The echoes of Buggy's slash still lingered in the air, the crimson crescent fading into the horizon like a wound cut into the very sky. The crew remained frozen, mouths agape, unable to reconcile the man who had just saved them with the clownish fool they'd always teased.
Then—slowly, inevitably—laughter rumbled across the beach. Not mocking laughter. Not the roar of drunken cheer. It was Shanks.
The Red-Haired captain brushed the sand off his coat, lips curled into that maddening grin that could mean everything—or nothing. His eyes, however, burned like embers as he looked up at Buggy standing on the mast, blade still humming with bloodlust.
"…Heh." Shanks' voice rolled across the stunned beach like thunder breaking after a storm. His grin stretched wide, carefree as ever, but his eyes gleamed with a rare sharpness that silenced every whisper from his crew.
"So… you all thought my ship's Vice-Captain was just a clown in name only, huh?" His words carried a strange mixture of amusement and rebuke, each syllable sinking deep into the hearts of his men. "You should've known better…"
Shanks tilted his head toward Buggy, still poised atop the mast with his blade glowing faintly crimson, the salty wind whipping his coat like the banner of a warlord.
"…The King's ship never carried dead weight."
The crew exchanged looks, stunned by their captain's words. For Shanks to openly acknowledge him, even with that infuriatingly carefree tone… it meant only one thing. Buggy wasn't just tolerated—he was trusted. But before they could even digest that revelation, the sea itself answered.
The horizon darkened. A massive shadow crept across the waters, eclipsing the setting sun. Out of the gloom sailed a colossal black galleon, its hull plated with iron and bristling with cannons the size of towers. Each mast bore tattered sails dyed in obsidian ink, painted with the insignia of a jagged serpent devouring its own tail. The very sight of it sent shivers through the younger pirates.
Benn Beckmann's sharp eyes narrowed, his cigar smoldering forgotten between his fingers. "...Tch. That's no ordinary warship."
Roux's booming voice growled low. "No mistaking it. That monster's only ever flown under one man's flag."
Even Yasopp, cool under fire, felt a bead of sweat slide down his temple. The crew didn't need to be told. They all recognized the infamous galleon—the Nightwraith.
Shanks' grin widened, dangerous now. "Well, well… I didn't think we'd draw the infamous Shichibukai's attention this soon."
From the prow of the dread vessel, a lone figure emerged. Cloaked in a coat darker than pitch, with long braids whipping in the sea wind, his presence radiated menace. He leaned casually against a jagged cutlass taller than most men, as though daring the Red Hair pirates to make the first move.
The sea itself seemed to hush as his voice carried across the waves, deep and resonant:
"Red-Haired Shanks. Buggy the Clown. The New World whispers your names too often for my liking."
Benn's jaw tightened. He didn't need to hear more. The crew already knew the man who stood before them. The infamous Dorian Lacasse—the Black Serpent, one of the Seven Warlords of the Sea. A man whose reputation was carved in fire and blood, said to have sunk a fleet of Marine battleships single-handedly, and whose cruelty toward those he deemed "unworthy" rivaled even the worst of pirates.
A Shichibukai.
Shanks' hand drifted lazily to Gryphon's hilt. His grin never wavered, but his eyes had hardened into steel.
"Guess today's gonna be interesting…" he muttered, almost to himself. Then louder, with a spark of laughter that only a fool—or an emperor—could muster in such a moment:
"Oi, Buggy…" Shanks' voice was steady, almost mocking, even as the air trembled from the clash. "Think you've got this guy covered? Looks like he came here specifically for us. Might as well be tonight's entertainment."
Buggy's lips curled into a sharp sneer, his blade glinting with obsidian haki under the bleeding horizon. "Entertainment? I'll turn that snake's galleon into firewood before dinner."
But before Buggy could finish, Dorian was already upon him—his monstrous speed ripping the air apart. The Red Hair crew bristled, hands on hilts, rifles, and pistols, while Buggy's observation haki flared like lightning. His sword, blackened with armament, swung to intercept.
"CLANG!"
The impact cracked the beach. Shockwaves rippled outward, toppling crates and shattering driftwood. Sand whipped into the air like smoke from a cannon. Shanks was instantly in front of little Uta, shielding her behind him with one hand, his eyes locked on the clash. Buggy's knees strained under the pressure, the sand beneath his boots cratering—but he didn't give in. His teeth clenched, his blade screamed against Dorian's.
Dorian sneered, pressing harder, until his own instincts screamed. His observation haki flared and he twisted aside just as—
"BANG! BANG! BANG!"
Gunfire erupted. Yassop's shots whistled past Buggy's shoulder, forcing Dorian to leap back. The pirate lord clicked his tongue, irritated. His eyes darted across the crew, assessing. Too many seasoned killers. Too many hungry blades. His own "crew" were nothing but chained prisoners, broken men—useless in a real fight. A lion surrounded by wolves gained nothing.
And Dorian Lacasse wasn't here for mob brawls. He wanted blood.
"Heh-heh-heh…" His laughter slithered across the beach. "Rumor said the Red Hair Pirates were a crew stuffed with supernova rejects… but it seems the Marines underestimate you. Tell me honestly, Shanks—were you planning to sit quietly under the Emperors forever, or are you aiming for a throne yourself?"
"If you only wanted to know about us," Shanks replied coolly, stepping forward, "you could've asked. We would've introduced ourselves."
Buggy landed beside him, blade still humming, eyes never leaving Dorian. The two stood shoulder-to-shoulder, a wall of iron will.
"But you're not here to talk, are you?" Shanks' tone hardened. "No—you came here for a fight. And if it's a fight you're after…" His hand gripped Gryphon's hilt, his haki pouring out in tidal waves, bending the very air and forcing the sea itself to recoil. "…then you've found one."
"Dorararara!" Dorian's grin split wider, his aura swelling to match. "Good. At least you've got a spine. But do you have the guts to gamble it?"
From his pocket, he pulled a single coin and flicked it. It spun like a bullet, cutting through the air until Shanks caught it in his palm. It burned against his skin, steaming from heat.
Shanks' brow rose. "…So that's how it is."
A Davy Back Fight. But not the game played in mockery on Fool's ships. This was the true ritual, the ancient code among pirates.
"I didn't think you'd care about my crew that much," Shanks said softly.
Dorian's teeth glinted in the fading light. "Care? No. I don't want them as crew. I want them as corpses. But I'm not stupid enough to fight you all at once. So—what say you, Red Hair? Will you wager your entire crew's life against mine in a duel? You and me. Captain versus Captain."
For a moment, silence reigned. The crew shifted uneasily, Beckmann already stepping closer.
"Shanks, listen," Beckmann muttered lowly. "We'd have an easier time cutting him down together—"
But before he could finish, a hand shoved him lightly aside. Buggy. He tossed Shanks a loaded pistol without looking at him, his voice steady, clear. "Prove it."
Shanks blinked.
Buggy adjusted his coat, walking past Beckmann carrying Uta, as if nothing more needed to be said. "Prove to them we're following the right man." His hand clapped Beckmann's shoulder, dragging him along casually, his back already turned.
No hesitation. No doubt. Buggy had staked everything—his life, the crew's life, their very future—on one man. For once, no one could laugh at the "clown."
Shanks' fist tightened around the coin. He looked at Dorian, his grin sharpening into something dangerous. "You want a wager? Then let's make it real. I'll stake my crew's lives on this duel. But in return—" He raised the pistol, pointing skyward, his voice booming like a war drum. "—I want it to be to the death. Winner takes all."
The coin gleamed in his palm as he cocked the pistol.
"Do you have the spine for that?"
Dorian's eyes glowed with savage delight. He drew his own pistol, and in one smooth motion, both men fired skyward.
"BANG!"
"BANG!"
The sky cracked, and the duel of kings was sealed. For a heartbeat, the beach was silent. Only the hiss of the ocean and the fading echo of the pistol shots filled the air. Then, slowly, every eye turned toward Buggy.
The self-proclaimed "vice-captain," the buffoon who had spent years bickering with Shanks like a child, the man who always grumbled and whined at every inconvenience—he had just staked all their lives with the ease of someone tossing dice at a tavern table.
Not in arrogance. Not in foolishness. But in absolute trust. Roux's chicken leg slipped from his mouth. Lime Juice's smirk faltered. Even Yassop lowered his rifle for a moment, stunned.
Beckmann, usually unflappable, stood frozen where Buggy had brushed him aside. His hand hovered uselessly near his weapon, his jaw set tight as the realization sank in. He really did it. He left it all to Shanks.
Uta peeked out from behind Buggy's shoulder, her small hands clutching the fabric. Her bright eyes followed Buggy as he carried her—no trace of doubt in his stride. He didn't look back, didn't even pause. To him, the choice was already made.
For once, the crew wasn't laughing. There were no jokes, no snickers, no mocking jabs about "the clown." Instead, the silence was thick with something heavier. Something rare.
Respect.
Shanks himself felt it. His chest tightened as he caught Buggy's words echoing in his mind. Prove it to them we're following the right man.
It wasn't just faith—it was legacy. From Roger's ship to this beach, their lives had been intertwined. Buggy, the man who had mocked his dream, who had cursed his idealism, who had always claimed to want nothing to do with him… was now the one who had handed him the crew's future without hesitation.
The weight of it made Shanks' grin stretch wider, sharper, more dangerous. The Red Hair crew didn't just have one madman at the helm. They had two. And tonight, the whole world would see it. Behind them, the crew stirred again. Voices rose, low at first, then louder.
"Damn it…" Roux muttered with a grin, wiping sweat from his brow. "That fool really did it."
"Heh. Guess we can't complain now," Lime Juice said, cracking his knuckles.
Yassop chuckled, reloading his rifle with a calmness that belied his pounding heart. "Well, if Buggy's betting on Shanks… then the odds aren't half bad after all."
Finally, Beckmann let out a heavy sigh, shaking his head as he lit another cigar. "Tch. Reckless bastards. Both of you. But… fine. If we're gambling our lives tonight, I'd rather it be under that man's hand."
The crew roared in agreement, their hesitation vanishing, their morale surging like fire.
And at the center of it all stood Shanks—coin in hand, pistol raised—his vice captain's faith burning at his back like a second sun. The duel had been set, but something greater had been forged: the unshakable truth that the King's ship carried no dead weight.
****
Elbaph, New World
"Welcome to Elbaph…!"
The voice was deep yet warm, carrying the weight of centuries of history behind it. King Harald himself stood at the docks, his massive frame towering even among giants, the golden crest of Elbaph gleaming proudly upon his cloak.
At his side loomed two figures of equal renown: Prince Loki, tall and broad-shouldered, his face locked in a restless scowl; and Jarul—the oldest living warrior of the Giant race, whose very presence seemed to root the pier in unshakable strength.
Behind them stretched a sea of giants, warriors and elders alike, their gazes fixed upon the Leviathan as it docked. I stepped down onto the pier, the shadow of our ship rising behind me. And there, beside me, stood the Tontatta princess—the true reason for this lavish welcome.
"It seems," I murmured with a crooked smile, "that you're far more popular here than even I am. Look— even the King of Giants himself came to greet you."
The giants' eyes gleamed warmly as they bowed their heads to the princess. Their joy was genuine, their welcome sincere.
All except one. Prince Loki's eyes narrowed, the hostility plain. Yet even as he scowled at me, his gaze flickered past our crew—fixating on Dora. She shrank under the weight of it, her timid form stiff, guilt written across her face. Loki's lip curved into a dangerous smile.
"Tch… why are we wasting time on this farce?" His booming voice cut through the cheers. "It's not the first time pirates have dirtied our shores."
The crowd stirred uneasily.
"Loki," Harald's voice rumbled low, his tone both rebuke and warning. "You dishonor us before our guests. We host the princess of Tontatta… and a man of the Donquixote line."
Loki halted mid-step, though his defiance burned hot in his eyes. Slowly, he turned to face me, his massive shadow blotting the sun.
"Donquixote…" he said, the name rolling off his tongue with disdain. "Is that supposed to mean something?"
Our eyes met, steel against steel. I saw it flicker there—recognition. He had been at Big Mom's tea party. He had seen me crash into her sanctum, fight her in single combat, and end her reign with my own hands. For all his arrogance, Loki wasn't blind. He knew exactly what kind of man stood before him.
His jaw tightened, and his voice dropped into a growl.
"You cost me my future bride that day. And I really did like little Lola…"
I scoffed, the sound sharp enough to cut the silence. "Future bride? Don't make me laugh. How old was that child at the time—six? Seven? It surely takes a true giant to try and marry a little girl."
Gasps rippled through the onlookers. The words struck like lightning.
Loki's face twisted dark, rage boiling in his eyes. He stepped forward, fists clenching, the pier trembling beneath his weight. "You—!"
"That's enough, Loki."
King Harald's voice rolled out like thunder, halting his son in his tracks. The King's gaze shifted from him to me, a silent accusation in his eyes. You provoked him on purpose.
I only smiled faintly in return, tilting my head as if amused by the game. Harald exhaled heavily, his tone final. "Go. See your sister. I will host our guests."
Grinding his teeth, Loki turned sharply away, storming down the pier. Yet the dark promise in his glare as he passed me was unmistakable—this spat was far from over.
I let him go, my three-meter form brushing past him with deliberate ease, as though he were nothing more than another obstacle on the path. My steps carried me toward the tavern that stood along Elbaph's shore.
Tradition would have dictated I be hosted within the King's great hall. But this was not a formal embassy, and King Harald knew it. Tonight, the tavern would serve as neutral ground—less ceremony, more truth. And that suited me just fine.
"Loki…" Dora's voice carried with surprising firmness as she stepped forward, her smirk cutting across the tense air. "The next time you disrespect Brother Ross, I'm going to punch you in the face."
Before Loki could snap back, she threw her arms around him in a crushing embrace. The suddenness of it drew laughter from the crowd of giants. Loki's massive frame stiffened; his hands twitched as if he desperately wanted to pry her off, but Dora clung to him with the tenacity of a barnacle to a ship's keel. Her cheek pressed into his chest, her smile radiant.
For all his bluster, Loki was undone. He scowled, gritted his teeth, and even wriggled like a child caught in his mother's arms, but it was useless. Dora had him in her grasp, and the more he struggled, the more the scene looked ridiculous—a proud prince of Elbaph squirming against the stubborn affection of a sister he couldn't shake.
Though no blood bound them, Dora and Loki's bond was deeper than most. He had never spoken of it aloud, but Loki had always been closer to her than to his half-brother Hajrudin, despite sharing the same father with him. Dora's reckless laugh, her mischievous boldness—it reached Loki in ways lineage never could.
Finally, Loki sighed in defeat, though his pride forced him to mask it with a sharp jab.
"You'd better brace yourself," he grumbled, shooting her a sidelong glance. "Ida's been furious ever since you snuck out of Elbaph. She's probably been saving a storm's worth of punishment just for you."
Dora's grin only widened at his words. The mischief in her eyes sparked brighter, as if the threat of Ida's wrath was less a burden and more a challenge she welcomed.
Loki, for his part, tried to maintain his air of irritation, but the corners of his mouth twitched—betraying the warmth that no amount of grumbling could hide.
Loki's eyes shifted toward the party of guests who had just entered the tavern. His tone lost some of its edge, though the scrutiny in his gaze remained sharp.
"Have they been treating you well, Dora? I've heard whispers—conflicts with the World Government, skirmishes that shake the seas. Don't tell me you've gotten yourself tangled up in their messes."
The disapproval wasn't hidden. Loki had never been fond of Dora tying herself to the Donquixote family. In his eyes, pirates were a dime a dozen—and none worth admiring, save one. Rocks. The man was a living storm, a true terror of the seas. And lately, rumors suggested he might not even be dead. Compared to Rocks, this so-called Rosinante barely registered in Loki's mind.
Dora puffed her cheeks in mock anger, stomping her foot as she crossed her arms.
"Oye, watch your mouth, Loki! I'm part of the Donquixote family too. And I'm not weak like before—I could wipe the floor with you if I wanted!"
The giant prince threw his head back and roared with laughter, the sound booming through the pier like a crashing wave.
"Dohahahaha! You? Beating me? Don't make me choke on my laughter, Dora! Since when did you start deluding yourself like that fool Hajrudin?"
There was pride in his voice, though, unspoken but clear—he couldn't imagine Dora matching his strength, but her fiery spirit amused him more than he'd admit.
"Who are you calling a fool, you overgrown bastard?!"
A young, sharp voice cut through the pier. Both Loki and Dora turned just in time to see Hajrudin stride forward, his giant frame barely filling the pathway. Compared to both Loki and Dora, he was much smaller. His youthful eyes burned with challenge, and though he was smaller than both, the pride of a warrior already shone in him as the eldest among the three.
For a moment, the pier erupted in laughter, the giants still outside roaring at the sight of the siblings snapping at each other. Dora's mock fury, Loki's booming laughter, Hajrudin's fiery retort—it was the chaos only family could stir. Beneath the insults, though, the warmth was undeniable. These were not enemies, nor rivals. They were siblings—bound not by blood alone, but by the unshakable threads of kinship, mischief, and pride.