Rhett decided to visit Wano Country. Here, Rhett analyzed the original storyline—why Oden refused Rayleigh's help and didn't seek out Whitebeard either.
First, Wano was an isolationist nation, which meant information flow was severely restricted.
Even if Oden had asked Whitebeard for help and Whitebeard agreed, Rhett doubted Whitebeard could have done much. Could Whitebeard have killed Kaido? How big was the gap between the original Yonko? (Except for Shanks—that's Kid's verdict.)
Even if Whitebeard brought his entire crew to Wano like in the Marineford War, the same problem remained: if you couldn't overpower someone in One Piece, what could you do? If Kaido sensed the tide turning against him, he'd just transform into his dragon form and flee. Flight gave him a massive advantage. Even if Whitebeard was the strongest man alive, what good was that if your enemy refused to engage?
Let's take it a step further—suppose Whitebeard managed to drive Kaido away this time. Then what? Would Whitebeard's entire crew have to garrison Wano indefinitely to prevent another Yonko from attacking? Was Oden's face that big? Rhett didn't think so!
This was Oden's personal family matter. You couldn't bind someone else's entire life to your own private affairs.
Now that the rational analysis was done, time for something irrational.
---
The Bluma Jackson sailed across the sea, but its destination wasn't Wano—it was Whitebeard's territory. Rhett was going to see Whitebeard.
Rhett wanted to see how Whitebeard would react to Oden's current state. Whether Rhett went or Whitebeard did, there wasn't much difference.
*Deck of the Moby Dick*
Whitebeard sat in his exclusive seat, a sake jug in hand, his gaze fixed on the horizon.
Marco stood beside him when suddenly, his brow furrowed as he looked toward the sea.
"Oyaji, a ship's approaching."
Whitebeard chuckled. "Gurararara... That presence—it's that brat."
In the distance, the silhouette of the Bluma Jackson grew clearer. At its blood-mist-shrouded bow stood a familiar figure.
Rhett stood with his arms crossed, grinning. "Yo, Newgate! Long time no see—got any booze left?"
The Whitebeard Pirates erupted into chatter.
"Big Bro Rhett?!"
Marco rubbed his temples. "Big Bro Rhett, always showing up and immediately asking for alcohol."
But he still started ordering the younger crewmates to prepare a feast.
Rhett leaped onto the Moby Dick and plopped down cross-legged in front of Whitebeard, downing a large gulp of sake without ceremony. He wiped his mouth and scoffed. "Tch, still tastes like crap. Can't you stock something decent?"
Whitebeard roared with laughter. "Gurararara! Brat, you're lucky to get any of my sake at all! I don't even have enough for myself!"
Rhett rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah. Your body's starting to crack, isn't it?"
Whitebeard's eyes darkened briefly before returning to normal.
He stared at Rhett, his voice lowering slightly. "So, you've been running around the world? You didn't come here just to mooch booze, did you?"
Most of Whitebeard's sons were confused, but Marco wasn't among them.
On the deck, the clinking of sake cups rang out crisply.
Rhett tilted his head back and took another swig, the burning liquid sliding down his throat. He squinted, scanning Whitebeard's seemingly vigorous face—there wasn't a hint of anything wrong to the naked eye.
But who was Rhett? The direct disciple of Crocus, the life force transporter. A single sweep of his mist, and Rhett could sense most of the truth.
"You old coot, your alcohol tolerance hasn't slipped," Rhett said, swirling blood mist around his fingers. "But your body's telling a different story."
Whitebeard snorted. "Brat, I don't need your concern."
Marco stood nearby, hesitating.
Finally, he took a deep breath and stepped forward. "Big Bro Rhett, since you're here... there's something I'd like to ask of you."
Rhett raised an eyebrow, feigning ignorance. "Oh? Little Marco, what's this? You're actually asking me for a favor?"
Marco ignored the teasing, his expression serious. "Oyaji's condition... You can see it too, right? If even I can tell, you definitely can."
The air grew heavy.
Whitebeard frowned. "Marco!"
Rhett suddenly grinned. "Yep."
Though Whitebeard's strength was at its peak now, these hidden injuries didn't affect him yet. But over time, they'd accumulate—just like in the original story.
This cryptic answer left everyone stunned.
"But there's a condition," Rhett held up a finger. "I want your stash of premium booze. You old miser, you only brought out the cheap stuff for us. Who's gonna get drunk on this?"
Whitebeard's eyes bulged. "You brat! That's my—"
"Deal!" Marco immediately cut him off, already sprinting toward the ship's hold.
Whitebeard's mustache bristled with rage. "Marco! You stop right there!"
Rhett burst into laughter as a crimson glow coalesced in his palm. "Give it up, old man. Today, I'm repaying the captain's debt whether you like it or not."
The healing process wasn't easy. The blood mist seeped into Whitebeard's body, revealing far more accumulated damage than expected. Rhett's life force continuously replenished as his mist acted like a precision scalpel, meticulously repairing shattered meridians and organs.
Whitebeard's internal injuries were worse than they appeared. Sweat beaded on his forehead, but his lips still curled in that same carefree smirk—he couldn't lose face in front of Whitebeard when it came to style.
A patient of Whitebeard's size required an enormous amount of life force, especially with injuries that included internal organ fragments from Devil Fruit ability recoil.
"Tsk tsk, your body's worse than New World weather," Rhett teased. "In future high-intensity battles, this would've killed you, old man."
Whitebeard clenched his teeth, not letting out a single groan. "Shut up... focus on healing..."
Three hours later, as the last wisp of blood mist withdrew, Whitebeard took a deep breath—he'd never felt so light. Testing his shoulders, his eyes flashed with astonishment.
"How's that?" Rhett wiped his sweat. "Feel like you could live another fifty years?"
Whitebeard stood, planting his naginata firmly as he laughed heartily. "Gurararara! Not bad, brat!"
During the treatment, Marco had explained to the crew about their father's hidden injuries.
The sons crowded around Whitebeard excitedly, poking and prodding.
Then Marco led them in a deep bow to Rhett.
As for Rhett?
He was already directing zombies to haul Whitebeard's premium alcohol onto his ship. After all that effort, not taking extra would be a total loss.
"Hold it!" Whitebeard suddenly barked. "Take the booze, but fight me first. It's been too long since I felt this good."
Rhett grinned eagerly—what was the point of weapon upgrades if you only got to use them once?
"Let's find an island. I'd hate to wreck your ship, old man."
After a brief silence, Whitebeard burst into laughter. "Good! Very good! Marco, set sail!"