On the sea—
Whitebeard's ship rested there in silence, as if waiting for soone's arrival.
On the deck—
the crew had gathered together, faces solemn.
They all knew it:
One of the Four Emperors—"Red-Haired" Shanks—was coming.
A man with no Devil Fruit, yet strong enough to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with the "old man."
Only one figure—sporting a golden "pineapple head"—stood with one hand on his hip, lazily reminding everyone:
"Your bodies won't be able to take it."
The pirates on deck froze.
But before they could even process what he ant—
Shanks had already stepped onto the gangplank!!
And at that mont—
a pirate with golden earrings broke into a cold sweat, as if he suddenly understood sothing. He turned toward the "pineapple head"—Whitebeard's First Division Commander and ship's doctor, Marco—and asked in panic:
"'Can't take it'… you an what?!"
Marco turned, face calm. He lifted a hand and pointed behind him.
"Don't ask."
"Get into the cabin. Now."
As the ship's doctor, Marco did care about the crew.
But he didn't explain—because he could already feel the terrifying presence rolling off that man.
All he wanted was for the weaker crew mbers to get below deck before it hit them full-force.
"Thud!"
While he spoke, a normal pirate behind him suddenly rolled his eyes back and collapsed, smashing onto the deck.
"T-This!!"
The earring pirate's eyes went wide.
Now he understood exactly what Marco ant by "can't take it."
Footsteps drew closer—heavier, steadier.
Every step Shanks took up the gangplank—
more n dropped.
In monts, the smaller pirates began to tremble, eyes full of terror as comrades fell one after another. Their voices cracked.
"What's happening to you?!"
"What's going on?!"
Marco glanced back and sighed, helpless.
"Already too late, huh…"
The panic spread.
So pirates started shaking their unconscious friends, losing control of the formation.
"They just passed out, that's all."
Marco lowered his voice, trying to calm them—though it was clearly beyond that point.
Nearby, another Division Commander watched crew after crew collapse, face darkening.
"Half-baked ntal fortitude can't stay awake in front of that man."
And then—
the man he ant stepped onto the final plank.
He entered their view.
A balanced build.
That red hair was unmistakable.
A black cloak draped over his shoulders.
A white shirt, patterned brown cropped pants, and flip-flops.
A Western-style saber at his waist.
His right arm hung low, dragging a massive sake jar—nearly half a man tall.
A breeze passed.
The empty sleeve on his left arm fluttered lightly as he walked forward, ignoring the rows of fallen pirates on either side, dragging the jar with slow, unhurried steps.
"Still the sa."
Marco and Jozu—who remained standing—spoke almost in admiration.
They weren't afraid.
Because they weren't within the range of Shanks' Conqueror's Haki intimidation.
Just like on the steps—
Shanks' aura climbed higher with each step, heavier, denser.
After only a few paces, it reached a level that made even elite pirates swallow hard—
the ship's wood itself began to crack with tiny fractures.
Then Shanks stopped.
He lowered his head slightly, voice calm.
"Excuse ."
"Showing off on an enemy ship the mont I step aboard."
He raised his head.
Three scars over his left eye stood out sharply.
His gaze settled on the man called the "World's Strongest"—steady, flat, yet laced with unmistakable provocation.
And he stared without restraint at the massive "IV drips" hooked into Whitebeard's towering body—
as if to say:
Whitebeard… you're old now.
Whitebeard ignored the provocation.
He kept his eyes fixed on Shanks' scars and said quietly:
"Seeing your face makes the wound that bastard left ache."
His eyes tightened.
A sharp light flashed within them.
"Gulp—gulp."
Beside him, Shanks lifted the huge sake jar.
"I brought dicine-grade sake."
"I'm not here to fight."
Then he raised the jar slightly, continuing:
"I ca to discuss sothing."
Whitebeard sat in a massive purple-backed chair, arms crossed, tone rough:
"That's what a man with overflowing Haki says?"
"You bastard…"
He didn't know Shanks' true motive yet, but he disliked the way Shanks circled around the point.
"Ha—hahaha…"
"Red Hair, what the hell did you do?"
From the side, Marco spoke up.
Plenty of people feared Shanks—
Marco wasn't one of them.
Shanks' eyes swept the deck: pirates passed out everywhere, the ship's railing cracked in spots.
Finally he looked at Marco and—almost approvingly—said:
"Oh?"
"Marco, First Division."
"You want to co with us?"
He was poaching right in front of Whitebeard's face.
"Cut it out!" Marco snapped.
Shanks smiled, eyes narrowing.
"Old man."
"Then we…"
Jozu, the Diamond, turned to Whitebeard in a low voice:
"Pop…?"
Whitebeard's expression softened strangely, his eyelids drooping.
"He doesn't seem like he ca to start a war."
"Leave us alone."
The order was clear.
The others withdrew, clearing the deck and leaving only Whitebeard and Shanks.
Above them, seagulls cried as they flew past.
Shanks opened the jar, poured clear sake into an absurdly large bowl—glug glug—until it brimd.
Then he flicked his wrist and tossed the jar toward Whitebeard.
Whitebeard caught it casually, sniffed, and snorted.
"West Blue sake. Not exactly top-shelf."
Even sick, his nose was still razor-sharp for alcohol.
"I've been across every sea," Shanks said seriously.
"There's no sake I value more than this."
He stared at the bowl, watching his own reflection in the clear liquid.
"It's from my hotown."
"Try it."
Whitebeard grunted, lifted the jar, and took several deep swigs.
"…Not bad."
A reluctant complint.
He set it on his knee and fell quiet.
Once the alcohol hit his throat—
mories surged up: nas, faces, voices.
Roger. Garp. Sengoku…
And then, finally, a young man in a gray shirt and wide-legged pants—
always looking lazy, always smiling like he didn't care—
Rōmu.
Whitebeard drank again.
He hadn't spoken that na in nearly forty years.
Because only that man could be called his true friend.
And true friends who are gone…
are rembered with silence.
"Twenty-two years ago," Shanks said quietly, watching him.
"Of course the people you knew are fewer now."
Whitebeard's gloom lifted a bit, and sothing like nostalgia surfaced.
"You made sothing of yourself too."
"Back then you were just an apprentice brat on Gol D. Roger's ship."
"Our ships clashed plenty—killed each other enough tis that I rembered your face."
He almost sounded like he'd been thrown back into youth—
into the days he led his crew into constant brawls with Roger's ship, often just to "settle accounts" for Rōmu.
Back then, he truly hated Roger.
But after Roger surrendered and was executed…
that hatred scattered like smoke.
On the sea, even the greatest grudges fade when a man dies.
And Rōmu's death had never been Roger's doing anyway—Roger didn't have the power to influence that kind of ending.
Whitebeard drank again, and again.
He missed the days drinking with Rōmu on Hachinosu.
His lips curled slightly.
Those had been the happiest days of his pirate life.
Seeing that expression, Shanks sighed as well—then Whitebeard suddenly laughed.
"Hahahaha…"
"That funny red-nosed guy with you… is he dead yet?"
Shanks replied calmly:
"His na's Buggy."
"I miss him too."
"After the day the Captain was executed, we split up in Loguetown."
"I invited him to sail with . He refused."
"Rumor says he's still a pirate."
They talked like that for minutes.
The deck atmosphere loosened—almost peaceful.
Then Whitebeard tilted his head back, staring at the sky.
"To it's a blink. Besides that man… there are still plenty who could be called legends."
"I heard you and Hawk-Eye dueled."
"A man like you ca back from East Blue missing an arm… anyone would be shocked."
He paused, then slowly looked at Shanks' empty sleeve, voice sinking:
"Who cut it off?"
Shanks placed his right hand on his left shoulder and answered softly:
"That…"
"I bet it on the new era."
Then he t Whitebeard's gaze and asked, curious:
"The one you said… 'besides that man'…"
"Who is he?"
Whitebeard took another drink.
"That man…"
His tone stayed casual—clearly unwilling to discuss Rōmu further.
Shanks noticed and didn't push.
Instead, he pointed at the IV lines in Whitebeard's body and lowered his voice.
"Enough nostalgia."
"Let's talk business."
The mont he said it—
Whitebeard's eyes sharpened.
He set the jar down on his knee.
The haze of mory vanished, replaced by sothing heavy and dangerous.
"So this is what you really ca for."
Wind rose.
Dark clouds began to move—slowly gathering over the ship, swallowing the daylight.
The deck dimd.
The air tightened.
"I know about Ace," Shanks said, face now severe.
"He's young, strong enough to be your Second Division Commander."
"He matters to you. I know that."
"But you've fought countless battles."
"You're covered in scars."
"And now your body…"
He didn't finish the sentence—but the aning was obvious.
"The Marines and the World Governnt are stronger than you think."
"If you go head-on, the outco will be worse than you imagine."
He tightened his grip on Gryphon, eyes locked on Whitebeard.
"Give face."
"Don't go to Marineford."
"That's all I'm asking."
His voice dropped at the end.
He knew how outrageous that request was.
Whitebeard treated family as sacred—asking him to abandon Ace was like asking him to abandon his identity.
But Shanks still asked, because—
for the sea's balance, and for his own unseen layout—
he had to stop Whitebeard if he could.
Shanks could feel it:
Whitebeard was like a living volcano, seconds from eruption.
And then—
Whitebeard laughed.
"Gurararara…"
The calm sea churned.
The clouds accelerated, rolling darker and thicker.
The laughter cut off.
Whitebeard looked down at Shanks with pure disdain.
"A snot-nosed brat got good with words."
"You want to sit still while my son gets killed?"
His aura exploded.
A crushing pressure slamd across the deck.
"Debts of gratitude and righteousness—those are lines you don't cross!"
"Saving Ace… isn't that my responsibility?!"
His voice climbed, raw and furious:
"I couldn't save my brother back then!"
"But now—this ti—I will save my son!!"
"Understand, idiot?!"
"If you want to boss around…"
"You're a hundred years too early!"
He hurled the empty jar.
Shanks vanished and let it pass, still silent.
He picked up the bowl, drank it down in one gulp, and tossed it aside.
Then he stood, gripping Gryphon, eyes closed.
"It's going to beco sothing no one can stop."
"The era will rampage."
Steel sang as his blade ca free.
The clouds above twisted into a black ceiling.
"It's not worth fearing!" Whitebeard roared back.
He ripped out every IV needle in his body.
Blood spattered.
He seized Murakumogiri and swung down without rcy, bellowing:
"I'm Whitebeard—"
"I'm that man's brother!!"
The blades t.
A tallic crash that rang like judgnt.
A wave of invisible pressure detonated from the collision, blasting upward—
"BOOOOM—!!!"
The clouds—
no.
The sky split open.
The "face" talk ended here.
The Rampage Era—
officially began.
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