Dusk painted the sky over the New World in hues of orange and purple. A few wispy clouds clung stubbornly to the horizon as the salty air carried the dry heat of the day. Seagulls wheeled overhead, their cries echoing across the vast expanse of ocean. The Moby Dick, its distinctive white whale figurehead cutting through the waves, sailed gracefully over the azure waters. Nearby, the shattered remains of a two-masted sailboat floated as a grim testament to the Whitebeard Pirates' recent victory.
The deck of the Moby Dick was dominated by a glittering mound of gold, jewels, and assorted treasures. Pirates crowded around the hoard, their voices bubbling with excitement and greed.
"Damn, these rookies were loaded!" one exclaimed, rifling through a pile of coins. "Look at this haul—there's gotta be some real gems in here," another added, holding up a gleaming necklace.
"Shame they didn't put up more of a fight," a third muttered, though his grin betrayed his satisfaction.
Today belonged to Thatch and the Fourth Division. As the first to board the enemy ship and lead the charge, they held the privilege of first pick from the spoils. Amid the chatter, someone pointed toward Thatch, the Fourth Division's captain. The man stood out in his chef's uniform, his brown pompadour perfectly coiffed and a scar cutting across his right eye.
"Hey, Thatch! Is that a Devil Fruit you're holding?" The shout drew everyone's attention.
Thatch grinned, holding up the fruit for all to see. Its purple skin was marked with intricate spiral patterns, unmistakably a Devil Fruit. "Hahaha! Sure looks like one!" he said, his voice brimming with excitement. "No idea what it does yet, though. I'll have to dig into the records, see what I can find. If it's something powerful, I'll eat it myself. But if it's useless? Might as well auction it off."
The crew murmured in envy, but no one dared to challenge Thatch's claim. The Whitebeard Pirates had strict rules: whoever found a Devil Fruit first owned it outright. Whether they chose to consume it, sell it, or toss it into the sea was their decision alone. Not even Captain Whitebeard himself could interfere.
Nearby, Teach stood silently in the crowd, his gaze locked onto the fruit in Thatch's hand. His heart hammered in his chest, though his face betrayed nothing. He knew—he knew—what that fruit was. The Dark-Dark Fruit, the Logia-type power he'd coveted for decades. His mind raced. He couldn't let this opportunity slip away. He wouldn't.
Teach's expression remained calm, his years of patience and ambition masking the storm brewing within him. He lingered on the edges of the celebration, biding his time.
As night fell, the Whitebeard Pirates launched into a raucous feast to commemorate their victory. Thatch, the hero of the hour, found himself at the center of the festivities. Drink after drink was shoved into his hands, and Teach, ever the opportunist, subtly encouraged the revelry. Before long, Thatch was swaying on his feet, his laughter slurred and his thoughts muddled.
"Come on, Thatch! One more!" Teach grinned from across the table, sliding another bottle of tequila toward the drunken captain. Thatch groaned, his head lolling onto the table as he hiccupped. "No... can't... I'm done for tonight," he mumbled, waving a hand weakly. "Tomorrow... we'll keep going tomorrow. Gotta sleep now..."
Thatch waved his hand, stood up with blurry eyes, and walked unsteadily toward his private cabin. Teach's smile widened as he rose swiftly to his feet. "You're a mess," he said, slipping an arm around Thatch's shoulders. "Let me help you back to your room." "Thanks... Teach," Thatch mumbled, leaning heavily on his comrade as they stumbled toward the cabin.
Thatch mumbled incoherently as Teach helped him stagger to the bedroom door. He shoved the door open and collapsed face-first onto the mattress. The sharp click of the lock echoed through the cabin.
Blinking through alcohol-blurred vision, Thatch saw Teach still standing there, watching him with an odd smile. "Teach?" He slurred, "Something else... you needed?"
"Just some things I've been meaning to tell you..." Teach's smile widened as he casually slipped his right hand behind his back, fingers closing around the dagger hidden in his waistband.
Thatch had been his friend for over twenty years. They'd shared drinks, battles, countless nights under the same stars. Teach knew every inch of the man's capabilities—the Fourth Division Commander's mastery of both Haki types, the formidable strength that normally would require an all-out fight to overcome.
That's why he'd spent the evening carefully filling Thatch's cup, drink after drink, until the man's reflexes dulled and his perception swam.
Thatch hiccuped loudly, flopping onto his back without opening his eyes. "Well? Spit it out already..."
The mattress dipped as Teach leaned close. "What I wanted to say is—"
In one fluid motion, Teach's left hand clamped over Thatch's mouth while the dagger flashed upward from his right. The blade plunged straight through fabric, flesh, and into the heart beneath.
Thatch's eyes flew open—wide, disbelieving. His hands scrabbled at Teach's wrist, nails digging grooves into the skin as he tried to scream through the suffocating palm.
The dagger rose and fell. Again. Again. Ten times, twenty, until the struggling hands finally went slack against the blood-soaked sheets. Teach wiped his blade clean on the bedding, methodical as a butcher.
Even in death, Thatch's expression held that same bewildered hurt—twenty years of brotherhood ending in cold steel.
Teach didn't hesitate. His fingers dipped into Thatch's inner pocket, retrieving the small key he knew would be there. Years of shared voyages had taught him all the man's habits—where he stashed valuables, how he distrusted light-fingered crewmates.
The alloy safe in the corner opened with a satisfying click. There, nestled beside bundled banknotes, lay the swirling black fruit he'd coveted for decades. His hands shook as he lifted it, the weight of twenty-six years of patience finally paying off.
He bit into the grotesque fruit without ceremony, gagging at the taste of ashes and rot but forcing every last morsel down. Even the waxy leaves disappeared between his teeth.
After finishing the entire Devil Fruit, Teach walked back to Thatch's bedside. He adjusted the blanket over the body with strange tenderness, closing those staring eyes before turning toward the door.
Outside, the pre-packed lifeboat awaited. The Moby Dick's hull creaked as he lowered it into the black water, his new future beginning with every stroke of the oars.
Ace leaped onto the small boat, grabbing the oars with white-knuckled intensity. The wooden blades bit into the churning water as he rowed with desperate strokes, putting distance between himself and the Moby Dick's shadow.
Dawn painted the deck of the Moby Dick in pale gold when the Fourth Division crew grew uneasy. Their captain hadn't emerged from his cabin—no morning orders, no booming laughter. A hesitant knock went unanswered.
The door creaked open to reveal Thatch's lifeless body sprawled across the bed. Word spread through the ship like wildfire, whispers turning to shouts. By midday, the pattern emerged—multiple crewmates had seen Teach supporting a drunken Thatch toward his quarters. Now only Teach's absence gaped like an open wound among them.
The safe stood pried open, its contents ransacked. The Devil Fruit's absence spoke louder than any accusation. The crew didn't need investigators to connect the dots—betrayal hung thick in the salt air.
Ace faced Whitebeard on the sunlit deck, jaw clenched hard enough to crack teeth. "Teach was under my command," he ground out, fingers curling into fists. "I'll drag that traitor's heart out through his ribs."
Whitebeard's gaze lingered on the horizon where sea met sky. His massive frame seemed to sag under invisible weight. "Let it go, son," he murmured. "This tide carries ill omens."
Ace recoiled as if struck. "And let him spit on our flag?" He whirled toward the rail, hefting his customized mud-propelled speedboat over the side. The impact sent spray arcing through the air as he landed in the cockpit. With a roar of churning mud jets, the vessel shot forward like a bullet.
Whitebeard looked at Ace's rapidly receding back on the sea. His calloused hands tightened around the railing as the premonition coiled tighter around his ribs—this would end in blood, and none of it would wash away.