The island, a lush, neutral territory under Whitebeard's protection known as "Whale's Rest," was a hive of activity.
Dozens of ships, each bearing the distinct jolly roger of an allied crew, were anchored in its calm bay. On the shore, in a wide, cleared-out glade, captains and their first mates from all corners of the New World had gathered.
They were a motley collection of grizzled veterans, ambitious rookies, and desperate leaders whose homes and lives depended on the strength of the Whitebeard Pirates. The news of Big Mom's fall had sent a shockwave of fear through their ranks. Now, with Whitebeard's retirement confirmed, that fear was curdling into outright panic.
Marco, flanked by Vista and Jozu, stood before them. In the background, seated on a massive log, was Edward Newgate himself. He was just an observer today.
"We thank you all for coming," Marco began, his voice carrying across the quiet clearing. "As you know, Pops is stepping down. The Whitebeard Pirates will continue, but we will have a new captain at the helm."
A stocky, bearded captain named Doma, one of their most loyal allies, slammed his fist into his palm. "And who's it gonna be, Marco? The world is teetering on a knife's edge. We need to know who we're following. We need strength!"
Another captain, a more refined woman from a prosperous trade island, nodded in agreement. "We need stability. Your crew has always been our shield. Without a strong, clear leader, that shield will crack, and vultures like Blackbeard will pick us all apart."
The murmurings grew louder, a chorus of anxiety.
Marco raised a hand for silence. "The decision is not simple. Pops has left it to us, his family, to choose. There are three primary candidates."
Vista stepped forward. "The first is Ace. His fire inspires loyalty, and he has the will to usher in a new era."
"The brat who got caught by Teach?" Doma scoffed, though not without a grudging respect. "He's got guts, I'll give him that. But he's a gamble."
Jozu spoke next, his voice a low rumble. "There is Marco. He has been Pops' right hand for longer than most of us have been alive."
"A safe choice," the trade captain mused. "Perhaps the safest."
Then, Marco spoke the third name, and a different kind of hush fell over the crowd. "And there is Gunnar."
Doma's eyes lit up. "Now there's a name! The man who walked into Marineford and carried half the war on his back! The man who saved both Ace and Whitebeard! The blood of the old man himself! That is strength! Give us Gunnar, and no one will dare to touch us!"
A wave of agreement spread through the more militant allies. They wanted a hammer, and Gunnar was the strongest hammer they had ever seen.
While his name was being debated with such fervor, Gunnar himself was oblivious. He sat under the shade of a large palm tree, far from the tense gathering. He was on his knees in the grass, his large, calloused hands working with surprising delicacy. In front of him, Iris sat with her legs crossed, watching with rapt attention.
"And then," Gunnar said in a low, storytelling voice, "the little sea slug puts on his shell-hat..." He placed a tiny, spiraled seashell atop a smooth, gray pebble. "...and he says, 'I'm ready for an adventure!'"
Iris giggled, a sound as clear as a tiny bell. "A pebble can't be a sea slug, Papa!"
"Of course he can," Gunnar rumbled with a smile. "He just has to believe he is." He looked up and saw Smoothie approaching, a fond smile on her face. She sat beside them, leaning her head on his good shoulder.
"They're talking about you, you know," she murmured, just for him. "They want you to be captain."
Gunnar didn't look over at the gathering. He kept his eyes on his daughter as he handed her the pebble-slug. "They are choosing a path for the crew," he said softly. "My path is right here. Whatever they decide, I will follow."
Smoothie squeezed his arm, her heart swelling. This was the man she loved.
Back in the glade, the debate had reached its peak. Marco finally called for order.
"Your opinions are valued," he announced. "But this is a decision for our family. And we will make it now."
Thatch and Izo carried out a simple, large wooden box. A slit was carved in the top. On the front, the iconic crescent moon and skull of the Whitebeard Pirates was burned into the wood.
"Every official member of the Whitebeard Pirates will cast their vote," Marco declared. "Write the name of your choice. Ace, Marco, or Gunnar. Fold it, and place it in the box. The choice will be made here, together."
A line formed. One by one, the sons and daughters of Whitebeard walked forward. Some looked resolute, others deeply conflicted. Thatch dropped his vote in with a sigh.
Jozu's was a decisive thump. Vista placed his in with a quiet, thoughtful prayer. The crew, from the lowest-ranking deckhand to the highest commander, each cast their ballot, their own small piece of the crew's future.
When it was Gunnar's turn, Smoothie nudged him. He stood up, dusted the grass from his pants, and walked over. He took a slip of paper and a pen. For a long moment, he stood there, looking at the box. Then, with a firm, steady hand, he wrote a single name. He folded the paper and dropped it in. He didn't hesitate.
Marco was the last. He sealed the box.
"It is done," he announced to the waiting allies and his family. "The votes are cast. We will count them, and at sunrise tomorrow, we will announce our new captain."
The box sat on a stone pedestal in the center of the glade, a simple wooden object holding the weight of an empire. And in the quiet moments that followed, the commanders exchanged glances, each wondering the same thing.
***
After a day,
The sun rose over Whale's Rest, painting the sky in soft hues of orange and pink. The air was still, heavy with anticipation. The allied captains stood in a tense semi-circle, while the Whitebeard Pirates gathered closer, their faces a mixture of hope and anxiety.
But in the center of the clearing, a pocket of perfect peace existed.
Edward Newgate sat on his large, reinforced chair, a thick blanket over his legs. Clambering over his broad lap was Iris, her white hair a stark, beautiful contrast to his weathered skin. She was giggling, carefully trying to braid two small sections of his magnificent white mustache.
"You're a big, fluffy cloud, Grandpa," she declared, her tiny fingers fumbling with the strands.
A low, rumbling laugh, softer than it once was but no less warm, vibrated through his chest. Iris, perched on his lap, bounced with the motion. "Gurarara… And you, little sprout, are the sunshine that sits on it."
Several crew members watched from a distance, their hardened faces softening at the sight. This was their future—the old guard making way for the new, a legend becoming a grandfather. It was a beautiful, painful, and perfect image of the new era they were facing.
Iris paused in her work, her golden eyes turning serious as she looked up at his face. "Grandpa?" she asked. "Who's going to win?"
Whitebeard looked out at his assembled sons and daughters, his gaze full of immeasurable pride. "The one this family needs the most," he answered, his voice a low rumble. "The one with the heart big enough to carry all of our own. It does not matter who."
Iris tilted her head. "But… who do you want to win?"
He smiled down at her. "I want my family to be safe and happy. The name of the man who makes that happen is not important." He gently poked her nose. "Who do you want to win, little one?"
Her answer was immediate and unwavering, spoken with all the certainty of a four-year-old's heart. "Papa," she said, her expression serious. "I want Papa to win."
Just then, Marco stepped forward, holding the sealed wooden box. "It is time," he announced, his voice steady and clear, cutting through the morning calm.
A hush fell over the entire clearing. Even Iris grew quiet, sensing the gravity of the moment. She slid off Whitebeard's lap and ran to her mother, who scooped her up and held her close. Gunnar stood beside them, his face unreadable as he watched his brothers.
Marco placed the box on the stone pedestal. With Thatch and Jozu as witnesses, he broke the wax seal. He reached inside and began to pull out the folded slips of paper, sorting them into three distinct piles. The only sound was the rustle of paper and the distant cry of a seabird.
After several long, agonizing minutes, the count was done. Marco took a deep breath, his eyes scanning the faces of his family.
"The votes have been counted," he said, his voice ringing with authority. "Total votes cast: one thousand, two hundred and forty-three."
He looked towards Ace, who stood with his arms crossed, his expression neutral. "For Portgas D. Ace... one hundred and fifty-eight votes."
A small, almost imperceptible sigh of relief escaped Ace. He gave a slight nod. It was an honorable number, a show of faith from his brothers, but it was not the winning one. He was free.
Marco's gaze then flickered between himself and Gunnar, who stood stoically beside his family. The tension in the air became so thick it was almost suffocating.
"The remaining votes are split between myself and Gunnar," Marco continued, his voice unwavering. He picked up one of the two large stacks of paper. "For Marco the Phoenix... four hundred and forty-two votes."
A gasp went through the crowd. It was an incredible number, a testament to the decades of trust he had earned. It had to be the winning count. For a split second, it seemed decided.
Marco paused, letting the number sink in. Then, he looked directly at Gunnar, and his expression was one of profound respect.
"And for Gunnar..." he said, his voice clear and final, "...five hundred and forty-three votes."
Silence.
One hundred and One vote. The future of the world's most powerful pirate crew had been decided.
Gunnar didn't move. He didn't even seem to breathe. His eyes were wide, with a dawning, crushing weight. He looked at Smoothie, whose own eyes were wide with shock and pride. He looked at Iris, who was too young to understand the numbers but could feel the shift in the world around them. She clapped her hands happily. "Papa won!"
Slowly, the silence was broken. First by the allies, Doma letting out a roar of approval. "Yes! The right choice! The strongest choice!"
But among the Whitebeard Pirates, the reaction was different. It was a slow, collective exhale. A dawning acceptance.
Then, Marco did something that sealed the decision forever. He walked across the clearing, stopping directly in front of the stunned Gunnar. And with the entire crew as his witness, Marco the Phoenix, the former First Commander, bent his knee and bowed his head.
"Captain," he said, his voice full of a new, unwavering loyalty.
One by one, the other commanders followed his lead. Jozu knelt. Vista knelt. Izo and Thatch knelt. Soon, every single member of the White new knelt before the man who had never wanted to lead them, but who had been chosen all the same.
Gunnar looked out at the sea of his bowing family, his heart hammering in his chest. His gaze found Whitebeard, who was smiling, a single, proud tear tracing a path through the wrinkles on his cheek.
The family had chosen its heart. And it was a heart that now had to learn how to lead.