"Brat…! So it seems you were merely boasting when you claimed you'd surpass me in five years!" Garp's voice boomed across the battlefield, filled with both amusement and challenge. He tore away the bloodied remnants of his tattered shirt, the fabric barely clinging to his scarred skin.
Yet, despite his taunting words, the battle had been anything but easy for the Hero of the Marines. His body bore the evidence of their brutal clash—hundreds of wounds, most superficial but some running bone-deep.
Two particularly vicious slashes, one cutting across his torso and another over his shoulder, stood out among the carnage. Even with his overwhelming strength and experience, Garp could feel the undeniable truth—Rosinante was adapting. He was evolving with every blow, refusing to yield even in the face of overwhelming odds.
"Ptui…!" I spat out a mix of bile and blood as I struggled free from the massive crater that threatened to swallow me whole after our last devastating exchange. My body screamed in agony, but I ignored it, gripping Shusui tightly as I swung the blade in a single, powerful arc, cleaving apart the enormous mangrove tree that had collapsed over me.
Compared to Garp, my injuries were far graver. My body was a canvas of pain—deep bruises covering every inch of my skin, proof of how Garp had managed to break through even my most formidable defenses. My armament and Conqueror's Haki, despite being infused into my every move, had not been enough to completely negate the damage. Even my mythical Zoan regeneration struggled against the sheer force of his legendary fists.
Three deep dents caved into my chest, each a testament to the monstrous power behind Garp's strikes. I was certain at least half the bones in my body were broken. My breath came in ragged gasps, but still—I stood.
Wiping away the blood trickling from a gash on my forehead, clearing the crimson veil from my eyes, I locked gazes with my mentor as I made my way out of the crater.
Despite the relentless punishment my body had endured, my Haki remained unshaken. In fact, it was only growing stronger, a phenomenon that did not go unnoticed by Garp. He had expected to overwhelm me with brute force, to break my resolve with sheer, unstoppable might.
But now, he was beginning to realize the truth—his student had caught up. If our promised battle had taken place five years from the original promised date, I might have been able to challenge him as an equal… or even fight him to a standstill.
A rare look of conflict crossed Garp's face.
What was he supposed to do? I wasn't trying to flee—I was meeting him head-on, refusing to back down. And the longer this battle dragged on, the worse it became for me. Not because Garp would decide to finish me off, but because the world wouldn't allow this fight to end on my terms.
The Marines stationed miles away at sea wouldn't let this opportunity slip by. If I collapsed or showed any sign of weakness, they would swoop in, ensuring that Rosinante, the rogue son of a Celestial Dragon, never escaped alive.
Garp exhaled, a heavy sigh weighed down by something more than just exhaustion.
"Kid… you've made your point," he admitted, his voice lacking its usual boisterous edge. "You really are strong enough to challenge me. But your time hasn't come yet—you still have a couple of years before our promised duel. Why not take a step back and retreat? With the strength you have now, even the World Government would hesitate to chase you into the New World."
He wasn't just offering me a way out—he was giving me a chance to survive.
Internally, Garp hoped I would take it. As for the consequences of letting me escape? He could handle that. He had countless ways to explain it, countless excuses he could make to those who would question his actions. He could simply claim I was too fast, too slippery, that I had evaded capture by sheer luck.
But I wasn't about to back down.
"Heh… what's the matter, old man? Getting tired?... I am merely warming up." I chuckled, pushing aside a massive chunk of shattered earth as I climbed out of the crater. My body screamed in agony, every muscle burning with the aftermath of our brutal exchange, but I paid it no mind. My hands tightened around the hilts of my blades, Haki crackling like black lightning along their edges, primed for the next clash.
Retreat? No. That wasn't an option.
For nearly a decade, I had been chasing after my Devil Fruit's awakening. And now—finally—I could feel it stirring, on the verge of breaking free. My instincts screamed at me, telling me the truth: to awaken my fruit, I had to stake everything. I had to put my very life on the line. If I backed down now, I might lose this opportunity forever.
Garp's eyes darkened as he took in my battered form. Blood dripped from my wounds, staining the battlefield, but my stance remained unyielding.
"Just a warm-up, you say…?" he murmured, his voice low, unreadable.
I smirked, running my tongue over the blood on my lips, the metallic taste anchoring my senses, steadying my breath.
"This…?" I let out a low chuckle, rolling my shoulders despite the searing pain. "It's just a scratch."
The storm in Garp's eyes deepened. The battle was far from over.
*****
Dressrosa, New World
Tension had reached an all-time high within the grand halls of the Donquixote Palace. A heavy silence blanketed the room, suffocating everyone within it. The only sound was the flickering of torches lining the massive chamber, their dim light casting restless shadows across the polished marble floors.
At the center of it all sat Doflamingo. His aura flared like a raging inferno, thick with unrestrained fury, daring anyone to disturb him. His usually confident smirk was nowhere to be seen. His fingers twitched slightly, veins bulging as he clenched the special transponder snail in his hand—a direct report from Lucci.
His little brother was locked in battle. And not just against anyone. Rosinante was facing Monkey D. Garp—the Marine Hero himself.
Doflamingo's jaw tightened. He trusted Rosinante. He had faith in his strength, but even he wouldn't be foolish enough to underestimate that man. Garp wasn't just a Marine; he was a living legend. A warrior who had once stood against the Pirate King himself, who had battled Whitebeard, who had shattered entire fleets with his fists alone.
And, perhaps the cruelest irony of all—almost everyone in this room had learned their own battle techniques through Rosinante, who had once trained under Garp during his time in the Marines. The very foundation of their Haki and Rokushiki abilities came from that man. He had, in a twisted way, shaped them all.
Across the chamber, Issho, usually the epitome of composure, was visibly tense. His grip on his Shikomizue tightened as the tip of the blade sheath tapped rhythmically against the floor—a silent plea for action. He was a patient man, but even he couldn't hide his unease.
They had the numbers. If they moved with haste, they could reach the Red Line in under a week, perhaps even sooner if they disregarded caution. But Doflamingo remained seated, deep in thought, his mind warring against itself.
The silence was suffocating. Finally, Senor Pink stepped forward, breaking the unbearable stillness. His voice was firm, almost desperate.
"Master Doffy... we need to mobilize."
But before he could say another word, Doflamingo snapped. His Haki burst outward, filling the room with suffocating pressure. His teeth ground together as he crushed the transponder snail in his grip, his emotions boiling over in a rare display of anger.
It was he who had sent Rosinante to Sabaody in the first place. He had given the order for his brother to carry out this mission, to rescue those captives. And now, because of his decision, Rosinante was alone, fighting against an unstoppable force.
And yet... Rosinante had told him he would handle it. He had promised. Doflamingo exhaled slowly, forcing himself to breathe, to think. He gritted his teeth and made his choice—not out of recklessness, but out of faith.
His little brother had come too far to be doubted now. Besides, he knew that if things truly became dangerous, young Lucci and Dora would get Rosinante out of there. He had made sure of it. He had already given Lucci strict orders—if an opportunity presented itself, he was to extract Rosinante immediately and retreat to the New World.
Even so, concern still gnawed at him. It wasn't just Garp he had to worry about. It was them. The World Government. The Elders. The unseen powers lurking beneath the surface of the world. Rosinante had shared whispers of their hidden strength, of forces that had yet to reveal themselves. And if the World Government decided to drop all pretense, if they truly wished to erase him from existence…
Then Rosinante's life was in real danger. Not even Garp could protect him if he was caught between two overwhelming forces. Doflamingo ran a hand through his golden locks, taking another slow breath. He could feel the weight of everyone's gaze, their unspoken fears filling the room. They were all waiting for his decision.
Doflamingo exhaled steadily, reining in his turbulent emotions as his aura stabilized once more. His piercing gaze swept across the room before he finally spoke, his voice cool and calculated, yet carrying an unmistakable weight.
"We will let Rosinante handle Garp on his own terms. But we cannot allow my little brother to be surrounded from all sides. We must ensure that the World Government's attention is drawn elsewhere."
A slow, sinister smile crept onto his face as possibilities raced through his mind, weaving a web of deception and strategy.
Diamante, who had been leaning casually against the wall, straightened. His hand instinctively rested on the hilt of his sword, ready to act the moment Doflamingo gave the word. His usual flamboyance was absent; in this moment, he was all business.
"Doffy... what do you have in mind?" he asked, his tone sharp and expectant.
Doflamingo leaned forward, his fingers steepled. "Egghead Island." His voice was laced with amusement as he laid out his plan. "We're going to make the World Government believe that we're targeting Dr. Vegapunk. Spread the word, leak it through our assets—make them think we're coming for their most prized genius."
A murmur rippled through the room.
"Do you think they would truly react over a mere scientist?" Issho questioned, his deep voice calm yet curious.
Before Doflamingo could respond, another voice cut in—Shakky. The former underworld information broker and the former Kuja empress, now the Donquixote Family's intelligence mastermind, exhaled a thin stream of smoke as she leaned back with a knowing smile.
"If Dr. Vegapunk is as important to the World Government as Rosinante has suggested, then there's a good chance they'll divert their attention to Egghead," she mused, tapping ash from her cigarette. "And what makes this even better? The Government doesn't know that we know where the island is."
Despite her words, her expression darkened slightly. "But..." she added, glancing toward Doflamingo. "Even that might not be enough. Rosinante is too valuable to them. No matter how much they care about Vegapunk, he's still just one scientist. But Rosinante? He's someone who could threaten the very core power structure of the Celestial Dragons, someone they would never allow to run free. They won't ignore him, not even for Vegapunk."
Doflamingo's fingers drummed rapidly against the polished table, his mind racing. He needed a countermeasure—something that would truly force the Government's hand away from Sabaody.
Then, unexpectedly, a new voice entered the conversation. "I may have a suggestion… if you are willing to consider it." The room turned toward the speaker—King Riku Doldo.
A man once seen as a relic of a past age, now seated at the very core of the Donquixote Family. Many still found it strange that he was here, but none questioned it. Not when his daughter, Scarlett, had fully integrated into the Donquixote family, binding their fates together.
Doflamingo met his gaze and gave a slow nod. "Speak."
Riku's voice was steady, measured, yet firm. "What if we reach out to Whitebeard?"
The room tensed. A wave of skepticism immediately followed, eyes narrowing, minds racing.
Riku continued, unfazed. "His proximity to the Red Line puts him in a prime position to intervene. If he moves, the World Government will hesitate. They cannot risk a direct confrontation with him, not when he has been stationed near the Red Line for almost a year now. His mere presence would deter them from making any reckless moves against Rosinante."
The tension in the room was palpable.
"Why would Whitebeard help us?" Diamante voiced what many were thinking, his expression skeptical. "We may both be Emperors crew, but we've never had an alliance with them. There's no obligation for him to assist us."
Riku, however, remained composed. "Because of Fish-Man Island."
The room stilled.
"The Donquixote Family has done more for Fish-Man Island than most. Whitebeard protects that place, and he values those who do the same. Despite our ascension to the status of an Emperor crew, we have never acted against Whitebeard's interests. There's no hostility between us. If we ask him for a favor—one that we can repay later—he might consider it. At worst, we lose some face. But is pride truly more important than ensuring Rosinante's survival?"
Silence. Doflamingo sat motionless, his expression unreadable. The weight of the decision bore down on him.
Pride?
He had never been the type to grovel, to seek aid from another man. But what did pride matter… when his little brother's life was at stake? Doflamingo inhaled deeply, then exhaled, his mind made up.
"Senor." His voice was smooth, firm, and final. "Establish a direct channel to Whitebeard. Not to one of his commanders. I want to speak to him personally."
Senor Pink wasted no time, vanishing from the room with swift purpose. The Donquixote Family's intelligence network was vast, and finding a way to contact Whitebeard was no impossible task. Now, it was only a matter of whether the Strongest Man in the World would answer their call.
*****
The massive island near the Red Line, once an uninhabited expanse of wilderness, had now become the temporary base of the strongest man in the world. Towering palm trees swayed lazily in the ocean breeze, casting long shadows over the golden sands. Beneath their shade, Edward Newgate—Whitebeard—sat casually, his massive frame radiating an aura of effortless dominance.
Despite his seemingly relaxed posture, his mind was anything but idle. Ever since his fateful battle with Rocks decades ago, he had never allowed himself to stagnate. The lessons of that clash had long since stripped him of any illusions of invincibility. There were monsters lurking in this world—figures like Xebec, who had vanished into the shadows, but Whitebeard knew he would emerge again. The question was when, not if.
And so, he had continued to push himself, refining his strength while ensuring the steady rise of his crew. The age of giants was far from over. Marco stood before him, his expression unusually serious as he relayed the latest intel gathered from the other side of the Red Line.
"Pops, you won't believe this… but it seems Garp himself is locked in battle—with someone the world thought had died nearly a year ago."
Whitebeard arched a brow, intrigued. "Oh? Who?" Marco hesitated for only a moment before answering.
"Donquixote Rosinante."
A low rumble escaped Whitebeard's throat—a mix of amusement and admiration.
"So the brat is still alive. I expected nothing less from that little monster, and sure enough it's finally come to this… has the brat really grown so strong in such a short time that he dares to challenge that bastard himself?"
He leaned back, arms crossed, deep in thought. How old was that kid again? Early twenties at most. And yet, he was standing toe-to-toe with Garp the Hero? Not even he himself had reached such heights at that age. No, definitely not.
Even the current Whitebeard himself, despite the sheer destructive power of his Devil Fruit and his awakened abilities, would never claim absolute victory over Garp in a direct battle. The man was an enigma—a force of nature whose strength scaled with the challenge before him. The stronger his opponent, the stronger he became.
"Has there been any movement from those bastards from the Holy Land?" Whitebeard mused, eyes narrowing. "The World Government wouldn't let an opportunity like this slip away. That kid is too much of a thorn in their side."
Marco exhaled, rubbing the back of his head. "Maybe they're hesitant… worried that if they move against him while he's fighting Garp, it might trigger an unexpected response."
Whitebeard smirked. "Afraid of Garp turning on them, huh? Wouldn't be the first time that old dog defied orders."
"Or maybe they're wary of us," Marco added. "We've been stationed near the Red Line for almost a year now. If they make a move, we're close enough to interfere. They won't act recklessly while we're this close."
The conversation continued, as division commanders chimed in with their own thoughts. The weight of the situation was undeniable—Rosinante's battle with Garp had been raging for over a day, and yet the World Government still hadn't acted. It was a silence that spoke volumes.
But not everyone under Whitebeard's flag was listening with the same intent. A distance away, sprawled beneath another palm tree, was a man whose snores echoed lazily through the air.
Marshall D. Teach.
To any observer, he appeared completely at ease, lost in sleep, his belly rising and falling with each exaggerated breath. But beneath the surface, his mind was anything but restful. Behind his closed eyelids, a storm of frustration brewed.
"That Donquixote bastard is still alive…?" Teach fumed inwardly. "I thought he was dead! He's been missing for a year!"
He clenched his jaw, forcing his face to remain neutral even as rage coiled in his gut. Rosinante. Even after all these years, the mere thought of him sent a deep, instinctive unease through Teach's very soul.
Back then, when they had crossed paths, Rosinante had been nothing more than an enigma—a wild card Teach couldn't quite figure out. But now? Now, it was clear. That man was destined to be an obstacle to his ambitions.
For years, Teach had operated in the shadows, carefully shaping his grand plan. He had waited, biding his time, knowing that Whitebeard's neutrality—his reluctance to involve himself too deeply in world affairs—had given Teach the perfect cover to move unseen.
But everything had changed. Whitebeard had abandoned his passive stance, turning his full attention toward the World Government. The old man had become aggressive. For Teach, this was a disaster.
For the past year, they had done nothing but sit here, acting as a deterrent rather than pillaging the world as he had envisioned. Teach was meant to be out there, scouring the seas, hunting for the ultimate prize—the Devil Fruit that would cement his destiny. Instead, he was stuck here, watching and waiting, wasting precious time.
And now, Rosinante had returned.
"Damn it."
Teach's fingers twitched, but he forced himself to remain still. He couldn't afford to reveal his frustration—not yet. Rosinante was a problem. And problems had a way of getting in the way of his plans. Teach opened one eye just a crack, gazing toward Whitebeard and the gathered commanders. They were still deep in discussion, still focused on the battle across the Red Line.
A slow, wicked grin crept onto his face before he turned onto his side, his fake snores resuming. Let them focus on Rosinante. In the end, it didn't matter. Because Teach had a plan of his own.
The rhythmic crash of waves against the island's shores was interrupted by the heavy footfalls of a man built like a walking fortress.
Jozu, the commander of the Whitebeard Pirates' Third Division, emerged from the tree line, his massive frame casting a long shadow over the sand. His presence alone was enough to command attention, but it was the man following behind him that truly caught the crew's eye.
The newcomer was middle-aged, dressed in simple yet practical clothing, his posture stiff with unease. His eyes flickered warily from one side to the other, scanning the imposing figures of the infamous crew surrounding him. The sheer presence of the Whitebeard Pirates—an entire force of battle-hardened warriors who had conquered the seas—was enough to make even seasoned men falter.
And yet, despite his obvious nervousness, the man did not hesitate. His steps remained steady as he followed Jozu toward the shade of the towering palm trees, where Whitebeard and his commanders sat. Every conversation hushed. Even the usual carefree chatter that lingered among the lower-ranked pirates died out as all eyes turned to the outsider.
A ripple of curiosity spread through the group. Whitebeard's sharp gaze settled on the man, his brows lifting slightly as if silently questioning Jozu about the stranger's presence. From his resting place, Teach subtly shifted, his fake snores vanishing as he cracked open an eye, observing the scene with veiled interest.
Marco, standing at Whitebeard's side, folded his arms. A messenger? Here? This was unusual. Jozu came to a halt, his arms crossed over his chest as he turned toward his captain.
"Pops… he's a messenger."
Jozu paused, his tone carrying an edge of intrigue before he continued.
"From the Donquixote family."
A beat of silence followed his words. The Whitebeard Pirates were not strangers to the Donquixote family's movements, especially after Doflamingo's meteoric rise to power as an Emperor. But for them to send a messenger directly to Whitebeard himself? That was something else entirely.
The tension in the air thickened. Whitebeard's expression remained unreadable as he studied the man, his massive fingers tapping idly against the arm of his throne-like chair. His crew had spent months stationed near the Red Line, watching and waiting, keeping the world in check with their mere presence.
For the Donquixote family to make contact now, in the middle of Rosinante's battle with Garp, meant something big was happening.
The messenger swallowed hard, straightening his posture despite the way his fingers twitched at his sides. He had walked into the heart of the most powerful pirate crew in the world, standing before a man who could sink islands with a single quake.
And now, he had to deliver his message. The Whitebeard Pirates watched in silence, waiting.
Waiting for the man to speak. Waiting to hear why, in the midst of all this chaos, the Donquixote family had reached out to them.