After a long time, Teach finally recovered, wiping a smear of blood from the corner of his lip before flashing a wide grin at the swordsman before him. "Haha... Mostima, huh? Seems like we're both something special. Allow me to introduce myself properly. Marshall D. Teach, Second Division, Whitebeard Pirates."
Mostima's expression flickered—just for a moment. Surprise darted across his eyes before he reined it back in with composed grace. "So it's true... I thought I recognized something in you. I go by Kanis Mostima, swordsman, and captain of the Shiratori Pirates."
Around them, stunned silence fell like a crashing wave. Then the murmuring began.
"Whitebeard Pirates?!"
"Wait… Whitebeard? You mean that Whitebeard?!"
The Shiratori crew's minds reeled. Some blinked as if to wake from a dream, others whispered in hushed panic.
"Why is someone from the Whitebeard Pirates here?!"
Hardman's brow glistened with cold sweat, his hand trembling slightly as he looked at Teach. "Is this what a normal member of Whitebeard's crew is like...?"
Even Harder, usually stoic, couldn't hide the unease on his face. "Scary... He's terrifying. Just how powerful are the Whitebeard Pirates if this man is only a second-division member?"
The Whitebeard name was no joke here. This sea was close enough to their territory that even children learned to fear the name. Every news bulletin was laced with tales of their overwhelming might—entire islands shattered in a single battle. Towns razed as collateral in skirmishes between monsters.
"Do you think... he's here to bring us into their fold? Make us a subordinate crew?"
"Maybe Whitebeard took a liking to our captain and wants to call him 'son'? That wouldn't be so bad!" another muttered, hopeful and ignorant.
From behind Mostima came a calm voice, snapping the tension. "Let's take this inside. Titch, you're a guest today—and the first pirate to ever step into our stronghold uninvited."
Mostima's brow twitched. He'd practiced that dashing swordsman persona for so long—calm, collected, just aloof enough to be alluring. But the crack in his expression told Teach everything. It only deepened the grin stretching across his face.
Teach said nothing, but his chuckle rolled deep in his chest as Mostima led him inside with confident strides.
"Everyone back to your posts," Mostima ordered without turning. "I have something to discuss with our guest."
No pirate disobeyed. Some hesitated—curious, wide-eyed—but they dispersed like the wind at Mostima's word. He had their respect, no doubt about it. The rare kind of leader who balanced approachability with absolute authority.
They entered a broad, radiant chamber—a space that was half meeting room, half art hall. The natural light poured in from thirty-six tall arched windows. Twelve per level, three tiers in total, casting the room in a golden sheen.
In the center sat a modest conference table flanked by plush sofas. But what drew the eye were the four towering statues at each corner of the room—three meters tall and masterfully carved:
—A stoic gladiator in battle-worn armor.
—A scholar robed in silk, holding an open book.
—A resplendent goddess, wings of gold fanned wide.
—A lone swordsman, plain and unadorned.
Each stood for something deeper: perseverance, wisdom, triumph, and the unrelenting path.
Scrolls of oil paintings and charcoal sketches hung between them. Ceramics, carved busts, and fresh flower arrangements adorned every nook. It was a room meant for reverence and ambition.
Teach, now seated across from Mostima, leaned back with casual ease. Hardman and Hardnor stood behind Mostima, tense but silent.
Mostima spoke first, voice softer now. "Do you know why I screamed like that earlier? When I first took to the sea, I thought I could stand at the top. But reality taught me something: only monsters can fight monsters. And monsters... they are a different breed. I realized I could never reach that summit."
"Boss!" Hardnor's fists clenched. It was the first time they'd ever heard Mostima speak of limits. To them, their captain had always been flawless—fast, brilliant, untouchable.
Mostima's gaze didn't waver. "I've trained beyond exhaustion. But there's a ceiling I can't break. My body... it's not built for that level. No matter how hard I push."
Still, there was no despair in his tone. Just acceptance. And something else—determination.
"But I have my edge," he said. "My swordsmanship. I know where I stand. And I've been waiting for a true monster to appear. That's you, Teach. I've decided—I want to follow you. All the way to the top."
His voice rang with certainty, not desperation. There was no shame in this offer—only hope.
Teach stayed quiet, watching him closely. The others were stunned speechless. A pirate captain offering loyalty to another? That wasn't just rare—it was unheard of.
Teach's grin faded into a thoughtful smile. "Mostima… that's quite the proposal."
He leaned forward, folding his arms across his chest. "But I'm still with Whitebeard. Being under the Old Man… isn't exactly a bad gig."
Mostima held his gaze. "You and I both know you won't stay under anyone's shadow for long. You're biding your time, but that ambition of yours—it's too loud to stay buried. I saw it in your eyes the moment you stepped in."
Teach's silence was answer enough.
The room held its breath.
Then came the laugh. Low at first—then it crescendoed into that trademark roar:
"Zehahahaha!"
The pressure in the room thickened. Teach didn't just seem larger—he felt it. That oppressive weight in the air pressed down on Hardman and Hardnor until their knees almost buckled.
This wasn't just charisma. This was a storm.
Teach stood slowly, arms outstretched. He looked transformed. Taller, broader, more dangerous.
"You're bold, Mostima. Asking to follow me before I even raise my own flag? Heh… I like that. I really like that."
Mostima gave a slight bow, voice resolute. "Then from this moment, I'm yours. Captain."
Hardman and Hardnor exchanged a glance but didn't protest. They trusted Mostima's instincts more than their own.
Teach nodded. "Then I accept. You won't regret this. I promise."
He dropped back onto the sofa and exhaled slowly.
"Let's talk real business now. The world... it's already split between legends. The age is shaped by three monsters—Roger, Golden Lion Shiki, and Whitebeard, our 'Pops.'"
He gestured vaguely in the air. "Roger Pirates, Shiki's Flying Pirates, and the Whitebeard Pirates. Those three run the seas. Everyone else just bows their heads."
Mostima and his men listened in rapt attention. Teach's words painted a map they'd never seen.
"Roger's crew is small—barely thirty—but they're all monsters. With him and Rayleigh, they've got two imperial-level fighters. The kind that can only be stopped by multiple admirals working in sync."
Hardman frowned. "Rayleigh? The 'Dark King'?"
Teach nodded. "Exactly. Not a Devil Fruit user, but still a monster. Roger too. It's absurd. Their whole crew is high-caliber."
He didn't stop there.
"Then there's Shiki—the 'Flying Admiral.' The man controls the skies with his Devil Fruit. His forces grow by the day. Fleets of subordinates, grand ambitions. He's the fastest rising power in the New World."
"And Whitebeard?"
Teach's voice softened with respect. "Pops is unity. Strength. The man could crack the sea with a punch. He's the strongest man alive."
Then Teach paused. A strange glint entered his eyes.
"But there's one more. Lone wolf. No crew. No allegiances. Just sheer might. 'Red the Aloof,' Ledfeld. As strong as any of them, but without allies, he's doomed to be outpaced."
He chuckled. "The fourth legend, yes. But he'll fall first."
Silence hung for a moment.
"This is the age we live in," Teach finished. "If nothing changes, no one else will ever rise. But change is coming. Kaido, Big Mom—they're moving. Quiet now, but that won't last."
He looked at Mostima.
"That's why we're building something new. And you, Mostima, just took the first step."