Part I: The Oro Jackson - Brothers Who Conquered the Impossible
The Grand Line stretched endlessly before the Oro Jackson, waves parting before the legendary ship that had carried its crew through impossible journeys. At the ship's bow stood Gol D. Roger, his eyes scanning horizons with the peculiar sight granted by his ability to "hear the voice of all things."
Behind him, in the captain's quarters, sat the core of Roger's crew: Silvers Rayleigh, whose silver hair had earned him the moniker "Dark King"; Scopper Gaban, whose dual axes had felled countless foes; and Crocus, the ship's doctor who'd joined specifically to help Roger survive his terminal illness long enough to complete his dream.
Before them lay the four Road Poneglyphs they'd collected—ancient stones that, when combined, revealed the location of Laugh Tale, the final island where the truth of the world awaited.
But their conversation had drifted from the immediate goal to memories of someone they'd lost seven years ago at God Valley.
"Seven years," Rayleigh said, his voice carrying unusual weight. "It's been seven years since God Valley. Since Baahubali disappeared trying to save those children."
"Disappeared, not died," Roger corrected firmly, his characteristic grin briefly surfacing. "I'd know if he were dead. That bastard's too stubborn to die without permission."
"His bounty reached seven billion berries last month," Gaban observed, reading from a recent newspaper. "Higher than anyone, Captain. And they haven't seen him in over a decade."
"The World Government is terrified," Crocus said dryly. "The man killed Saint Saturn and Saint Ju Peter—two of the Five Elders—and completely destroyed Uranus. That's not the kind of threat authoritarian regimes forget."
Roger laughed—that booming, infectious laugh that had become his trademark. "Remember when we first found him? Seventeen years ago now. We pulled into that island for supplies, and there he was—standing on the beach like he owned the place, covered in blood that wasn't his, surrounded by unconscious bandits."
"I remember thinking he was going to kill us all," Rayleigh admitted with a smile. "His Observation Haki locked onto the Oro Jackson from five miles out. By the time we docked, he'd already assessed every crew member, identified threat levels, and positioned himself for optimal defense."
"And then he apologized!" Gaban shook his head, still amazed Seventeen years later. "Said he didn't mean to seem unwelcoming, but armed strangers approaching usually didn't end well for whoever they found."
"He was different from the start," Roger said thoughtfully. "Not just powerful—though gods know he was that. But fundamentally noble. You could see it in everything he did. Never cruel. Never dismissive. Never using power to intimidate. Just... regal. Like he'd been born to rule and taught to serve."
Rayleigh nodded. "I've met countless strong people. Conquerors. Tyrants. Warriors who could split islands. But Baahubali was the only one who carried absolute power with absolute humility. He could have dominated any situation, but he chose to listen instead."
"Remember the Calm Belt incident?" Crocus interjected. "When we got trapped in Sea King territory with a broken rudder?"
"Baahubali stood at the bow for two days straight," Roger recalled, his eyes distant with memory. "Didn't eat. Didn't sleep. Just used his Observation Haki to sense every Sea King in a ten-mile radius, his Conqueror's Haki to keep them at bay, and his navigation skills to find the one current that would carry us out safely."
"Best navigator I ever saw," Rayleigh agreed. "And I've sailed with people who'd been doing it for sixty years. But he had this intuitive understanding of the ocean. Like he could feel what the water wanted to do."
"Best everything I ever saw," Gaban corrected. "Best navigator, yes. But also best swordsman—"
"Better than you, Ray?" Roger interrupted with amusement.
"Better than me," Rayleigh confirmed without hesitation. "I'm one of the best in the world. But Baahubali? He'd transcended technique. When he fought, it wasn't swordplay anymore—it was art. It was like watching the concept of 'blade' made manifest."
"His Haki was beyond anything I've encountered," Roger added seriously. "Supreme Conqueror's Haki that could split the sky with a glance. Armament Haki so refined he could coat individual cells while maintaining perfect mobility. And Observation Haki that saw fifteen seconds into the future with absolute clarity."
"Plus emotional sensing that bordered on mind-reading," Crocus contributed. "He always knew when someone was lying, when they were afraid, when they needed comfort. Made him impossible to deceive and incredible at diplomacy."
"Remember when he negotiated peace between those two warring kingdoms?" Gaban asked. "The ones that had been fighting for three generations?"
"He sat both kings down," Rayleigh picked up the story, "and within four hours had them not just agreeing to peace, but forming a trade alliance that benefited both nations. All because he understood what they each needed and found a path that served everyone."
"That was his gift," Roger said quietly. "Not just strength, though he had strength to spare. Not just intelligence, though his mind was brilliant. But wisdom. The ability to see through complexity to simple truths. To recognize what mattered and discard what didn't."
They sat in comfortable silence, each lost in memories of the ten years Baahubali had sailed with them.
"He should have been a Marine," Rayleigh finally said. "His sense of justice, his protection of innocents, his opposition to slavery—everything aligned with what the Marines claim to represent."
"Garp certainly thought so!" Roger's laugh returned. "Gods, the stubborn man never forgave me for 'stealing his brother.' Every time we crossed paths: 'You corrupted him, Roger! Baahubali was meant for justice, not piracy!'"
"To be fair," Crocus noted, "Garp had a point. Baahubali and Garp together could have transformed the Marines. Made them into what they pretend to be instead of Celestial Dragon enforcers."
"But Baahubali saw the truth," Rayleigh said quietly. "He recognized that the Marines ultimately serve the World Government. And the World Government serves the Celestial Dragons. And the Celestial Dragons embody everything he opposed."
"He and Garp still became genuine friends though," Roger noted. "Brothers in spirit if not service. They'd spend hours arguing about justice and duty and strength. Then they'd laugh together like actual siblings, even knowing they stood on opposite sides of the law."
"Garp respected him more than anyone," Gaban observed. "More than Sengoku. More than Kong. Maybe even more than his own son. Because Baahubali represented the ideal Garp wished the Marines could be."
"Speaking of Garp's son," Rayleigh said thoughtfully, "remember young Monkey D. Dragon? The boy who was maybe ten when we first met him?"
"How could I forget?" Roger grinned. "Kid was terrified of pirates, hiding behind his father's coat. And Baahubali knelt down to his eye level and just... talked to him. Not down to him—with him. Like Dragon's opinions mattered as much as any adult's."
"By the end of that conversation," Crocus recalled, "Dragon was asking Baahubali to teach him about justice. Not combat. Not Haki. Justice itself—what it meant, where it came from, how you knew you were doing right."
"And Baahubali spent four hours with that boy," Gaban said, still amazed. "Explaining philosophy in terms a child could grasp. Teaching him that justice wasn't following rules—it was protecting the weak and opposing the strong who abuse power."
"Garp was so conflicted," Rayleigh laughed. "Proud his son was learning from someone good. Horrified that 'someone good' was a pirate teaching revolutionary ideas."
"I heard Dragon left the Marines a few years back," Roger said more seriously. "Formed some kind of revolutionary movement dedicated to overthrowing the World Government."
"Following Baahubali's philosophical footsteps," Rayleigh observed. "Even though he hasn't seen his teacher in over a seven years, those lessons stuck."
"Everything Baahubali taught stuck," Crocus agreed. "Because he didn't just tell you what to think—he taught you how to think. How to question. How to examine beliefs. How to recognize when authority was legitimate versus when it was just power dressed as righteousness."
Roger stood and moved to where the Road Poneglyphs lay, his hand touching the ancient stone.
"We're close now. Maybe months away from Laugh Tale. From understanding the Void Century, the Ancient Kingdom, the real history the World Government has been hiding for eight hundred years."
"And you think we'll find answers about Baahubali there?" Rayleigh asked, though his tone suggested he already knew the answer.
"I know we will. Everything connects, doesn't it? The Ancient Kingdom. Joy Boy. The Will of D. The prophecy about liberation. And a warrior-king with partial amnesia who carries knowledge that shouldn't exist in our era, who governs like someone trained from birth to rule empires, who fights like someone who's faced gods and won."
"You think he's connected to the Ancient Kingdom," Gaban said. Not a question.
"I think he IS the Ancient Kingdom when he declared that he is the king of Strongest Kingdom called Mahishmati," Roger replied. "Or what remains of it. The last king of a destroyed civilization, somehow survived across eight centuries, stripped of complete memory but not of purpose."
"That's impossible," Crocus protested. "The Ancient Kingdom fell eight hundred years ago. No one lives that long."
"Then maybe he didn't live that long. Maybe he died and returned. Maybe he's Joy Boy's reincarnation. Maybe he's something we don't have words for because our era forgot what was possible in his." Roger turned to face his crew. "But I know this—when we reach Laugh Tale, when we learn the truth, Baahubali's story will be at the center of it."
"And when we learn his real identity?" Rayleigh asked carefully.
"We find him. We tell him everything. Who he is. What he represents. Why the World Government fears him so much they maintain a seven billion berry bounty on a man who hasn't been seen in seven years."
Roger's eyes blazed with determination.
"Because he deserves to know. Deserves to remember. And the world deserves to have him back."
"Even knowing what it means?" Crocus asked quietly. "War. Revolution. The collapse of the current world order. Millions will die in the conflict."
"Millions are dying now," Roger countered. "In slavery. In poverty. Under Celestial Dragon boots. The current world order is built on suffering. If Baahubali's return tears it down, if his memory returning sparks revolution—good. Let it burn. Let something better rise from the ashes."
"You're betting everything on one man," Rayleigh observed.
"I'm betting everything on the best man I ever knew," Roger corrected. "Someone who sailed with us for ten years and never once used power for selfish gain. Who protected every person he could reach. Who kept every promise he made. Who chose certain death at God Valley to save children instead of himself."
He looked at each crew member.
"When Baahubali returns—and he WILL return—the world will shake. Celestial Dragons will tremble. Marines will choose between serving justice and serving tyrants. And everyone who knew him will have to decide: support the old world, or fight for the new one he'll build?"
"You've already decided," Gaban said with a smile.
"I decided seventeen years ago when a warrior with partial amnesia taught me what true strength means," Roger replied. "I decided at God Valley when he sacrificed everything to protect innocents. I decided when I understood his amnesia wasn't weakness—it was mercy. The world getting one more chance to change before he remembered who he was and demanded justice."
Rayleigh stood, joining his captain. "Then we'd better hurry to Laugh Tale. Learn the truth. Discover who Amarendra D. Baahubali really is. Because when he returns, when his memory fully restores, when the Shield of Dharma rises again—"
"The world will never be the same," Roger finished.
And in the distance, carried on winds that whispered of change, came the faint echo of drums.
Boom. Boom. Boom-boom. Boom.
The Drums of Liberation, waiting for their king to remember.
Part II: Marineford - Where Heroes Question Their Path
The sun blazed mercilessly over Marineford, the Marine Headquarters standing as a monument to order and the World Government's authority. In a private conference room far from training grounds and public areas, four Marine legends gathered around a table covered with reports, bounty posters, and intelligence growing more troubling yearly.
Vice Admiral Monkey D. Garp sat with arms crossed, his characteristic grin notably absent. Beside him, Admiral Sengoku the Buddha reviewed documents with methodical precision. Across from them sat Vice Admiral Tsuru—the Great Tactician whose strategic mind was legendary. And completing the quartet was Admiral Zephyr, the Non-Killer whose training methods had shaped generations of Marines.
The bounty poster before them showed a face from memory—handsome, regal, with eyes seeming to see through the camera to something beyond:
AMARENDRA D. BAAHUBALI"THE SHIELD OF DHARMA"WANTED DEAD OR ALIVE฿7,000,000,000 Flee on Sight
"Seven billion," Zephyr said quietly. "Higher than Roger and Whitebeard. Higher than Shiki before his arrest. Higher than anyone."
"They're terrified," Tsuru observed. "The World Government is afraid he'll return. That's why they keep increasing the bounty despite no sightings in seven years."
"Can you blame them?" Sengoku asked. "The man killed Saint Saturn and Saint Ju Peter—two of the Five Elders. Destroyed Uranus, their ultimate trump card. Did it all while protecting hundreds of slaves and children from Celestial Dragon hunting games and even us."
Garp, silent until now, finally spoke, his voice carrying unusual weight:
"He should have been a Marine."
The others looked at him with understanding sympathy.
"We've had this conversation, Garp," Sengoku said gently.
"And we'll keep having it!" Garp's fist slammed the table, scattering papers. "Because it's TRUE! Baahubali had everything we needed! Strength? He fought five Vice Admirals and three Admirals simultaneously and won without killing any of us! Intelligence? His tactical mind surpassed even Tsuru's! Ethics? His moral compass was unshakeable! Charisma? People followed him naturally, without fear or coercion!"
His voice rose with frustration and pain.
"If Baahubali had joined the Marines—if I'd met him and convinced him instead of letting Roger steal him—we could have changed EVERYTHING! The Marines could have been what we claim to be instead of what we actually are!"
"And what are we, Garp?" Zephyr asked quietly.
"Celestial Dragon enforcers," Garp spat. "We tell ourselves pretty stories about justice and protection. We fight pirates and save civilians and pretend we're heroes. But when Celestial Dragons hunt slaves for sport, where are we? When they demand tributes that starve nations, where are we? When they maintain systems built on suffering, where are we?" This reality hurt Garp more than anything.
"Following orders," Sengoku said, though his tone suggested agreement. "Maintaining order. Preventing chaos."
"Is order worth it when built on slavery?" Garp challenged. "Is peace valuable when it requires people suffer quietly? Those are questions Baahubali asked me. Questions I still can't answer."
Tsuru reached across and placed her hand on Garp's arm. Her touch was gentle, but her eyes held something deeper—something she'd kept hidden for years.
"You miss him."
It wasn't a question. Garp didn't deny it.
"Every single day. He was my brother in everything but blood. The only person who understood what I was trying to do, what I was trying to be, and respected me even when he disagreed with my choices."
"He influenced more than just you," Tsuru said softly, and there was something in her voice—warmth mixed with melancholy—that made the others look at her more closely.
Sengoku's eyes widened. "Tsuru... you were in love with him."
She didn't deny it. Instead, she smiled—sad and genuine.
"How could I not be? He was everything a warrior could want. Strong without cruelty. Intelligent without condescension. Principled without rigidity. And kind—gods, the kindness in those eyes when he looked at people who were suffering..."
She paused, composing herself.
"But it doesn't matter. He sailed with Roger. Disappeared at God Valley. And even if he returns, even if he's alive somewhere, the man I knew may be gone."
"He's not dead," Garp said with absolute conviction. "I'd know if he were dead. We were too close. Fought too many battles together. Shared too many drinks and arguments and laughs. I'd FEEL it if his light went out."
"Then where is he?" Zephyr asked. "Seven years, Garp. No sightings. No confirmed reports. Just legends and rumors and bounties increasing based on old information."
"I don't know," Garp admitted. "But I know this—when he returns, the world will remember why they feared him. Why they should have feared him MORE."
"Speaking of returns," Sengoku said carefully, "have you heard from Dragon lately?"
Garp's expression darkened dangerously. "My son stopped being my son when he abandoned the Marines to form his revolutionary army."
"That's not what I asked." Sengoku knows Garp doing melodrama.
"FINE. No. I haven't heard from him. Not since that letter explaining why he was leaving. Why he couldn't serve a system protecting Celestial Dragons. Why he had to fight for freedom instead of order."
Garp's voice cracked.
"He said he learned those lessons from Baahubali. That when he was ten years old, a pirate's companion taught him more about justice in one afternoon than the Marines taught him in years. And he ended the letter saying he was sorry—sorry for disappointing me, sorry for being a coward like his father—"
"You are NOT a coward," Tsuru interrupted firmly.
"Aren't I?" Garp's eyes were tortured. "I KNOW the system is broken. I KNOW the Celestial Dragons are tyrants. I KNOW we enforce injustice in the name of order. And I stay. I keep wearing this uniform. Keep following orders. Because leaving means admitting I wasted my life serving evil."
"Or because you believe change from within is possible," Zephyr suggested.
"Is it?" Garp looked at each of them. "Can we change the Marines from within? Push back against the World Government? Make this organization serve actual justice instead of tyranny?"
None had an answer.
"Dragon doesn't think so," Garp continued bitterly. "My son—who I barely know—decided revolution is the only path. And you know the worst part? He's RIGHT. Baahubali was right. Dragon is right. The system can't be reformed. It has to be torn down and rebuilt."
"Then why do you stay?" Sengoku asked quietly.
"Because I'm too old and too tired and too afraid to start over. Because I might have grandchildren someday who'll need protection in the chaos that's coming. Because some part of me still hopes I'm wrong."
He looked down at Baahubali's bounty poster.
"But when he returns—and he WILL return—I won't stand against him. If Baahubali demands revolution, if he calls for the end of Celestial Dragon reign, if he asks me to choose between the Marines and justice..."
"You'll choose him," Tsuru finished softly, her eyes glistening.
"I'll choose justice. Which means choosing him. Because unlike us, Baahubali never compromised his principles. Never made excuses. Never served evil while claiming to prevent worse evil. He just... WAS good. Absolutely. Unshakably. PERFECTLY good."
"You're setting him up as a standard no mortal can match," Zephyr cautioned.
"Maybe. Or maybe he's the standard we should have been trying to match all along instead of making excuses for why we couldn't."
Sengoku gathered reports, organizing them with precision that spoke of a mind needing familiar patterns.
"Dragon has been recruiting aggressively," he said, changing the subject slightly. "Intelligence suggests he's searching for specific individuals. People who survived God Valley. Former slaves. Refugees. Anyone who might have encountered Baahubali."
"He's trying to find him," Garp realized, voice hollow. "My son is searching for his teacher. To bring him back. To use him as a symbol for revolution."
"Would that be so terrible?" Tsuru asked, her tactical mind already seeing implications. "A revolution led by Baahubali? A new world order built on his principles?"
"It would be beautiful," Garp replied. "And it would be TERRIBLE. Because it requires war. Conflict on a scale the world hasn't seen since the Void Century. Millions would die. Civilization might collapse. And we—the Marines—would have to choose sides."
"Some would fight for the World Government," Sengoku observed. "Loyalty. Fear of change. Belief in order over justice."
"And some would fight for Baahubali," Tsuru added, her voice carrying certainty. "Everyone who ever met him. Everyone who heard his story. Everyone who remembers what real justice looks like instead of our corrupted version."
"The Marines would split," Zephyr concluded grimly. "Brother against brother. Friend against friend. The organization meant to maintain order would become the battleground for the war determining the world's future."
Heavy silence settled over them, each contemplating an increasingly inevitable future.
"I have a question," Tsuru finally said, her strategic mind working through scenarios. "When Baahubali returns—when he remembers who he is completely, what he represents, why he matters—will he still be the man we knew? Or will seven years of whatever he's experienced change him fundamentally?"
"I don't know," Garp admitted, and the uncertainty in his voice was painful to hear. "But I hope—gods, how I HOPE—that somewhere out there, the Shield of Dharma is still protecting people. Still keeping promises. Still being the moral center we all wish we could be."
"And if he's not?" Sengoku pressed. "If he's become bitter? Broken? Changed into something we don't recognize?"
"Then we mourn the loss of the best man any of us ever knew," Garp replied quietly. "And we prepare for a world without someone showing us what we should be."
But even as he said it, even as he voiced the fear, Garp felt something in his chest. Warmth. Certainty. A connection that transcended distance and time.
His brother was alive. Changed perhaps. Lost maybe. But alive.
And when he returned, when the Shield of Dharma rose again, the world would remember why legends never truly die.
They just wait for the right moment to awaken.
Tsuru stood and moved to the window, looking out at the harbor where Marine ships prepared for patrols that would never truly bring justice.
"I loved him, you know," she said quietly. "Not the childish infatuation of youth. But genuine love. The kind that recognizes someone so fundamentally good that being near them makes you want to be better."
"Did he know?" Garp asked gently.
"I never told him. He carried such grief for a wife he couldn't remember. Such loyalty to a woman whose face he'd forgotten but whose memory lived in his heart. I couldn't add to his burdens by confessing feelings he couldn't reciprocate."
She turned back to face them, and her expression was steel wrapped in sorrow.
"But I'll tell you this—when he returns, if he needs allies, if he calls for those who believe in actual justice to stand with him against this broken system, I'll answer. Damn the consequences. Damn my career. Damn everything except doing what I should have done years ago: choosing the man who represents everything right over the organization that represents everything wrong."
"That's mutiny," Zephyr said softly.
"That's justice," Tsuru corrected. "Finally. After decades of pretending."
Garp stood and moved to stand beside her, both of them looking out at the sea.
"He's out there somewhere," Garp said. "Baahubali. My brother. Your... the man you loved. Dragon's teacher. The person who showed all of us what we could be if we had courage to match our principles."
"And when he returns?" Sengoku asked from behind them.
"We'll have to choose," Garp replied. "All of us. Every Marine. Every person who claims to serve justice. Choose between the comfortable lie of order and the uncomfortable truth of righteousness."
"I've already chosen," Tsuru said firmly.
"As have I," Garp agreed.
They stood together, two legendary Marines acknowledging that their loyalty to justice would soon demand they betray the organization they'd served for decades.
And somewhere across the seas, unaware of the faith people maintained in him, Baahubali sailed toward promises he'd made and people who'd never stopped believing.
The drums beat louder.
Boom. Boom. Boom-boom. Boom.
And heroes who'd spent years compromising began to remember what it meant to stand for something absolute.
Part III: The Revolutionary's Heart
Somewhere in the South Blue, hidden in the mountains of Centaurea Kingdom—a nation too poor and insignificant to attract World Government attention—Monkey D. Dragon stood before a map of the world, pins marking locations where his Revolutionary Army had established cells.
At twenty-three years old, he'd built something that terrified the World Government more than any pirate crew: an organized resistance with actual ideology. The Revolutionary Army wasn't large—perhaps eight hundred members scattered across all four seas and the Grand Line—but it was growing exponentially. And more concerning to the authorities, it was principled.
Dragon put down the latest recruitment report and picked up something he kept close always—a worn leather journal he'd maintained since childhood. He opened it to pages he'd read thousands of times, where a seven-year-old's careful handwriting had recorded lessons that shaped his entire worldview.
Sensei Baahubali's First Teaching - My 10th Birthday
"Justice is not about following rules, young Dragon. Rules change based on who makes them. A Celestial Dragon makes rules that say slavery is legal. Does that make slavery just?"
"No, Sensei."
"Exactly. Justice is about protecting people who cannot protect themselves. About opposing those who use strength to harm the weak. Remember this always—the law and justice are not the same thing. Sometimes they align. Often they don't. And when they don't, you must choose which to serve."
I asked him: "How do I know which to choose?"
He smiled and said: "Ask yourself this question: Does this action protect the innocent or enable their suffering? If it protects, it's just. If it enables suffering, it's not—regardless of what any law claims."
Dragon traced the words with his finger, remembering the man who'd spoken them. He'd been so young—barely old enough to grasp the concepts—but old enough to recognize truth when he heard it.
"Still reading that old thing?"
Dragon looked up to see Dr.Vegapunk entering the safehouse, the Revolutionary's distinctive appearance—towering Brain height, simple Scientist outfit—but he is the most smartest person alive and he is a right hand man of Dragon and one of the founding member of Revolutionary.
"These aren't just words, Vegapunk," Dragon replied, his voice carrying the reverence of a devoted student. "This is the foundation of everything we're building. Every principle our army operates on comes from what he taught me across five meetings spanning ten years."
Dr.Vegapunk sat across from him, their expression unusually serious. "Tell me about him again. About this Baahubali who changed your life."
Dragon closed his eyes, pulling up memories from over two decades past with perfect clarity.
"The first time I met him, I was ten. Father had brought me to a secret meeting—supposedly to show me what pirates were really like, to scare me into becoming a proper Marine. But instead..."
He smiled at the memory.
"Instead, I met someone who treated a child like an equal. Who knelt down to my eye level and actually listened when I asked questions. Who didn't dismiss my confusion about good and evil as childish simplicity, but recognized it as philosophical inquiry worthy of serious answer."
"What did you ask him?"
"I asked why people became pirates if pirates were evil. It seemed contradictory to my child's mind—if being a pirate meant being bad, why would anyone choose it?"
"And he said?"
"He asked me a question in return: 'If the law declares that helping runaway slaves is a crime, is the person who helps them a criminal or a hero?' I didn't know how to answer. So he explained—legality and morality aren't the same thing. Sometimes breaking the law is the most moral choice possible."
Dragon's expression grew more intense, his revolutionary fervor showing through.
"That one conversation shattered my entire worldview. Made me understand that the Marines I worshipped, the World Government I'd been taught to revere—they weren't automatically good because they had authority. They had to earn goodness through their actions. And they weren't earning it."
"One conversation did all that?" Dr.Vegapunk asked skeptically.
"One conversation planted the seed. But I met him four more times over the next ten years. Each meeting, he taught me more. About justice. About freedom. About the difference between order and peace. About why strength exists—to protect, not to dominate."
Dragon stood and moved to the window, looking out at the mountains surrounding their hideout.
"The second time I met him, I was twelve. Father had brought me to observe a 'training exercise'—which turned out to be an actual battle between Baahubali and three Marine Vice Admirals and one Admiral."
"One Admiral and Three Vice Admirals?!" Ivankov's eyes widened. "Simultaneously?"
"Simultaneously. And he fought them to a standstill while protecting a group of civilians caught in the crossfire. His Haki was beyond comprehension—he predicted attacks five, ten seconds before they happened. Could coat his entire body in Armament Haki so dense that even Admiral-level strikes couldn't scratch him. Could project his Conqueror's Haki as actual constructs that fought independently."
"That's not possible." Dr.Vegapunk can't able to believe this.
Dragon's voice carried awe even after decades.
"And the entire time, he was teaching. Calling out what the Admiral and Vice Admirals were doing wrong, how they could improve, how their techniques could be refined. Treating a life-or-death battle as an educational opportunity. And at the end, when he'd proven his point—"
"He let them live?"
"He bowed to them. Actually bowed. Thanked them for the excellent training session. Then reminded them that strength without purpose is just violence, and asked them to consider what purpose they were really serving."
"What did they do?"
"They let him leave. The Admiral and Vice Admiral who'd been ordered to capture or kill him just... watched him walk away. Because on some fundamental level, they recognized he was more righteous than they'd ever be."
Dr.Vegapunk was quiet for a moment, processing this description of someone who sounded more mythological than human.
"And this is who you've been searching for? The man you want to lead our revolution?"
"Not lead it," Dragon corrected quickly. "I don't think Baahubali cares about leadership in the traditional sense. He never sought power for its own sake. But inspire it? Provide its moral foundation? Show people what we're fighting FOR instead of just what we're fighting AGAINST? Yes. Absolutely."
He pulled out a folder thick with documents—intelligence reports, witness statements, rumors collected from across all the seas.
"I've been tracking every mention of him for seven years. Following up on every legend, every story, every report of someone matching his description. Spent a fortune on informants. Risked Revolutionary Army resources. Some of my commanders think I'm obsessed."
"Are you?"
"Yes. But not unhealthily. I'm obsessed because I understand something they don't—Baahubali isn't just a powerful individual. He's a symbol. Proof that strength and compassion aren't opposites. That you can be absolutely powerful while being absolutely good. That fighting tyranny doesn't require becoming tyrannical yourself."
Dragon spread out the reports, showing Ivankov the extent of his search.
"Every lead has gone cold. It's like he vanished from existence at God Valley . No confirmed sightings. No reliable intelligence. Just legends that grow more exaggerated each year and a bounty that keeps increasing based on fear rather than actual threat." Dragon remembered as as he present during the battle but far away where all the Marine below Vice Admiral don't participate especially his father ordered him to remain on Marine Ship
"You think he's dead?"
"No." Dragon's certainty was absolute and unshakeable. "I'd know if he were dead. Sounds irrational, I know. We only met five times. Spent maybe twenty total hours together across ten years. But the impact he had... it's like he marked my soul. And that mark is still warm. Still present. He's alive somewhere."
"Then where?"
"I don't know. But I have operatives searching. People looking for the children he saved at God Valley—there were hundreds of them. If I can find them, if I can learn what happened after Rocks fell, maybe I can trace his path. Learn where he went. Understand what happened to him."
"And if he doesn't want to be found? If he's chosen isolation deliberately?"
Dragon considered this carefully, his tactical mind working through scenarios.
"Then I respect that choice. I'm not trying to force him back into a world that caused him pain. But I need to thank him. Need him to know that his teachings didn't die when he disappeared. That a seven-year-old boy he spent one afternoon with built an entire movement on the principles he espoused. That he changed the world even in absence."
Dr. Vegapunk smiled gently. "You love and respect him. Not romantically—but as a student loves a master who saw their potential and nurtured it."
"I love what he represented," Dragon agreed. "Absolute strength married to absolute compassion. Power that never corrupted. Intelligence that served others rather than elevating self. He was living proof that you could be strong without being cruel, principled without being rigid, revolutionary without being destructive."
"And you've modeled the Revolutionary Army on his example."
"Every decision I make, I ask myself: 'What would Sensei Baahubali do?' Not because I can match his wisdom—I can't. But because his framework provides clarity. Protect the weak. Oppose tyranny. Value freedom without enabling chaos. Serve justice over law. These principles cut through complexity and reveal right action."
Dragon stood and moved to a trunk in the corner of the room. He opened it, revealing carefully preserved items—mementos from his five meetings with Baahubali.
A training sword Baahubali had given him at age twelve, with advice carved into the hilt: "Strength serves. Power protects. Remember why you fight."
A navigation chart Baahubali had drawn at their third meeting, showing Dragon how to read wind patterns and ocean currents—practical skills wrapped in philosophical lessons about adapting to circumstances while maintaining direction.
A book on governance Baahubali had recommended at their fourth meeting, with handwritten notes in the margins explaining how to balance freedom with order, how to serve people rather than ruling them.
And from their final meeting, just months before God Valley, a letter. Dragon pulled it out, unfolding paper he'd read so many times the creases were worn thin.
Dear Dragon,
You asked me why I choose to sail with pirates rather than joining your father in the Marines. It's a fair question that deserves a full answer.
I've watched the Marines for twelve years now. I've seen them at their best—your father saving civilians, Admiral Sengoku pursuing actual justice, Vice Admiral Tsuru outsmarting slavers. And I've seen them at their worst—protecting Celestial Dragons who hunt people for sport, enforcing tributes that starve nations, maintaining systems built on suffering.
The good Marines are genuinely good people. But they serve a corrupt system. And here's what I've learned: good people serving bad systems still produce bad outcomes. Your father knows the Celestial Dragons are tyrants, but he follows orders to protect them anyway. Sengoku knows the tribute system causes starvation, but he enforces it anyway. Tsuru knows slavery is evil, but she arrests people who help slaves escape anyway.
They tell themselves they're preventing worse outcomes. That without them, chaos would reign. That working within the system is the only realistic path to change.
They're wrong.
Some systems cannot be reformed. They're too fundamentally broken. Trying to fix them from within just makes you complicit in the harm they cause. At some point, you have to stop making excuses and start making choices.
I choose to sail with Roger because, for all his flaws, he's honest about what he is. He's a Adventurer not a pirate. He may breaks laws. He opposes authority. But he doesn't pretend to be serving justice while actually serving tyranny. He doesn't enforce slavery while claiming to fight for freedom. He doesn't protect evil while calling it order.
I suspect you'll face this same choice someday, Dragon. Between serving the system you were raised to respect and serving the justice you were taught to value. Between making your father proud and making yourself proud. Between comfortable compromise and uncomfortable righteousness.
When that day comes, remember this: The world doesn't need more people serving broken systems while claiming they'll fix them from within. The world needs people brave enough to stand outside those systems and demand they be rebuilt entirely.
I believe you have that courage. Your questions suggest a mind that won't accept comfortable lies. Your spirit suggests a heart that won't compromise on what matters. And your name—Monkey D. Dragon—carries the Will of Dharma., the natural enemy of those who claim divine right to rule.
When you're ready, when you've seen enough of the system to understand it cannot be saved, I hope you'll choose to fight for actual justice instead of serving false order. And if you do, know that you carry my full support and respect.
Your teacher in spirit if not in title,Amarendra D. Baahubali
Dragon refolded the letter with reverent care, his eyes wet with emotion he rarely allowed himself to show.
"This letter arrived two months before God Valley," he told Dr.Vegapunk. "I was seventeen. Still a Marine recruit, still believing I could change the system from within. Still hoping Father was right that compromise was necessary for the greater good."
"What changed?"
"I watched the Marines protect Celestial Dragons as they prepared for their 'hunting game' at God Valley. Watched good people—including my father—follow orders to ensure those monsters could hunt freed slaves for sport. Watched the system reveal itself as irredeemable."
Dragon's voice hardened with remembered pain and rage.
"I wanted to intervene. Wanted to save those people. But I was just a recruit. Powerless. Irrelevant. All I could do was watch and hate myself for my cowardice."
"But Baahubali wasn't powerless."
"No. He wasn't. When he learned what was happening—when he discovered that Celestial Dragons were planning to hunt children for entertainment—he just... acted. No hesitation. No political calculation. No weighing of consequences against benefits. He saw evil and refused to allow it to continue."
"And died fighting it."
"Disappeared fighting it," Dragon corrected firmly. "We don't know that he died. Roger searched for months after God Valley. Found no body. No confirmed death. Just absence."
"Seven years of absence, Dragon. That's not a hopeful sign."
"Maybe not. But I refuse to believe the Shield of Dharma fell without the whole world knowing. Baahubali was too strong, too significant, too important to just quietly die. If he'd fallen at God Valley, we'd know. The World Government would have paraded his corpse as proof that even the strongest cannot oppose them."
Dragon moved back to his world map, looking at the pins marking Revolutionary Army cells.
"So I keep searching. Keep building. Keep preparing for the day when he returns—because he WILL return—and the revolution he inspired finally becomes the war it needs to be."
"You sound like a prophet waiting for his messiah," Dr.Vegapunk observed.
"I sound like a student who paid attention to his lessons," Dragon corrected. "Sensei taught me to recognize patterns, to see the shape of change before it arrives. And I see it now—revolution is inevitable. Not because I'm forcing it. Not because I want it. But because the world can only bear so much injustice before it breaks."
"And you want Baahubali there when it breaks."
"I want Baahubali to know that his teachings bore fruit. That a child who barely understood what he was hearing built a movement on those principles. That every freed slave, every reformed nation, every person we've given hope—they're all fruits of seeds he planted with a seven-year-old boy on a beach in the East Blue."
Dragon turned from the map to face Ivankov directly, his expression carrying the full weight of his conviction.
"Keep searching, Vegapunk. Use every contact, every informant, every whisper. Find the God Valley survivors. Find Bartholomew Kuma—the boy Baahubali specifically named and promised to protect. Find Ginny and Ivankov, find anyone who might know where he went, what happened to him, how we can bring him back."
"And if we find him but he's changed? If amnesia or trauma or time has made him someone different?"
"Then we help him remember. Remind him of who he was, what he stood for, why he mattered. Show him this—" Dragon gestured at the letter, "—proof that his teachings survived even when he didn't. And we trust that the core of who he is cannot be erased by anything. Not time. Not injury. Not even death itself."
"You have tremendous faith in someone you barely knew."
"I have the exact right amount of faith. Because Sensei Baahubali earned it. Five meetings, twenty total hours, a lifetime of impact. That's the kind of person he was. That's the kind of person he still is, wherever he's hiding or recovering or waiting."
Dragon looked out at the night sky, stars emerging as the sun set behind the mountains.
"Come back, Sensei," he whispered. "The world needs you. Your students need you. And I need to thank you for saving me from becoming my father—a good man serving evil because change seemed too hard."
"Will you tell him?" Dr.Vegapunk asked quietly. "That you left the Marines? That you did exactly what he encouraged in that letter?"
"If I find him, yes. I'll tell him everything. How his words gave me courage to choose justice over order. How his example showed me that righteousness doesn't require compromise. How his faith in a ten-year-old boy who asked simple questions about pirates gave that boy the strength to become a man who fights tyrants."
"And if he doesn't remember you? If his amnesia extends to those five meetings?"
Dragon smiled—sad but certain. "Then I'll remind him. Tell him about the beach in the East Blue where a child asked why people became pirates. About the training ground where a teenager watched a legend fight Admiral and three Vice Admirals. About the letter that arrived two months before God Valley and changed a young Marine's entire life."
"He might not believe you."
"He'll believe me. Because I'll recite his own words back to him. Every lesson. Every principle. Every philosophical framework he taught. The memories may be gone from his mind, but they're preserved in mine. And hearing them again might help him remember who he was."
Dragon moved back to his desk, picking up reports on Revolutionary Army operations across the world. But his mind remained on his lost teacher.
"Somewhere out there," he said softly, "Baahubali is alive. Maybe on some island, protecting people without knowing why it feels right. Maybe sailing the seas, following instincts he doesn't consciously understand. Maybe he's even regained some memories, piecing together his identity fragment by fragment."
"And when he remembers fully?"
"When he remembers fully, when the Shield of Dharma rises again with complete knowledge of what he is and what he's meant to do, the drums of liberation will beat so loudly the entire world will hear them. And everyone will have to choose—stand with the old order or fight for the new world he'll build."
"You're betting everything on one man returning."
"I'm betting everything on the right man returning at the right time. Because history doesn't repeat, but it rhymes. And I hear echoes of the Void Century in our current age. Echoes of the Ancient Kingdom in Baahubali's partial memories. Echoes of Joy Boy in the way people responded to him."
Dragon's eyes blazed with revolutionary fire.
"The age is changing, Vegapunk. Can you feel it? The drums are beating. Faint, but growing louder. The Drums of Liberation that legends speak of. They're calling someone. Calling him. And when he answers, when Amarendra D. Baahubali returns to the world with his full power and memory intact, everything changes."
"And if he doesn't answer? If he chooses peace over war?"
"Then he teaches us one final lesson—that even righteousness knows when to rest. But I don't think that's who he is. I think he's someone who fights until the fighting's done. Who protects until everyone's safe. Who opposes tyranny until tyranny ends. And I think his absence has been preparation, not retirement."
Dragon opened a drawer and pulled out one more item—a small pouch containing something precious. He opened it carefully, revealing what looked like ordinary sand.
"From the beach where we first met," he explained. "I kept it as a reminder of where my real education began. Where I learned that questions matter more than answers, that justice transcends law, that strength exists to serve."
He poured the sand back into the pouch and returned it to the drawer.
"When I find him—and I WILL find him—I'll show him this sand and tell him: 'This is where you taught a seven-year-old boy that pirates weren't automatically evil and Marines weren't automatically good. Where you showed him that authority must be questioned, that rules must be examined, that justice is a principle, not a profession.'"
"And what do you think he'll say?"
Dragon smiled, imagining the response. "He'll probably be embarrassed that such a small interaction had such large impact. That's who he was—someone who changed lives without trying to, who inspired people without seeking to, who taught lessons that lasted decades from conversations that lasted hours."
"You really Idolise and love him," Dr.Vegapunk said again, but this time with complete understanding.
"I love what he represents," Dragon agreed. "And I love who he helped me become. Without Sensei Baahubali, I'd be a Marine Rear Admiral or even Vice Admiral right now. Following orders I knew were wrong. Protecting Celestial Dragons I knew were tyrants. Telling myself I was doing the best I could within a broken system."
"Instead?"
"Instead, I'm Dragon the Revolutionary. Builder of an army dedicated to actual freedom. Fighter against tyranny in all its forms. Someone who chose uncomfortable righteousness over comfortable compromise. And that choice—that fundamental decision to be who I should be instead of who I was expected to be—came from lessons a pirate's companion taught a child on a beach."
Dragon stood and moved to where his Revolutionary Army coat hung—dark green, emblazoned with their symbol.
"Keep searching. Never stop searching. Because finding Baahubali isn't just about reuniting with a teacher. It's about proving that faith matters. That promises kept across decades have meaning. That the world he envisioned—where the strong protect the weak, where justice transcends law, where freedom doesn't require chaos—isn't just a dream."
"It's a destination," Dr. Vegapunk finished.
"Exactly. A destination we're sailing toward. And when we arrive, I want Sensei Baahubali to see what his teachings built. Want him to know that the Revolutionary Army exists because a child learned to question authority. Want him to understand that every person we've freed, every tyrant we've opposed, every stand we've taken for justice—they all trace back to lessons he didn't even know he was teaching."
Dr. Vegapunk stood and placed a hand on Dragon's shoulder. "We'll find him. I promise."
"I know we will. Because destiny isn't random. Because the Will of D. or Dharma the sensei always called as it draws its bearers together. Because somewhere out there, Bartholomew Kuma is waiting for the man who promised to return for him. And promises like that don't die just because memory does."
They stood together in the safehouse, two revolutionaries united in their search for a legend who'd inspired one and would inspire millions more.
And somewhere across the seas, unaware of the faith being maintained in him, Baahubali sailed toward the East Blue, toward promises he'd made, toward a boy named Kuma who'd never stopped believing.
The drums beat louder every day.
Boom. Boom. Boom-boom. Boom.
And Dragon smiled, hearing them in his soul, knowing what they meant.
His teacher was returning.
The Shield of Dharma was rising.
And the world would never be the same.
Part IV: The Emperors Remember
Somewhere in the New World - The Moby Dick
The massive ship that served as Whitebeard's mobile fortress cut through treacherous New World waters with the confidence of a vessel that had survived every challenge the sea could offer. On its deck, Edward Newgate—Whitebeard, the Second Strongest Man in the World—sat in his characteristic enormous chair, surrounded by the "sons" he'd gathered over years of sailing.
Marco the Phoenix perched on the railing, his perpetually sleepy expression belying the sharp intelligence in his eyes. "Diamond" Jozu stood nearby, his massive form a testament to years of training and his Devil Fruit power. "Flower Sword" Vista leaned against the mast, his distinctive mustache perfectly groomed despite the sea spray.
And dozens more—commanders and crew members who'd all sworn loyalty not through fear but through genuine familial love for the old man who called them sons.
"Pops," young Marshall D. Teach ventured, his rotund form sprawled casually on the deck, "tell us about God Valley again. You were there, weren't you?"
Whitebeard took a long drink from his sake cup, his eyes growing distant with memory.
"Aye, I was there. Watched the whole damn thing unfold. Rocks D. Xebec thought he could challenge the Celestial Dragons directly, thought his combined crew of monsters was unstoppable. And he almost succeeded—until Garp and Roger teamed up to stop him."
"But that's not the interesting part, yoi," Marco interjected, having heard this story multiple times. "Tell them about the other one. The one who mattered more than Rocks."
Whitebeard nodded slowly, his expression showing rare solemnity. "Amarendra D. Baahubali. The Shield of Dharma. The man who made Rocks's ambition look petty by comparison."
"How?" Jozu asked, his deep voice carrying genuine curiosity. "Rocks was legendary. Captain of the most powerful crew ever assembled. How could anyone make him seem small?"
"Because Rocks fought for himself," Whitebeard explained, his voice carrying the weight of someone who'd witnessed something transformative. "For his own power. His own ambition. His own desire to rule the world. Everything he did served his ego."
He paused, gathering his thoughts.
"Baahubali fought for children he'd never met. For slaves he had no connection to. For the principle that the strong should protect the weak rather than prey on them. Everything he did served others."
Whitebeard's expression grew intense, and several crew members leaned forward, sensing this was important.
"I watched him stand between Celestial Dragons and their hunting game. Hundreds of children—freed slaves the 'gods' were hunting for sport—and this man just... placed himself in their path. Told those supposed deities they had no right to hunt people. That their game was over."
"They must have been furious," Vista observed.
"They laughed," Whitebeard corrected. "These Celestial Dragons who thought themselves untouchable, who'd never faced real opposition, they actually laughed at him. Told him that slaves were property, not people. That they could hunt whoever they wanted. That he should move before they decided to hunt him too."
"What did he do?"
Whitebeard's face showed something between admiration and awe. "He smiled. Not a cruel smile or an amused smile. A sad smile. Like they'd revealed something disappointing about themselves. And he said—I'll never forget his exact words—he said: 'Then I'll teach you the difference between gods and monsters. Gods protect. Monsters prey. You've shown me which you are.'"
The deck had gone silent, every crew member hanging on their captain's words.
"And then?" someone prompted.
"Then he killed them. All nine Celestial Dragons present. Every guard protecting them. Every slave hunter they'd brought. Moved with such speed and precision that most were dead before they understood what was happening. And his Haki—"
Whitebeard paused, even now amazed at the memory.
"His Conqueror's Haki was absolute. Supreme. Beyond anything I've witnessed before or since. It didn't just overwhelm people—it judged them. Like his will itself could distinguish between those who deserved mercy and those who didn't. Every person there felt it differently based on their own nature."
"The Celestial Dragons and their people felt terror," Marco guessed.
"They felt damnation," Whitebeard corrected. "Like standing before divine judgment and being found wanting. Several guards just... gave up. Threw down their weapons and ran. Others collapsed from the pressure. A few died from fear alone while God Knight all killed other than Saint Garling."
"But the children?" Vista asked.
"Felt nothing but warmth. Safety. Protection. Like being wrapped in the strongest shield imaginable. Hundreds of terrified children, and not one of them was harmed by his Haki despite it being strong enough to kill grown warriors."
Whitebeard took another drink, needing the sake to steady himself.
"That's when I understood. Baahubali's Haki wasn't just powerful—it was righteous. It embodied his principles so completely that it literally protected the innocent while destroying the guilty. I've never seen anything like it. Never even heard of it being possible."
"And then the Elders came," Jozu prompted, knowing this part of the story.
"The Five Elders themselves descended to God Valley. Brought the Ancient Weapon Uranus with them. Planned to erase the island and everyone on it to hide what had happened—that Celestial Dragons had been killed, that their hunting game had been exposed, that someone had dared to oppose them successfully."
Whitebeard's voice grew softer, more admirangly.
"And Baahubali—this man who'd already fought Celestial Dragons and their guards—didn't retreat. Didn't negotiate. Didn't try to save just himself. He manifested an army."
"A metaphorical army?" Teach asked.
"An actual army. Made from his Conqueror's Haki. Thousands of soldiers, each one capable of combat, each one protecting specific groups of fleeing slaves. And while his Haki army held the line, while they created a shield around innocents, he engaged the Five Elders directly."
"Alone?" several crew members gasped.
"Alone. Five of the strongest beings in the World Government, and he fought them simultaneously while protecting hundreds of people. His swordsmanship was perfect—every strike precise, every defense absolute. His Haki was overwhelming—coating his body in Armament so dense that Elder-level attacks couldn't touch him. And his will..."
Whitebeard paused, choosing his words carefully.
"His will was unbreakable. They tried everything. Devil Fruit powers that should have killed him. Haki techniques that should have crushed his spirit. Ancient weapons that should have erased him from existence. And he just... endured. Fought. Protected."
"How did he win?" Marco asked quietly.
"He killed two of them. Saint Saturn and Saint Ju Peter—both dead before the other three could react. Then they activated Uranus. Fired it at full power, trying to obliterate everything. And Baahubali—"
Whitebeard's voice carried genuine awe.
"Baahubali manifested something I'd never seen before and haven't seen since. His Haki took form. Not just as soldiers, but as something divine. Six-armed. Radiating power that made Uranus look weak. And behind him, even larger, a figure that looked like... like a god. Like an Adiyogi from ancient legends."
"That's impossible," Vista breathed.
"I would have thought so if I hadn't witnessed it. But there it was—Baahubali's will made manifest, his Haki embodying not just strength but divinity. And he raised his bow—just a bow made from Haki, nothing more—and fired a single arrow at Uranus."
"One arrow against an Ancient Weapon?" Teach's skepticism was obvious.
"One arrow wrapped in Conqueror's Haki so concentrated it looked like staring into a collapsed star. Black and gold lightning wreathing it. Reality bending around it. And when it struck Uranus—"
Whitebeard snapped his fingers.
"Gone. The Ancient Weapon the World Government had preserved for eight hundred years, destroyed in an instant. Just... erased from existence. And the backlash—the energy released when something that powerful is destroyed—nearly killed everyone on the island."
"But Rocks saved them," Marco said quietly, having heard this part.
"Rocks D. Xebec, bastard and monster that he was, used the last of his power to deflect the backlash. Sent it into the sky instead of across God Valley. Died doing it." Whitebeard's expression showed grudging respect. "His final act was genuinely heroic. Protecting the people he'd spent his life dominating."
"And Baahubali?"
"Disappeared. The energy wave caught him, and he vanished. Roger searched for months afterward—brought the surviving slaves and children to safety like Baahubali had asked, but never found any trace of him. It's like he was erased from the world."
Whitebeard looked at his assembled sons—these young men he'd claimed as family, these warriors he'd die to protect.
"Do you understand now? Why I adopted you all? Why I call you sons instead of crew? Baahubali showed me something I hadn't fully understood before. He showed me that family—real family, chosen family—is the only thing that truly matters. That protecting people you love is the highest purpose strength can serve."
"You want to be like him," Vista observed.
"I want to honor what he represented. A world where the strong protect the weak. Where children grow up safe. Where family means something beyond blood or obligation. That's the world he died—or disappeared—trying to create. The least I can do is create a smaller version of it on this ship."
"Do you think he's alive?" Jozu asked.
"I don't know," Whitebeard admitted. "But I hope so. Because the world needs people like him. People who look at tyranny and refuse to accept it. Who face gods and refuse to bow. Who sacrifice everything for principles that matter more than survival."
He stood, his massive frame casting shadows across the deck.
"If Baahubali returns—if the Shield of Dharma rises again—the world will remember what true strength looks like. Not the strength to dominate, but the strength to protect. Not the strength to conquer, but the strength to serve. And I swear on my name as Whitebeard, on my title as your father, if that day comes—"
"We'll stand with him," Marco finished, speaking for the entire crew.
"Damn right we will. Against the World Government, against the Marines, against anyone who opposes righteousness. When Baahubali calls for those who believe in protecting family, we answer."
The crew erupted in cheers, each one pledging loyalty not just to Whitebeard, but to the principles they'd learned about through his stories.
And in that moment, the Moby Dick—a ship full of pirates and outcasts and broken people who'd found family—became something more.
A promise waiting to be kept.
Whole Cake Island - Big Mom's Territory
In her massive throne room, Charlotte Linlin—Big Mom, one of the most feared pirates in the world—sat surrounded by her children. At forty-six, she'd built an empire through calculated breeding and ruthless conquest, creating a family of powerful offspring from unions with strong men across the seas.
Her eldest, Perospero at twenty-five, stood to her right. Katakuri, her second son at twenty-three and already legendary for his Future Sight and undefeated record, stood to her left. And arrayed before her were dozens more—children ranging from toddlers to young adults, each one carrying abilities inherited from carefully chosen fathers.
"Mama," Perospero ventured carefully, knowing his mother's volatile temperament, "you promised to tell us about him. About the one who got away."
Big Mom's expression softened—rare for the woman known for her destructive rages and childish tantrums when denied what she wanted.
"Amarendra D. Baahubali," she said, the name carrying reverence unusual for her. "The Shield of Dharma. The only man I ever met who made me feel small. Not physically—I'm larger than him by far. But in presence, in power, in sheer weight of being—he was a giant among men."
"You loved him," Katakuri observed, his usual monotone carrying a hint of curiosity.
"Love?" Big Mom laughed, but without her usual mania. "I don't know if I'm capable of actual love. But I wanted him. Wanted to possess him, to bind him to me, to build an empire with him that would span the entire world."
She stood and moved to a window overlooking her territory—islands made from food, architecture defying physics, a realm built through her Devil Fruit power.
"Imagine it. My Soul-Soul Fruit giving life to everything around us, combined with his supreme Haki mastering that life. My ability to steal years from the weak, paired with his ability to protect the strong. Our children would have been unstoppable. Would have ruled the world with absolute power."
"But he refused you," Perospero said carefully.
"He didn't even acknowledge the offer as worth considering," Big Mom replied, and there was pain in her voice beneath the rage. "Looked at me like I was suggesting something distasteful. Said he felt committed to someone—couldn't remember who, couldn't recall where, but he carried loyalty to a woman whose face he'd forgotten."
"And that commitment meant more to him than power," Katakuri finished.
"That commitment meant more to him than EVERYTHING. Than alliance. Than empire. Than anything I could offer. He valued a memory he couldn't access more than the reality I presented."
Big Mom turned back to her children, and her expression showed a mix of emotions—frustration, admiration, envy, respect.
"So I did the next best thing. Found other powerful men. Men with Devil Fruits, with legendary Haki, with bloodlines carrying strength. Bred children who inherited their fathers' abilities. Created a family numerous enough and strong enough to achieve what I couldn't do with one perfect partner."
"But none of them were him," Katakuri said quietly, his Future Sight perhaps showing him memories his mother held.
"None of them were him," Big Mom confirmed. "Every man I chose, I compared to Baahubali. Their strength to his. Their intelligence to his. Their potential to his. And every single one fell short. Not because they were weak—some were incredibly powerful. But because they lacked... something. Something essential."
"What?" several children asked.
"Righteousness and boundless will," Big Mom said simply. "Pure, absolute, uncompromising righteousness. He didn't just fight for what he wanted. He fought for what was right. Didn't seek power for himself—sought to protect others. Didn't dominate through fear—inspired through example."
She moved back to her throne, settling into it with a sigh.
"I tell you about him not to make you feel average. But to give you a standard. Something to aspire to. Not his specific abilities—you each have your own strengths. But his principles."
"Why?" Perospero asked boldly. "Why tell us to emulate someone you're nothing like?"
Big Mom laughed—huge, booming, carrying genuine amusement.
"Because I KNOW my flaws! I'm selfish! Violent! Unstable! I build empires through fear rather than loyalty! I'm everything Baahubali wasn't! But that doesn't mean I can't recognize superiority when I see it!"
Her expression grew more serious, more calculating.
"And I'll tell you something else. When Baahubali returns—and he WILL return, I feel it in my soul—the world will face a choice. Support the old order or build something new. And if it comes to war, if he stands against the World Government, if revolution finally comes—"
"Mama?" her children prompted, sensing something important.
"I might actually do the right thing for once. Might stand with him. Not because I've become good—I haven't and won't. Not because I believe in his principles—I'm too selfish for that. But because even I can recognize that some people are too important to oppose. That some causes are too righteous to stand against."
She looked at each of her children, her gaze carrying unusual intensity.
"That's why I tell you about him. So you'll recognize that person when he appears. So you'll know what real strength looks like. So you'll understand that power without principle is just tyranny dressed in pretty clothes."
Katakuri stepped forward, his tall frame towering even over most of his siblings. "Do you think he remembers you, Mama?"
"I doubt it. We barely spoke at God Valley—just one brief conversation before everything went to hell. But I remember him. Remember the way he moved—grace that made combat look like dance. Remember the way he spoke—wisdom that made complex things simple. Remember the way he looked at the world—like every person mattered, like every life had value, like protecting innocents was the only thing worth doing with power."
"You speak of him like he was perfect," Perospero observed.
"Not perfect. But perfectly aligned with his principles. He knew what mattered—protecting the weak—and everything he did served that purpose. No compromises. No excuses. No telling himself that evil was acceptable if it prevented worse evil. Just... absolute conviction that the strong should serve the weak rather than prey on them."
Big Mom stood again, her massive form radiating the power that made her an Emperor.
"I'm not a good person. Never will be. Too broken, too selfish, too violent. But meeting Baahubali showed me what good looks like. And even if I can't be that, even if I'm fundamentally incapable of change, I can make sure my children know the difference. Can give you a measuring stick for what strength should serve."
"We won't disappoint you, Mama," Katakuri promised.
"I know you won't. Because you're MY children. You carry my power and your fathers' abilities. But more importantly, you carry the knowledge that somewhere in this world, there's a standard of righteousness you should aspire to. A man who represents everything power should be rather than everything it usually becomes."
She returned to her throne one final time, picking up a sake cup and raising it in a solitary toast.
"To Amarendra D. Baahubali. The one who got away. The standard I'll never match. The man whose return will shake the world to its foundations. May he remember who he is. May he reclaim what he's lost. And may his enemies—whoever they are—know the terror of facing absolute righteousness backed by absolute power."
Her children echoed the toast, and in that moment, even Big Mom's twisted family understood that some legends transcended alliances and enmities.
Some legends simply demanded recognition.
Part V: The Waiting Children
Sorbet Kingdom - Seven Years of Faith
In a small village on the outskirts of the Sorbet Kingdom, three teenagers sat together watching the sun set over the ocean. Bartholomew Kuma, now seventeen and already towering at over nine feet tall. Ginny, small and fierce, her spirit undimmed by years of waiting. And Emporio Ivankov, recently arrived from the Revolutionary Army as he joined Dragon recently, with questions about a legend as he fainted during the battle where Ginny and Kuma carried him.
"Tell me again," Ivankov prompted gently. "What do you remember about him?"
Kuma's large hands carefully held a tiny object—a rice ball wrapper, preserved for over two decades, the last physical proof of a promise made.
"I remember being nine years old and terrified. The Celestial Dragons were hunting us—hundreds of children, all of us freed slaves, all of us running through God Valley trying to hide. And then he appeared."
Kuma's voice was soft but certain, each word chosen with care.
"Amarendra D. Baahubali. The Shield of Dharma. He stood between us and the Celestial Dragons like a wall—no, like a mountain. Immovable. Absolute. And he told them that their hunt was over."
"They laughed at him," Ginny added, her small fists clenching at the memory. "These 'gods' who ruled the world laughed at someone trying to protect slave children. Said we were property, not people. Said they'd hunt whoever they wanted."
"And Baahubali smiled," Kuma continued. "Smiled like they'd said something sad rather than threatening. And he said—I'll never forget his exact words—he said: 'Then I'll teach you the difference between gods and monsters. Gods protect. Monsters prey. You've shown me which you are.'"
"Then he killed them," Ivankov finished, having heard this part of the story from multiple sources and also remember the battle but broken fragments as he was unconscious.
"All of them," Kuma confirmed. "Every Celestial Dragon on God Valley. Every guard. Every slave hunter. And when the Five Elders came with their Ancient Weapon, when they tried to erase everything—"
"He protected us," Ginny interjected. "Created an army from his will. Thousands of soldiers made from Haki, all of them forming a wall around us while he fought gods."
"And before he disappeared," Kuma said, his voice thick with emotion, "before the energy wave took him, he looked at me. Found me specifically in the crowd of children. And he promised—'I will return for you, Bartholomew Kuma. I will build an empire to protect children like you. Wait for me.'"
Kuma's eyes were wet.
"So I've waited. Seven years. Everyone tells me he's dead, that I'm clinging to false hope, that promises made in desperate moments don't mean anything. But I know—I know—he's alive somewhere. And when he remembers, when he comes back, he'll keep his word."
"How can you be so certain?" Ivankov asked, genuinely curious.
"Because he's Baahubali," Kuma replied, as if that explained everything. "He kept every promise he made. Saved every person he said he'd save. Protected everyone who needed protection. That kind of person doesn't just disappear. That kind of person comes back."
"Even after seven years?Even if he's changed?"
"Even then. The core of who he is—that unshakeable commitment to protecting the innocent—can't be erased by time or trauma or anything else. It's not just what he did. It's what he is."
Ginny nodded agreement. "We've built our lives around those few hours we spent with him. I became a freedom fighter because he showed me that even children deserve to be free. Kuma developed his Devil Fruit abilities to help people because Baahubali demonstrated that power exists to serve."
"And you're both waiting," Ivankov observed. "Waiting for him to return and fulfill a promise made to a nine-year-old boy."
"We're not just waiting," Kuma corrected gently. "We're preparing. Getting stronger. Learning skills. Gathering resources. So that when he returns, when he's ready to build that empire he promised, we can help. We can be worthy of the faith he showed in us."
"The Revolutionary Army is looking for him too," Ivankov said. "Dragon—Monkey D. Dragon—he's searching across all the seas. Says Baahubali taught him about justice when he was a child. Wants to find him, to bring him back, to use his example to inspire revolution."
"Then we should work together," Ginny suggested. "Share information. Coordinate searches. If we're all looking for the same person, we'll find him faster."
Kuma stood, his massive frame silhouetted against the setting sun.
"I'll join the Revolutionary Army," he decided. "If Dragon is truly following Baahubali's teachings about justice and freedom, then supporting his cause is preparing for the day when the Shield of Dharma returns."
"You're certain?" Ivankov asked. "The Revolutionary Army is dangerous work. The World Government considers us their greatest threat."
"I'm certain. Because Baahubali taught me that waiting isn't passive. You wait actively—preparing, growing, becoming someone worthy of the promise you were given. And if that means fighting for freedom until he returns, then that's what I'll do."
Ginny jumped to her feet. "Then I'm coming too! Someone needs to keep Kuma from being too selfless and getting himself killed."
Ivankov smiled, seeing the same dedication, the same principle, the same absolute commitment that Dragon described in his teacher.
"Then it's settled. We search together. We build together. We fight for the world Baahubali envisioned together. And when he returns—"
"We'll be ready," Kuma finished. "Ready to follow. Ready to support. Ready to fulfill the purpose he gave us—being people worth protecting, living lives worth the sacrifice he made."
They stood together as the sun dipped below the horizon, three young people united by memory of a man they'd barely known but who'd changed everything.
And across the sea, sailing on a ship made from the best materials Wano could provide, Baahubali felt something. Not a memory exactly, but a pull. A sense of promises waiting to be kept. Of people expecting his return.
He didn't know who they were yet.
But he would.
The drums were beating louder now.
Boom. Boom. Boom-boom. Boom.
And the Shield of Dharma was sailing toward his destiny, toward the scattered people who'd never stopped believing, toward promises made in the fire of God Valley that transcended time and memory and even death itself.
Part VI: The Spy Who Remembers
Sabaody Archipelago - Shakky's Rip-off Bar
In the lawless zone of Sabaody Archipelago, where pirates and bounty hunters and criminals of every stripe gathered before attempting the dangerous journey to the New World, a bar stood that catered to those who valued information over cheap drinks.
Shakky's Rip-off Bar wasn't named ironically—the prices really were outrageous. But people paid them anyway, because the very beautiful woman who ran the establishment knew things. Heard things. Connected dots that others missed.
Shakuyaku—Shakky to those who'd earned the privilege—sat behind her counter, a cigarette perpetually between her lips, reading reports that most people would kill to access. At thirty-five, she is the physical beauty of her youth despite her number is in mid 30s, but her eyes remained sharp, her mind sharper, and her information network was the best in the world.
A customer entered—a younger pirate trying to look confident, clearly new to Sabaody.
"I heard you know things," the pirate said. "I need information about—"
"The New World's power structure," Shakky interrupted, not looking up from her reports. "You want to know which routes are safest, which Emperors control which territories, how to avoid Marines while accessing the best trading ports. Standard new pirate package: one million berries."
The pirate's jaw dropped. "One million? For information I could—"
"Get nowhere else with this accuracy. Pay or leave."
Grumbling, the pirate paid. Shakky provided the information—detailed, accurate, potentially life-saving—in under ten minutes. When the pirate left, satisfied despite the cost, she returned to her reports.
But her mind wasn't on business. It was on something else. Someone else.
She pulled open a drawer and withdrew a small bundle of papers—old bounty posters, news articles, intelligence reports spanning over two decades. All of them featuring the same face, the same name.
AMARENDRA D. BAAHUBALI
Shakky traced the image with one finger, her expression uncharacteristically soft.
She'd been Empress of Amazon Lily once—ruler of the Kuja, the all-female warrior nation. She'd been strong, feared, respected. And she'd been arrogant, convinced that no man could match her power or earn her respect.
Then she'd met him.
She'd been on a raid—standard Kuja practice, attacking merchant ships and taking what they needed. But this particular ship had been transporting slaves. And when her crew boarded, they'd found those slaves already freed, their chains broken, their captors unconscious or dead.
And standing among them, calm as if violence was beneath him, had been Baahubali.
"Who are you?" Shakky had demanded, her Haki flaring in warning.
"Someone who doesn't tolerate slavery," he'd replied simply. "Are you here to re-enslave them?"
"We're pirates, not slavers."
"Then we have no conflict. Take what supplies you need from the ship and leave these people in peace."
She should have attacked. Should have tested this man who dared give her orders. But something in his presence—not threatening, just absolutely certain—made her hesitate.
"You're not afraid of me," she'd observed.
"Should I be? You fight for your people, protect your nation, oppose those who'd harm you. That's admirable, not frightening."
No man had ever spoken to her like that. Like an equal. Like someone whose choices deserved respect rather than automatic dismissal.
"The captain of this ship—the slaver—he tried to attack me," Shakky had said, gesturing to a corpse on the deck. "I killed him."
"Thank you," Baahubali had replied. "That's one less monster preying on the innocent."
And then something extraordinary had happened. Another ship had appeared—a pirate vessel, led by a notorious captain who specialized in hunting female warriors to sell to Celestial Dragons.
The captain had seen Shakky and her crew and grinned. "Kuja pirates! You'll fetch a fine price in the slave markets!"
Baahubali had moved before Shakky could react. One moment he was standing calmly among the freed slaves. The next, he was on the pirate ship, and combat had begun.
It lasted ninety seconds.
When it ended, the pirate captain's severed head rolled across the deck and stopped at Shakky's feet. And Baahubali's voice, calm and absolute, carried across the water:
"Anyone who disrespects women in my presence dies. Anyone who thinks strength gives them the right to enslave others dies. Anyone who looks at people and sees property rather than persons dies. Spread the word."
Then he'd returned to his ship—Shakky later learned it was Roger's ship—and sailed away. Like threatening an entire industry was just another Tuesday.
Shakky had stood frozen, staring at the severed head, processing what had just happened.
A man had protected her. Not because she was weak—she'd never been weak. But because he believed women deserved respect as a basic principle. Because his moral code demanded he oppose those who'd harm others. Because it was the right thing to do.
She'd fallen for him that day. Hard. Completely. Irrevocably.
And she'd left Amazon Lily to follow rumors of him. To learn more about this Amarendra D. Baahubali who treated women as equals, who killed slavers without hesitation, who carried absolute power with absolute principle.
By the time she'd tracked Roger's crew down, by the time she'd worked up the courage to approach, God Valley had happened. Baahubali had disappeared. And she'd been left with nothing but legends and memories and a love for someone she'd met once.
So she'd done the only thing that made sense: built an information network. Gathered every scrap of intelligence about Baahubali's history, his actions, his current whereabouts. Created a system where she'd be the first to know when he resurfaced.
Seven years. Seven years of gathering information, of following leads that went nowhere, of maintaining hope that most people thought was foolish.
But Shakky knew something others didn't. Her Haki, refined through decades of practice, could sense presences across vast distances. And somewhere out there, faint but persistent, she felt him.
Alive. Changed maybe. Lost perhaps. But definitely alive.
"Where are you?" she whispered to the bounty poster. "What happened to you at God Valley? Why haven't you come back?"
The bar door opened again. This time, the customer was different—a young Revolutionary, clearly nervous about being in such a public place.
"Shakky-san? I have a message from Dragon."
She gestured for him to continue.
"He's found something. A report from Wano—the isolated nation in the New World. Apparently, a stranger matching Baahubali's description washed ashore there several months ago. Stayed for a while. Made a significant impact. Then left, heading toward—"
"The East Blue," Shakky finished, her eyes widening. "He's heading toward Sorbet Kingdom. Toward the children he saved."
"How did you—"
"Because that's what he'd do. Keep his promises. His purpose would guide him."
She stood, stubbing out her cigarette with decisive finality.
"Tell Dragon I'm closing the bar temporarily. Tell him I'm activating every informant, every contact, every spy in my network. Tell him that Amarendra D. Baahubali is returning, and when he does, I will be the first to know."
"And then?"
Shakky smiled—rare and genuine and carrying seven years of waiting.
"Then I'll do what I should have done back then. I'll tell him how he changed my life. How he showed me that strength and principle aren't opposites. How one moment of witnessing true righteousness inspired me to build an information network dedicated to supporting those who oppose tyranny."
As the Revolutionary left to deliver her message, Shakky returned to her reports. But this time, her search had direction. Purpose. Hope.
The Shield of Dharma was sailing.
And everyone who'd ever known him, everyone who'd ever been touched by his presence, everyone who'd ever witnessed what true strength looked like—they all felt it.
The drums were beating.
Boom. Boom. Boom-boom. Boom.
And the world, whether it knew it or not, was preparing for the return of a legend.
End of Chapter 12
Across the seas, across the years, across the vast gulf of time and memory, echoes persist. Roger sails toward Laugh Tale to learn the truth. Garp wrestles with choices that haunt him. Dragon builds a revolution on lessons learned in childhood. Whitebeard honors principles by protecting his family. Big Mom acknowledges superiority even in her twisted way. Kuma waits with faith unshaken. And Shakky maintains hope that most would call foolish.
They all remember. They all wait. They all know.
The Shield of Dharma is returning. And when he does, when memory and purpose finally align, the world will discover whether seven years of waiting was time wasted or time spent preparing for inevitable change.
The drums beat louder with each passing day.
And somewhere in the East Blue, sailing on a ship made from Wano's finest materials, Amarendra D. Baahubali feels the pull of promises that transcend even lost memory.
He's coming home.
Author Note :
Thank you all for your support. From this point onward, this story will be on hiatus as I shift my focus to my main original novels—God of Acting and The God of Cricket. One reason is that I wrote Baahubali in One Piece casually during my free time, reaching Chapter 12, but eventually felt bored since I never intended to post it seriously on Webnovel. In the future, I promise to return and complete this story, because I never leave my work unfinished. Meanwhile, Harry and the Golden Hufflepuff will be completed this weekend, and I will continue writing only three stories: God of Acting, The God of Cricket, and Deva in Naruto World.