Even after Shanks' identity was exposed, not a single member of his crew left him.
They had followed him because of who he was—not because of his bloodline or status. Whatever the world said about Celestial Dragons had nothing to do with the man they sailed beside.
For them, Shanks was still Shanks.
In Whitebeard's territory, the situation was far less calm.
The Moby Dick was surrounded by the ships of allied crews. Every division had returned. No one left.
Because the moment they reached the New World—
Whitebeard collapsed.
He was carried back to his quarters unconscious.
The wounds he suffered at Marineford were far worse than he had shown. Squard's blade had pierced deep. Even though it missed vital organs, it caused severe internal damage.
After that, he continued fighting.
Gunfire.
Cannon blasts.
Countless clashes.
And finally, a head-on battle with Admiral Akainu.
He endured everything without falling.
But once the battle ended and the tension left his body—
He could no longer hold on.
Marco remained at his side, flames burning steadily around his hands.
He poured his Regeneration Flames into Whitebeard's body again and again, refusing to stop.
"He's on the edge," Marco said quietly to those outside. "Whether he survives depends on tonight."
Outside the room, Whitebeard's sons stood in silence.
No one spoke.
Ace sat by the wall, his head lowered.
Squard knelt in front of the door, forehead pressed to the deck.
He had betrayed Whitebeard once.
Even though Whitebeard forgave him, the guilt never left.
He had planned to die covering their retreat.
But the war ended suddenly.
The Navy didn't pursue.
And he lived.
Now Whitebeard lay dying.
Squard felt as though the world had mocked him.
"If gods exist," he whispered hoarsely, "take my life instead."
"Let the Old Man live."
"I'll pay any price."
His voice trembled.
And in that moment—
He saw it.
A cold black sun in the sky.
A deep voice echoed in his mind.
"The transaction is complete."
Squard's eyes widened.
He didn't understand.
But hope flickered in his chest.
Moments later, Marco stepped out of the room, exhaustion clear on his face.
"The critical phase is over," he said. "His body… it's stabilizing. It's like something is helping him recover."
Before anyone could react—
A familiar laugh echoed from inside.
"Gurararara! Seems the gods aren't ready to take me yet!"
Whitebeard stepped out on his own.
His presence felt solid again.
Alive.
The crew erupted in cheers.
"Old Man!"
He raised his hand.
"Prepare a banquet! We celebrate surviving—and mourn the sons we lost!"
The atmosphere shifted at once. Laughter returned. Cooks rushed to work.
But Squard remained kneeling.
Whitebeard walked toward him.
"How long are you going to stay down there, Squard? This family still needs you."
Squard lifted his head, tears in his eyes.
Before he could speak—
Pain shot through the back of his hand.
He cried out.
A black mark had appeared there, burning faintly.
Whitebeard's expression changed immediately.
"A Black Sun mark…"
He understood.
The Black Sun's reputation had already spread across the seas. Pray sincerely. Offer something of equal value. The god answers.
"What did you promise?" Whitebeard asked sternly.
Squard clenched his teeth.
"I didn't think about it. I just wanted you to live."
"I'm willing to give anything."
Silence fell.
Everyone knew what that meant.
Whitebeard's recovery wasn't a miracle.
It was a trade.
"You fool," Whitebeard muttered, striking Squard lightly on the head.
But there was no real anger in it.
"I chose this," Squard said firmly. "I don't regret it."
Whitebeard looked up at the sky.
"Black Sun," he called out. "Show yourself. Let's talk."
The sea answered only with the sound of waves.
"I know you can hear me," Whitebeard said, his voice deepening. "Don't make me force your hand."
No response came.
Only the wind and the endless ocean.
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