The New World stretched out vast and glittering, the calm sea shimmering under the soft sunlight. Seagulls soared low, diving occasionally to snatch small fish that dared breach the surface. Amidst this serene scene, a massive pirate ship shaped like a whale rested idly on the waters. 

The Whitebeard Pirates' flag flew proudly from the tallest mast—a skull adorned with a crescent-shaped white mustache. This was no ordinary pirate crew; it was one of the legendary Four Emperors. 

On the deck, the captains of the Whitebeard Pirates' divisions had assembled, their gazes fixed on their leader. 

Marco, the first division commander, stepped forward. "Dad, we're all here. Did something happen? It feels… big." 

In a crew as vast as theirs, such gatherings were rare. Most captains spent their days on separate missions, commanding their own squad ships. But when Whitebeard summoned them all, it usually signaled either a grand celebration—or a looming crisis. 

This time, the urgency in the call left a gnawing unease in the air. 

Whitebeard, their colossal and steadfast leader, leaned back on his throne-like chair. His deep laughter boomed, but it was followed by a violent coughing fit. He clutched his chest, his once-invincible frame betraying years of battles and the toll of hidden injuries. 

"Dad!" 

"Are you okay?!" 

"Someone get the doctor!" 

The captains surged forward, their concern spilling into frantic voices. 

Whitebeard raised a hand to calm them, his voice rough but commanding. "Gurararara~ This old body isn't done yet." He forced a smile, his face red from the strain. 

But beneath his bravado, the truth was grim. Ace, one of his most treasured sons, had vanished. Whitebeard's inquiries had led to the devastating revelation: Ace had been captured by the Marines. Worse, the Marines seemed to know Ace's true identity as the son of the Pirate King, Gol D. Roger. 

The quiet before a storm, Whitebeard thought grimly. The Marines' silence was an ominous signal, and he knew a battle loomed on the horizon. 

"My sons!" he declared, his voice carrying across the deck. "I've decided. I will be away for a short time. But when I return, prepare yourselves for war!" 

A wave of shock rippled through the captains. 

"And while I'm gone," Whitebeard continued, "the captain of the Zero Division will take my place. Follow his orders." 

At these words, the deck fell silent. The Zero Division? 

The captains exchanged puzzled looks. No one, not even the most senior among them, had ever met this mysterious figure. They had heard rumors—whispers of a single warrior commanding the hidden Zero Division under Whitebeard's orders. Some thought it a myth, a tale spun by their captain to keep them guessing. But now, it seemed, this enigmatic figure was real. 

Marco frowned, his blue phoenix tattoo catching the light as he crossed his arms. "The Zero Division captain, huh? Guess we'll finally see if the legend holds up." 

As curiosity buzzed through the group, Whitebeard pointed toward the horizon. "He's here." 

All eyes turned to the sea. A small ship approached, cutting through the waves with deliberate slowness. 

The captains leaned forward, anticipation growing. Who was this mysterious figure? What kind of strength did he possess to earn Whitebeard's trust and command the entire pirate crew in his absence? 

The ship drew closer, and with every second, the tension aboard the Moby Dick thickened.