Punk Hazard, New World
The island once known as Punk Hazard had been reborn. No longer a wasteland of overgrowth and destroyed research buildings, it now stood as a sanctuary—its scarred lands reshaped into something almost miraculous. Coral structures rose where laboratories once crumbled, and clear waters lapped gently against shores that had once been poisoned by war and science.
This was no longer Punk Hazard. This was the New Fish-Man Island. The last remnants of the Fish-Man race—driven from their ancestral home, hunted, scattered—had gathered here to rebuild what the world had taken from them. Under the banner of the Whitebeard Pirates and the silent, ever-present shadow of the Donquixote Family, the island had become untouchable.
The World Government had placed bounties upon every Fish-Man they could name. It didn't matter. No one dared come to collect them. Because to even glance toward this island… was to invite death.
"Pops! Pops! Look at this—!" A pirate came sprinting across the shoreline, boots kicking up sand as he waved a freshly delivered news report.
"Doflamingo has executed another Tenryūbito! They captured the celestial dragon who was in the North Blue—!" The words carried across the coast, where the main encampment of the Whitebeard Pirates had been established. Massive ships rested at anchor just beyond the shallows, their flags fluttering proudly in the sea breeze.
Much like Sphinx Island, this place had become sacred ground to them. A lesson learned the hard way. Edward Newgate was not a man who repeated his mistakes. Fish-Man Island had once been under his protection… and it had fallen. This time, things were different.
The Whitebeard Pirates maintained an unshakable presence here. Positioned near the Red Line, New Fish-Man Island served not only as a refuge but also as a strategic stronghold. From here, they could watch, intercept, and strike. And the World Government knew it. They had tried. Again and again.
Over a dozen large-scale incursions into the New World within the past months—marine fleets bolstered by their newly formed allied army, soldiers drawn from kingdoms across the globe.
Each time…they were crushed. Not just by one Emperor. But by an unspoken understanding among them. The rulers of the New World no longer clashed blindly. They… cooperated. And against that kind of force—even the World Government could not reclaim control.
"How many is that now…? Ten? Or is it twelve…?" Diamond Jozu muttered from beneath the shade of a palm tree, his massive frame relaxed, though his eyes remained sharp. His tone was casual, but the weight behind his words wasn't. Even they could feel it.The shift. The tension that had seeped into every current, every gust of wind across the seas.
"They've declared full-scale war against the World Government…" Marco said quietly, his hands glowing faintly with blue flames as he checked over Whitebeard's condition. "And from the looks of it…" He paused. "They're at an advantage."
Marco's gaze lingered for a moment. Because what stood before him… was no longer the man the world remembered. Whitebeard—once burdened by age, illness, and countless hidden wounds—had been restored. No. Reforged.
Ever since the Donquixote Family had intervened… healed him… something had changed. The man seated cross-legged on the sand, calmly gazing out at the sea, was stronger than he had ever been—even in his so-called prime. His body bore no weakness. No decay. And with the awakening of his Devil Fruit… he had stepped into a realm of power that few could even comprehend.
"An advantage…? "Jozu scoffed lightly, though there was no mockery in it. "He's been slaughtering Tenryūbito left and right. Hunting every Celestial Dragon foolish enough to step beyond the Holy Land."
He leaned back slightly, arms crossed. "They're terrified now. Word is they won't even leave the Red Line without a Marine Admiral personally escorting them… and even then, only on the safer side." It sounded like recklessness. Madness, even. But Marco shook his head slowly.
"It looks that way… but don't mistake it." His eyes narrowed slightly. "Doflamingo is no fool." The name alone carried weight. "And with someone like Donquixote Rosinante by his side… do you really think he'd hesitate to attack the Holy Land directly if he believed he could win?"
Silence followed. Because the answer was obvious. No. "He's staying away from the Red Line for a reason," Marco continued. "Which means…"
"He knows something we don't." The implication settled heavily over the group. Slowly, Marco's gaze shifted. Toward the man who had remained silent through it all. Whitebeard. The sea breeze rustled faintly around him, his massive form unmoving, eyes fixed on the horizon as if he could see beyond it—beyond the present chaos… into whatever storm was yet to come. Because if there was anyone who might understand the caution of the Donquixote brothers…It was him.
"Pops… do you think we should… kill one of those so-called Tenryūbito… to establish our dominance?" The question came from Vista, his tone measured—but the edge beneath it was unmistakable. Temptation. Not born from cruelty… but from the shifting tides of the world itself.
The idea had taken root across the seas. An unspoken rule. A dangerous one. If a crew wished to stand among the Emperors of the New World… then they had to prove it in the blood of the Celestial Dragons. To kill a "god."
Marco's head snapped slightly toward Vista, his expression tightening almost immediately. "Vista… don't tell me you're seriously considering that." His voice wasn't loud—but it carried weight. "Just because we haven't hunted down a Tenryūbito doesn't make us any less worthy. We don't need to follow someone else's madness to prove who we are."
The faint blue flames around his hand flickered slightly, betraying the tension he kept so carefully controlled. Because he understood. More than anyone. This wasn't just ambition. It was pressure. The world itself was changing the rules. And even giants like them were not immune.
"But, Brother Marco…" A new voice cut in from behind, calm… yet laced with something deeper. "Isn't that the new norm now?"
The crew turned. From the far end of the beach, a group of figures approached—footsteps heavy against the sand. At their head was the fourth division commander of the Whitebeard Pirates, and by his side was one of the most unassuming members of the Whitebeard Pirates, Marshall D. Teach; his presence would have been missed by everyone if he hadn't spoken up.
Beside him, two members of the Whitebeard crew stood, and between all four, they carried a massive, iron-banded chest, its sheer weight evident in the way it sank into the sand with each step. The chest itself looked… powerful. Scarred. Reinforced. As if whatever lay inside had demanded it. Teach's grin was faint—but it didn't reach his eyes.
"If we don't adapt… people will start asking questions," he continued, his tone almost conversational. "Not about our reputation…" His gaze flicked briefly toward Whitebeard.
"But about our strength." The waves rolled in gently behind them, the calm utterly at odds with the tension building on the shore. "We all know the truth," Teach went on. "The other Emperors aren't ignoring this."
His voice lowered slightly. "Scarlett… Kaido…" Even their names seemed to carry weight in the air. "They're treating this like a challenge. A test of legitimacy." He stopped a few paces away from the group, the chest thudding heavily onto the sand behind him as the men set it down.
A dull, metallic echo followed. "Maybe…" Teach tilted his head slightly, his shadow stretching across the beach, "we should too." Silence fell. Not the peaceful kind. The kind that came before something broke. Because this wasn't just about killing a Tenryūbito. It was about what that act meant.
To follow the path carved by the Donquixote Family… Was to accept a world where power was proven through defiance of the gods themselves.
Marco frowned—but not because of what was said. It was who had said it. Ever since the quiet warning he had received about Marshall D. Teach, Marco had been watching him. Carefully. Silently. Teach had always been… unremarkable. A man who blended into the background. No ambition on display. No hunger that matched the chaos of the seas. The kind of pirate others overlooked.
And that was exactly what made him dangerous. To make things easier, Marco had personally brought Teach into the First Division—under his direct supervision. If there was something to uncover… he would find it. But years had passed. And Teach had shown nothing. No cracks. No signs.
Nothing that resembled the "snake" Donquixote Rosinante had warned him about. And yet… That seed of doubt had never left. Instead of responding to Teach's statement, Marco's voice cut through the air—sharp, controlled.
"Teach." The shift in tone was immediate. "I recall assigning you to perimeter patrol… alongside the First Division." His eyes narrowed slightly. "So tell me… what are you doing here with Thatch and the Fourth Division?" A pause.
"And more importantly…" His gaze flicked toward the massive chest resting in the sand. "…why are you handling the Devil Fruits?" A cold edge slipped into his voice—subtle, but unmistakable. The crew felt it instantly. Confusion spread across their faces. Marco… was rarely like this. Especially not with someone like Teach—someone almost everyone aboard the Whitebeard crew liked. Before the tension could grow further, Thatch stepped forward quickly, raising a hand with a casual grin.
"Ah, Marco… don't look so serious," he said lightly. "He was just curious about the collection. Wanted to take a quick peek, that's all." Simple. Harmless. But Marco's frown deepened. Because something… didn't sit right. He couldn't explain it. Couldn't point to anything concrete.
But his instincts—honed through countless battles—were whispering. And they had never been wrong before. Before Marco could press further—A deep, rumbling chuckle broke the tension.
"Gurarararara…!" All eyes turned. Edward Newgate finally spoke, his massive frame still relaxed as he sat upon the sand, though his presence alone commanded the entire shore.
"Do you want a Devil Fruit for yourself, Teach?" he asked, his tone warm, almost amused. "I wouldn't mind letting you choose one… once Rosinante has gone through the collection and checked if we have the fruit he's looking for."
The offer hung in the air. Among the Whitebeard Pirates, such a thing was no small matter. Their rule was clear—whoever found a Devil Fruit could claim it. Or, they could offer it to the crew's collection. And from that collection, any member could make a request… though approval ultimately rested with Whitebeard himself.
More often than not, he judged based on merit. Contribution. Loyalty. But this—this was an exception. And it did not go unnoticed. A quiet murmur spread through the crew at the mention of Rosinante. Only recently had they been informed—he was searching for a specific Devil Fruit.
And Whitebeard, without hesitation, had granted him access to their collection. It was… unusual. Risky, even. Their Devil Fruits were among their most valuable assets. And yet, no one questioned Whitebeard's decision. No one ever did.
Teach, however… Hesitated. Just for a moment. But Marco saw it. Because Teach's mind was anything but calm. He had rushed here. Not out of curiosity—but desperation. For years… decades… he had waited. Endured. Watched. Because he believed that of all pirate crews in the world, the Whitebeard Pirates had the highest chance of finding that fruit.
The one he needed. The one he had built his entire life around. And today—for the first time—he had been close, or at least he thought he was. The Fourth Division commander had been tasked with retrieving every Devil Fruit in their possession for Rosinante's inspection. And when Teach heard…panic had gripped him. Because there was something worse than not finding the fruit.
Someone else finding it first. Especially him. Rosinante. That man… Was dangerous. Not just in strength, but in awareness. He suspected. Teach knew it. Felt it. And if not for the protection of Whitebeard… he would have been eliminated long ago. So he had acted. Used curiosity as an excuse. Inserted himself into the situation.
And finally—he saw them. A dozen Devil Fruits. Each one radiating mystery. Power. Possibility.
And yet… None of them. Not the one he sought. Relief had come—but only briefly. Because then came the realization. Rosinante was searching for a specific fruit.
And worse—Whitebeard had already agreed. Any unidentified Devil Fruit they found… would be reported. Given. To Rosinante. Teach's heart tightened. Because that meant time… Was no longer on his side. And for the first time in years— The man who had waited so patiently…Felt the creeping edge of urgency.
"Do you have something on your mind, Teach…? Say it." Edward Newgate's voice was calm, but it carried the quiet authority of a man who had ruled the seas long before most of those present had even set sail.
Teach paused. For a fraction of a second, his eyes flickered. Because this—this moment—was exactly what he had been waiting for. He had already confirmed it. The Yami Yami no Mi was not among the current collection. Relief had come… but it was incomplete.
Because now, a far greater threat loomed. Rosinante. If that man was searching for a specific Devil Fruit—and if Whitebeard had promised to hand over any such find— then Teach's years of patience could crumble in an instant.
So he adapted. As he always did. A faint smile curled within his mind—but none of it reached his face. Outwardly, he hesitated. His expression tightened, as if struggling against his own thoughts, as though what he was about to say pained him.
"Pops…" he began slowly, his tone careful, respectful. "I don't mean to question your decision…"
A pause. Just long enough to draw attention. "But I can't help but wonder… why are we accommodating such a request?" Murmurs stirred faintly among the crew. Teach lowered his gaze slightly, as if weighing his words.
"To call him a stranger wouldn't be accurate…" he continued. "If we're being honest…" His eyes lifted again. "He's a rival." The word settled heavily. "One of the Emperor crews that currently holds the greatest sway in the New World."
Now, the shift was subtle—but undeniable. Attention sharpened. Thoughts began to align. "There are already whispers spreading across the seas," Teach went on, his voice still calm, still measured. "That it's no longer us who stand at the top…" A slight pause. "But them." The Donquixote Family.
Even unspoken, the name echoed in everyone's mind. "And yet… here we are," Teach continued softly, "accommodating their requests. Fulfilling their wishes." He let the words linger. Not accusatory. Not forceful. Just… present.
"Asking for something as significant as access to our Devil Fruit collection… without even telling us what he's looking for…" He shook his head faintly, as if troubled. "…isn't that a bit excessive?" The murmurs grew louder now. Not defiant. But thoughtful. Doubt… taking root. Teach pressed on—gently.
"We all understand how valuable these are," he said, gesturing slightly toward the chest. "Each Devil Fruit… a mystery. A power that can change the tides of battle." His tone deepened slightly. "Even with the encyclopedia, we can barely identify a fraction of what we find. Most of these fruits… we don't even fully understand."
A pause. "But someone like Rosinante… searching for a specific one?" His eyes darkened ever so slightly. "That can't be trivial." Now the idea had taken shape. Not just doubt. But suspicion.
"It could be something… extraordinary," Teach added. "Something powerful enough to shift the balance of the seas itself." The wind stirred faintly.
"And every one of these fruits…" he continued, his voice lowering, "was obtained through the blood and sweat of this crew." Now—he struck the heart. "We fought for them. Bled for them. Lost brothers for them." His gaze swept across the gathered pirates.
"Can we really allow an outsider—no matter who he is—to walk in… and take something that could one day define our strength?" Silence. Heavy. Charged. Because now it wasn't about Rosinante. It wasn't about agreements. It was about them.
Their effort. Their sacrifices. Their future. Around the beach, heads began to nod. Quietly. Gradually. Men who moments ago had said nothing… now found themselves agreeing. Because Teach hadn't forced them. He hadn't demanded anything.
He had simply… Guided them. Placed the right thoughts. The right doubts. And let them grow.
After all, the Donquixote family and the Whitebeard Pirates might share an understanding… but they were still rivals. Two forces vying for the same throne.
And if Rosinante sought a Devil Fruit so badly… Then it had to be something special. Something worth fearing. Something worth keeping. And Teach—standing there with that same calm, almost humble expression—watched it all unfold. Patient. Careful. Cunning. As the tide of the crew's emotions began to turn—exactly as he intended.
"Teach…!" The voice that cut through the rising murmurs was not Marco's this time. It was Diamond Jozu. There was no hesitation in it. No softness. Only weight.
"Have you already forgotten… what the Donquixote Family has done for us?" The beach fell still. Jozu rose slowly from beneath the shade, his towering frame casting a long shadow across the sand. His expression, usually calm and unshaken, now carried a rare intensity.
"What they did for Pops…?" His gaze flicked toward Edward Newgate, who remained seated, silent—but listening. "They pulled him back from the brink of death."
The words landed heavily. Because every man there knew it. They had seen it. Felt it. There had been a time when even Jozu himself had distrusted the Donquixote Family. A time when the very idea of standing alongside them felt wrong—especially with the reputation of a man like Doflamingo at its head.
But that time had passed. Because actions spoke louder than legends. And when it mattered most—The Donquixote Family had acted. Jozu's eyes shifted, scanning the crew—lingering on those who had nodded along with Teach, those who now stood uncertain, caught between pride and memory.
"Is that what all of you think as well…?" he asked, his voice lowering, but growing sharper. "That we should measure everything in terms of rivalry and gain?" No one answered. Because no one could. Jozu took a step forward, the sand crunching beneath his feet.
"It seems… many of you have very short memories." The accusation wasn't shouted. It didn't need to be. It cut deeper because of how quietly it was spoken.
"Tell me this…" He paused. And when he spoke again, his voice carried something heavier than anger. Truth. "Back then… when Fish-Man Island fell…" The air seemed to tighten. Because that memory—still hurt.
"If the Donquixote Family had treated us as rivals then… if they had chosen to stand aside… or worse, take advantage of our weakness…" His eyes hardened. "How many of us would be standing here today?"
Silence. Absolute. Because everyone knew the answer. Not many. Maybe none. Faces that once carried agreement now lowered. Eyes that had burned with pride now dimmed with realization. Jozu didn't stop.
"How many of our brothers would be rotting at the bottom of the sea?" he pressed. "How many of us would have died…?" His hand clenched slightly. "…myself included."
That struck harder than anything else. Because Jozu was not a man who spoke lightly of his own life. If he said it, it was real. "They didn't," he continued, his voice steady once more. "They didn't treat us as enemies. They didn't exploit our loss."
"They helped us." The words echoed. "They stood with us." Another step forward. "They bled for us." Now, no one could meet his gaze. Because this wasn't about power anymore. This was about debt. About honor. About something pirates rarely admitted—but all understood. Gratitude. Jozu's eyes swept across the crew one last time.
"So tell me…" His voice dropped, quiet but unyielding. "Are we really going to forget that… the moment it becomes inconvenient?" No one spoke.
The earlier tension—the suspicion, the pride, the rising greed—all of it collapsed under the weight of a single, undeniable truth. Because no matter how the seas had changed… No matter what new rules the world tried to impose…Some things could not be ignored. And among them—
Was the debt they owed to the Donquixote family.
"Gurararara…!" The booming laughter rolled across the shore like distant thunder, shattering the heavy silence that had settled after Jozu's words. All eyes turned. Edward Newgate rose slowly from where he sat, his towering frame casting an immense shadow over the gathered crew. The sea breeze tugged at his coat, but the weight of his presence alone seemed to still the air itself.
"At least a few of my sons…" he said, his voice deep and steady, "…still think straight." A faint smile tugged at his lips—but there was no warmth in his eyes. Only clarity. "And remember what gratitude is."
The words carried. Not loudly. But undeniably. Whitebeard's gaze swept across the beach—passing over Marco, lingering briefly on Jozu… and then, almost imperceptibly—resting on Marshall D. Teach.
"It doesn't matter to me what the world thinks," Whitebeard continued, his tone unwavering. "Whether they see it as weakness…" A pause. "…or foolishness." The waves crashed softly behind him. "But what I owe them…" His voice deepened. "…is a debt of life."
The weight of those words pressed down on every man present. "Not one. Not two." His gaze hardened. "But the lives of most of my sons who still stand here today." No one moved. No one dared. Because this was no longer a discussion. This was judgment.
"And if that gratitude…" Whitebeard went on, "…cannot be fulfilled with mere trinkets…" His eyes flicked briefly toward the chest of Devil Fruits resting in the sand. "…then what value do those trinkets even hold?" A ripple of realization passed through the crew.
"It doesn't matter if it's one… or a hundred Devil Fruits," he declared. "Even if the fruit in question granted the power of a god itself—" His voice rose, not in anger… but in absolute conviction. "—it would still fall short of repaying what we owe."
Silence followed. But this time, it was different. Not tense. Not uncertain. Resolved. Whitebeard's presence bore down upon them—not as a tyrant, but as a father reminding his sons of who they were. Of what they stood for. Slowly, he turned his head slightly, his gaze settling once more—directly on Teach.
"Listen well…" The words were calm. But beneath them lay something unmistakable. A warning. "We are pirates."
"We take what we want… when we want it." A pause. "But we do not forget." His eyes narrowed ever so slightly. "And we do not repay those who saved our lives… with doubt, suspicion… or deceit."
The message was clear. Not just to Teach. But to every man who had, even for a moment, entertained the thought of going back on their word. Rivalry did not erase debt. Power did not erase honor. And Whitebeard would never allow his crew to fall so low.
"We may stand on different sides of the sea…" he continued, his voice easing slightly, though the authority never left it. "We may one day clash as enemies…" A faint smirk crossed his face.
"But until that day comes—" His gaze lifted toward the horizon, where the unseen forces of the New World stirred. "—I will not stain this crew's name by repaying sincerity… with insincerity."
The wind picked up again. The tension broke. And just like that, the matter was settled. Not by argument. Not by force. But by the unshakable will of the man who ruled them all. And as the crew lowered their heads—some in shame, others in quiet agreement—one thing became clear.
No matter how much the world changed…some lines…could never be crossed.