"Aaagh...!" Wyrah jolted awake, his breath ragged and chest heaving. His eyes darted frantically to the sides, but the sight of his familiar tent grounded him. The muted glow of the dying embers in the corner cast flickering shadows on the weathered fabric. He inhaled deeply, the earthy scent of home mixed with the faint tang of herbs. For a brief moment, solace washed over him—until the memories clawed their way back.
"Was it all a dream...?" he whispered, his voice shaky. But the word "dream" felt hollow, inadequate. "No... calling it a dream is an insult. It was a nightmare. Why? Why should I have such visions? Is my tribe truly doomed to face such a monster?"
As he pushed himself up, a sharp, searing pain tore through his chest. He hissed, clutching his ribs. The fracture was a cruel reminder of his defeat, each pang a haunting echo of the battle.
A voice broke the silence—a soft, mocking melody that sent a chill down his spine. "Were you thinking it was all just a nightmare...?"
Wyrah froze, his hand instinctively reaching for his weapon. His heart thundered as his eyes scanned the tent's dim interior, struggling to locate the source. Slowly, his vision adjusted, and there, in the darkest corner, the figure emerged.
It wasn't a specter or a trick of his mind. It was him.
The young man sat casually on a stool meant for the tribe chief, illuminated by the faint glow of the embers. He held a fruit from the chief's platter, the knife in his hand slicing away the peel in delicate spirals. The monster, the destroyer of his people, had made himself at home.
"You..." Wyrah's voice cracked as the memories surged back in vivid detail. The screams, the clash of weapons, the relentless storm that was this single adversary—his tribe's famed warriors, torn apart like leaves in the wind. They hadn't stood a chance.
The man—no, the creature—didn't look up. He plucked a piece of fruit with precision, biting into it with deliberate slowness. The sound of his chewing filled the silence, a mocking contrast to the deathly stillness of the tent.
Wyrah clenched his fists despite the pain, his mind warring between fury and disbelief. "Why are you here?" he growled, forcing the words through gritted teeth. "You destroyed everything. My people... my home..."
I couldn't help but chuckle as I sliced another piece of the fruit, the blade in my hand glinting faintly in the dim light. With deliberate ease, I popped the slice into my mouth, savoring its sweetness as I spoke, my tone dripping with calm confidence.
"Do you truly believe you would still be breathing if I had intended to destroy the Shandorians? No, chieftain. If I wanted annihilation, I would have left nothing but ash and whispers of your name." My gaze flicked toward him, catching the mixture of defiance and confusion in his eyes.
"And calm yourself—your people are alive. Just injured, perhaps nursing bruised egos to match their broken bones. But I must admit..." I leaned forward slightly, my voice carrying a hint of disdain, "I'm disappointed to see what's become of your so-called 'famed clan.' Once legends of resilience, now little more than a shadow of your former glory."
Wyrah's hands tightened into fists, the tension in his battered frame evident even as he sat restrained by his pain. He tried to maintain his composure, but I could see the fire in his eyes—a fire that refused to be extinguished, even after everything.
Just then, a soft voice called from outside the tent, muffled by the fabric. The words were formal, hesitant—a request for entry. Wyrah stiffened slightly, recognizing the voice of his guard captain. He opened his mouth to grant permission, but as he spoke, the tent flaps remained unmoved. An uneasy silence followed.
Wyrah's eyes flicked toward me, realization dawning like the breaking of a storm. He could see it in the hesitation outside, the charged stillness that lingered in the air. I chuckled again, low and deep, the sound reverberating in the confined space. It wasn't permission from him they sought—it was from me.
The corner of my mouth curved into a faint, knowing smile as I gestured lazily toward the entrance. "You see now, don't you? For all your clan's pride, they bow to strength. They've always revered power, haven't they, Wyrah? And after witnessing what I did to your elite warriors... well, let's just say they've learned respect the hard way."
Wyrah's jaw tightened, a flicker of shame crossing his face. He hated it—this unspoken acknowledgment that his people, proud Shandorians, now deferred to a stranger in their chief's tent. He loathed the powerlessness that weighed on him. Yet he couldn't deny it. The guard outside wasn't waiting for his command; they awaited mine.
"Enter," I said at last, my voice calm but carrying an authority that brooked no question.
The tent flaps parted, and the guard captain stepped inside, his gaze quickly darting between Wyrah and me. He hesitated, his hand unconsciously resting on the hilt of his weapon, as though proximity to me alone made him feel vulnerable. I waved a dismissive hand, and he visibly relaxed—just enough to mask the trembling in his stance.
Following the guard captain entered an old man, his presence commanding attention despite his frail appearance. His white beard flowed like a river of clouds, and his ornate staff tapped lightly against the ground with every step. Among the Shandorians, there was no mistaking him—Gan Fall, the so-called "God of Skypiea," their sworn archnemesis.
A wave of shock rippled through Wyrah, his eyes narrowing into slits of fury. "You bastard," he spat, venom dripping from every word. He grabbed his war axe for support, the strain of his injuries ignored as his anger fueled him. Rising to his feet, he roared, "How dare you set foot in our tribe after everything you've done?"
His challenge echoed through the tent, but before he could steady himself fully, a sharp whizz cut through the air. A slice of fruit hurtled from the shadows where I sat and struck his knee with pinpoint precision.
Wyrah buckled, collapsing back to the ground with a pained grunt. His axe slipped from his grasp and clattered beside him. The guard captain instinctively rushed to his aid, but he stopped short, freezing under the weight of my gaze. I didn't move, didn't even need to, yet my unspoken command held him in place.
Wyrah glared at me, his eyes blazing with fury and frustration. He clutched his knee, his breathing ragged, but the fire in his spirit refused to dim. Our gazes locked for several tense moments, the silence crackling with unspoken defiance. Eventually, his rage overflowed, and he turned his attention back to Gan Fall.
"You..." Wyrah's voice trembled, thick with emotion. "What kind of deal did you make with this devil? What promises did he offer to make you betray us?" His words came out in stutters, fueled by raw hatred and helplessness. "You've doomed us all! You... you..."
The words caught in his throat, leaving him choking on the weight of his feelings. His knuckles dug into the earth as he struggled to name the storm raging inside him. Was it fear? Shame? Or something deeper—an agonizing awareness of his own powerlessness in the face of a force he couldn't hope to overcome?
Gan Fall sighed, his expression a complicated mix of sorrow and weariness. He glanced at me briefly, then back at Wyrah. "You still cling to the same hatred that blinds your people, Wyrah," he said, his voice calm yet heavy with meaning.
"I cling to hatred?" Wyrah's voice was a snarl, raw and seething with rage. "You bastard, you dare say something like that after razing our settlement in the clouds just last month? Do you even comprehend how many of my tribesmen—my family—died in that raid?"
His fists trembled as he spoke, every word laced with fury. The guard captain, standing nearby, tightened his grip on his weapon, his own anger simmering just beneath the surface. The mention of the raid brought memories rushing back—homes engulfed in flames, screams that still haunted their dreams, and the sky painted with the smoke of their ruin.
Gan Fall's expression hardened, though sorrow flickered behind his aged eyes. He straightened his posture, leaning slightly on his staff. "That raid," he began, his voice measured, "was retaliation. Retaliation for the ambush your people carried out on our forces. You struck first, Wyrah. Did you truly think we would not respond?"
Wyrah barked a bitter laugh, though it carried no humor, only pain. "Ambush?" he spat, his voice rising. "You have the gall to call it that? You, who have stolen everything from us—our home, our ancestry, even our place of worship! You've turned us into exiles, chased us from the land of our birthright, and now you dare to play the victim?"
The guard captain's knuckles whitened on the hilt of his blade, his body tense. "He's right," the captain said, his voice low but charged with emotion. "We wouldn't have had to ambush you if you hadn't stolen from us first. Every drop of blood spilled is on your hands, Gan Fall."
Gan Fall's grip on his staff tightened, his calm demeanor cracking slightly under the weight of their accusations. "Upper Yard," he said firmly, though his voice betrayed a hint of weariness, "is no one's land. It belongs to the sky. To all of us. The war over it has gone on for centuries, and neither of our peoples has gained anything from it but grief and death. Can't you see that continuing this path will destroy us both?"
"Don't you dare speak of destruction like you are the voice of reason!" Wyrah roared, his voice shaking with the weight of generations of pain. "Upper Yard belongs to us Shandorians! It has always belonged to us, long before your filthy invaders even laid eyes upon it. That land is sacred—it is the resting place of our ancestors, the heart of our culture, our very identity. And you... you defiled it with your greed!"
Gan Fall sighed deeply, his shoulders slumping as though carrying the weight of the centuries-old conflict on his back. "I understand your pain, Wyrah," he said softly. "But the past cannot be undone. We cannot bring back the dead or rewrite the history that led us here. All we can do is decide how to move forward. And I fear that if we do not find a way to coexist, there will be no Shandorians or Skypieans left to fight at all."
"Move forward?" Wyrah growled, his voice shaking with incredulity. "You speak of coexistence while you sit upon what is rightfully ours, guarding it with your weapons and your laws. You think we will accept such hollow words while the very ground beneath our feet cries out for justice?"
Gan Fall looked at him, a sadness settling over his features. "And what would justice look like to you, Wyrah? More death? More suffering? Do you truly believe that reclaiming Upper Yard will bring peace to your people? Or will it merely fuel the cycle of vengeance that has kept us locked in this war for generations?"
"Justice," Wyrah said, his voice steady now, heavy with resolve, "is restoring what was stolen. Justice is ensuring that my people no longer live as refugees, forced to scrape out a life in the shadow of the Lord of the Sky, where death lurks with every step. Justice is reclaiming our heritage, even if it means fighting to the last man, woman, and child. Because if we abandon what is ours, we lose what makes us Shandorians."
The two men stared at each other, the silence between them vibrating with the weight of their convictions. Gan Fall's eyes softened, but the lines of guilt and regret etched into his face deepened.
"I do not deny your pain," Gan Fall said finally, his voice quiet. "But I fear your hatred will blind you to what truly matters. This war—this endless war—will consume us all, Wyrah. And when it does, there will be no victors, no sacred lands, no people left to reclaim them. Only ashes."
Wyrah clenched his fists, his gaze unwavering. "Then let it be ashes. At least they will be our ashes."
Gan Fall closed his eyes for a moment, the weight of Wyrah's words settling over him like a storm cloud. The tent seemed to shrink, the air thick with the intensity of their exchange. Neither side would yield, their beliefs rooted in centuries of blood and history.
I watched from my corner, my silence deliberate. This was more than a debate—it was the embodiment of two worlds clashing, a storm of unyielding pride and bitter truths. I let them argue, for now. After all, no fire burns hotter than one fueled by passion and pain.
And sometimes, a fire must burn everything to the ground before something new can rise from the ashes.
*****
Dawn Island, East Blue
"Here you go, Ace...!" Bogard's calm voice broke the silence as he extended a candy stick to the young boy. He placed another into his own mouth, the faint scent of mint wafting in the breeze. Despite Garp taking up the mantle of a Marine Vice Admiral once again, he hadn't neglected the safety of little Ace. Bogard, Garp's steadfast right-hand man, had been reassigned to the East Blue to watch over the child while Garp dealt with affairs in the New World.
"Thanks, Uncle Bogard..." Ace mumbled, accepting the candy stick with little of his usual enthusiasm. Normally, the sight of his favorite treat would light up his face, but today, his small hands gripped it loosely, and his lively spirit seemed dimmed.
Bogard, a man of few words, noticed immediately. His sharp eyes, trained from years of service under Garp, recognized the weight of unspoken troubles in the child's slumped posture. Without a word, he sat beside Ace on the weathered pier, the setting sun casting a golden glow over the calm waves. The silence between them stretched, broken only by the sound of the ocean's rhythmic lapping and the faint slurping of candy sticks.
After a few minutes, Ace spoke, his small voice tinged with hesitation. "Uncle Bogard, you knew my father, didn't you?"
Bogard's hand paused mid-motion. It was an abrupt question, but not an unexpected one. The name "Gol D. Roger" carried with it both awe and condemnation, a legacy so vast it shadowed even the innocent child before him. As Garp's trusted aide, Bogard had spent much of his early Marine career chasing the Pirate King and his crew. Few were better acquainted with the man behind the legend.
Taking a deep breath, Bogard leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. "Yes, Ace," he said carefully, his voice steady. "I knew your father. Not as well as your Grandpa Garp, but well enough. You could say we were... acquaintances."
Ace didn't turn to look at him, his small face turned toward the horizon. He clutched the candy stick tighter, his next words trembling. "Was he... Was he really an evil man like everyone says? Did he do all those horrible things—burning villages, killing people, stealing? They say... They say he was a monster."
The question lingered in the air like a heavy fog. Bogard, sensing the turmoil boiling within the child, reached out and placed a firm but gentle hand on Ace's small shoulder. "Evil, huh?" he murmured, his deep voice thoughtful. "Tell me, Ace, what do you think makes a man evil?"
Ace bit his lip, struggling to answer. The world he lived in had been painted starkly: good Marines, bad pirates. But it wasn't so simple—not for him, not with the blood of the Pirate King running through his veins.
Bogard spoke again, his voice steady, like a compass guiding a ship through a storm. "Did your father bring chaos to the seas? Yes, he did. When he declared the existence of the One Piece, he sparked the greatest surge of piracy the world had ever seen. Men and women with ambition, greed, or a thirst for adventure took to the seas, driven by his words. But ask yourself this: did Roger force them to do it? Did he hold a sword to their throats and make them choose that path?"
Ace's brow furrowed as he considered the question. "No..." he admitted softly.
"Exactly," Bogard said. "Your father believed in freedom—the freedom to dream, the freedom to choose. He lit a fire in the hearts of many, but he didn't control how they used it. People chose their paths, Ace. Roger didn't force them to act on their greed or ambition. That was their choice."
Ace's voice wavered, but he pressed on. "But... But what about the things people say? That he hurt innocent people, burned down villages? That my birth... That it was a curse on the world?" His small shoulders shook, and silent tears spilled down his cheeks.
Bogard's jaw tightened as he bit down on his candy stick, composing himself. After a moment, he spoke with quiet conviction. "Ace, let me ask you this: do you know the kind of man your Grandpa Garp is?"
Ace sniffled and nodded. "He's... He's a good man. A strong man."
"Exactly. Do you think Garp, a Marine who's dedicated his life to justice, would have ever called Roger his friend if your father was truly evil? Do you think he'd have taken you, Roger's son, into his care—loved you like his own grandson—if he believed you were a curse?"
Ace blinked up at him, the tears slowing. The question hung in the air, the weight of its implications sinking into his young mind.
Bogard leaned back slightly, gazing out at the setting sun. "Roger was many things, Ace. He was stubborn, reckless, and relentless. But evil? No. Your father wasn't a saint, but he wasn't a monster, either. He wanted to change the world in his own way, and he paid the ultimate price for it. The things people say—they come from fear, from ignorance. It's easier for people to hate what they don't understand."
The little boy wiped his cheeks with his sleeve, his candy stick forgotten. "Then why does everyone hate him so much?"
Bogard sighed, his hand still steady on Ace's shoulder. "Because Roger's actions shook the world. His declaration stirred up both the best and the worst in people. Some see him as a hero; others, as a villain. The truth is... he was human. And humans are complicated. Just like you, Ace. Just like me."
Ace stared down at his hands, his small fingers curling into fists. "I don't want to hate him... but I don't know how to feel."
Bogard's lips curved into a faint, rare smile. "It's okay not to know, Ace. It's okay to feel angry, or confused, or sad. What matters is that you don't let those feelings turn into hate—because hate will only weigh you down. Your father made his choices, and you'll make yours. You're not a curse, Ace. You're a kid with a big heart and an even bigger future. Don't let anyone take that from you."
The two sat in silence as the sun dipped below the horizon, the waves lapping softly against the pier. For the first time that day, Ace felt the weight on his chest lighten, just a little.
"I want to wash away the sins of my father, Uncle Bogard," Ace declared, his young voice steady, filled with a conviction far beyond his tender three years. The words hung in the air, heavy and solemn, and for a moment, Bogard's hand froze mid-motion. He had seen many things in his years alongside Garp—seen men rise to greatness and fall into despair—but hearing such a declaration from a child so young gave him pause.
For a fleeting moment, as the evening sun cast golden streaks over Ace's small, determined face, Bogard saw it: the shadow of something extraordinary, something that only the rarest of individuals carried. It wasn't fully formed, but the faint ripple of potential was unmistakable.
"Could it be...?" Bogard thought, his years of experience sharpening his senses. He felt the faint, almost imperceptible fluctuation of will emanating from the boy, like the first tremor of a distant earthquake. It was weak now—like an ant bite compared to a giant's roar—but it was there. The unmistakable glimmer of Conqueror's Haki. A power that demanded respect, and one Bogard had felt from the likes of Roger and Garp.
He studied Ace in silence for a moment longer, awe mixing with a quiet concern. How determined must the boy's will be to stir such a thing at such a young age?
Finally, Bogard let out a soft chuckle, breaking the tension. "And who," he asked, his deep voice tinged with warmth, "ever told you that the sins of the father are to be carried by the son?"
Ace blinked, his brow furrowing in confusion. "But... isn't it true? If my father did bad things, doesn't that mean... I have to make it right?"
Bogard leaned back slightly, a faint smile tugging at his lips. He took the candy stick from his mouth, twirling it between his fingers as he spoke.
"There might be things I'm not happy about—things Roger did that led to chaos. But there's one thing he believed that I know to be true: a man's past doesn't dictate his future. Your blood, your name, none of that decides who you are or what you'll become. Only your actions do that, Ace. Only the choices you make, day by day, will determine the kind of man you grow into."
Ace's small fists clenched on his lap, his expression torn. "But everyone already thinks that if I were to exist, I would be a curse... because of him. They say I'll be like him."
Bogard's gaze softened, but his voice grew firm, steady as a blade. "Listen to me, Ace. In the future, the world might try to brand you with the sins of your father. They'll whisper and shout, point fingers, and judge. But their words don't define you—you do. Let me ask you this: do you want to be a man who's burdened by their opinions? Or do you want to be someone who rises above them, who shows the world what kind of man you truly are?"
The boy's wide eyes met Bogard's, and for a moment, there was only the sound of the waves lapping against the pier. Slowly, Ace nodded. "I want to be... someone better."
Bogard grinned, a rare expression of approval breaking through his usual stoicism. He ruffled Ace's unruly black hair, the boy scrunching his nose in mild protest.
"That's the spirit, kid. And let me tell you something else—great men aren't born from easy lives. It's the trials, the challenges, the hardships that forge them. Your life won't be easy, Ace, not with the blood you carry. But if you let your actions speak louder than their words, you can become a man the world will never forget. Not because you're Roger's son—but because you're Ace, Portgas D. Ace."
Ace's chest puffed out slightly at the words, his youthful pride returning. But then he frowned, his small voice growing uncertain again. "But... what if I mess up? What if I make the wrong choices?"
Bogard chuckled, biting down on his candy stick with a crunch before replying. "Everyone makes mistakes, Ace. Even your Grandpa Garp, even me. What matters isn't that you stumble—it's that you get back up. That's what separates the strong from the weak. You've got a fire in you, kid, and I can already tell it's not going out anytime soon. So don't waste time worrying about falling. Just focus on standing tall."
The boy looked up at him, the turmoil in his eyes slowly giving way to something brighter—hope.
"Do you really think I can be great, Uncle Bogard?"
Bogard's gaze turned serious, and he knelt down to Ace's level, placing both hands on the boy's small shoulders. "I don't think it, Ace. I know it. Greatness isn't in your blood—it's in your will. And I see it in you. Clear as the sun setting over that horizon."
Ace's small face broke into a tentative smile, the first true one Bogard had seen all day. He wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand, determination sparking anew. "Then I'll do it. I'll show them I'm not just my father's son. I'll be... me."
Bogard straightened, a quiet pride settling in his chest as he placed the candy stick back between his lips. "That's the spirit. Now, come on. Let's head back before your mother comes looking for you. You know how loud she gets when your dinner's late."
Ace laughed—a small but genuine sound—and followed Bogard back toward the village, the weight on his heart just a little lighter. As they walked, Bogard glanced at the boy out of the corner of his eye, his thoughts drifting to the faint ripple of Haki he'd felt earlier.
"The seas aren't ready for you yet, Ace," he thought, his lips curving into a faint smirk. "But when they are... they'll remember your name."