The first time Edward Newgate opened his eyes, the world was blessedly quiet.
The sterile scent of antiseptic had been replaced by the familiar, comforting aroma of salt and aged wood. He wasn't in a sterile infirmary, but in his own colossal bed, the morning light streaming through the large porthole of his cabin.
The first face he saw was Marco's. His son's features were etched with exhaustion, but his blue eyes held a profound, shining relief.
"Pops," Marco breathed, his voice cracking slightly. "Welcome back, yoi."
Whitebeard tried to sit up, to muster the booming authority that was as much a part of him as his own heartbeat. But all that came was a wheezing cough and a deep, aching weariness in his bones.
He felt… hollow. The thrumming, world-shaking power that had resided in his soul for decades was gone. The tremor had fallen silent.
"Gurarara…" The laugh was a shadow of its former self, a dry, rattling sound. "So, this is what it feels like."
News of his awakening spread through the Moby Dick like wildfire. Within the hour, the main deck was crowded with his family.
They brought him out, settling him into a specially reinforced chair, propping him up with pillows and blankets. He looked less like the World's Strongest Man and more like what he was: an old, tired father, home from a war he was never meant to survive.
His commanders stood before him, a wall of loyalty and concern. Jozu, his diamond arm catching the sun. Vista, his swords at his hip, his expression grim. Thatch, nervously flipping a coin.
And in the crowd, he saw Gunnar, his arm in a sling, standing beside the tall, Snow-haired woman, Smoothie. On her hip was a small girl with hair as white as seafoam, her golden eyes staring at him with awe. His grandchild.
Whitebeard surveyed them all, his gaze lingering on each beloved face. Finally, he spoke, his voice lacking its old thunder but carrying a new, quiet gravity.
"My sons… my daughters," he began, his voice raspy. "We went to Marineford to save a brother. We succeeded. We paid a heavy price… but we brought Ace home." A murmur of agreement and pride rippled through the crew.
He took a slow, rattling breath. "But that war… it was meant to be my final resting place. My time was supposed to end there, on that battlefield."
A sudden tension gripped the crew.
"What are you saying, Pops?" Jozu demanded, taking a step forward. "We won! You're alive! The Whitebeard Pirates are still here!"
"I am alive," Whitebeard agreed, offering a weak, tired smile. "But 'Whitebeard'… the Emperor of the Sea… he died at Marineford."
"Don't say that!" a younger crewmate cried out. "You're our captain!"
"A captain must be able to protect his family," Whitebeard stated, his gaze firm. "My strength is gone. The power that made the world tremble… it's no more than a memory. To remain your captain now would be to paint a target on all of your backs, a target I can no longer defend you from. It would be an act of pride, not love."
Vista stepped forward, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. "But Pops, the world is in chaos. Big Mom has fallen. Blackbeard grows stronger. The world needs the balance you provide!"
"The era is changing," Whitebeard rumbled. "It is not my place to hold the balance anymore. It is yours to create a new one." He looked across the deck, his eyes finding Iris, who was now curiously watching a seagull on the railing.
"My stubbornness almost cost us everything," he admitted, the confession stunning many into silence. "I see that now. I will not make that mistake again. I am retiring."
The word hung in the air, final and absolute.
"Retire?" Marco said softly, though he had clearly seen this coming. "What will you do, Pops?"
A genuine, warm smile touched Whitebeard's lips for the first time. "I will find a quiet island, one of our territories maybe. I will watch the waves. I will drink my sake. And I will watch my grandchildren grow up in a world of peace that you all will build." He looked directly at Gunnar and Smoothie. "I think it is a fine ambition for an old man."
Gunnar nodded slowly, a look of deep understanding on his face as he placed his good hand on Iris's head.
The silence that followed was heavy with unspoken questions. Finally, a division commander from the back, Curiel, voiced the thought on everyone's mind. "But… what about the crew? Who will be captain?"
All eyes snapped to Whitebeard. The succession of a Yonko was a monumental event.
Whitebeard looked from Marco to Jozu, from Vista to Thatch. He saw the potential, the strength, the loyalty in all of them.
"I will not name one," he declared, his voice ringing with conviction.
A wave of shock passed through the pirates.
"A king names his heir," Whitebeard continued, his gaze sweeping over every single person on the deck. "But I am not your king. I am your father. And a family… a family chooses its own head. Look around you. At your brothers. At your sisters."
He leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping to a powerful, earnest tone. "Decide amongst yourselves who is most worthy to carry our flag and our name. It is not a question of who is the strongest, or the loudest, or has the highest bounty. The question is this: who among you will protect this family, every single member of it, above all else? Who has the heart to lead you? That person… will be your new captain."
He leaned back, the effort draining him. His decree was made. He was placing the future of the world's greatest pirate crew not in the hands of one man, but in the collective heart of his family. He had given them his final order, and it was a test of the very bonds he had spent a lifetime forging.
The sun began to set, casting long shadows across the deck, illuminating the stunned, thoughtful faces of the Whitebeard Pirates.
***
The door to the commanders' mess hall was closed. Inside, the air was thick with tension and the smell of stale ale. Mugs sat untouched on the heavy wooden table. The remaining division commanders of the Whitebeard Pirates were gathered, their faces grim, the weight of an empire on their shoulders.
Marco, leaning back in his chair with his arms crossed, broke the heavy silence. "Pops has given us our task," he said, his voice low and even. "He won't choose for us. It's up to us to decide who leads this family now."
Thatch sighed, running a hand through his pompadour. "It's easy to say, Marco, but how do we do it? Pops was... well, he was Pops. There's no replacing him."
"We aren't replacing him," Vista, the elegant swordsman, corrected gently. "We are honoring his will by choosing a successor to carry our flag. The question is, who?"
Jozu slammed a massive, diamond-hard fist on the table, making the mugs jump. "It has to be Marco. It's the only logical choice. You've been Pops' right hand for decades. You know the territories, the allies, the enemies. You have the experience. You're the First Commander. It's your place."
Marco shook his head immediately. "No, yoi. My place has always been to support. To heal. To be the pillar that holds up the bridge, not the one who walks across it first. A captain needs to be a figurehead, an inspiration. That's not me."
"Then Ace," Izo suggested, his painted lips set in a firm line. He gestured with a fan. "We tore the world apart to save him. He carries a fire that draws people in. He has the ambition, the drive. The world knows his name. He has the potential to become a king."
"And that's the problem!" Haruta, the 12th Division Commander, piped up. "The world knows his name is Portgas D. Ace, but the World Government will only ever scream that his name is Gol D. Ace."
"That's a coward's way of thinking!" Thatch argued, slamming his own hand down. "We chose to stand by him at Marineford, we should choose to stand by him now!"
"Standing by him is one thing. Placing the fate of thousands of our brothers and sisters on his shoulders is another," Vista countered calmly, his wisdom cutting through the heated debate. "Ace is strong, and his heart is in the right place, but he is still hot-headed. He charged after Teach alone and got himself captured. A captain must have more than just fire."
The room fell silent again, the truth in Vista's words hitting home.
It was Vista who then spoke the third name into the room, his voice filled with a different kind of reverence. "There is another option. One none of you have mentioned."
All eyes turned to him.
"Gunnar," he said simply.
The name settled in the room, heavy and potent.
Jozu frowned. "Gunnar is the greatest pirate among us, no one denies that. What he did at Marineford... it was the stuff of legends. He saved Ace, he saved Pops. He's the MVP, no doubt. But just being strong doesn't make a leader!"
"Isn't he?" Vista challenged, his gaze sweeping the room. "He didn't just fight. He made strategic choices in the heat of battle that saved us all. He shielded the younger members, he created an opening for Law, he faced an Admiral head-on and bought the time needed for our escape. That's more than just fighting. That's leadership."
"And there's more," Izo added softly, looking at his fellow commanders. "We all know the truth."
Thatch nodded slowly, his expression complex. "He is Pops' son. His biological son."
The well-known fact was now laid bare on the table. Gunnar was the true blood of Edward Newgate.
"Pops said bloodline shouldn't matter," Jozu grumbled, though his protest lacked conviction.
"Pops said we should choose who is most worthy," Marco clarified, his eyes distant. "And who is more worthy than the man who embodied Pops' ultimate will: to protect his family at any cost? He did what none of us could. He saved our family's heart and soul." He paused, looking at each of them.
The room was now perfectly, hopelessly divided.
"So that's where we are," Thatch said, slumping in his chair. "We are stuck between three pillars."
Marco sighed, the sound heavy with the burden of their decision. "Pops didn't give us an easy task,"
***
Early morning on the Moby Dick. The ship is anchored in calm waters, distant seagulls calling through a pale orange sky. In the crew's quarters, the air is quiet—almost sacred.
The water was cold. It bit her skin and ran in streams down her cheeks, dripping into the sink like distant rain.
Smoothie splashed it again—once, twice—before finally lifting her gaze to the mirror.
Her reflection stared back at her.
Not the Queen Commander of the Big Mom Pirates.
Not the Warrior who fought Whitebeard's sons.
Not the woman who'd once stood shoulder-to-shoulder with emperors.
Just Smoothie.
Her white hair was damp, clinging to her temples. Dark circles nested under her eyes. Her lips were pale, her skin a little thinner than it used to be.
A stranger looked back at her—haunted and worn.
She raised a hand to the mirror and touched her own cheek, watching her fingers tremble.
You did this, she thought. You started it. And you survived it.
But survival… it was a cruel reward.
The door creaked.
"Smoothie?" came Gunnar's voice, low and cautious. "You okay?"
She wiped her face quickly, her voice barely steady. "Yeah. Just tired."
The silence between them said more than her words.
Gunnar leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching her. The morning light spilled in over his shoulder, catching the glint in his eyes—blue like storm-lit ice.
Then, Iris burst into the room.
"Mama!" she shouted, her small feet thudding excitedly on the wood. "You're up!"
Smoothie turned, barely having time to react before the little girl launched into her arms.
"Hey, sweetheart," Smoothie whispered, kneeling to catch her. Her arms wrapped around Iris tightly, her face buried in her daughter's hair. "You're up early."
Iris giggled, nuzzling into her. "Papa said we might see a whale today!"
Smoothie smiled, a tired, fragile thing—but real. "Then we'll look together."
Gunnar watched from a few feet away.
And in that moment, he saw it—not just the affection, but the ache beneath it.
He saw the slight tension in Smoothie's shoulders even as she played. The way her fingers clutched Iris a little too tightly.
He saw the wear in her eyes that the mirror couldn't hide.
Because he knew.
He knew she had stood on the battlefield a dozen times these past years. And on the other side—his brothers.
Marco. Vista. Jozu. Even Ace.
How many times had her blade nearly crossed theirs?
And even now, aboard this ship—Whitebeard's ship, his home—he saw the glances. The whispers. The unspoken resentment.
Some in the crew still looked at her like she was poison wrapped in silk.
And yet… she bore it.
For Iris.
For him.
He stepped closer, brushing a hand over Iris's head, then meeting Smoothie's eyes.