A dull ache pulsed in the back of Lucius's head as he stirred awake, blinking slowly against the soft, golden light filtering through the trees. The scent of sea salt still clung to the air—but something had changed.
The pain… it was gone.
No fire in his lungs. No stabbing in his ribs. No blood crusting his skin. Just… silence.
His eye fluttered open to a large canopy above, makeshift but sturdy. He was lying on something soft—folded cloaks, maybe. The bandages around his limbs were clean and expertly wrapped. Someone had patched him up.
'What the hell…?'
Before he could sit up, a voice cut through the air. Smooth. Confident. Almost amused.
"About time you woke up, yoi."
Lucius tensed. Breath caught in his throat. That voice didn't belong to anyone from his village. Instinct snapped to life—he scrambled into a defensive crouch, even groggy and half-healed.
The voice chuckled, easygoing.
"Whoa there, easy. You're not in any danger."
Lucius's gaze shot toward the speaker.
A man stood a few feet away, arms crossed with casual poise. Bright yellow hair, spiked like a pineapple, swayed gently in the sea breeze. His half-buttoned blue shirt fluttered open at the chest, revealing a stylized tattoo shaped like a cross. Even at rest, he radiated quiet power—an aura honed by battles long past.
Lucius didn't ease up.
"Who are you?" he demanded, voice hoarse but sharp.
The man tilted his head and offered a relaxed smile.
"Name's Marco. First Division Commander of the Whitebeard Pirates."
Lucius's breath hitched at the word pirates.
His fists clenched. Rage surged into his limbs like lightning. He didn't hesitate—he dropped into a battle stance, the kind you take when everything you love has already burned.
"Pirates… What more do you want?" he snarled. "Everything here's already gone!"
Marco raised his hands calmly.
"We're not here to take anything, yoi. Just stopped for a breather."
Lucius didn't move. His eye burned with suspicion. Pirates meant fire. Screams. Ruin. His entire world had been torn apart by men just like them. Or so he thought.
But then he noticed something odd—his chest wasn't burning. His side didn't throb. His wounds… didn't even itch.
Slowly, confused, he lifted a hand to his face. His eye was bandaged—but not searing with pain.
No limp. No fever. No agony.
"You…" he said, voice quieter now. "You healed me?"
Marco scratched the back of his head, almost sheepish.
"Yeah. You were in bad shape when we found you. Real bad. Thought you might not make it, honestly."
Lucius stared at him. Disbelief warred with exhaustion in his eyes.
"Why?"
Marco shrugged.
"Seemed like the right thing to do. You'd clearly been through hell. And, well… we saw what you did."
Lucius didn't speak. He didn't have to.
"Poison. Fire. Ambushes. You really tore those guys to pieces," Marco said, a flicker of impressed admiration in his voice. "Not bad for a one-man army, yoi."
Lucius's hands dropped a little, though not entirely relaxed. He looked at the ash-covered ground. Where the bodies had been. Where his life had ended.
"What's your name, kid?" Marco asked, voice gentler now.
Lucius met his gaze, jaw tightening.
"Sargon D Lucius."
Something in Marco's eyes flickered. Subtle. Just for a second. The D. hung in the air between them like an echo.
But Marco didn't ask about it.
Instead, he smiled again—smaller this time, more real.
"Well then, Lucius D. Sargon…" he said, offering a hand. "Welcome back to the world of the living."
Lucius looked at the hand.
Paused.
But didn't take it.
Not yet.
Lucius turned his head sharply at the sound of thunderous, heavy footsteps behind him. The ground almost rumbled beneath each one, like the earth itself was acknowledging the arrival of a force too powerful to ignore.
He craned his neck—and kept craning it—until his eye met the towering figure's face.
The man was gigantic.
A mountain of muscle, wrapped in a long, white captain's coat draped across his broad shoulders like it feared being torn if worn properly. His chest was bare, rippling with power, and thick arms hung like tree trunks. A large bisento—taller than most men—rested casually against his back.
A black bandana tied around his head, pushing back long, wild white hair. And beneath his nose, the most striking feature—an enormous, crescent-shaped mustache, pristine white and curved like the moon. It looked less like facial hair and more like a battle emblem.
Lucius didn't move.
His heart hammered against his ribs. Every nerve screamed at him to run, to fight, to defend—but he stood his ground. The fear crawled up his spine like ice, but he didn't let it touch his face.
Not this time.
Marco, standing beside him, noticed. He smiled with quiet admiration.
"He's our captain," Marco said, pride in his voice. "Whitebeard. The strongest man in the world."
The giant let out a booming laugh, raw and full, echoing through the coastline.
"Gurararara!"
Lucius flinched—just a little—caught off guard by the absurd, almost comical sound. But there was nothing funny about the man's presence. It was heavy. Commanding.
The towering man peered down at Lucius, and with a voice like rolling thunder, he asked,
"What's your name, lad?"
Lucius, jaw tight, fists clenched at his side, replied without breaking eye contact.
"Sargon D Lucius."
Whitebeard's expression shifted—just a shade. Thoughtful. His massive brows lowered, and he scratched his chin slowly.
"D, huh…"
The letter lingered in the air like a storm cloud. Heavy. Mysterious. Familiar.
Then, his deep voice rumbled again—calm, but edged with a quiet weight.
"You've walked through fire, haven't ya? And you're still standin'. That takes more than guts. Takes will."
He stepped forward once, and his shadow enveloped Lucius like a curtain. Then, slowly, he extended one massive hand—open, calloused, offering.
"I don't give orders to strangers… but if you've got nowhere left to go, I'm offerin' something better than silence and ash."
"A ship. A crew. Maybe even something that lasts longer than revenge."
His hand remained, waiting.
"What do you say, lad? Come aboard. See what the sea has left for you."
Lucius's body tightened, a jolt of fury surging up like bile.
"You want me to become the kind of pirate who destroyed our village? Killed our people?" His voice cracked with emotion. His mother's face flashed in his mind—soft, kind, and still.
"Killed my mom?"
His eye burned red. He took a step back, teeth bared.
"I would never become a pirate in my life. Never!"
Marco blinked, stunned at the venom in Lucius's voice. He'd never heard anyone reject the Captain so directly.
But Whitebeard…
Whitebeard roared with laughter.
"GURARARARARA!"
The sound was wild, shaking the leaves from nearby trees. And then he grinned wide, genuine and full of something rare—respect.
"You got guts, lad. Saying that to my face. I like it."
He took a step back, folding his arms across his massive chest.
But then… his tone changed. Slower. Heavier.
"But guts alone won't keep you breathing."
He tilted his head, eyes narrowing just a little.
"The world won't give you peace, lad. Not anymore. You'll have to pick a side, sooner or later. Or the sea'll swallow you whole."
Lucius opened his mouth—nothing came out.
"You have three roads now," Whitebeard continued, voice even. "Become a marine. Join a crew. Or stay here… and rot with the bones."
The weight of it slammed into Lucius like a fist. His legs nearly gave out. His mind screamed at him. His heart raged with grief.
And then Whitebeard's voice came again—quieter this time, but it cut deeper than steel.
"You don't know the world yet. Not all pirates are monsters. Same way not all marines wear white to hide the blood."
His eyes—dark, ancient, and wise—bored into Lucius.
"Tell me, then… why didn't the marines come when your village was burning?"
Lucius's breath caught in his throat.
He hadn't thought about it.
Not once.
His whole body trembled—not from weakness, but from realization.
The silence that followed was unbearable.
He was lost. Conflicted. Broken.
And for the first time since the fire swallowed his world whole...
Lucius didn't know what to do.
Whitebeard watched him in silence. Then, he turned, massive boots crunching the dirt as he began to walk away.
"You don't have to decide now," he said over his shoulder.
"But remember this…"
A pause.
"Even broken things can still sail."
Lucius stared at the sand.
And for once, he had no words left.
(To be continued…)
Author's Note:
Hey hey! 👋
Wow… it's been six whole months since the last update! Time really flies, huh? Whether you've been patiently waiting all this time or you're a new reader just diving into the story—thank you so much for being here. Seriously. Your support means the world. 💛
Also, big love to my greatest helper and silent co-author—my AI buddy—who's been right here with me, helping with reviews, corrections, and keeping the story sharp. Couldn't have done it without ya.
If you're enjoying the fic so far (or even if you've got thoughts, theories, or wild reactions), don't be shy—drop a comment! I read everything, and it always gives me the motivation to keep going.
Alright, that's enough rambling from me for now.
Let's meet again real soon in the next chapter. 😉
Until then—stay awesome!