carefree, charismatic, and unshakable in his resolve. But this… this unease was rare.
"And you think this mysterious puppet master has plans for more than just the fruit?" Beckman asked, his voice soft but probing.
Shanks nodded, his hand instinctively brushing against the fresh scar across his face. "The scar's a reminder, Beckman. A reminder that I can't afford to be careless. Pirates like Teach are dangerous—they always have been. But the one pulling the strings… they're the ones that worry me. If they're after the same thing I am, then they're a threat not just to us, but to the entire world."
"Still doesn't explain why you didn't let the medics patch you up," Beckman said, his tone shifting slightly, trying to lighten the mood. "You're sitting here bleeding all over the ship like a dramatic hero out of some old sea tale."
Shanks let out a dry laugh. "What can I say? I like the effect. Keeps the crew on edge."
Beckman smirked but didn't press further. He knew Shanks too well—he'd get patched up when he was ready.
"What about the Gomu Gomu no Mi?" Beckman asked after a moment. "You're sure it's the one?"
Shanks's gaze darkened, his jaw tightening. "I'm certain. That fruit… it's no ordinary Devil Fruit. Its potential… its legacy… The world government would not have taken so much trouble to change its description in the encyclopedia otherwise." He trailed off, his words heavy with unspoken meaning.
Beckman tilted his head slightly, his curiosity piqued. "And you think it's worth all this trouble? The risk of clashing with Whitebeard's crew, of being drawn into some larger game we don't fully understand?"
"It's not about what I think," Shanks said, his voice resolute. "It's about what I know. That fruit has a destiny tied to it, one that could change the course of the world. And if it falls into the wrong hands…"
He didn't finish the sentence, but the weight of his words lingered in the air. Beckman nodded slowly, understanding the gravity of the situation.
"So," Beckman said, breaking the silence, "what's the plan? Do we chase down Teach? Hunt for this mysterious mastermind? Or focus on finding the devil fruit?"
Shanks turned to his first mate, a glint of determination in his eye. "All of it. We can't leave anything to chance. But first…" He pushed himself up from the crate, wincing slightly as the movement jostled his wounded face.
"…I need a drink. And maybe someone to stitch me up."
Beckman chuckled. "About time. You were starting to look like a tragic hero. Not a good look for you, Captain."
As the two men walked toward the ship's interior, the crew around them began to relax, their captain's resolve and humor a balm to their unease. But beneath the surface, everyone knew the truth: this was just the beginning. And whatever lay ahead, it would test them all in ways they couldn't yet imagine.
*****
Figarland Estate, Holy Land
The serene garden, bathed in soft sunlight, was a haven of peace amidst the storm of the world's chaos. Figarland Garling sat under a sprawling tree, its blossoms casting a gentle shade over the Supreme Commander of the Holy Knights.
His fingers skimmed the thin pages of the World Times, a publication banned by the World Government but too valuable to ignore. The tranquil hum of nature surrounded him as he read, his sharp mind dissecting every article. For Garling, knowledge was power, and even the whispers of dissent could not escape his scrutiny.
But the serenity was shattered.
A cacophony erupted beyond the garden, the clash of steel, the desperate shouts of guards, and the unmistakable thrum of anger-laden haki.
Garling's brow furrowed slightly, the faintest hint of annoyance crossing his otherwise impassive face. He didn't need to look up; his observation haki painted the scene for him clearly. He knew who it was.
The noise swelled, followed by a thunderous boom as the doors to the garden were blown off their hinges. Two armored guards flew through the air, crashing into the ground with a sickening thud, their fates left uncertain.
The God's Knight, standing like a silent sentinel beside Garling, stirred, his hand instinctively moving to the hilt of his blade. But Garling raised a hand, stopping him with a gesture. "No need," he murmured, his voice calm and cold.
Even as chaos broke into his sanctuary, Garling remained seated, his focus briefly returning to the paper in his hand. The flowers surrounding him, lovingly tended and pristine, trembled as a wave of haki filled the air, oppressive and wild.
"You filthy bastard!"
Agana's voice cut through the garden like a blade, her words drenched in fury and heartbreak. She stormed into the garden, her presence a tempest, her haki spilling uncontrollably, bending the air around her. The vibrant flowers began to wither under her presence, a sharp contrast to the unbothered composure of her father.
"Were you part of this scheme? Did you propose the plan to trade my life to the Donquixote family?" She roared, her voice cracking slightly, the rage barely concealing the raw pain beneath.
Garling didn't look at her. His eyes flicked briefly to the flowers nearest him, noting their withering edges, and his frown deepened—not in concern for his daughter, but for the plants he had so meticulously cared for.
"Tell me!" Agana demanded, her voice breaking. Her hands trembled at her sides, fists clenched tightly enough that her nails drew blood. "Was it the Elders, or was it you who suggested offering me as some—some plaything?"
Silence.
Garling's gaze finally lifted, his piercing eyes locking onto her. There was no remorse in them, no regret. Only the cold, calculating stare of a man who saw people as pieces on a board. His silence was louder than any words could have been.
Agana's body tensed, her haki flaring in an uncontrollable storm. She was ready to strike, ready to unleash her fury on the man she had called her father. But as she moved to take her first step, Garling spoke.
"You should have known your fate," he said, his voice cutting through her like ice.
"The moment you lost to that boy, your value was diminished. What use are you to me if you cannot even best a child nearly a decade your junior? If you had perished on that battlefield, I might have felt something—pride, perhaps. But instead, you ran. Tucked your tail and fled."
The words hit Agana like a blow to the chest. Her momentum faltered, her body freezing mid-step.
She stared at him, disbelief mingling with the torrent of emotions in her heart. "You… you would have preferred I died?" She whispered, her voice barely audible.
Garling didn't flinch. "Yes," he said simply, his tone devoid of hesitation. "At least then you would have had the dignity of dying with honor. Instead, you live as a failure—a liability to the Figarland name."
The cold, ruthless truth in his words shattered something deep inside Agana. Her haki faltered, the oppressive storm dissipating as the weight of his betrayal sank in. She staggered slightly, her legs trembling beneath her.
Agana's heart raced, but it wasn't anger this time. It was anguish. She had come here fueled by fury, determined to tear apart the man who had sold her life away like a commodity. But now, all she felt was emptiness.
For as long as she could remember, she had believed—hoped—that despite his ambition, despite his ruthlessness, Garling had a soft spot for her. She was his daughter, after all. And deep down, she had always thought that no matter how cold he seemed, there was a part of him that cared.
But now… now she saw the truth.
"You… you're no father," she said, her voice trembling. Tears welled up in her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. "You're nothing but a heartless monster. A man so consumed by ambition that you'd throw your own blood away for convenience."
Garling's expression didn't change. "If that's what you choose to believe, so be it. Sentiment is a weakness, Agana. I taught you that. If you allowed yourself to believe otherwise, then that is your failure, not mine."
Her nails dug into her palms again, drawing fresh blood, but this time it wasn't anger that fueled her. It was despair.
Agana turned, her back to the man who had shattered every illusion she had ever held about him.
"The Donquixote family might take my body," she said, her voice hollow, "but they'll never take my soul. I'll find a way out of this, Father. And when I do, I'll make sure you pay for what you've done."
Garling didn't respond. He simply watched her leave, his expression unreadable. Only when she was gone did he glance down at his flowers, the ones she had unintentionally withered. He reached out, brushing a withered petal between his fingers, and sighed.
"Such a waste," he murmured, though it was unclear whether he was referring to the flowers—or his daughter.