Dressrosa, New World
"You sure are bold," Kuzan muttered, hands stuffed lazily into his pockets as his long strides carried him through the bustling avenues of Dressrosa. His eyes, cool and detached, swept over the vibrant plazas, the clamor of merchants, and the rhythmic music that filled the air. "Allowing a Marine Admiral and Vice Admiral into the heart of your territory… I half-expected you to turn us away. Or at least put up a fight."
Only Kuzan and Garp had been permitted to disembark. The rest of the Vice Admiral's fleet remained anchored offshore, a half-dozen massive railguns trained on their ship—a clear reminder that Dressrosa welcomed them on its own terms.
I walked beside them, smiling faintly, the picture of a gracious host. "We do not turn away guests, Kuzan-san. Or have you already forgotten?" My eyes gleamed as I gestured toward the grand thoroughfares lined with colorful architecture. "We've already hosted a World Government Elder. Compared to that, entertaining a Marine Admiral is hardly unusual."
The Admiral's sharp gaze narrowed, but he said nothing.
Behind him, Monkey D. Garp took in the city with quiet astonishment. He had been here once before, accompanying Saint Saturn not long before the last Reverie. That had been the day Donquixote Doflamingo shook the world itself—blowing apart Mary Geoise, reducing the Holy Land to rubble, and sending shockwaves through the Celestial Dragons that still reverberated years later. Garp, who had seen madmen and conquerors rise and fall, had found himself grinning at the sheer audacity of it back then.
Now, as he walked these streets again, he could not help but marvel. Dressrosa had grown into something staggering: a jewel of the New World, teeming with life, its economy booming, its defenses ever-present but hidden beneath the festival-like veneer. Tourists, traders, and wanderers from every sea thronged the streets, blissfully unaware—or willfully ignorant—that they stood within the domain of one of the most infamous pirate families alive.
And yet, the Donquixote Family welcomed even him—the Marine Hero—into its beating heart without hesitation. That confidence alone was enough to make a lesser man uneasy.
But Garp's attention was not fixed on the revelry. His sharp eyes scanned discreetly, probing, searching. The true purpose of their visit had nothing to do with diplomacy or hospitality. Word had reached Marine HQ that an unknown force had laid siege to Dressrosa. Their mission was to confirm the truth of that report. Neither he nor Kuzan had expected to be received with such openness. Doflamingo's call, granting them passage, had been an even greater surprise.
Kuzan, extending his Observation Haki, had swept the city on arrival. The surface told him nothing—no fear in the populace, no hidden unrest, no clash of wills. If a battle had occurred, perhaps it had been far from the capital.
But Garp… Garp felt something different.
His Observation Haki pressed deeper, searching the island's contours, tracing memory against the present. The last time he had visited, a bustling port town had sprawled across the eastern shore. Now, in its place, there yawned a vast bay—unnatural, as though the land itself had been sheared away by a blade.
His jaw tightened.
More unsettling than the vanished town was the faint, lingering echo that resonated in that wound upon the earth. Residual Haki. The traces had been erased carefully, masterfully—but not even the most skilled could erase everything once Haki crossed a certain threshold. The world itself remembered.
And Garp recognized it. One signature was familiar—Rosinante, steady and resolute. But the other… the other stirred an old memory, long buried. His fists clenched at his sides as it struck him: he had felt this presence once before, decades ago, and then a couple of years ago when Whitebeard and Shiki crossed paths with a man who should not have existed. A shadow that had haunted the seas, only whispered of, never confirmed.
His instincts screamed at him. It was the same.
The old Marine finally broke his silence, his voice carrying the weight of cannon fire. "It seems you've had some… unwanted visitors recently."
Kuzan's head tilted sharply, eyes narrowing at his mentor's bluntness. The Fleet Admiral had been explicit—the investigation was to remain discreet. No provocations, no questions that revealed the Marine's hand. Yet Garp had cut straight to the marrow, baring their purpose with a single line.
For a moment, the festival atmosphere seemed to still, as if the island itself listened for how Dressrosa would answer.
"Well… yes," I admitted, my tone deliberately casual, as though brushing aside the gravity of what had happened. "There was some disturbance. But as you can see—" I swept a hand toward the lively streets, alive with color and music, "—nothing that we couldn't handle."
Garp's sharp eyes did not follow my gesture. They stayed locked on me, hard as cannon shot.
"So…" his voice rumbled, low and deliberate, "…did you confirm the identity of the attacker?"
There it was—the question he cared most about. The faint tremor in his voice was not hesitation, but weight. He wanted to know if his instincts were right, if the phantom he'd once felt long ago had truly resurfaced.
I gave him a smooth smile, unbothered. "Unfortunately, no. Whoever it was, they vanished before our forces could intervene." Then, tilting my head, I added lightly, "You seem unusually interested, Garp-sensei. That's… uncharacteristic of you. Do you perhaps have an inkling of who it could have been?"
I looked him straight in the eye, my expression guileless, almost curious.
But Garp saw through me. He always did. He had been there in my youth—mentor, hammer, and forge. He knew the subtle ticks I thought I'd buried. He could tell when I was lying.
For a long moment, the two of us locked eyes. Neither blinked.
Finally, the old hero sighed, his shoulders rolling as though he was tossing the weight from them. "Forget it. Nothing good comes from talking about it."
To Kuzan's surprise, the matter was dropped just like that. The Admiral blinked at his mentor's sudden dismissal. A moment ago, he thought Garp might plant a fist in Rosinante's face to force the truth free. Now, he was wandering away as though the mission had concluded itself.
And wandering not just anywhere.
"Oi, oi, oi—what's that smell?" Garp's nostrils flared, his head snapping toward a nearby stall where thick skewers of sizzling exotic meat roasted over an open flame. His eyes lit up like a child's. "Heehee! Exotic skewers, huh? Been a while since I had one of these!"
Before Kuzan or I could stop him, the Marine Hero was already at the stall, grinning from ear to ear.
"Give me three of those—no, five—no, better make it ten!" Garp bellowed, slapping the counter like a man calling for drinks at a tavern. The shopkeeper, startled for half a heartbeat, suddenly broke into a beaming smile as he recognized the Marine hero.
"Of course, Vice Admiral Garp! An honor! Please, take them—all of them, if you wish! And do not worry about the payment…"
"Eh? You don't want payment?" Garp asked, though his hand was already reaching greedily for the skewers.
The shopkeeper bowed so low his forehead nearly struck the wood. "Payment? Hah! You jest! You are a guest of the royal family! It would be unforgivable to take coin from you. Please, eat your fill! And worry not we will be reimbursed for our goods and services by the Donquixote family directly…"
Garp's booming laugh shook the street. "Bwahaha! I like this place!" He shoved three skewers into his mouth at once, chewing noisily. "Mm! That's good meat! Kuzan, try one!"
The Admiral sighed, hands still buried in his pockets. "I'm fine."
But Garp was already moving on, knowing that the Donquixote family will foot the bill, a storm of appetite rampaging through Dressrosa's food stalls. At one, he devoured plates of grilled sea beast ribs, grease running down his chin. At another, he inhaled an entire tray of sugared confections, leaving only powdered sugar dust on his face. A third saw him plowing through roasted shellfish by the bucket.
It finally struck me why Luffy turned out to be such an insatiable glutton—gluttony ran in their very bloodline. From Garp devouring meals like a force of nature to Luffy inhaling food like a bottomless void, it isn't just habit, it's heritage; the Monkey family carried hunger in their genes as surely as they carried the Will of D.
And everywhere Garp went, the reaction was the same.
"Vice Admiral Garp! An honor, sir, please—take as much as you like!"
"Eat more, eat more! My stall has been blessed!"
"Look, Mama, the Hero of the Marines is eating my cooking!"
The people cheered, not with fear or suspicion, but genuine joy. To them, the Donquixote Family's guests were their guests. And such was the respect they held for the monarchy that had rebuilt their nation that even the Marines—enemies in name—were treated like beloved dignitaries.
By the time we left the avenue, Garp's hands were overflowing with delicacies. Meat skewers, glazed fruit, candied chestnuts, a steaming bag of fried dumplings—all crammed under his arms, stacked high like treasure.
Kuzan, despite his protests, had been reduced to an errand boy, carrying three boxes of baked pastries under one arm and a jug of rice wine under the other. His long face betrayed his irritation, though the crowd only laughed at the sight of the stoic Admiral saddled with his superior's bounty.
As for Garp, he marched proudly through the street, chomping noisily, grease shining on his cheeks. The dignity of the Marine Hero was gone, devoured along with his twelfth skewer. He was simply Garp—hungry, unstoppable, and absolutely unashamed.
And through it all, Dressrosa's people cheered him on, their laughter and goodwill ringing through the night. To them, the Donquixote Family were not pirates. They were kings. Legitimate rulers. Their word law, their guests honored.
The world might have seen Dressrosa as a pirate stronghold. But within its walls, it was something else entirely: a kingdom at peace under the rule of its chosen monarchs.
****
The Grand Line was never merciful.
For days, their small vessel had been battling against currents that twisted like serpents and winds that screamed like banshees. But now, as Robin finally lowered the telescope and exhaled, there was something more pressing than fatigue in her voice.
"According to the charts," she said, brushing back damp strands of raven hair, "we should be seeing Little Garden anytime now…"
Relief laced her tone, but her hands still trembled slightly as they rested on the rolled sea maps spread across the deck. This voyage had been anything but simple. Reaching Little Garden was like chasing a phantom—an island preserved in a pocket of time, hidden behind the mysteries of the Grand Line's weather.
Robin had only spoken of it once, in passing, during a tea conversation with Dr. Kureha. But that passing mention had lit a fire in the old doctor's eyes, one that had lain dormant for decades.
When Kureha discovered that the Donquixote family held charts capable of pinpointing Little Garden's elusive location, she hadn't hesitated. She called it "an educational journey for the brat"—meaning Law—but it was plain to anyone with eyes: the island had stirred something deeper in her. A thirst for discovery, for old memories, for unfinished business.
And so here they were: Robin, Law, Lucci, and the indomitable witch of Drum herself, braving seas that would have broken lesser crews. The weather worsened with every mile they closed.
Dark clouds unfurled like curtains around them, shutting out the sun. A wall of fog rose on all sides, thick and unyielding, an oceanic labyrinth that erased horizon and sky. Lightning forked across the heavens, illuminating fleeting glimpses of waves that surged high enough to swallow their vessel whole. The air smelled of ozone and damp earth, as if nature itself resisted their intrusion.
"Impenetrable…" Robin whispered, running her fingers over the log pose trembling on her chart. "It's as if the fog swallows direction itself."
That was no exaggeration. Little Garden, and the waters around Little Garden, was an infamous myth even among veteran navigators. Without an Eternal Log Pose, it was believed to be almost almost impossible to pin down.
Even those who stumbled upon it by sheer accident seldom dared set foot on its prehistoric shores. Legends told that a Log Pose required a full year to reset on Little Garden, and no soul stranded there had ever lasted that long.
Law adjusted his hat against the rain pelting down. His voice cut through the storm. "Master… is the island really that special?"
It was the first time he had seen Kureha so animated. Normally distant, uninterested in worldly affairs, she had been the one dragging them all into this madness, her high heels thudding against the deck with stubborn resolve.
Kureha's grin stretched wide—so wide it seemed half-wicked, half-ecstatic. Her face, lined by the years, caught the flash of lightning and looked almost otherworldly. "Special? Not just special, brat. That island is a treasure trove."
She pointed her gnarled finger toward the shrouded horizon. "The island ages differently. Slower. Things that perished in the outside world—plants, beasts, entire species—may still live there untouched. A natural vault of extinction." Her cackle split the storm.
"Dinosaur bones you've studied in books? You'll find their descendants roaming alive! Plants thought lost for millennia? Still blooming, untouched by time! Even diseases long erased from human memory might linger, waiting for a doctor bold enough to study them."
Her eyes gleamed, the fire of discovery blazing in their depths. Law swallowed hard. He knew that grin—witch-like, manic, but fueled by something more dangerous than madness: unrelenting curiosity. He wisely kept his mouth shut. Experience had taught him that any comment about her age or appearance would earn him a painful lesson in humility.
Robin, the sharpest among the the three, smiled softly. "You sound like a young lady setting out on her first voyage, Kureha-san."
The old doctor snorted but didn't hide the faint twitch of pleasure at the words.
Their ship groaned as another wave slammed against its hull. Robin clutched her maps tighter, squinting through the storm. "Starboard! Three degrees—now!"
Lucci stood at the helm, his young yet powerful hands gripping the wheel with unyielding precision. The wood creaked and screamed, but he didn't falter, guiding the vessel exactly where Robin directed. His face was impassive, but the storm raged all around him—water cascading across his shoulders, wind tearing at his coat, thunder reverberating in his chest.
"Hold steady!" Robin shouted, her voice nearly drowned by the roar of nature. "We're close!"
Kureha braced herself against the mast, her coat whipping like a banner in the wind. And as lightning flashed across the sky, her mind drifted—not to the storm, not to the danger, but to memories buried nearly a century deep.
Law found himself lost in his mentor's words. If this island truly preserved secrets long thought extinct, then could it also hold something that might cure Amber Lead Syndrome… something that could help save Lami…?
But Robin's sharp instincts caught something in Dr. Kureha's voice that Law missed. It wasn't the excitement of an explorer chasing a myth, nor the curiosity of someone about to set foot on unknown land for the first time. No—the way Kureha spoke carried certainty. Familiarity. The cadence of memory rather than speculation.
Robin narrowed her eyes, her mind already connecting threads from the doctor's earlier words. Kureha wasn't simply imagining what they might find on Little Garden. She was remembering.
"Kureha-san…" Robin's voice was calm, but tinged with curiosity. "You don't sound like someone preparing to visit a legendary island for the first time."
The storm cracked overhead, thunder briefly swallowing her words, but she pressed on, her gaze fixed on the old woman. "Tell me… have you been to Little Garden before?"
For a moment, Kureha's crooked smile widened, and the glint in her eyes seemed almost mischievous. She tapped her cane against the deck, chuckling low in her throat.
"Heh… sharp girl."
"Yes, child," Kureha admitted when Robin asked outright, her voice calm despite the storm. "Almost a century ago. Back when I was still roaming these seas."
Her gaze softened, distant. "I landed there by chance, not even realizing what Little Garden was. I didn't wait for my Log Pose to reset—the time required was far too long. I had no choice but to leave. Later, I tried to return… but the island slipped away, as though it had vanished from the world. I never thought I would see it again." She turned her eyes toward Robin.
"So when you told me the Donquixote family had a way to get there… I knew I had underestimated their reach. And for once, I am grateful." Her words carried more weight than gratitude alone. They carried longing.
Her memory drifted deeper, to that fateful landing so many decades ago. The island had been unlike any other—lush jungles teeming with creatures thought extinct, rivers cutting through valleys where thunder-lizards bellowed into the skies. But more than beasts, it had been giants who defined her stay; nothing about the entire island was little.
Dorry and Broggy. Two giant warriors locked in eternal combat.
She could still see them in her mind's eye: two colossal figures, their weapons crashing together with earth-shaking force, their laughter booming even as blood stained their blades. They had been fighting not for hatred, but for pride—an argument over which sea king's kill had been larger, dragged into a duel spanning years.
Kureha had tended their wounds in those days, her sharp tongue and iron will forcing them into temporary truces so she could patch them up before they resumed their clash. To her surprise, they had accepted her—tiny, fragile human though she was. For weeks, she had lived among them, listening to their tales of Elbaf, of honor and brotherhood. She had almost grown fond of their ridiculous stubbornness.
And then she had left, Log Pose unfinished, her destiny pulling her elsewhere.
Now, nearly a century later, her chest tightened with a bittersweet ache. "I wonder…" she murmured under her breath, too soft for the storm to swallow. "Are Dorry and Broggy still fighting? It would not surprise me. For all I know, they are still clashing, even now."
Her grip tightened on the railing. She hoped—no, she needed—to see them again. To prove that time had not erased them, that the eternal battle still raged. To find them still alive would be a victory against the endless march of years.
And perhaps… to thank them properly.
The storm thickened, the fog curling closer like the maw of some great beast. Their ship pressed on, guided by Robin's careful calculations and Lucci's steady hands. Law stood by the railing, knuckles white as he gripped the slick wood, staring into the haze with a mixture of dread and anticipation.
Above them all, Kureha's cackle rang once more, defiant against the tempest.
After decades anchored on Drum, she had set sail once again—not for politics, not for power, but for knowledge and for memory. Little Garden was more than a prehistoric island to her. It was unfinished business. A fragment of her youth calling her back across the span of a century.
And if the storm ahead truly concealed the island she remembered, then perhaps it also concealed the answer to the question that gnawed at her heart: Were Dorry and Broggy still crossing blades, locked in a duel that had defied even time itself?
The thought made her grin wide, her heart hammering with a rhythm she hadn't felt in decades. Adventure, discovery, danger, nostalgia—this was living.
And as the ship plunged deeper into the storm, everyone aboard could feel it too. The fog was not a barrier. It was a threshold. Beyond it waited Little Garden.