Whitebeard stood like a fortress, his massive hand still extended. His voice—deep, thunderous, and calm—rumbled like the slow roll of cannon fire before a siege.
"So, what's your choice, lad?"
Lucius didn't answer.
His head hung low, shoulders drawn tight beneath the weight of too many ghosts. The wind pushed through his ragged hair, brushing over the dried blood and torn cloth clinging to him like a second skin. His fists clenched hard—knuckles white, trembling.
What choice did he even have?
The images returned—faces twisted in agony, his mother's soft smile turned still, the ash-choked cries of children echoing from the flames. Every memory came sharpened with grief.
And still, he said nothing.
Then Marco stepped forward.
No bravado this time. No teasing grin. Just the calm, tired wisdom of a man who'd seen too many sons bury their pain.
"Like Pops said... you've gotta choose."
Lucius looked up, bloodshot eye flicking to the blonde man's silhouette.
Marco's voice softened, drifting like the tide pulling back before a wave.
"Just don't let anger make that choice for you, yoi."
Lucius's eye narrowed.
"Easy for you to say."
Marco gave a faint shrug. "Is it?" He motioned to the coastline with his chin. "You think I haven't seen towns burned like yours? Families gutted and thrown to the waves? Rage is loud, kid. Real loud. Feels like power… until it burns you hollow."
He walked to stand beside Lucius, his gaze scanning the blood-streaked sand and fire-scorched trees.
"Use what you've got left. Whatever chance this world gives you—use it. Not for revenge. Not for pirates or marines. For yourself."
Lucius said nothing, but his fists slowly unclenched.
Marco glanced at him sideways. A flicker of dry amusement ghosted across his face.
"We're not just pirates, y'know. We're the strongest crew on the seas. You come with us, you'll get stronger. Strong enough to survive. Strong enough to protect someone else… or to destroy what needs destroying."
He turned fully now, locking eyes with him.
"What will you become after that? Pirate. Hero. Monster. That's your story. No one else's."
Lucius's gaze dropped to his open palms—scarred, bruised, still smeared with blood that wasn't all his.
He saw the grave in the woods. The lone cross.
He heard the silence of a village that would never speak again.
Then Marco's voice dropped lower—calmer, colder.
"You think those pirates were the worst out there? They were barely fodder. If they wandered into the New World by mistake..." His expression hardened, something sharp behind his eyes.
"Then something worse is coming, yoi."
Lucius's breathing quickened. His pulse thundered in his ears.
His legs felt like anchors, holding him in a place where nothing remained.
But slowly... he stood straighter.
His eye lit with something between fire and frost.
He met Whitebeard's gaze.
"Fine." His voice was low, but steady. "I'll come with you. But I'm not joining you. I'll never be a pirate."
A beat of silence.
Then Marco exhaled through his nose. His grin returned—lopsided and honest.
"Tch. You've got spine. I'll give you that, yoi."
And Whitebeard—he threw his head back and let out a laugh like a thunderstorm cracking open the sky.
"GURARARARARA!!"
He slapped his knee, the earth itself seeming to shake beneath the weight of his mirth.
"I like this lad!"
Lucius didn't laugh.
But something in his shoulders loosened.
Something in the dark flickered—not gone, not soothed—but focused.
The fire still burned.
Now, at least... it had a direction.
The morning light filtered through the torn clouds, casting long shadows across the battered island.
Lucius stood still, arms folded across his chest like a shield, as if he were trying to hold the fractured pieces of himself together. The sea breeze tugged at his torn shirt, stinging the edges of still-healing wounds. His eyes—sharp, guarded—remained fixed on Marco, who lounged beside him with his arms draped lazily behind his head, like this was just another day.
"Alright, brat," Marco said with a lopsided grin, "if you're stickin' around—even temporarily—might as well know who you're dealin' with, yoi."
He tilted his chin toward the group gathering behind him.
"This is my division—the First Division."
Lucius followed his gaze, and for the first time, truly looked.
They weren't like the pirates who had burned his world down. No bloodstained grins. No frenzied eyes. These men and women stood with a quiet strength, the kind that only came from surviving more than they spoke about. Scarred, steady, sharp.
A hulking figure stepped forward first—shoulders broad as a fortress wall, body gleaming in the sunlight.
"This here's Jozu," Marco said, a smirk tugging at his lip. "Don't let the silence fool you. He's a monster in battle. Third Division Commander, but he rides with us now and then."
Jozu gave Lucius a single nod. His entire frame shimmered with a subtle, unnatural gleam—like sunlight dancing on armor. No… not armor.
Diamond.
Lucius blinked.
The ground gave a soft thud as Jozu walked past, each step making the earth feel smaller.
"He looks like he could lift a mountain," Lucius muttered under his breath.
Marco chuckled. "He probably has, yoi."
Next came a man with confident swagger, a clean mustache, and a disarming grin. He wore a striped apron over his half-buttoned shirt, and from the belt at his hip hung a large cooking knife—not sheathed like a weapon, but worn like it belonged there.
"This is Thatch," Marco said. "Fourth Division Commander. And our cook—though don't mistake him for just that."
"Best cook on the seas," Thatch said, giving Lucius a playful wink. "And the best hair, if anyone's asking."
Lucius didn't respond, but his lips twitched—almost a smile. Then it faded.
Thatch caught it, but didn't press. Instead, he looked the boy over with a little more care. His grin softened just enough to let some empathy through.
"You look like you've been living off ash and regrets. Let me fix that. A real meal changes more than you'd think."
Lucius didn't answer, but his stomach growled, loud and traitorous.
Thatch chuckled and gave Marco a look. "See? That's the sound of a future glutton. I can work with that."
The rest of the division stood back, watching—not intruding, but present. Men and women with weapons slung low and eyes that had seen too many storms. They didn't move like thugs. They moved like soldiers with soul.
Marco returned to Lucius's side.
"There's more of us, of course. But not everyone sails together. Some are scattered on different missions. We don't usually move in full unless we're going to war."
Lucius didn't reply. His gaze wandered toward the forest edge, where a lone grave lay beneath the trees.
"You'll learn their names soon enough," Marco added, voice low. "That is... if you stick around."
Lucius said nothing.
But his fists weren't clenched anymore.
Not tight, anyway.
And his shoulders—those trembling shoulders—dropped just a little.
These pirates weren't what he expected.
Not cruel. Not kind.
Just strong.
And in a world that took everything from him—
strength was the only thing that still made sense.
The night fell like a soft curtain over the shattered island, cloaking the ruins in silver and shadow.
Where fire once raged and blood had soaked the earth, laughter now echoed—deep and rough, like thunder rolling across calm waters. The Whitebeard Pirates had set up a feast just outside the village remains. Crates of booze cracked open, meat roasted over massive spits, barrels rolled, and mugs clanked.
Life, loud and reckless, bloomed in the aftermath of death.
Lucius sat at the edge of the firelight, a metal plate in hand, piled high with meat and steaming rice—Thatch's doing. The flavors were rich, the spices alive. He hadn't eaten this well in… maybe ever.
He devoured it without a word, without a smile.
No one pushed him to join the celebrations.
He was still the outsider. Still the boy with a buried past and a heart like cracked stone.
But his stomach full and his wounds dressed, the warmth creeping into his battered bones—Lucius leaned back against a barrel, gaze drifting up to the night sky.
The moon stared down—round, bright, and cold.
Its pale glow framed his face as his eyelids grew heavy. The music, the laughter, the smell of smoke and roasted meat—all faded into a hum as the world dulled.
And for the first time in days… Lucius slept.
His fingers twitched slightly in his lap, like they were still holding the bow.
Across the fire, Whitebeard sat on a massive boulder, a jug of sake cradled effortlessly in one hand, his other resting on his knee like the limb of a sleeping titan. His crescent mustache caught the firelight. His eyes—half-lidded, unreadable—were fixed on the sleeping boy.
Marco walked over, bottle swinging from two fingers. He dropped down beside the old man, stretching his legs out with a grunt.
"Yo, Pops," he said casually, taking a drink. "You sure about this kid?"
Whitebeard didn't answer right away. He drank slowly. The silence between them wasn't awkward—it never was.
Marco glanced at Lucius, now dozing against the barrel. "He didn't ask for help. Hell, didn't even want to come with us. Doesn't feel like someone who belongs on our ship."
Whitebeard's eyes stayed on the boy. Then, with a low chuckle:
"Gurararara… He stood tall when the world tried to crush him. That's enough for now."
Marco leaned back, looking up at the stars. "You sensed it too, right?"
"Aye." The old man's voice was quieter now. "That scream… wasn't just grief. It carried weight. The skies trembled."
Marco exhaled through his nose. "Conqueror's Haki?"
"Unrefined," Whitebeard rumbled. "But it's there. Sleeping in his bones like a storm waiting for sea and wind."
Marco scratched at his stubbled chin. "We've seen what happens when power like that's born from pain."
Whitebeard nodded slowly. "True. But pain shapes steel… or shatters it."
A long pause settled between them. The fire popped.
Marco tilted his bottle slightly, watching the boy again. "Think he'll stay?"
He took another swig, then added, "We're not jailers, Marco. If he stays, it'll be because he chose to."
Marco nodded slowly. "Tch. You always say that. Still feels like we're keeping a storm on deck."
Whitebeard let out a deep laugh, loud but warm. "Gurarararara! Let the storm come. Better beside us than against us."
Author's Note:
Thanks for reading. I'd love to hear your thoughts on this chapter—what did you think of the characters and how things played out? Drop a comment, even a short one. Every bit helps.