A couple of weeks later, the _Moby Dick_, flagship of the Whitebeard Pirates, cut through calm, sun-dappled waters. The threat of Zephyr had been quelled—at least for now—and though the World Government was certainly reeling and scheming in the shadows, a fragile calm had settled over the fleet.
Gunnar, bearing the marks of his near-death clash with Zephyr—bruises fading into yellow and purple constellations across his torso, a neat lattice of stitches across his side—had returned to his usual disruptive self. He lounged shirtless on a stolen Marine chaise lounge, parked arrogantly on the main deck, soaking up the sun. His lean, muscular frame, already on its way back to full strength, gleamed under the warm light.
Beside him sat Smoothie, sipping a vibrant, layered drink of freshly pressed juices. Her enormous sword rested across her knees, the blade glinting as she polished it with deliberate care. She didn't look at Gunnar. She rarely did when he got like this.
"You know," Gunnar drawled, eyes half-lidded beneath his sunglasses, "for someone who claims I'm unbearable, you sure keep orbiting my personal space, Juice Queen."
Smoothie didn't glance his way. "Someone has to keep you from wandering off and triggering another international catastrophe before those stitches dissolve." Her tone was dry, but the faintest hint of a smile tugged at her lips. "Besides, the view on this side of the deck is marginally less annoying."
He grinned lazily. "Tempting? Is it me you find Tempting?"
That got her attention. She stopped polishing, turned her head, and locked eyes with him—just two of them, sharp and unreadable.
"Tempting me to run you through and toss you overboard, maybe." Her voice was cool, but not cold. The usual current of something unspoken still hummed between them, sharp and electric.
Before Gunnar could respond, Ace strode past, a towel slung over his shoulder, clearly headed toward a spar or training. The sun caught the fresh ink on his back: the Whitebeard Jolly Roger, vivid and proud in deep purple.
Gunnar's gaze sharpened. A sly grin crept across his face. "Well, well, Smoothie. Look at Sparky over there—finally got the family crest."
Ace paused, turned, grinning sheepishly but proudly. He scratched the back of his head. "Yeah. Figured it was time. After everything… it felt right."
"Officially part of the madhouse, huh?" Gunnar smirked, sitting up slightly. "Took you long enough. Scared of commitment?"
Ace snorted. "Was just waiting to make sure the madhouse was worth committing to. Still not sold on some of you."
Gunnar laughed. "Fair."
Ace's grin softened. "But Pops… he's the real deal. And this crew—it's home."
For a brief moment, Gunnar's usual swagger faded, replaced by something quieter, sincere. "Welcome aboard, brother. Try not to blow up the ship your first week."
"No promises," Ace called back, laughing as he continued on.
***
Later that night, under twin moons that bathed the deck in silver, Whitebeard sat on his throne-like seat, his colossal sake gourd cradled in one hand. Beside him, Marco leaned on the railing, eyes fixed on the horizon.
"Gurararara…" Whitebeard's laugh rumbled, gentler than usual. "The tides are shifting, Marco. I can feel it in my bones. A new wave is rising."
Marco's eyes narrowed slightly. "What kind of wave, Pops?"
Whitebeard's gaze turned serious, his voice dropping to a low rumble. "I'm thinking of creating a new division."
Marco raised a brow. "A seventeenth division?"
"No. Something outside the traditional ranks. Division Zero."
That caught Marco off guard. "Division Zero? We already have sixteen divisions, each with their own commanders and duties. What would make this one different?"
Whitebeard nodded. "Exactly. Not just another fleet. Not more men and ships. This would be something... sharper. Smaller. A catalyst. A team forged from our most promising, most volatile young blood. Gunnar. Ace. Maybe one or two more."
Marco exhaled. "A division of chaos, then," he said, dryly. "The son of Roger and your blood. That's either brilliance or madness."
Whitebeard chuckled. "Both, probably. But listen—this Division Zero wouldn't be burdened by numbers or bureaucracy. Just three or four pirates. Elite. Mobile. Autonomous. The Holy-Knight of Whitebeard Pirates."
Marco crossed his arms. "You realize the other commanders won't love this idea. Giving a handful of upstarts influence across all divisions? It could stir trouble."
Whitebeard nodded again. "Let them grumble. This won't be about favoritism. It'll be a challenge—for all of us. This 'Division Zero' won't be a gift."
Marco looked over, eyes narrowing. "You mean… they'd have to fight for it?"
Whitebeard grinned. "Exactly. Any team in our fleet—any group of three or four who think they've got the strength, vision, and unity to represent Division Zero—can challenge the current holders. Win the fight, take the title. That simple."
Marco's eyes widened slightly. "It would forge monsters."
"It would demand_ growth," Whitebeard said. "Iron sharpens iron. And it would push everyone else to keep up."
He pointed his gourd toward the stars. "Division Zero! The division with Highest authority after me!"
Marco was quiet for a long moment, then let out a soft chuckle. "It'll be chaotic."
Whitebeard's grin widened. "It'll be lively."