A string of questions centred around one man — Portgas D. Ace.
His name alone now carried the world's curiosity, and its unease.
At Marineford, Sengoku's expression had grown darker with every passing moment.
The mention of Ace's "father" struck him harder than any insult.
He looked again at the young pirate on the screen — dark hair, around twenty, from East Blue, a Logia user who wielded flame and rumour said, even Conqueror's Haki.
East Blue. Conqueror's Haki.
Sengoku's eyes narrowed. The thought clawed at him, rising like something long buried.
Could it be…
On the deck of the Moby Dick, Whitebeard glanced at Ace's pale face and sighed.
"Ace," he said, voice low but steady, "you don't need to answer this. Let me do it for you."
His tone softened, the authority of a father carrying through the air.
"There's nothing to hide. No matter who your father was, it doesn't change the fact that you are my son. Always."
He turned his gaze upward — not to the heavens, but to the man in the sky.
"Answer: Ace's biological father is the Pirate King, Gol D. Roger."
The reaction was instant.
The Whitebeard Pirates erupted.
"Ace is Roger's son?!"
"The Pirate King Roger?!"
The revelation crashed over them like a wave — disbelief, awe, even laughter.
"Ha! To think we've been drinking with the Pirate King's son all this time!"
"And he still couldn't beat me at cards."
"Shut up, you fool!"
Ace's chest tightened. He had dreaded this moment — the weight of that name, the shame of that bloodline.
He had spent years wishing to live as someone else, someone who could be proud of the man who raised him, not the one who cursed his birth.
But his brothers' laughter wasn't cruel.
Their eyes were still the same — warm, teasing, alive.
One of them clapped him on the shoulder.
"Who cares who your father was? You're Ace — our brother."
Whitebeard's massive hand ruffled his hair.
"We're family, no matter what."
Ace's throat ached as he nodded. The warmth of belonging battled the chill of inheritance.
In that moment, the roaring sea felt quieter than his heart.
In the sky, the mysterious man's voice returned — calm, almost divine.
"The answer is correct. Portgas D. Ace is the son of Gol D. Roger. Roger turned himself in to the Marines, and Ace's mother, carrying his child, evaded pursuit for two years. She gave her life to bring him into this world."
The silence that followed felt heavier than thunder.
For the Whitebeard Pirates, it was the silence of family — of love that defied history.
For the rest of the world, it was the silence before hatred.
Across the seas, the reaction was not kind.
To the common people, Roger was the man who unleashed chaos upon the world — the man whose dying words had ignited an age of greed and death.
And now, his son lived.
His son was a pirate.
Disgust turned quickly to fury.
The same civilians who had condemned Sengoku's ruthlessness now whispered that perhaps… he had been right.
Perhaps the son of the Pirate King deserved no mercy.
Hatred, once dormant, began to stir again.
At Marineford, Garp stood in silence.
His fists were clenched so tightly the knuckles had gone white.
So it was finally revealed.
Ace — the boy he'd raised, the boy he'd tried to keep from the sea — now bore his father's curse in the open.
He sighed, deep and heavy, the sound of an old man crushed beneath duty and affection alike.
This is what you chose, huh, Ace?
You could've been anything… but you chose this sea, this blood, this fate.
He stared at the image of Whitebeard and Ace — a father and son not by blood, but by choice.
And though he wanted to feel anger, what filled him instead was something close to grief.
"Damn brat," he muttered. "I raised you all these years, and you never called me 'old man' like that."
His voice trembled with a half-laugh, half-sigh.
"Whitebeard says two words and you're ready to die for him."
He wiped a hand across his face.
"I'm so damn tired…"
The camera of the world lingered on him — the Marine hero, the iron fist of justice — shoulders slumped beneath the unseen weight of love and regret.
And somewhere between pride and sorrow, a line seemed to echo faintly —
"We carry the burdens we choose, and sometimes, they're heavier than justice."