A new world.
A tranquil island.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, dusk painted the sky in hues of crimson and gold. Fiery clouds stretched across the heavens, their glow casting elongated shadows behind the passersby heading home. Soft, red sunlight spilled across the land, embracing it in a warm farewell.
From every rooftop, tendrils of smoke curled upwards, carrying the aroma of hearth and home. The joyous laughter of children occasionally broke the serene stillness, a melody of innocence and contentment.
At the easternmost edge of the island lay a cliff. On that lonely precipice stood two graves—one tall, one short—silent sentinels overlooking the vast expanse of the ocean. Verdant grass swayed gently in the breeze, a lush carpet surrounding the tombstones. Daisies blossomed before them, their delicate fragrance mingling with the salty sea air.
A solitary figure sat at the cliff's edge, his silhouette etched against the earth by the fading light of the setting sun. He wore frameless glasses, their delicate lenses catching the dying embers of daylight. His golden hair, once vibrant, now bore streaks of gray, a testament to the passage of time and the weight of untold stories.
This man was none other than Marco, the "Phoenix." Once the proud vice-captain of the Whitebeard Pirates and the valiant leader of their 1st Division, he now bore the scars of a life marked by battles, loss, and unyielding loyalty.
In just two short years, he seemed to have aged a decade. The wear and tear of time, grief, and solitude were etched deeply into his face, making him look weathered beyond his years.
Dust swirled faintly around the edge of the cliff, carried by the gentle breeze. A lone figure sat motionless, his form blending seamlessly into the stillness of the landscape.
His gaze, vacant and distant, lingered on the thin trails of smoke rising from the chimneys of humble homes scattered across the far-off islands. The scene before him was one of tranquil beauty, but his melancholy presence made it feel like a painting tinged with sorrow.
The world around him was eerily quiet, as if holding its breath. And yet, it was this man—Marco—who silently shouldered the responsibility of guarding the peace of this fragile world, day and night.
From the distance, figures began to approach. Their footsteps were soft, deliberate, almost hesitant. It was as if they feared that even the faintest sound might shatter the serene and harmonious tableau stretched out before their eyes.
Those figures were the remnant of the Whitebeard Pirates' main ship.
"Diamond" Jozu, the captain of the Third Division who had a broken arm;
The tired-eyed Captain of the Fifth Division, "Flower Sword" Vista;
The captains of the 6th, 7th, and 8th squads are Bramanque, Lakeyo, and Namur.
There are other main ship members.
Their expressions were filled with severity, determination, and unwillingness.
Their footsteps stopped a few meters behind Marco.
Then, they waited quietly.
On the edge of the cliff, an indescribable bitterness slowly emerged from the corners of Marco's mouth.
His tone was very light, and his voice was very faint.
"It seems that the final decisive battle is about to begin."
He murmured these words softly.
Everyone fell into deathly silence.
Vista's hands trembled, his eyes slightly red as he said:
"How about waiting a little longer? The NEO navy should send troops."
He looked at Marco's weathered back with almost despair, feeling sad.
'He must be very tired.' Vista thought to himself.
In the past two years, it seems that he has always been silently protecting and leading everyone.
Hearing Vista's words, Marco smiled disapprovingly.
His tone was as calm as a pool of stagnant water.
"It is the NEO Navy's freedom to send troops or not."
"Liu Feng has no reason to support a pirate group like us. They are the navy."
"The most important thing is, if I were Liu Feng, I would probably watch us fight the Blackbeard Pirates and then come out to clean up the mess."
"This is the principle of military command."
Everyone gritted their teeth.
They knew what Marco said was right.
There was indeed no reason for the NEO new navy to send troops.
Marco continued to chuckle:
"The reason why I sent that letter to Liu Feng was actually because I hoped he could help us protect this island."
"In that case, at the very least," he murmured, his voice tinged with both sorrow and resolve.
"My father's lifelong efforts were not in vain."
He smiled calmly.
The corners of his eyes were wet.
Vista and others choked up.
Yes…
This is their father's hometown.
This was his final resting place.
Boom! !
Suddenly, the thunderous roar of war drums shattered the stillness, echoing across the horizon like an omen of doom. The rhythmic pounding grew louder with each beat, reverberating through the air and shaking the ground beneath.
A dark shadow appeared far off at sea, faint at first, but steadily growing. It spread like an ink stain across the azure horizon, stretching wider and darker until it seemed to consume the sky itself. Slowly, the vast shape emerged fully from the distant waves, a fleet so immense it blotted out the light of the setting sun.
Flags bearing the ominous emblem of a three-headed skull flapped violently in the wind, their grim designs exuding menace. The air was thick with malice, and the faces aboard the countless pirate ships were no less fearsome—twisted into cruel grins, each one dripping with wicked intent.
The Blackbeard Pirates had arrived, and with them came the promise of chaos and destruction.
But seeing the appearance of the Blackbeard Pirates, the members of the Whitebeard Pirates were neither frightened nor surprised.
It felt like a nightmare they had replayed in their minds countless times. Yet now that it was finally here, it no longer seemed as terrifying.
Instead, there was a strange calm—a quiet acceptance. They knew this moment was inevitable. This war was unavoidable.
There was no place to run. No corner of the world where they could hide.
Here, on this island, was their final battlefield.
Because this was his father's homeland.
The roar of the pirate ship in the distance and the pirates' hideous laughs and roars became louder and louder.
The shouts of killing were sharp and piercing, rang.
Marco slowly stood up from the edge of the cliff and casually patted the dust off his butt.
He turned around and looked calmly at his partner in front of him.
"Are you all ready? My family…"
Tears welled up in everyone's eyes immediately.
Yes...
They weren't just comrades bound by life-and-death battles.
They were family—connected by bonds far stronger than blood.
As one, they nodded silently.
Then, in unison, they bowed deeply toward the two graves, their heads lowered in respect and sorrow. The moment of silence hung heavy in the air, filled with unspoken promises.
When the silence broke, they moved without hesitation. With a single leap from the cliff's edge, they descended toward the distant port, their resolve burning brighter than ever.
They were the Whitebeard Pirates!
Here, on this sacred island, was their father's homeland. The man who had protected them, cared for them, and given them a purpose. Now, it was their turn to stand tall, to defend the last untouched piece of this world.
They were ready to give their lives for him.
Behind them, beside the graves, the wind howled fiercely. The pirate flag of Whitebeard—the skull adorned with a majestic white mustache—snapped sharply in the gale, a defiant cry against the chaos to come.