*Chapter 02: The New Son of Whitebeard, Meliodas*
The sound of crying echoed through the dimly lit corridors of the Moby Dick. It was sharp and relentless, breaking the calm rhythm of the waves that usually cradled the infamous ship. Inside the ship's expansive kitchen, the source of the commotion revealed itself—a squirming infant with emerald-green eyes and golden-blonde hair, his face flushed red as he wailed uncontrollably.
Marshall D. Teach, only sixteen years old, stood in the center of the chaos, awkwardly holding the baby at arm's length. His unruly black hair framed a face that was etched with frustration, his lips curling into a frown as he paced back and forth. His oversized shirt hung loosely on his lanky frame, swaying as he moved.
"Alright, alright! Hush now, little one!" he muttered, his voice tinged with exasperation. "Why won't you stop crying? What do you want from me?"
Nearby, a much smaller figure scurried about—Marco, a wide-eyed boy of nine, stood on tiptoes at the counter, struggling to pour warm milk into a glass bottle. His hands trembled as he juggled the heat of the pot and the fragile container, his golden-blond hair falling messily over his freckled face.
"Hurry up, Marco!" barked Teach, his tone sharp as he shot an annoyed glance at the boy.
"I'm trying!" Marco replied defensively, his voice high-pitched and strained. "Do you know how hard it is to do this right?"
Teach grumbled under his breath, shifting the crying infant to one arm while rubbing his temple with the other. "Why am I the one stuck doing this?" he muttered to himself.
The kitchen, normally a lively place of camaraderie and revelry, was now a stage for barely controlled chaos. Long wooden tables lined the space, strewn with half-empty tankards and plates bearing the remnants of the crew's last meal. The air was thick with the scent of salt, citrus, and rum, mingling with the faint aroma of freshly baked bread from the ovens. Pirates of various shapes and sizes lounged about, their hearty laughter cutting through the baby's cries.
"Hey, Teach! You'd make a terrible dad!" one of the men hollered, raising his mug in mockery.
"Yeah, I'd feel bad for any kid stuck with you as a parent!" another chimed in, sending ripples of laughter through the room.
Teach shot them a glare but said nothing, focusing instead on the inconsolable child. The infant, however, was far from quiet.
In his own mind, the baby wasn't merely crying—he was screaming.
What is this place? How did I get here? And why… why am I a child again?!
The thoughts raced through his mind, but no coherent words escaped his lips. Instead, only more wails erupted, a sound that grated on even his own ears.
If this is a dream, then I need to wake up! Now! he thought desperately, but the insistent ache in his tiny stomach dragged him back to harsh reality.
And what is this pain? Could it be... hunger? The concept baffled him. As a king, he had never truly known hunger. Food had always been abundant, an afterthought rather than a necessity. But now, it gnawed at him, leaving him weak and irritable.
Teach interrupted his spiraling thoughts by shoving the milk bottle into his mouth. "Here! Drink this and shut up, will you?"
The baby's green eyes widened in shock as the scorching liquid hit his tongue. He spat it out immediately, his cries intensifying. Are you trying to kill me, you fool?! Who gives milk this hot to a baby?
Teach recoiled, glaring at the infant as though it had personally insulted him. "What now?!" he groaned.
At that moment, the floorboards creaked under a heavy step. A massive figure descended the stairs, his presence commanding the attention of everyone in the room. Edward Newgate, better known as Whitebeard, entered the kitchen with a slow, deliberate stride. His towering frame and broad shoulders seemed to fill the room, and his signature crescent mustache twitched as he took in the scene.
"Oi, Oyaji! There's a seat here for you!" one of the pirates called out.
"I'll join you in a moment, my sons," Whitebeard replied in his deep, resonant voice, his tone calm yet authoritative.
He walked over to Teach, his sharp eyes narrowing as he observed the milk bottle in the boy's hands. Without warning, Whitebeard's massive fist collided with Teach's head, sending the younger pirate reeling.
"Gah! What was that for?!" Teach yelled, clutching the bottle protectively.
"You idiot," Whitebeard growled, his voice low but scolding. "Do you think a baby can drink milk at that temperature? Your breath alone could poison it!"
The room erupted into laughter, the crew roaring at Teach's misfortune.
"Come on, Oyaji! He didn't know!" one of them teased.
Whitebeard ignored them, his gaze fixed on Teach. "Cool it properly, or hand it over to someone more competent," he said before turning and walking toward the nearest table.
Teach grumbled but begrudgingly began blowing on the milk, his expression darkening. Mock me all you want, old man, he thought bitterly, but one day, you'll see just how small your ambitions are compared to mine.
A few minutes later, the infant finally calmed, the milk now lukewarm and palatable. Marco cradled the child in his arms, his youthful face glowing with pride as the baby suckled contentedly.
"He's quiet now," said Jozu, a teenager with a broad grin and a muscular frame. "But Oyaji, this kid needs a name."
The room fell silent as all eyes turned to Whitebeard. He leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes for a moment as if searching for an answer in the depths of his mind. Finally, he spoke.
"This is the first time I've had to name a child," he admitted, his tone uncharacteristically soft. "But… there's a name that keeps coming to mind whenever I look at him. It's not one I've heard before, but it feels… right." He opened his eyes, locking his gaze on the baby. "Meliodas."
The pirates exchanged puzzled looks.
"Meliodas?" one of them asked. "What kind of name is that? It's so… strange."
Whitebeard shrugged. "I don't know what it means. But it feels like fate chose this name for him."
Marco smiled warmly at the baby in his arms. "Meliodas… it's a beautiful name. It suits him." He looked down at the infant, his voice soft. "You're so small… smaller than any baby I've ever seen. But somehow, it feels like you'll bring something special to this crew. Meliodas… welcome to the family."
The crew erupted into cheers, their youthful faces alight with joy. Though still early in their pirate careers, they radiated an infectious energy—a testament to the hope and dreams that burned brightly within them.
The infant, now named Meliodas, drifted into a deep sleep, his cries replaced by the gentle rhythm of his breathing. The crew's laughter and the soft creaking of the ship's timbers filled the air, a harmonious blend of chaos and camaraderie.
And so, amidst the warmth of a pirate family and the echoes of an unknown destiny, the tale of Meliodas began.
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