The New World, Et Wall Sea. Dark clouds swallowed the moon whole, and thunder growled across the heavens, heralding the storm's approach. The Moby Dick surged through the churning waves, its white whale figurehead cutting through the frothy crests with relentless precision. The Second Division's shared quarters echoed with restless energy.
"You want me to be Captain of the Second Division?" Ace froze mid-step, towel slung over his shoulder, damp hair dripping. He'd been on his way to bed when the murmurs caught his attention. "That seat's been empty for a while now. If you take it, nobody's gonna argue..."
"Think about it! You've got the Clay-Clay Fruit, mastered two types of Haki, and—hell—you've got Conqueror's Haki! That's one in a million, Ace. Kozuki Oden, the last Second Division Captain, had it too. He was a monster, almost Whitebeard's equal. You'll get there, no doubt."
"Yeah, Ace, you've got this!" another crewmate chimed in.
Ace scratched the back of his head, chuckling awkwardly. "Come on, I've only been here a year. Isn't that a little soon?"
"Not at all! You've made a huge impact since you joined. You've more than earned it."
"Strength-wise, right now, Marco, Jozu, and Flower Sword are still out of your league, but you've already surpassed the other Captains. If you stay just a regular crew member, it's gonna get awkward for them."
"That's right! Half the Captains are already wondering when you're gonna step up."
Ace laughed, rubbing his neck. "Really? I mean... aren't there better candidates in the Second Division?" His eyes drifted to the corner of the cabin, where a hulking figure sat at a desk, engrossed in a book. Marshall D. Teach.
Sephiroth had mentioned Teach's name before, and Ace had made a point of learning more about him. He'd asked around, even struck up a conversation. But... Teach was... odd. He didn't sleep, ate cherry pie like it was going out of style, and spent hours reading. For a man as massive and rough-looking as Teach, it was almost comical how scholarly he seemed.
Teach's love of history and books set him apart in a crew where most couldn't read past a few words. On the Moby Dick, being able to read a newspaper made you an intellectual. Teach, by comparison, was practically a scholar. Still, Ace couldn't shake the feeling that Teach was... ordinary. Too ordinary.
The crewmates who'd been winding down for the night now joined the conversation, their voices rising in enthusiasm.
"Ace, I'm behind you all the way!"
"You've got the strength, Ace. You're more than fit to be Captain!"
"We're all counting on you to lead us!"
But not everyone agreed. A few voices rose in Teach's defense. He'd been with the Whitebeard Pirates for over two decades, fought alongside the Second Division in countless battles, and held his own in strength.
"Yes, Ace, you're so strong, you're more than enough to be a Captain!" another crewmate declared, slapping Ace on the back.
Teach leaned back in his corner, flipping through his book with a dismissive chuckle. The others had been pressing him about becoming a Captain, but he waved off their suggestions with ease. Too much trouble, he said. Not worth the hassle. The matter was settled for now.
Morning broke over the Moby Dick. The mess hall buzzed with activity, the long table laden with food. Ace sat on a bench, watching Teach dig into a cherry pie with his usual gusto. Curiosity got the better of him.
"Teach," Ace began, leaning forward. "You've been here longer than most. Don't you want to be a Captain?"
Teach paused mid-bite, then laughed, crumbs spraying from his mouth. His face was relaxed, almost carefree. "Ze hahaha! Nah, don't worry about it. I'm not cut out for that. You go ahead and take the spot, Captain Ace."
A captaincy in the Whitebeard Pirates? Teach scoffed inwardly. What was the point? His dream was something far grander—to become the Pirate King, to rule the world. But here he was, still waiting. Twenty-four years of patience, three years stretching into eternity. And still, no sign of the Dark-Dark Fruit.
Without it, his dream would never take flight. He knew he was gambling with his life. The Whitebeard Pirates were the strongest crew in the New World, the place where Devil Fruits were most abundant. If he couldn't find it here, his chances elsewhere were slim to none.
So he waited, biding his time. If the Dark-Dark Fruit never appeared, he'd resign himself to a quiet life as a Whitebeard Pirate. A life of obscurity, growing old and dying in silence. Better to fade away than to live without the power to dominate the world.
But he was thirty-six now. The years were slipping through his fingers, and still, no clues. Maybe it was time to give up, to accept his fate. Either erupt in glory or vanish into the shadows. Without the power to change the world, he'd settle for a simple, unremarkable existence.
The storm outside mirrored his thoughts. Dark clouds rolled across the night sky, lightning crackling through the air. Waves crashed against the hull of a Marine warship, the storm howling around it. Inside the communication room, a Marine soldier fumbled with the den den mushi, panic etched on his face.
"Calling Marineford!" he shouted into the receiver. "We're under attack! The enemy is the Beasts Pirates' Heavenly Yaksha, Doflamingo—bounty three billion five hundred million Berries—"
His words were cut short. A transparent string sliced through the air, severing his head from his body in an instant. The head thudded to the floor, lifeless.
"Fufufufufu!" Doflamingo's laughter echoed through the room. "What an annoying fly." He stepped over the corpse, his stride unhurried as he made his way deeper into the ship.
Marines rushed to intercept him, but they were no match. His strings whipped through the air, shredding them before they could even raise their weapons. Bodies fell in his wake, lifeless and broken.
Soon, he reached the heart of the prison ship. A Sea Stone cage stood before him, its occupant a middle-aged man with horns on his head and shackles on his wrists. Doflamingo grinned, his eyes gleaming with malice.
"Fufufufufu! You must be Caesar Clown," he drawled. "Former member of MADS' illegal research team, Marine Science Unit, and the mastermind behind the biochemical gas on Punk Hazard Island."
Caesar looked up, his expression calm despite the situation. "Yes, that's me," he said, his tone dripping with arrogance. "You're speaking to a genius scientist."
Doflamingo's smirk widened. "I'll give you a choice," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "Submit to me, or die. Which will it be?"
Caesar blinked, caught off guard. His cowardly nature kicked in, and he didn't hesitate. "Of course, I submit!" he blurted out, his voice trembling.
"From now on, if you say east, I won't even think about going west," the man stammered, his voice trembling.
Doflamingo's laughter echoed through the room—low, menacing, and utterly devoid of warmth. "Fufufufufu! Excellent. You've made the right choice. Remember, though—if you break your word, I won't just be angry. The consequences... will be severe." With a casual flick of his wrist, Doflamingo gestured dismissively, as if swatting away a fly.
The Sea Stone cage bars holding Caesar were instantly cut clean through by nearly invisible threads. They clattered to the ground, freeing Caesar with a metallic crash.