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Bang!
A heavy thud echoed, like two slabs of iron slamming together.
Even the deck beneath Lucian's feet let out a strained groan, caving slightly from the force.
Marco flinched just watching it.
He knew exactly how powerful Pops' slaps could be.
An ordinary man would've had at least a few bones cracked from that.
But Lucian?
He only swayed slightly—then stood firm.
"Monster…"
Marco chuckled bitterly to himself.
Compared to Lucian, who was a real monster, he—an Mythical Zoan user—felt more like a normal person.
Lucian looked up and met Whitebeard's gaze—eyes filled with approval and trust.
"Pops, your slap hit a lot harder than before."
"Gurararara!"
"You're not too soft yourself, kid."
Whitebeard's gaze glowed with even more approval.
He retracted his hand and slowly turned, his towering figure casting a shadow over both men.
"You two. Come with me."
His voice remained steady but carried an undeniable command.
Without another word, he turned and walked toward the captain's cabin.
Lucian and Marco exchanged a glance—then immediately followed.
Creak—
The heavy wooden door shut behind them, sealing off all outside sound.
Inside, the lighting was dim.
The air was thick with the scent of strong liquor and the distinctive musk of aged wood.
The room's layout was spartan—no, dominating.
A ridiculously large round table occupied most of the space. Spread across it was a freshly updated world map, marked in red ink with countless symbols and arrows.
Every single arrow pointed toward one destination—
Marineford: The Headquarters of the Marines!
This was the heart of the Whitebeard Pirates—the command center from which the fate of countless lives would soon be decided.
Whitebeard moved to his seat—a custom-built giant chair that groaned under his weight as he sat.
He didn't speak right away. He merely leaned his Murakumo Giri, one of the Twelve Supreme Grade Blades, against the side of his chair.
Then his gaze—sharp as a hawk—cut across the map and locked onto Lucian and Marco.
The room fell into deathly silence.
Only the ticking of an old wall clock echoed in the background.
Marco stood still, but even that was enough to make him feel uncomfortable.
It was rare to see Pops this serious.
Though Whitebeard hadn't spoken, Marco could feel a suffocating pressure weighing on him.
It was the stillness before the storm—a quiet that came just before a war that would shake the world.
Instinctively, Marco looked at Lucian beside him—only to find that he remained perfectly composed.
That calmness earned Marco's sincere admiration.
Finally, Whitebeard spoke.
His voice was no longer the booming thunder it had been outside—it was now lower, more serious.
"Speak."
"How did things go?"
He paused, a flicker of complexity—and maybe even doubt—flashing through his eyes.
"That old ghost Rayleigh from the past..."
"And the future's Straw Hat brat I've never met..."
"Did both of them agree to fight?"
As soon as he finished, Marco opened his mouth to respond—but Lucian was faster.
With calm, unwavering confidence, Lucian gave his answer.
"Don't worry, Pops."
His voice was steady and strong, with a conviction that could settle any heart.
"The mission..."
"...was a complete success."
Marco immediately puffed out his chest and echoed with all his strength.
"That's right! Pops! We pulled it off!"
"We're just waiting for the war to start!"
Lucian added, the corners of his lips curving into a cold smile as battle intent flashed in his eyes.
"We've already made our pact with them."
"All that's left is for the horn of war to sound."
"And when it does—"
"We'll deliver a gift to Marineford, and to the World Government—"
"One they'll never forget!"
BOOM!
The moment his words landed, an explosion of pure Emperor's might surged from Whitebeard's body!
"Gurararara!!"
His thunderous laughter shook the entire captain's cabin!
The bottles on the table rattled violently!
The paintings on the walls swung wildly!
The whole Moby Dick seemed to tremble beneath the sheer force of his laughter!
It was a laugh overflowing with passion, pride, and anticipation!
"Good! Good! Good!"
Whitebeard bellowed the word three times, his sharp gaze gleaming with a brilliance never seen before!
"Then I'll look forward to it!"
He looked at his two sons—his previous sternness melting into warmth and affection.
His eyes swept over them, finally resting on Marco, who clearly looked a bit drained.
"You two have done well."
Whitebeard spoke slowly.
"Especially you, Marco. Judging by your look, I'd say following Lucian around put you through quite a few... bizarre things."
Marco smiled bitterly at that.
Bizarre didn't even begin to cover it.
It was more like having his entire worldview of the last few decades shattered and stomped into dust.
"Go on."
Whitebeard waved his hand.
"Rest up and recover."
"What's coming next… is the real fight."
"Yes, Pops!"
Marco gave a respectful bow.
He really was both mentally and physically exhausted—his head was a mess. What he needed most now was some alone time to decompress and make sense of the absurd journey he had just taken.
He turned and began walking toward the door.
But after a few steps, he noticed there were no footsteps behind him.
Marco turned back, confused—only to see Lucian still standing in place, showing no intention of leaving.
"Lucian?"
Marco frowned, puzzled.
Lucian didn't answer. He simply looked quietly at Whitebeard on the throne.
Whitebeard, too, put away his smile. His deep eyes fell on Lucian with a hint of curiosity.
Marco's heart suddenly jumped. A thought came to him unbidden.
Could it be... Lucian still has another card to play?
"You go ahead, Brother Marco."
Lucian finally spoke, his tone calm.
"I still have one last matter to report to Pops—"
"—in private."
So it's true!
Marco looked at Lucian's composed face, then at Whitebeard's thoughtful expression—and said nothing more.
"Got it."
He nodded, opened the door silently, and left the room.
Creak—slam.
The heavy wooden door closed once more.
Leaving only Lucian and Whitebeard inside.
That stifling silence returned.
Whitebeard leaned back in his chair. His massive fingers tapped the armrest rhythmically: thud, thud, thud.
He looked at the young man before him, then spoke—his voice low, carrying a tinge of curiosity.
"Alright."
"You brat…"
"What else do you have to say?"