Egghead Island, New World
Egghead Island, the World Government's most advanced scientific hub, stood as a testament to the unbridled genius of Dr. Vegapunk. The island itself was a marvel—a sprawling, futuristic complex brimming with technology so advanced it seemed ripped from the pages of a fantasy novel.
The air buzzed with the faint hum of machinery, and towering spires connected by glowing skybridges loomed over the horizon. Automated drones zipped about, tending to tasks too mundane for the brilliant minds within.
Inside one of the most secure labs on the island, just outside the massive vault door, Vice Admiral Borsalino stood, nonchalantly teasing a cluster of special transponder snails that sat in neat rows on glowing racks.
These weren't your everyday den den mushi; they were prototypes, custom-engineered to intercept and encrypt communications at levels previously thought impossible. Each snail blinked and twitched, seemingly annoyed as Borsalino poked at their soft antennae.
"Hmm, you little ones are as cranky as Sengoku-san after missing lunch," Borsalino drawled lazily, his lips curling into a mischievous grin. The snails, apparently sentient enough to comprehend his antics, responded by withdrawing into their shells with a synchronized pop.
Borsalino chuckled, unbothered. It had been a few years since he was promoted to Vice Admiral and assigned as the personal bodyguard to the World Government's most valuable and unpredictable asset: Dr. Vegapunk.
The official orders were clear—safeguard Vegapunk from external threats and ensure the eccentric scientist didn't suddenly defect or pull some harebrained stunt. What wasn't in the orders was the odd camaraderie the lazy Vice Admiral had built with the genius scientist over time.
The vault door hissed as it began to slide open, revealing a cloud of mist and the silhouette of Vegapunk himself. Borsalino turned lazily, fully expecting the usual scene of the towering figure with his famously massive, oversized cranium—a brain so enormous it made even the most bloated egos in the Navy look modest by comparison.
But what he saw made him freeze mid-yawn. His jaw dropped, and his ever-sluggish demeanor evaporated in a flash of genuine shock.
"Vegapunk… where's your head?!" Borsalino blurted, his eyes bulging like a cartoon character.
Vegapunk stepped forward, his appearance utterly unrecognizable. The massive dome-like brain that once crowned his head was gone. Instead, his head had shrunk to a perfectly ordinary size, proportionate to his wiry frame.
Borsalino's hand shot to his face, covering his mouth in exaggerated horror. "Oh no, did the snails eat it? Or maybe it got stolen? Tsk, tsk… Even the greatest mind in the world can't keep his head on straight these days."
Vegapunk sighed, adjusting the lab coat draped over his shoulders. "Borsalino, my dear bodyguard, you do love jumping to absurd conclusions. If you must know, I underwent a small… adjustment."
"Small?" Borsalino's voice dripped with mock disbelief. "You call losing a head the size of a battleship small? Honestly, Doc, I'm starting to think you're not the smartest guy alive. Maybe just top three."
Vegapunk shot him a withering look, but it was hard to take seriously given his new, unassuming appearance. "If you'd stop flapping your lazy lips for a moment, I'd explain," he huffed.
Borsalino leaned casually against the wall, waving a hand. "Oh, by all means, enlighten me, Einstein. I'm dying to know why you're suddenly sporting a normal-sized noggin. Finally gave up trying to outdo the library on Ohara, huh?"
Vegapunk straightened his coat and cleared his throat, slipping into the tone of a lecturer addressing a particularly dimwitted pupil.
"The truth is, my dear friend, I've finally perfected the technology to externalize cognitive functions. My brain now resides in a secure supercomputer elsewhere on the island. This allows me to maximize processing power while maintaining a more… ergonomic appearance."
Borsalino blinked slowly, as if processing the words required more effort than he was willing to expend. Then he grinned.
"Ergonomic, huh? Let me guess, the ladies on the island were complaining your big ol' head was blocking the sun?"
Vegapunk groaned audibly, his fingers pressing firmly against the bridge of his newly normal-sized nose. "You truly are insufferable, Borsalino," he muttered, exasperation evident in his tone.
"I would have preferred if the island had some ladies. It would be much better than having to look at your face plastered everywhere."
Borsalino chuckled, unfazed by the rebuke. "Oh, come on, Doc. You know you can't get rid of me that easily. Besides, who else is going to keep this place from falling apart while you're busy playing mad scientist?"
Vegapunk rolled his eyes, trying to maintain his composure despite the irritation bubbling beneath the surface. "If only your sparkling personality could contribute to actual research, we might actually make some progress around here."
"And yet," Borsalino said, plucking a cracker from his pocket and taking a lazy bite, "you haven't kicked me out. Admit it, Doc—you'd miss my sparkling personality."
"I'd sooner miss a root canal."
As the two bickered, the faint glow of Vegapunk's supercomputer pulsated in the background, quietly reminding them both that even without his colossal brain, the scientist's mind was still the sharpest in the world.
"Well," Borsalino said with a smirk, "guess this means I'll have to come up with new nicknames for you. How about 'Egghead,' huh? Oh wait, that's already the island. Too bad; it would've been perfect."
Vegapunk sighed heavily and turned back toward another one of his labs, muttering under his breath, "Of all the bodyguards in the world…"
"And yet, here I am!" Borsalino called after him, his laughter echoing down the corridor.
"Are you coming or not?" Vegapunk called out, his voice tinged with impatience as he moved toward the entrance of another sector of the lab. He paused just long enough to glance back at Borsalino, who was lounging against a console, seemingly unbothered by the scientist's urgency.
"I need your assistance with those laser weapons," Vegapunk added, his tone curt but laced with a hint of sarcasm. "I need something to present the next time Cipher Pol shows up for one of their tedious inspections, don't I?"
He turned back to the vault door, his fingers moving with practiced precision as he punched in a complex series of codes. With a pneumatic hiss, the door slid open, revealing yet another cutting-edge workspace within the sprawling labyrinth that was Egghead Island. This particular lab was dedicated to a single, high-priority project: developing a prototype for advanced laser weaponry.
The pressure for results wasn't just academic. The World Government had recently caught wind of the Donquixote Family's rumored railguns—terrifyingly powerful weapons that had sent shockwaves through their intelligence networks.
Though Vegapunk already understood the underlying mechanics of the railguns, he had feigned ignorance during his briefings with the higher-ups. It wasn't difficult to act intrigued and confused while the Government outlined the "threat." His true assignment was clear: create something even more devastating, a new line of laser-based weaponry that would put those railguns to shame and further cement the Marines' dominance.
Vegapunk exhaled softly, his mind racing ahead to the task at hand. The World Government's impatience loomed over him like a storm cloud, but it wasn't their demands that concerned him.
No, it was the fact that he had to keep this game of deception going, ensuring they never doubted his loyalty while pursuing his own secretive goals. The laser project was useful—it bought him time.
Borsalino finally stretched and began to saunter toward the door, his signature lazy grin plastered across his face. "You're still tinkering with that thing? It's not even one-hundredth as powerful as my abilities, Vegapunk. And you expect me to help? That's cute."
As Vegapunk and Borsalino entered the sleek, sterile laboratory dedicated to the laser weapons project, the clinking of tools and the hum of machinery filled the air. Rows of prototype weapons and intricate schematics adorned the walls.
A faint blue glow pulsed from the core of the lab, where the first prototype laser weapon stood mounted on a rotating pedestal. It was a sleek, crystalline construct, emitting faint pulses of light like the heartbeat of a sleeping titan.
Borsalino smirked as he sauntered in behind Vegapunk, his hands in his pockets. "You know, Vegapunk, I don't get it. You're the smartest man alive, but you still think you can make something that outshines me? I mean, look at me—I am light itself."
Vegapunk didn't bother to look back, his hands deftly operating the console that controlled the laser weapon's calibration.
"Ah, Borsalino, that overconfidence of yours is almost endearing. Almost." He punched in a series of commands, and the laser weapon emitted a high-pitched whine as its core began to glow brighter.
"Besides, if I actually surpassed you, the World Government wouldn't need you anymore. They'd just replace you with my invention." He threw a sly wink over his shoulder.
Borsalino chuckled lazily. "Now that's a scary thought, Doc. Good thing I've got charm to spare. Machines can't match that."
The banter between the two broke the otherwise tense atmosphere of the lab, but even as they spoke, Vegapunk's mind was elsewhere. His calculations on the laser weapon were automated by now—his real concerns lay buried far deeper within Egghead Island.
In the centermost facility of Egghead Island, beneath layers of deception and locked away in a labyrinthine network of hidden corridors, lay the most secretive chamber of all. Few could even suspect its existence.
The facility was cloaked behind holographic walls and electromagnetic interference fields, designed to evade detection by any form of surveillance including observation haki—even the transponder snails cultivating in Vegapunk's other labs.
Inside the hidden chamber, dim blue lighting illuminated six pods arranged in a perfect semicircle. Each pod stood tall and imposing, their glass surfaces etched with names: Lilith, Shaka, Edison, Pythagoras, Atlas, and York.
The pods thrummed faintly, evidence of the complex systems keeping their occupants active and ready for synchronization with Vegapunk's extended mind. These six satellites, as Vegapunk referred to them, each embodied a fragment of his personality and intellect, specializing in distinct aspects of his genius.
But even here, in this sanctum of innovation, a deeper secret lay concealed.
Nestled behind a reinforced wall, accessible only through a retinal scan combined with a DNA match to Vegapunk himself, was a solitary pod. It was unlike the others in both design and function.
The outer casing gleamed with a darker, more polished alloy, and faint lines of golden circuitry pulsed across its surface. This pod bore no visible name, only a symbol: a single, unblinking eye etched into its surface. Within it lay Vegapunk's most dangerous and precious creation.
This seventh satellite was no mere fragment of Vegapunk's mind. It was a complete encapsulation of his consciousness, a perfect synthesis of his intellect, emotions, and creativity.
Where the six satellites were each imbued with a specific aspect of him—good, evil, wisdom, and so on—this seventh was himself, in entirety. But what set it apart even more was the sliver of Vegapunk's actual brain embedded within its core, a safeguard against the potential loss of his own life or betrayal by the World Government.
The seventh satellite had another function. Hidden in its memory banks was a failsafe protocol that allowed it to access Punk Records, the central hub of all of Vegapunk's knowledge and the collective memories of his satellites, without alerting the other six. It could operate autonomously, unshackled by the constraints Vegapunk had placed on his other creations.
Vegapunk envisioned the pod for a moment, his thoughts tracing through the secret lab, the edge of the terminal connected to it. His thoughts drifted back to a young Rosinante, to a pact made in secret.
That pact had guided his decision to build this seventh satellite. If the day ever came when the World Government turned against him, or if his own creations spiraled beyond his control, this satellite would be his legacy, his escape.
He had already decided its destination: the Donquixote family, or more specifically, Donquixote Rosinanate. The satellite would carry with it knowledge, purpose, and the potential to rebuild the light that the World Government had tried to snuff out.
*****
Uncharted Waters, New World
The nameless part of the New World was unrecognizable, a realm of desolation that bore the scars of an earth-shaking clash between two of the most powerful pirates to ever sail the seas.
For an entire week, Whitebeard and Shiki had waged a titanic battle, their immense powers reshaping the ocean itself. Once a vibrant cluster of islands, the area was now an endless expanse of open water.
The sheer force of their duel had razed everything within hundreds of miles, leaving only an eerie silence where nature once thrived.
Amid the devastation, a small rocky outcrop stood as the lone survivor of their cataclysmic encounter. On this sliver of land, two battered figures rested in relative peace. Shiki the Golden Lion, his golden mane streaked with blood and sweat, sat cross-legged atop a jagged rock.
His injuries were severe—gashes crisscrossed his chest, and his left arm hung awkwardly at his side—but his laughter boomed across the emptiness like a victory cry.
"Shihahahaha…! Newgate, you bastard! You almost killed me!" Shiki roared, his voice filled not with resentment but with admiration. A massive grin split his face as he tossed a barrel of alcohol toward his opponent. It wasn't just a barrel; it was a gesture of respect between equals.
"Here, drink! I brought this all the way from Dressrosa—it's the best you'll ever taste!"
Whitebeard, seated across from him on a similarly battered rock, caught the barrel midair with ease despite his own bruised and bloodied state. His hulking frame bore the marks of their battle—cuts, dents in his armor-like skin, and scorch marks where Shiki's attacks had struck true.
Yet, he looked no less imposing than he had at the start of their week-long war. His white mustache twitched as he raised a brow at the barrel.
"You kept this little patch of rock and booze safe in the middle of all this destruction? Gurarara! Shiki, you sly dog." Whitebeard smirked, his deep voice rumbling like distant thunder. "I thought we were trying to tear each other apart, not have a drink."
Shiki leaned back, his laughter echoing once more. "Edward, you think I'd let my meeting gift get smashed? I might've gone easy on this spot, but don't mistake it for weakness! That's craftsmanship right there!" He gestured dramatically to the untouched provisions.
"Besides, I'm not about to drink some cheap swill with an old comrade!"
Whitebeard chuckled as he inspected the barrel, the faintest hint of amusement flickering in his sharp eyes. "Craftsmanship, eh? You've been sneaking around to get drinks now? I thought you were the 'fearsome Golden Lion.'" He shook his head, though his grin never faded.
Shiki leaned forward conspiratorially, lowering his voice. "Had to sneak, believe it or not. Dressrosa's under that brat Rosinante's rule now. Trust me, Edward…! That kid's tougher than he looks; he may very well surpass Roger. And I got a debt to him I wouldn't dare break."
Whitebeard's interest piqued at the mention of Rosinante. The young protege of Garp had built quite the reputation. Even Fish-Man Island, one of Whitebeard's protected territories, spoke highly of him. Perhaps Shiki's resurgence—his newfound strength—was somehow tied to the boy. Whitebeard filed the thought away, curiosity flickering behind his stoic demeanor.
Breaking the momentary silence, Whitebeard gestured at Shiki with his free hand. "Seems you've done more than recover, Shiki. You've gone beyond devil fruit awakening, haven't you?" His gaze flicked to Shiki's mane, where the notorious wheel from the Ed War no longer protruded.
"Looks like you've evolved in more ways than one."
Shiki's grin widened, though he said nothing at first. The Golden Lion wasn't one to boast without cause, but the glint in his eyes confirmed Whitebeard's suspicion. For all his bluster and bravado, Shiki had pushed himself to a new level.
Whitebeard was confident that even now, with his own devil fruit recently awakened, he could defeat Shiki. Yet he couldn't ignore the cost—if it came to a true fight to the death, he might have to lose a limb or worse to secure victory.
Deciding not to dwell on hypotheticals, Whitebeard pried open the barrel and took a hearty swig of its contents. The fiery liquid burned down his throat, its warmth spreading through his chest like a blazing sun.
"Ah….! That's good stuff, Shiki. It burns, makes you feel alive—this here is some damn fine drink." Whitebeard poured another gulp, his smile wider now.
Shiki raised his own flask in response, smirking triumphantly. "Of course it is! Only the best for an old friend." He tilted the flask back, grimacing in delight as the alcohol hit his tongue.
Despite the devastation they'd wrought, neither man seemed burdened by regret or weariness. They were pirates—legends of an era defined by might and ambition—and a week of trading blows was nothing more than a form of communication for men of their caliber.
The rocky outcrop seemed to shrink under the weight of the silence that fell between the two titans. Shiki's golden mane fluttered faintly in the salty breeze as he stared at Whitebeard, a rare seriousness etched into his rugged features. He broke the silence with a tone that was uncharacteristically heavy.
"Edward," he began, pausing as though weighing his words. "I heard what happened to Oden..." His voice trailed off. Even Shiki, brash and unrestrained as he was, knew that Oden's name was not to be spoken lightly.
Shiki shifted slightly, his golden eyes narrowing. "When I crawled my way back from the abyss, after hearing what went down in Wano, I expected you to be tearing Kaido and Linlin limb from limb. But here you are, throwing your wrath away at lifeless chunks of rock. Tell me, Edward... since when did the man I knew become such a coward? Or did Oden mean only so much to you?"
His words were sharp, cutting deep, but they carried an edge of sincerity. Shiki's tone was not mocking, nor his gaze accusatory. He spoke not as a rival or even as a fellow pirate, but as someone trying to understand.
In his mind, Whitebeard and Oden were like brothers—a bond that even the pirate code revered. Shiki, who had begun to understand the meaning of loyalty after the selfless sacrifice of his crewmate Jack, simply couldn't fathom why Whitebeard hadn't exacted vengeance for Oden.
The silence between them stretched, the tension so thick it could have been cut with a blade. Shiki half-expected Whitebeard to erupt in fury, to bellow in rage and shake the heavens as he always did. But Whitebeard didn't lash out. His massive frame was still, the only movement the faint clenching and unclenching of his massive fists.
When Whitebeard finally spoke, his deep voice was subdued, burdened. "He is alive, Shiki."
Shiki blinked, his jaw tightening as he processed the words. At first, he thought he must have misheard.
"What?" he muttered, more to himself than to Whitebeard. When Whitebeard didn't immediately clarify, Shiki's voice rose, tinged with disbelief. "Edward, what are you talking about? Who is alive?"
Whitebeard met Shiki's gaze, and for the first time in years, Shiki saw something that sent a chill through his veins—unease. The strongest man in the world, the indomitable Whitebeard, bore an expression that was neither anger nor sorrow, but something far worse: a quiet dread.
"The one man who could shake the world itself just by walking," Whitebeard said after what felt like an eternity. "He's alive, Shiki."
Shiki's eyes widened in genuine shock. For a moment, he was at a loss for words. His mind raced, trying to make sense of what Whitebeard was saying. Only one man could evoke such unease from the mighty Edward Newgate. Only one name seemed to fit, but it was impossible—utterly impossible.
"That's ridiculous!" Shiki barked, his voice rising an octave. "Edward, we both know he fell! Not even a god could survive that—much less him!" He leaned forward, his flask forgotten as golden liquid spilled onto the rock.
"If he were alive, do you think he'd stay in the shadows? That arrogant bastard would have announced it to the world in the grandest way imaginable! He'd have the seas trembling by now!"
Whitebeard's gaze didn't waver, his eyes steady and grim. "No, Shiki. I know it in my gut. He's alive. And if he's learned patience—if he's learned to strike from the shadows, setting aside his arrogance and recklessness—then no one can stop him." His voice dropped, each word heavier than the last. "Not you. Not me. Not anyone."
Shiki's hand trembled slightly as the weight of Whitebeard's words sank in. His mind reeled at the implications. "Impossible..." he muttered, though his denial was growing weaker with every passing second.
Whitebeard exhaled, his broad shoulders rising and falling like tectonic plates shifting. "I can't risk it, Shiki. My family—my crew—is everything. If I make a move for Kaido and Linlin, I expose my family. If he truly is alive, he'll go for them first. He'll use them to bring me down. And Kaido and Linlin? They're bait—nothing more. He's leaving them out there to reel me in."
Shiki sat back, the normally unshakable pirate visibly rattled. His flask clattered to the ground, forgotten. If Whitebeard's gut instinct was right, it meant the return of a nightmare—a storm that even legends like them feared. Shiki was not a man easily intimidated, but even he could not brush aside the gravity of what Whitebeard was saying.
"And you," Shiki said, his voice quieter now, his trademark bravado dimmed, "you're just going to sit here? Wait for him to come to you?"
Whitebeard's jaw tightened. "I'll wait, Shiki. But when he comes, he'll find me ready. Until then, I protect my family. No matter what." His massive hand clenched the haft of his bisento, the weapon glinting ominously in the fading light.
The two pirates sat in silence once more, their previous camaraderie overshadowed by the weight of Whitebeard's revelation. Somewhere in the New World, a storm was brewing, and even the strongest men alive could only brace themselves for what was to come.