Chapter 347

Redlark Island, New World

The chaotic battlefield roared with the fury of clashing swords and the cries of warriors fighting for pride, survival, and dominance. Shanks's blade, shimmering with advanced armament haki, bit deep into Jozu's diamond-covered chest.

The pained roar of the Whitebeard commander echoed across the shore, a testament to the overwhelming power Shanks wielded. Though the wound wasn't life-threatening, the fact that his nearly impervious defense had been bypassed left a mark far deeper than the injury itself.

Jozu staggered back, his hand instinctively clutching the shallow but burning gash. His diamond armor shimmered under the sunlight, cracked slightly where Shanks had struck—a feat Jozu hadn't thought possible since achieving mastery over his Devil Fruit. His gritted teeth betrayed his growing frustration and disbelief.

This rookie was no longer the Shanks of years past. Jozu had sparred with him once, during their brief encounters at sea. Back then, Shanks was a competent swordsman, skilled but hardly exceptional. But now... he was a monster. One that had risen to rival even the mightiest division commanders of the Whitebeard Pirates.

"Juggernaut!" Jozu bellowed, his entire body shimmering as he fully committed to his diamond form. His massive frame became a blur as he charged at Shanks with terrifying force, the ground quaking beneath his thunderous steps.

Shanks turned just in time to parry the oncoming attack. The clash was deafening, sending shockwaves rippling across the battlefield. Shanks dug his feet into the sandy ground, holding his stance against the brutal impact.

His muscles strained, veins bulging under the sheer force of Jozu's onslaught. But Shanks's grin only widened, his sword glowing with a menacing black sheen as he pushed Jozu back.

"Not bad, Jozu," Shanks quipped, his voice carrying a playful edge. "But you'll need more than brute strength to bring me down."

Nearby, Vista saw an opening and launched a precise attack, his twin blades glowing as they streaked toward Shanks in a pincer maneuver. "Twin Petal Blaze!" he shouted, the air hissing as his haki-imbued swords cut through it.

But before Vista's blades could reach their target, they were intercepted mid-swing by another blade, stopping them cold. Buggy stood firm, sweat trickling down his temple. Despite his usual cowardice, Buggy's loyalty to Shanks outweighed his fear. His grip on his blade was tight, and his stance was defiant.

"Buggy... do you want to die?" Vista roared, pressing his twin swords against Buggy's single blade. The strength behind Vista's attack forced Buggy back, his boots digging trenches into the sandy beach.

Buggy grimaced under the pressure. He was strong, no doubt, but Vista was leagues above him in pure swordsmanship. The gap in skill and strength was undeniable, and Buggy knew he couldn't hold out for long. Just as Vista prepared to overpower him completely, his observation haki flared—a warning that saved his life.

He twisted just in time as a short sword, seemingly from nowhere, ripped through the air and grazed his shoulder. If not for his quick reaction, the blade would have plunged straight into his spine. Blood trickled from the shallow wound, and Vista turned sharply to face the source of the attack.

To his shock, it wasn't a visible enemy but a disembodied wrist clutching a short sword imbued with haki. Buggy smirked, the hand snapping back toward him like a boomerang.

"You thought I was just here to hold a sword?" Buggy taunted, though his voice shook slightly.

Vista's eyes narrowed. He'd underestimated Buggy, and it had almost cost him. But there was no time for reflection as a sudden roar tore through the battlefield.

"You bastard! How dare you hurt my brothers!" Teach's voice boomed, raw with rage. His massive figure charged into the fray, his clawed weapon swinging wildly. His technique was sloppy, but the sheer strength behind his blows was shocking. The ground cracked beneath his feet, and even Vista, seasoned as he was, felt the sting of each powerful strike.

Vista couldn't help but glance at Teach as he fought. His usual clumsy demeanor was gone, replaced by a feral intensity.

Teach was fighting with a passion Vista hadn't seen before. Despite the lack of finesse, his raw strength and determination made him a force to reckon with.

But the real surprise came when Teach turned his attention to Shanks.

Shanks, fully engrossed in his duel with Jozu, suddenly felt a shift in the air. His observation haki flared, warning him of danger. Teach came barreling toward him, his weapon crackling with an unnatural energy. Shanks sidestepped Jozu's latest charge and twisted just in time to meet Teach's attack.

But Teach, in his frenzied state, moved unpredictably. His clawed weapon swung upward, and Shanks, despite his heightened senses, misjudged the timing by a fraction of a second. The clawed weapon tore into his side, drawing a deep gash that sent blood spraying into the air.

Shanks stumbled back, his free hand instinctively pressing against the wound. His red hair whipped in the wind as he glared at Teach, his grin replaced with a look of cold fury.

"Not bad," Shanks muttered, his voice low and dangerous. "But if you think that'll be enough to bring me down, you're dead wrong."

Teach laughed, but there was a bitter undercurrent in his voice, a sadness that didn't quite fit with the wild glint of adrenaline in his eyes. "You killed my brothers," he growled, his voice trembling as if choked with grief. "Even if it costs me my life, I'll kill you today!"

To the Whitebeard pirates around him, Teach's words struck a deep chord. He looked like a man driven by anguish, consumed by the pain of losing comrades he held dear. It was the kind of righteous fury that inspired loyalty and galvanized warriors. But to Shanks, something about it didn't feel right.

The way Teach moved, the way he spoke—it all felt rehearsed. Shanks's gut churned with unease. His instinct, honed from years of life-and-death battles, screamed that this man was more dangerous than he let on. Beneath the mask of grief and rage, there was something calculating, something cold and serpentine.

"Who are you..." Shanks's voice cut through the chaos like steel. His sharp eyes didn't waver from the burly man before him. "Step aside. This isn't your fight."

"Red-Hair, you don't get to decide that!" Teach roared, his massive frame trembling with what seemed like genuine anger. He pointed a clawed weapon at Shanks, then gestured toward the scattered corpses of Whitebeard's crew on the beach.

"These men were my brothers! You think you can just walk in here, spill their blood, and leave? No, Red-Hair! Even if it kills me, I'll make sure you pay!"

Shanks narrowed his eyes, his grip tightening on his sword. The air between them crackled with tension, but he wasn't convinced. He's hiding something. The raw strength Teach had displayed moments ago—while clumsy—was leagues above the average pirate.

Yet his movements were too chaotic, his emotions too exaggerated. Shanks's instincts screamed: This man is dangerous, but not for the reasons he wants us to believe.

"Teach, back off!" Jozu's voice boomed as he charged forward, his diamond-encrusted body gleaming in the sun. He placed himself squarely between Shanks and Teach, his massive frame an impenetrable barrier. "You're no match for him, and I won't let you throw your life away!"

Jozu's protective stance wasn't lost on the Whitebeard crew. Teach, though often overlooked as a dull and unremarkable presence, had been with them for decades. He was family, and seeing him so anguished—so willing to stake his life for their fallen brothers—stirred a deep fury among the crew.

Vista, still locked in battle with Buggy, glanced at the fallen pirates and growled through gritted teeth. "Teach is right! If we let this go unanswered, we dishonor their sacrifice. We dishonor Pops!"

Teach, sensing the shift in the crew's morale, pressed his advantage. He pointed at the scattered corpses again, his voice rising with emotion.

"We've been looked down on for years! If it wasn't for bastards like these who exploited Pops's kindness, we could've reached Wano in time to save Oden-san! If it wasn't for scum like them, Pops would still have his brother!"

The words cut deep. Whitebeard's crew had carried the weight of Oden's death and the consequences of their delay for years. Teach's fiery speech reignited their guilt and fury, twisting it into a blade aimed squarely at Shanks and his crew.

Shanks, however, remained calm, his sharp gaze locked on Teach. The words were fiery, the pain convincing—but it was too perfect. The way Teach emphasized certain points, the way he gestured at the fallen, the way he riled up the crew—it wasn't just anger. It was manipulation.

You're trying too hard, Shanks thought, his unease deepening. You're no grieving brother. You're a viper in the grass, stirring the pot while you wait for your chance to strike.

"Fire Hawk!" Shanks suddenly roared, swinging his blade with precision. A blazing slash of armament-infused energy tore through the beach, carving a deep ravine in its wake.

The attack was aimed squarely at Teach, but Jozu intercepted it in a flash, his diamond body absorbing the full force. The impact sent shockwaves rippling across the battlefield, yet Jozu stood firm, his eyes blazing with rage.

"Kill them!" Jozu roared, his voice a rallying cry. "Kill these bastards for harming our family!"

The Whitebeard pirates surged forward with renewed fury, their battle cries shaking the air. Amid the chaos, Teach lingered near Jozu, his hulking form overshadowed by the diamond-coated commander. But his lips curled into a subtle, almost imperceptible smirk. Perfect, he thought. They're doing all the work for me.

Teach's mind raced as he calculated his next move. If he could escalate this fight further, if he could fan the flames of hatred between Shanks and Whitebeard's crew, it would all but ensure a deeper rift between the two factions. A rift he could exploit when the time was right.

But Shanks wasn't fooled. He saw the glimmer of satisfaction in Teach's eyes, the way his fury melted into something more calculated the moment the crew was too distracted to notice.

"You're not what you seem, Teach," Shanks said quietly, his voice almost lost in the din of battle. But his words were like a knife, piercing through Teach's facade.

Teach stiffened, his smirk faltering for the briefest moment. "What are you talking about, Red-Hair?" he growled, his tone dripping with indignation. "You think I'm pretending? You think this is an act?!"

Shanks raised his blade, pointing it directly at Teach. His expression was calm but unyielding.

"You don't fight like a man protecting his family. You fight like a man with an agenda. And I don't think it has anything to do with avenging these men."

Teach's facade cracked further, but he quickly masked it with another roar of anger, charging forward alongside Jozu. The battle between the two forces reached a fever pitch, the beach erupting into chaos once more. But in the back of his mind, Shanks knew one thing for certain:

Teach was no ordinary man. He was something far more dangerous.

"Shanks, we need to retreat—now!" Benn Beckman's voice cut through the chaos like a gunshot, sharp and commanding. Even as he fended off two pirates at once, his sharp mind was calculating their odds. "We're too close to Whitebeard's territory! If reinforcements arrive, we'll be overwhelmed."

The battlefield was chaos incarnate. The once-pristine beach was now a scarred wasteland of craters, broken blades, and the bodies of fallen pirates. The clash of steel and the roar of battle cries filled the air. Benn's assessment wasn't wrong. While the Red-Hair Pirates were holding their own against the Whitebeard crew, the tide was turning against them.

Buggy was fighting fiercely, his severed limbs weaving through the battlefield in unpredictable patterns, keeping his foes on edge.

Lucky Roux, with his unshakable grin, was dispatching enemies with well-placed shots, and Yassop's sniper skills were the only reason many of the younger crewmates were still alive. Lime Juice fought valiantly, haki crackling with each swing of his blade, but even with their combined efforts, they were losing men.

They had already lost nearly a half dozen crewmates—loyal comrades who wouldn't see another sunrise. The thought gnawed at Shanks, even as he parried another devastating blow from Jozu.

The weight of leadership pressed on his shoulders. He couldn't afford to lose more.

But retreating without settling things with Teach? That left a bitter taste in his mouth. His sharp eyes flicked toward Teach, who stood behind Jozu, feigning a mix of righteous fury and desperation.

The burly man's act might have fooled the Whitebeard crew, but not Shanks. Teach's true nature was a storm waiting to unleash destruction, and every instinct told Shanks to end this here and now.

Beckman's voice rang out again, his tone more urgent this time. "Shanks, we can't keep this up much longer! Yassop's holding them off, but he's already pushed to his limit. If Whitebeard sends reinforcements, this fight will turn into a massacre!"

Shanks deflected a crushing swing from Jozu, his blade sparking against the diamond-coated armament haki. The raw force of the impact pushed him back, boots digging into the sand.

His fiery red hair whipped in the wind as he turned his head slightly, just enough to see the battlefield's chaos around him. Benn was right. Dragging this fight out would only bleed his crew further. He couldn't allow that.

Yet, even as he made the decision to pull back, his gaze locked onto Teach once more. If we're retreating, I'm not leaving without leaving my mark on you, Shanks thought grimly. He clenched his jaw, focusing his will into a razor-sharp intent.

Teach's smug facade needed to be shattered—and if Shanks couldn't end him today, he'd ensure Teach carried the weight of this battle for the rest of his life.

"Buggy! Yassop! Cover the retreat!" Shanks barked, his voice resonating with authority that cut through the noise of the battlefield. Buggy nodded, his severed hand saluting mockingly before flying off to grab a weapon.

Yassop, crouched behind a makeshift barricade, gave a quick thumbs-up before unleashing a volley of sniper fire to suppress the advancing Whitebeard pirates.

"Beckman, get the wounded back to the ships! Roux, you're on point—clear us a path!" Shanks's commands were swift and precise. Despite the chaos, his crew moved with practiced discipline, retreating in a coordinated fashion.

But Shanks didn't move. His eyes never left Teach, who was standing smugly behind Jozu, watching the Red-Hair crew's retreat with a mix of contempt and amusement. Shanks's haki flared, the pressure of his will washing over the battlefield like a tidal wave, making even the most battle-hardened pirates hesitate.

"Jozu, step aside," Shanks said, his voice calm but filled with deadly intent. "Your fight's not with me. I only want him."

Jozu's diamond body gleamed in the sunlight as he braced himself. "You…. Just because we are acquainted, do you think I will let you walk over the name of Whitebeard pirates…?"

*****

Foosha Village, East Blue

The tavern in Foosha Village buzzed with life, its warm wooden interior alive with chatter, laughter, and the occasional clink of tankards. A group of regulars occupied their usual corner, their faces lit not by merriment but by the fiery glow of righteous anger.

Scattered across their table were crumpled copies of the World Economy News and World Times, their headlines bold and sensational. In the kitchen, Agatha, the stout and cheerful owner, busied herself with cooking, her apron smeared with flour and sauce.

"Agatha-chan, another refill!" hollered Marlene, a middle-aged woman with graying hair tied in a tight bun. She slammed her empty tankard down, her face flush with indignation. She wasn't drunk—yet—but her emotions were spilling out as freely as the ale. "This world... it's going to hell, I swear!"

"Coming right up!" Agatha called back, but her voice was drowned out by the heated conversation brewing at the patrons' table.

Ace sat atop the counter, his small frame silhouetted by the dim lantern light, munching on a flaky meat pie. His wide, curious eyes darted between the adults. Makino, the kind barmaid who treated him like a little brother, leaned over and smiled.

"Ace, why don't you come help me in the back? It's quieter there," she suggested gently, sensing the growing tension in the room.

But Ace shook his head, too absorbed in the conversation. The words stung his ears, yet he couldn't pull himself away.

"Do you believe this?" barked Victor, a burly fisherman with sun-weathered skin and calloused hands. He jabbed a finger at the newspaper.

"Pirates have torn the Oykot Kingdom apart—an entire kingdom in flames! Thousands dead, and for what? Treasure? Power? It's always the same with those filthy scum."

Marlene snorted, crossing her arms. "What more do you expect from pirates? Heartless bastards, the lot of them. Burning villages, stealing food, murdering innocents... If I had my way, they'd all be strung up."

"Tch!" a wiry man named Elias sneered, running a hand through his thinning hair. "And where's the Navy, huh? Too busy chasing their tails while real people suffer. If it wasn't for the World Times, we wouldn't even know about Oykot. Those World Economy News papers are all flash, no substance. Barely a mention of East Blue these days."

"Doesn't matter which paper reports it," Victor growled, "What matters is this: It's all because of him."

The table fell silent, save for the flicker of candlelight and the distant clatter of pots in the kitchen. Ace perked up, his heart thudding as he sensed the weight of what was about to be said.

"Him?" Marlene asked, though she already knew the answer.

Victor leaned back in his chair, his face twisted with scorn. "Gol D. Roger. The King of the Pirates. Every single pirate out there—every filthy, greedy piece of trash—they're all chasing his ghost. He started this madness."

Elias slammed a hand on the table, his face red with fury. "Exactly! Before him, pirates were a nuisance. Now? They're a damned plague! That bastard found the One Piece, declared himself King, and turned the seas into chaos. The world is rotting because of him."

Marlene's voice softened but carried no less venom. "Entire kingdoms collapsing, families torn apart... all because of one man's ambition. He didn't just ruin his enemies—he ruined everyone. People like us, who just want to live in peace."

"Peace?" Elias spat. "There's no peace while his legacy lives on. That treasure of his—One Piece—it's cursed, I tell you. A prize that makes men lose their minds, burn villages, and kill children."

Ace flinched, his fingers tightening around the edge of the counter. He knew. He had always known. His mother, Rouge, had whispered the truth to him in the recent days, her voice soft but unwavering.

"You're special, Ace. You're Roger's son, and one day, the world will know it too."

But hearing strangers—villagers he knew, people who laughed and smiled with him—spew such hatred for his father left a knot in his stomach.

Victor wasn't finished. "He was the devil, I tell you. Sure, people called him charismatic. A man with a dream, they said. But dreams don't burn cities. Dreams don't leave children without parents."

Marlene's voice cracked with raw emotion. "My nephew was killed by pirates, you know. They came to our village a few years ago, saying they were 'inspired by Roger's dream.' Burned everything down. Took everything. That man... even in death, he's still taking."

Makino, sensing Ace's discomfort, reached for his hand, but he pulled away, keeping his eyes on the table of angry patrons. His appetite was gone, replaced by a growing ache in his chest.

"I hope he's rotting in hell," Elias muttered darkly. "Gol D. Roger and every damn pirate who idolizes him."

The words pierced Ace like a blade. He felt a bitter anger rise within him—anger at the villagers, at the father he had never known, and at himself for being the son of a man so despised.

Victor let out a heavy sigh, his voice softening for the first time. "You know, sometimes I think... maybe the world would've been better off if Gol D. Roger was never born."

"It's a good thing, then, that bastard didn't leave any seed behind," one of them added, his voice tinged with both relief and disdain. A chill seemed to creep through the tavern, carried on the weight of those words.

Roger's bloodline—just the thought of it—was something that haunted the imaginations of people across the world. It was the nightmare everyone prayed would never become reality, a calamity waiting to be born.

To many, the idea of Gol D. Roger's legacy continuing was not just a threat; it was a disaster of unimaginable scale.

The hum of conversation in the tavern grew darker, the words sharper, until the air felt like it had been cut by blades. The mention of Gol D. Roger's bloodline—a hypothetical nightmare that haunted the entire world—brought a chill that crept into every corner of the room.

For the villagers, Roger was not just a man but a specter of chaos, and the very thought of his legacy continuing was unbearable.

Victor, whose loathing for Roger ran deeper than most, slammed his tankard down on the table. His face was red with fury, his voice trembling with the bitterness of old wounds.

"It's a good thing, then, that bastard didn't leave any seed behind. Imagine the world burning even worse if Roger's bloodline was still around. No, thank the heavens there's no sign of that cursed lineage."

Elias leaned forward with a smirk, adding more fuel to the fiery conversation. "Even the lowest of whores wouldn't lay with Roger. Can you imagine? Offering their womb to a demon like that?" His voice turned mocking, his tone dripping with venom.

"If someone did, they'd have to be the lowest of the low. A creature so filthy they wouldn't even be fit to call themselves a slut. No, even a bitch in heat would have better sense than to breed with that monster."

A ripple of uneasy laughter passed through the room, but the venom in Elias's words lingered, like the rancid aftertaste of spoiled ale.

Victor's expression darkened further. He had his own reasons for despising Roger, and he wasn't about to let the topic die.

"If Roger had left behind a child," he said, his voice low and dangerous, "I'd gladly hack it to pieces myself. Better to end that darkness before it can grow. The world doesn't need another demon born of his blood."

The room fell silent, the weight of Victor's declaration pressing down like a storm cloud. The hatred in his voice was palpable, his words carrying the pain of old wounds that the villagers knew well.

His father, a Marine captain, had been killed by Roger when the pirate was just a rookie, and the loss had scarred Victor's soul. His hatred for Roger was not just personal—it was generational, a festering wound passed down like a curse.

And yet, the venom in their words cut deeper than they could have known. On the counter, Ace's small frame was rigid, his hands balled into tight fists. His pie lay forgotten, his appetite devoured by the sickening churn of emotions in his gut.

Ace now understood why his mother had asked him for a promise to keep it a secret. "You are Gol D. Roger's son," Rouge's words echoed inside his little mind, her voice trembling with both pride and fear. "Promise me, Ace, never tell anyone."

But knowing the truth and hearing the villagers curse his bloodline were two different things. They weren't just condemning his father; they were condemning him. And worse, their vile words extended to his mother, a woman they didn't even know.

Elias's words about Rouge stung the most. Ace's jaw clenched as his heart pounded in his chest.

"The lowest of whores"? How dare they. They had no idea who Rouge was, no idea what kind of strength it had taken for her to bring him into the world, to protect him from everyone that wanted his head.

The anger boiled inside him, mixing with shame and helplessness. He wanted to scream, to shout at them, to defend the mother who had loved him so fiercely, and the father he barely knew. But the promise he had made to Rouge—to keep his lineage a secret—held him back. So instead, he sat frozen, the insults searing into his soul.

The moment was broken by a sudden, sharp thud.

Agatha, the tavern owner, had slammed a tankard onto the table with a force that made the wooden surface tremble. The liquid spilled, the frothy ale pooling across the wood. The room fell silent, all eyes turning to her in surprise.

Agatha's usual warm demeanor was gone, replaced by something fierce and unyielding. Her eyes bore into the men at the table, her lips pressed into a thin line. For a moment, it was as if the kind-hearted woman who had served them for years had vanished, replaced by someone entirely different.

The silence was deafening, the tension thick enough to cut. Then, just as quickly as it had appeared, Agatha's smile returned. Her radiant warmth washed over the room as if nothing had happened. "Oh my, I'm so sorry," she said with a soft laugh. "Clumsy me! I'll bring you another, on the house."

She turned briskly, heading back toward the counter, but not before her sharp gaze flicked to Ace. She saw the tears welling in his eyes, the quiver in his small shoulders, and the anger that he was too young to express. She understood immediately.

These people didn't know the truth. They didn't know the man Gol D. Roger had been, nor the love and sacrifice that she had given to protect their child. To them, Roger was just a demon, a shadow of terror cast by the world's propaganda. And Rouge? They couldn't even conceive of her existence, much less the purity of her love.

Agatha placed a gentle hand on Ace's shoulder as she returned to the counter. Her smile was soft, reassuring. "Come help me in the kitchen, Ace," she said quietly, her voice soothing. "It's noisy out here."

Ace shook his head, his eyes still glued to the table of men who cursed his family. He didn't want to leave; he wanted to remember every word they said. He wanted to burn it into his memory, to carry it with him as fuel for a fire he didn't yet understand.

Agatha sighed, stroking his hair. "They don't know, Ace. They don't know the truth."

But Ace did. And as the villagers resumed their conversation, oblivious to the wounds they had inflicted, the boy silently vowed that he would never let them see his pain. Instead, he would carry it, like a burden he was destined to bear. Like a son of the Pirate King.

Ace couldn't take it anymore. He slid off the counter silently, his pie untouched, and slipped out the back door. The night air hit him like a wave, but it didn't cool the fire burning in his heart. Tears stung his eyes, but he wiped them away angrily.

"Why?" he whispered to the empty street, his fists clenched. "Why did you have to be my father?"

Inside the tavern, the conversation continued, but Ace was gone. None of them noticed the small boy who had been listening, the boy who carried the weight of their hatred like a secret too heavy to bear.