As the last trace of Ashina faded into a smudge on the horizon, Ace reached into his coat and pulled out a battered Den Den Mushi, its shell scratched and weathered from countless journeys. He turned the dial with practiced fingers.
After a few rings, a familiar voice came through, rough and full of energy.
"Moshi Moshi! First Division, Moby Dick. Marco speaking, yoi."
"Marco. It's Ace."
There was a beat of silence, then Marco's tone shifted, now warm with relief and just a touch of exasperation.
"Ace! You reckless bastard. You've got the whole fleet in a frenzy—papers are blowing up with rumors. Are you alright? We were ready to storm Wano and drag you home!"
Ace chuckled. "Still breathing. Bruised, but better than the headlines say. Listen, Marco… we're leaving Ashina. And we're not alone."
"…Oh?" Marco's curiosity sharpened.
"Picked up some new allies. Good ones. I'm requesting permission to rendezvous."
"Granted. Send your coordinates. Pops is gonna lose it when he sees you. And these new friends of yours?" Marco chuckled. "They'd better be ready for a proper Whitebeard welcome, yoi."
---
Days later, under an endless stretch of blue sky, the modest brigantine Sea Serpent sailed in the colossal shadow of the Moby Dick. The whale-shaped flagship loomed like a floating fortress, its presence alone enough to part clouds and still winds.
The Moby Dick's deck was crowded with familiar faces—pirates peering over the railings, curious and eager, whispering as they spotted the small crew approaching.
A ramp was lowered.
Ace, steadier now on his feet, leaned lightly on his crutch as he stepped forward. At his side walked Isshin Ashina, dignified and composed, followed closely by Takeshi and a dozen crimson-and-black clad samurai. Their disciplined steps and silent expressions gave them a spectral presence, their eyes wide with awe as they beheld the legendary ship.
At the heart of the deck, seated like a king on a throne of steel and wood, was Edward Newgate—Whitebeard himself. IVs snaked into his titanic arms, but his aura radiated undiminished power. Around him stood his commanders: Marco the Phoenix, Diamond Jozu, Vista, Thatch—all breaking into wide grins as they spotted the familiar freckled face.
"GURARARARARA!" Whitebeard's laugh crashed over the deck like thunder. "ACE! So the brat finally returns! And he brings a parade!"
Ace grinned, warmth blooming behind his eyes. He stepped forward and knelt.
"Pops. It's good to be home."
He turned and gestured to the group behind him.
"This is Isshin Ashina, once lord of a province in Ashina. These samurai are his most trusted warriors."
Isshin stepped forward and knelt in kind, his movements respectful, deliberate.
"Whitebeard-dono. It is an honor. We owe Ace-dono our lives… and our redemption."
Behind him, the twelve samurai dropped to one knee in perfect unison—a gesture that spoke volumes without a word.
Whitebeard's gaze swept across them. He saw the steel in their posture, the quiet storm in their eyes. When he looked at Isshin, it was with the appraisal of a veteran sizing up a warrior.
"Stand, son of Ashina. Stand, all of you," he rumbled. "Any friend of Ace is a friend of mine. And any warrior who walks through fire and stands tall… has the heart of a Whitebeard Pirate."
A slow smile curved his lips. "So, you wish to join this old man's family, eh?"
Isshin lifted his gaze.
"Our home is gone, Whitebeard-dono. Our purpose now lies on the sea. If you would accept us… we would fight for you. As your sons."
Whitebeard roared with laughter again.
"GURARARARARA! That's how a real man speaks!" He raised a massive hand, voice booming. "Then from this day forward—you are my sons! Welcome to the family!"
A wave of cheers erupted from the deck. The Whitebeard Pirates clapped and hollered, banging fists to railings, welcoming the samurai with toothy grins and wild enthusiasm.
Marco clapped Ace on the back. "You never bring anything boring, do you?"
Ace grinned. "Wouldn't be me if I did."
He turned toward Whitebeard, serious now.
"Pops, there's more. Isshin—he's one of the greatest swordsmen I've ever met. And his men… they're not just loyal. They're elite. I was thinking… with Gunnar and me—we could form a new strike force. A samurai division. Isshin and Gunnar."
He paused. "Let them fight under your banner. As a new spearhead of the Whitebeard Pirates. A home for them, and strength for us."
Whitebeard listened, stroking his mustache. His gaze flicked to Isshin, to the stoic warriors behind him. Then back to Ace, full of fire and hope.
"A samurai division, led by my firecracker and the frozen giant…" he muttered. Then, with a booming laugh:
"GURARARARARA! I love it! A new edge for our blade—let's carve our names into the world!"
A cheer rolled across the deck once more. The sun glinted off swords, banners, and grins alike.
And below deck, on the Sea Serpent, beneath quiet wood and the scent of sea salt, a giant of ice and lava lay in healing slumber—unaware that a new legacy was already rising in his name.
---The first thing Gunnar registered was nothing. A thick, suffocating blanket of nothingness. No light, no sound, no feeling beyond a distant, echoing throb that pulsed from his very core. He tried to open his eyes. Heavy. So damn heavy. Like lifting boulders with his eyelids.
Ugh… where… what the hell…?
With a grunt that tore at something in his chest, he forced one eye open. A blurry smear of pale color greeted him. He blinked. Still blurry. Tried the other eye. Same thing. It was like looking through a frost-covered window in a storm.
Damn it. My eyes. What's wrong with my eyes?
He tried to move his head. A jolt of pain shot through his neck and chest, drawing a groan from his lips. Even the sound of it was wrong—muffled, distant, like it echoed from the bottom of a well.
My ears too? What sorcery is this?
Panic, sharp and cold, tried to creep in, but Gunnar wasn't one to give in easily. Even now, disoriented and half-broken, defiance burned in him like a second heart.
He felt something. A faint warmth near his face. Or was it his arm? His nerves were a mess, every inch of his body filled with numbness and the sting of waking limbs.
"Nnngh… who's… there?" he rasped. His voice sounded like gravel dragged through fire. "Speak up! Can't hear a damn thing!"
A shape leaned closer. Tall. Blurry. He thought he saw long, light-colored hair… or maybe it was a curtain. Or a sail.
"Gunnar?" The voice was smooth, feminine, but muted and far-off, like it was wrapped in cloth. "You're awake."
Smoothie? Is that Smoothie? Why the hell does she sound like she's whispering from across the damn ocean?
"Smoothie! That you, woman?!" he tried to bellow. It came out more like a dry croak. "Why are you whispering?! Why's everything so damn blurry?! Did someone put out the sun?!"
Something cool touched his face. Forehead? Cheek? Hard to tell.
"You've been unconscious for nearly two weeks, you colossal oaf," her voice replied, distorted but a little clearer now. There was something behind it—relief, irritation, maybe both. "Your senses are probably still… reattaching themselves."
"Reattaching?!" Gunnar growled, forcing his body upright. Agony lanced through his torso, fire and knives under his skin. He collapsed back with a howl. "GAH! My body! What did those sawbones do to me?!"
"They saved your life," Smoothie said, a little more audible now. "You had a hole in you big enough to park a sea beast."
"A scratch," he grunted, though the memory of being torn apart by Weevil sent a shudder through him. He hated this. Hated feeling weak. "I've had worse hangovers! Now, help me up! Where's Ace? Isshin? Are those Marine bastards still sniffing around?"
He waved a hand, hoping to grab onto something. His fingers closed around something soft and firm. Long. He gave it a squeeze.
Smoothie let out a small sigh. "That's my leg, Gunnar. And you're not going anywhere. Your insides are still being held together by your own ice and sheer stubbornness."
"My ice…?" He focused. There was a faint coldness in his gut, weak and flickering. "Bah! It'll heal. I'm a Titan."
He tried to focus on her face. "And you… you look taller. Or am I shorter? Did someone shrink me?!"
"You're lying flat on your back, you idiot," Smoothie said dryly. "And I'm always taller."
She offered him a cup. He caught a faint whiff—fruity, maybe. Or metallic. Hard to say.
"Drink this. Doctor's orders."
Gunnar frowned, or tried to. "Don't need any damn juice! I need meat! Ale! A warrior's breakfast!" He swatted at the cup and missed.
The door creaked open. Another figure entered. Smaller. Brighter.
"Gunnar! You old glacier! You're finally awake!"
Ace. No mistaking that voice, even through the haze.
"Ace! About damn time!" Gunnar growled. "Report! Why does everyone sound like they're talking through a damn sea slug?!"
Ace laughed, moving closer. Gunnar saw a flash of white teeth in the orange blur.
"Easy there, big guy. You almost died. Several times. Your senses are probably just out of sync."
"No kidding, flame-brain!" Gunnar snapped. "I feel like I got chewed up by a kraken and spat out by a sea king! Tell me we won. Tell me Weevil's a greasy smear somewhere!"
"Yeah, we won," Ace said, voice softer now. "You hit Weevil with something real nasty. Took him down for good."
"Hmph! Knew it!" Gunnar said, swelling with pride. "Never doubt a Titan. And that little stunt you pulled—getting your arms broken saving me—commendable. For a twig like you."
Ace rolled his eyes. "You're welcome. And Isshin? He took down World. Passed out right after. He's got guts."
"Isshin… Bruhhh." Gunnar's voice dropped, the words dragging. "And Smoothie… stop hovering like a giant pink flamingo. I need air!"
"I'm giving you air. And juice. Which you're ignoring," Smoothie said.
"Juice is for children and Ace," Gunnar muttered. He tried again to sit up, growling, and failed miserably. "A real man needs—urgh!"
"A real man also knows when to rest," Ace said, serious for once. "Besides, Pops wants to see you. When you can stand without looking like a newborn seal."
Gunnar squinted. "Pops? Whitebeard? He here? Good! I'll tell him I need a bigger ship! And meat! This place smells like… flowers and disappointment!" (It smelled mostly of antiseptic and linen.)
He grumbled, trapped in a useless body, surrounded by people he loved and annoyed in equal measure. And here he was, flat on his back, barked at by his wife and mocked by a firecracker.
"Just get me some damn water that doesn't taste like rust and old socks," he muttered. "And someone fix my eyes!"
Ace laughed. Smoothie sighed. And despite everything, Gunnar knew they were already moving to do exactly what he asked. Recovery would be hell. But at least he'd make sure no one forgot how much he hated it.