Weiwei saw the handcuffed Pirate King, Gol D. Roger, seated calmly on the execution platform like a sovereign presiding over his final court. His expression was serene, devoid of bitterness or fear. He laughed—not just at himself, but at the world, the masses, and the irony of it all.
Weiwei's gaze drifted across the crowd and somehow, despite never having met them, she instinctively recognized many of the spectators—future giants of the sea.
There stood Shanks, youthful and red-haired, with tears silently streaming down his cheeks. Bucky the Clown cried beside him, visibly shaken. Hidden in the shadows was a younger Sir Crocodile, his sand powers dormant, his eyes cold. Among the rising figures were early versions of Moonlight Moria and Donquixote Doflamingo, their ambitions not yet fully corrupted. Dracule "Hawk Eyes" Mihawk stood with a calm intensity, his cross-shaped sword at his back. In the crowd was also the revolutionary Monkey D. Dragon, his iconic tattoo missing, still unmarked by the war he would one day lead. Captain Smoker, then a boy with snowy hair, observed quietly. Even Nefertari Vivi, the tomboyish Alabasta princess, stood among them—though this version of her bore no memory of it.
Roger stood flanked by two Marine executioners. Though the event had occurred two decades prior and was not tied to her directly, Weiwei still felt her chest tighten, as if history itself weighed down on her.
She had always dismissed the idea of "charisma" as superstition—an illusion born of status, learning, or trials—but now she understood. True charisma had no form, no symmetry, no connection to beauty or aesthetics. It was spirit. An unshakable essence.
"Your era is ending… is there anything I can do for you?" Weiwei found her voice carried across the veil of time. "Someone to protect? A grudge to settle?"
Her power, awakened through resonance, seemed temporarily amplified—allowing her to commune with the spirit of Gol D. Roger in this timeless echo.
She didn't know why she offered, only that she should. If he had asked her to protect Portgas D. Ace, she would have tried her best, without condition.
Roger sat cross-legged atop the platform, as though meditating. Her question reached him, and he answered—not with grief, but joy.
"Hahahaha! I lived a good life. I had rivals, but no enemies. My wife and son will walk their own paths, and they don't need protection. Go forth, child... shake the very heavens with your will!—Hahahaha!"
Weiwei's mood wavered. Wasn't I trying to walk the path of low-key survival? The Shilipo Sword God path? she mentally groaned, which only made Roger laugh harder. It wasn't the twisted, exaggerated laughter of typical pirates—it was sincere. A heartfelt farewell to life.
The pressure in Weiwei's chest mounted. Her heartbeat pounded like war drums—dong, dongdong, dongdongdong.
And then, Roger uttered his final words, cutting through the air like a blade:
"Want my treasure? I left everything I own in One Piece. Go find it!"
A final shout—followed by the clash of blades. Blood blossomed, and with a peaceful smile, Gol D. Roger closed his eyes.
Weiwei didn't cry. Neither did Roger. But an ache remained. As a witness to this memory echo, she could feel the unfairness of it, the weight of what was lost. Even as a bystander, the sense of tragedy was overwhelming.
As the echo faded, Weiwei's vision swept across the crowd one final time.
These bystanders would one day become Yonkō, Shichibukai, or even the World's Greatest Swordsman. Yet now, they were like seeds, dormant, unsure. Whether they admired Roger or not, none could deny his presence.
Some would curse his name. Others would honor it. And some would see opportunity in his death. But none would forget him.
Roger was freedom incarnate. The rules of the world could never restrain him. Even his death was a defiance—a performance that sparked the Great Pirate Era.
He was a man who burned until the end.
The resonance ended. Weiwei's soul was pulled away from the whirlpool of memory. But her heartbeat, chaotic and furious, made her mind slow to return.
In the real world—on the streets of Loguetown, the final port before the Grand Line—her body stood unresponsive.
"Oi? What's wrong with her?"
"Hey! She's just standing there, is she broken?"
Despite being patrolled by Marine officers, Loguetown crawled with danger. Pirate scum, bounty hunters, and slavers alike hid among the shadows.
Three rough-looking men began circling her.
"She looks young. Won't even have time to scream."
"No problem. Nobles pay more for them soft types. Heh heh…"
"Let's wrap her up quick. This score's gonna buy us a ship!"
Their predatory eyes glinted. They moved to close off sightlines from pedestrians, using their bodies as human walls.
On a distant rooftop, Van Augur—the sniper of the Blackbeard Pirates—watched silently, his long rifle Senriku in hand.
"How pitiful… Another crossroads. Should I intervene… or end her?" he murmured. "Fate hasn't whispered either way…"
He took out a coin and flipped it. "Heads, I help. Tails, she dies. Let fate decide."
As the coin spun in the air, time seemed to still. At that exact moment, Weiwei's consciousness snapped back.
Her eyes opened.
She saw the sneers, the ropes, the cloth sacks—saw the intentions in those greedy eyes.
The rage hit her all at once—Roger's death, the world's cruelty, her own weakness.
Had she been too soft? Too evasive? Was this what happened when you chose passivity?
No more.
The fury in her heart surged like magma. She straightened her back. Her fists clenched. Her pupils burned with light.
Her Haki—undisciplined but monstrous—flared like wildfire.
"GET LOST!—"
A wave of Conqueror's Haki erupted, invisible but absolute. The air bent. The men staggered, their eyes rolled up—and they dropped, unconscious.
Van Augur lowered his rifle slightly.
"Heads it is… Overlord's spirit, huh?"