A week had passed.
The wind shrieked through the icy canyons of the snowbound island, rattling pine trees and sweeping frost across jagged cliffs. Ravens circled overhead, their cries sharp against the silence. Below, nestled in the valley, a village glowed softly—warm, quiet, and unaware.
Crunch.
Crunch.
Edward Weevil stomped through the snow, each step heavy and uneven. His massive frame loomed like a misplaced glacier, his green jacket crusted with ice, lips cracked and swollen from the cold.
"Mamaaaa," he groaned, dragging the word out like a child. "I'm hunnngrryyyyy…"
Buckingham Stussy walked ahead, untouched by the chill. Her crimson coat shimmered with fur trim, golden hair tucked beneath a silk scarf. Her eyes, sharp and calculating, scanned the village below.
"You'll eat soon, darling," she said, voice smooth as silk. "You earned it. That last ship—what a mess you made."
Weevil grinned, puffing out his chest. "I smashed the deck! And I threw the captain into the sea! Just like you said!"
Stussy chuckled, patting his arm. "Yes, yes. You were perfect. Your father would've admired your strength."
She paused, then added with a sly smile, "Though he might've taught you to chew with your mouth closed."
Weevil blinked. "Chew… closed?"
"Never mind, sweetie."
They reached the village edge, where a wooden sign swung gently above a pair of thick doors:
PEOPLE'S TAVERN
The doors creaked open.
Inside, warmth wrapped around them like a blanket. Firelight danced across wooden beams, and laughter filled the air. Villagers, traders, and mercenaries crowded the tables, mugs clinking and stew steaming. Waiters darted between chairs, arms full of roasted meats and frothy ale.
Then silence.
Heads turned. Conversations paused.
Weevil ducked under the doorway, dragging snow behind him. His head nearly brushed the ceiling. He sniffed the air, eyes wide with delight.
"Smells like meat!!"
Stussy offered a polite smile to the nearest waiter.
"A table. Something hearty for my son. And wine for me."
The staff hesitated. One waiter leaned toward another.
"Is that… Whitebeard's kid?"
"Looks like it. And that woman—she's trouble."
One finally stepped forward, voice trembling. "R-right this way, ma'am."
They were seated near the central pillar, beneath a mounted boar's head and a painted sign:
"Respect the Peace. All Fights Take It Outside."
Stussy removed her gloves with deliberate grace, her crimson nails gleaming like blood on snow. She swirled her wineglass, watching the room with quiet amusement.
Weevil bounced his legs under the table, causing nearby mugs to tremble.
"Why do people stare, Mama?" he asked, mouth full of curiosity.
"Because they're afraid, darling," she replied, sipping her wine. "Afraid of what you are. What you could become."
"I don't wanna scare people," he said, frowning.
Stussy leaned in, voice low and sweet. "You don't have to want it. You just have to be it."
The first plate arrived—a mountain of roasted yak, garlic potatoes piled high beside it. Weevil let out a gleeful roar and dove in, tearing meat with both hands.
"Mmmm!! Mama, this is the best meat ever!"
A waiter lingered nearby, nervously watching the carnage.
"Would you… like anything else, sir?"
Weevil looked up, sauce smeared across his face. "More meat!"
Stussy raised an eyebrow. "And bring something sweet for dessert. He's earned it."
The waiter nodded and scurried off.
"Eat, my darling. Tomorrow, we sail again. There's a Navy outpost nearby. And I think it's time they remembered the name Whitebeard."
Iris darted between chairs, dodging elbows and swinging mugs, her white hair trailing behind her like a comet's tail. Laughter echoed around her as she giggled, weaving through the crowd. A kind assistant waiter handed her a small wooden cup.
"Apple and honey," he said with a wink.
"Thank you!" she chirped, taking a sip before dashing off again, chasing a merchant's son near the counter.
Laughter. Movement. Joy.
Then—
A voice. Smooth. Sharp. Honeyed and strange.
"My, my," came the coo, like silk over steel. "What a precious little thing."
Iris slowed. The voice didn't sound like the others. It was too sweet. Too still.
She turned.
Stussy's polite smile didn't reach her eyes. "Come here, child."
Curiosity tugged at Iris's feet. She stepped forward, her stuffed bear dangling from one hand. Ragnar, polishing mugs behind the bar, stiffened. His eyes followed her, jaw tight.
Stussy leaned forward, her gaze intense. "Such beautiful eyes," she whispered, her crimson nail tracing the air near Iris's cheek. "Golden. Like embers in a dying fire. I once knew a man with eyes like that. A great man. The strongest in the world."
Iris blinked. "My papa has gold eyes too."
Stussy's smile widened. "Yes, dear. But this man… this man was a king. My lover, Edward Newgate. Whitebeard."
She gestured grandly to the hulking figure beside her, who was now attempting to stuff an entire potato into his mouth.
"And this is his son. His true heir. My sweet Weevil."
Weevil looked up, cheeks bulging. "Mmmph! Hullo!"
Iris tilted her head, studying him with the unfiltered honesty only a child could wield. "He doesn't look like a king."
A flicker of irritation crossed Stussy's face, but she smoothed it over with a laugh. "He has his father's strength, child. That is what truly matters."
Weevil beamed. "I'm strong! I broke a boat in half!"
"Good for you," Iris said, unimpressed.
Stussy stood, brushing off her coat. "We've rested enough. Come, Weevil. Time to go."
Weevil lumbered to his feet, knocking over a chair. The table behind them was a battlefield of bones, spilled ale, and unpaid bills.
Mira, the head waitress, looked to Ragnar in panic. The other staff stared at the floor.
But then—
A small figure stepped in front of the double doors.
Iris.
She stood with her arms outstretched, her little body dwarfed by the towering exit. Her voice rang out, clear and firm.
"Wait."
Stussy paused mid-step. Slowly, she turned.
"You didn't pay," Iris said, as if explaining the rules of a game. "For the food. And the drinks. You have to pay. That's how the tavern works."
Weevil blinked. "Mama, she's being sassy."
Stussy's eyes narrowed into venomous slits. The tavern fell silent.
"You insolent little brat," she hissed, her voice stripped of charm. She stepped forward, hand raised, crimson nails gleaming. "Who do you think you are to lecture me?"
The hand swept down.
Iris flinched. "Papa!"
CRACK.
The air snapped.
Stussy's hand stopped mid-air—caught in a grip like iron.
Ragnar stood beside Iris, his hand wrapped around Stussy's wrist. His golden eyes burned like twin suns.
"You lay a finger on her," he said, voice low and dangerous, "and I'll show you what a real king's strength looks like."
Stussy's hand never landed.
It was stopped mid-air—caught in a grip of iron.
Ragnar stood between her and Iris, a towering wall of silent fury. He hadn't walked from the bar—he had simply appeared, as if space itself had bent to his will. His head was lowered, red hair casting shadows across his face, but the pressure rolling off him was suffocating.
He raised his head slowly.
Their eyes met.
No longer just gold—his gaze burned molten, alive with ancient fury. It was not just power. It was memory. Rage. A storm that had slept too long.
Stussy froze.
Her breath hitched. Her blood turned to ice.
"G-Gunnar…" she whispered, voice cracking.
The name rang through the silent tavern like a bell tolling doom.
Her knees buckled. She yanked her hand back as if scorched, stumbling away and collapsing in a heap of fur and panic.
"You… You're alive!" she gasped, crawling backward. "No… No, it can't be! You burned! The whole island burned!"
Her voice was shrill, unraveling. The woman who had once manipulated warlords and whispered poison into the ears of emperors was now reduced to a trembling wreck.
This wasn't a ghost.
Her eyes darted from Ragnar's burning gaze to her confused, hulking son. Desperation clawed at her.
"WEEVIL!" she screamed, pointing a shaking finger. "ATTACK HIM! HE'S A GHOST! THAT'S GUNNAR! KILL HIM! KILL HIM NOW!"
Weevil's eyes widened. His mother was afraid. That was all he understood.
He roared—a guttural, primal sound—and lowered his stance. The floor groaned beneath him.
Ragnar didn't move. He simply placed a hand on Iris's shoulder, guiding her gently behind him.
Weevil reached behind his back and drew a monstrous naginata. The blade was chipped, stained, and far too large for any normal man. It was a weapon meant to cleave ships in two.
"RAAAGH!"
He charged.
It wasn't a run—it was an avalanche. The tavern shook. Tankards flew. Chairs splintered. Patrons screamed and dove for cover.
Ragnar remained still.
He raised his right hand, palm open.
The air thickened. A low hum filled the room, deeper than sound. Black lightning coiled around his forearm, fluid and alive. It pulsed—not the rigid shell of Armament Haki, but something older. Wilder.
Weevil brought the naginata down in a devastating arc, aiming to split Ragnar—and the tavern—in half.
THWUUUMMM.
The sound wasn't metal on flesh. It was the sound of force being devoured. The blade stopped dead, inches from Ragnar's face, caught in his open palm.
The air crackled.
The naginata trembled violently in Weevil's grip.
Ragnar's voice was quiet. Calm. But it carried like thunder.
"You should've paid your bill."
Weevil blinked, confused. "Huh?"
With a flick of his wrist, he didn't just deflect the blade—he reversed it. A pulse of black energy surged up the weapon's length. Ryuu—fluid, precise, and devastating.
"GRAHHH!" Weevil yelped, stumbling back three thunderous steps as the shockwave rattled his bones. His arms went numb. His grip faltered.
Snarling, he swung again—wild, horizontal, desperate.
Ragnar didn't block.
He stepped aside with the grace of a dancer, the blade missing him by inches. As it passed, he struck—one palm to Weevil's exposed ribs. Not a killing blow. A message.
BOOM.
The impact sent a ripple through Weevil's massive frame. He staggered sideways, crashing into a support pillar. The tavern shook. Dust rained from the rafters.
Stussy watched, frozen. Her terror twisted into something colder—doubt.
She studied him. The stance. The power. The eyes. Yes, those were Gunnar's eyes. That was Gunnar's presence. But…
The hair. Gunnar's had been unmistakable—red streaked with white, like blood in snow. This man's was deep crimson, untouched by frost.
And the report. She knew the report. The Big Mom Pirates had cornered Gunnar on Whole Cake Island. Charlotte Smoothie herself had confirmed the kill. A body had been found. The World Government had closed the file.
He couldn't be alive.
So who was this?
A brother? A clone? A lie?
Her fear remained—but now it was tangled with something far more dangerous: uncertainty.
"WEEVIL, STOP!" she shrieked, her voice slicing through the chaos. "STAND DOWN!"
Weevil hesitated, blinking through the haze. "But Mama… he's the ghost…"
"I SAID STOP!"
She scrambled to her feet, brushing dust from her coat, her mask of composure snapping back into place. Her voice trembled, but her eyes were sharp again.
"You… you have his eyes. But you are not him."
Ragnar lowered his hand. The black lightning faded. He stood still, calm, a mountain after the quake.
"You seem mistaken," he said, voice flat and final.
He stepped aside.
Behind him, Iris peeked out, her small hands gripping his coat. Her golden eyes were wide—but unafraid.
"Take your son," he said, voice dropping to a whisper that chilled the room. "Pay your bill. And leave my town. Do not come back."
The insult of the bill stung more than the blows.
She straightened her coat. "Weevil. We are leaving."
She marched to the table, snatched her purse, and threw a thick stack of Beri onto the wood. The coins scattered like shattered pride.
Without another word, she grabbed Weevil's arm and dragged him toward the door. He followed, dazed, casting one last look at the red-haired man who had humbled him with a touch.
The tavern doors slammed shut behind them.
Silence.
Ragnar exhaled slowly. The fire in his eyes dimmed.
He turned and knelt, his massive frame folding down to Iris's level.
"You alright?" he asked softly.
Iris nodded, then threw her arms around his neck. "They were mean," she whispered.
"I know," he said, holding her close. "But they're gone now."