The sea breeze snapped at the edges of the newspaper, but Marco held it steady, his eyes locked on the front page. The Moby Dick rocked gently beneath him, the calm waves of the New World doing little to soothe the tension coiling in his chest.
EDWARD WEEVIL CAPTURED!
MYSTERIOUS POWERHOUSE "RAGNAR" ACCEPTS WARLORD TITLE!
The headline screamed in bold ink. Below it, a grainy black-and-white photograph showed a man standing amidst devastation—an island split in two, a mountain bored clean through. But it wasn't the destruction that made Marco's blood run cold.
It was the face.
Bare-chested. Bloodied. Red hair—not streaked with white, but solid crimson. The jawline. The stance. The eyes.
Even in monochrome, they burned with a familiar molten gold intensity.
"It's him," Marco whispered, voice barely audible over the cry of the gulls.
"What's him?" Vista asked, approaching with a cup of coffee. He squinted at the paper. "Ragnar? Never heard of him. But anyone who can take down Weevil…"
The mess hall door slid open. Jozu stepped out, his massive diamond-hard form casting a long shadow. "Marco? Morning paper? Anything on Ace?"
Marco didn't answer. He ripped the front page from the paper and stormed across the deck to the main mast, where several commanders had gathered.
"Look at this," he said, slapping the paper onto a barrel.
Heads turned. Izo, Haruta—they all leaned in.
"A new Warlord," Jozu grunted, arms crossed. "Convenient timing."
"Forget the title," Marco said, voice tight. "Look at the face."
Thatch leaned closer, his usual grin fading. "No… it can't be."
"Who?" Izo asked, brow furrowed.
"It looks like Gunnar," Thatch breathed.
A heavy silence fell.
"That's Gunnar's face," Vista said, adjusting his top hat. "Older, maybe. But no one else stands like that."
"That's impossible," Jozu muttered. "Gunnar's dead. Big Mom's crew confirmed it. Perospero himself."
"The hair's wrong," Izo added. "Gunnar's was red and white. This guy's just red."
"And the name," Vista said. "Gunnar never used another name. He was too proud."
"I know the reports," Marco snapped. "But look at the eyes."
Haruta tapped the photo. "The eyes. You see them, don't you?"
crewmates, nodded slowly. "I do."
The commanders exchanged glances. Shock. Disbelief. A flicker of hope.
They remembered Gunnar—the volatile, laughing storm. The brother who burned too bright. The one they lost not once, but twice.
And now, maybe…
Not lost.
They fell into a heated debate.
Jozu said, slamming a diamond fist on the table—not in anger, but for emphasis. The wood creaked under the weight. "They said they found his body."
"Big Mom's crew's tactics maybe," someone muttered.
"Not about something like that," Marco replied, his voice calm but firm, pulling the focus back to him. "And even if they did… even if by some miracle he survived…" He tapped the headline with a bloodied finger.
Isshin, his initial shock giving way to a sad, reasoned logic, shook his head. "Marco… listen to yourself. Even if he somehow survived… a Warlord?" He pointed at the bold words: "ACCEPTS WARLORD TITLE."
The room fell silent.
"That's the part that's impossible," Marco said, his gaze distant. "Gunnar hated the Marines. Hated the World Government more than anyone. He saw them as chains. Cages. The idea of him becoming one of their dogs? Taking orders from Sengoku?" He shook his head. "He'd rather burn the world to ash."
Vista crossed his arms. "The timing is too perfect. They need a new Warlord. Weevil's down. And suddenly this 'Ragnar' shows up, strong enough to split an island in half?"
"Coincidence," Izo said, lips tight. "The hair's wrong. Gunnar's was red and white. This guy's just red."
"And the name," Vista added. "Gunnar never used another name. He was too proud."
"But the eyes…" Haruta whispered. "Look at the eyes."
Isshin leaned in again, squinting at the photo. "They're the same. That fire. That fury. That… sadness."
Jozu shook his head. "It's not him. It can't be. He would never join them. Never."
The fire of debate fizzled out, replaced by cold embers.
"It's just a coincidence, then," Vista said quietly. "A man who looks like him. A cruel trick of the sea."
"It has to be," Jozu agreed, nodding slowly. "A strong bastard, no doubt, to take down Weevil. But he's not our brother."
Marco looked at the photo one last time. The hope in his chest died a slow, painful death. He folded the newspaper, the face of 'Ragnar' disappearing into the creases.
A part of him—a foolish, hopeful part—had wanted to believe.
But the cold, hard facts were a wall he couldn't climb.
"You're right," he said at last, his voice heavy. "It's not him. Just someone who looks like him."
He crumpled the paper in his fist.
Their brother was dead.
This man—this new Warlord—was just a ghost. A painful reminder of a wound that had never truly healed.
"Forget him," Marco said, his voice firm, all business once again. "He's the Navy's problem now."
He turned his gaze to the horizon, where the sun was beginning to rise.
"We have a real brother to save."
He tossed the paper onto the table. The face of Ragnar stared up at the sky, silent and still.
The Moby Dick plowed through the waves.
***
The air in Whole Cake Chateau was thick with the scent of spun sugar and tension. The sweetness clung to the walls like syrup, but beneath it pulsed something darker—anxiety.
Perospero strode the halls, his candy-cane hand clutching the newspaper like it might bite him. His tongue flicked nervously across his lips.
He didn't knock.
He burst into the throne room.
The Sweet Commanders were already gathered. Katakuri stood silent, arms crossed, his gaze unreadable. Smoothie leaned against a pillar, idly wringing juice from a giraffe. Cracker was loudly berating his biscuit soldiers for their uneven crunch.
"Mama!" Perospero called, voice high and strained. "Urgent news!"
Big Mom, lounging on her throne, one hand deep in a croquembouche, opened a single massive eye. Prometheus and Zeus hovered lazily beside her.
"Perorin… This had better be important. I was just about to devour my dessert."
Perospero didn't hesitate. He stepped forward and held up the newspaper, his hand trembling.
"Edward Weevil has been defeated. There's a new Warlord. This man… Ragnar."
He held the paper up.
Big Mom squinted. "Ragnar? Hmph. Another insect for me to squash."
She leaned closer. Her enormous face loomed over the page. Her eyes narrowed.
"Maaamamamama… He looks… familiar."
A flicker of memory stirred.
"There was a face… a long time ago. Fire in the eyes. Chaos in the blood."
She snapped her fingers. The sound was like a cannon blast.
"Bring me the frame!"
Confusion rippled through the room.
"The frame?" Cracker asked, blinking.
"The one where I keep memories of my enemies!" Big Mom roared.
Perospero's heart sank. He knew exactly which frame she meant.
Candy soldiers scurried off. Minutes later, they returned, struggling under the weight of a massive, ornate picture frame—five feet tall, carved from dark, gnarled wood. It was passed over the heads of Homies and chess soldiers in a solemn procession.
They placed it before Big Mom's throne with a heavy thud. The glass was thick, frosted with decades of dust.
"Perospero," Big Mom said, extending her hand.
He manifested a small, hard-candy hammer and placed it in her palm.
She tapped the glass.
TINK.
A small section shattered, revealing a pale, youthful chin.
A murmur rippled through the room.
She lifted the hammer again.
CRACK.
A larger section exploded inward.
Golden eyes blazed from the portrait. Above them, a wild mane of hair—half stark white, half blood red.
A collective gasp.
Katakuri's eye widened. Smoothie stopped mid-squeeze. Cracker's jaw dropped.
"It's him," Katakuri said quietly. "Gunnar."
"I killed him, I am certain" Smoothie murmured. "And disposed him to sea kings,"
"The one we confirmed dead," Cracker added, voice hollow.
Big Mom stared at the portrait, then at the newspaper.
"Pencil," she commanded.
A Homie rushed forward with a box of colored pencils.
She selected a deep red and began to sketch directly onto the photo of Ragnar. She extended the hair, made it wilder. No white. Just red.
She held the newspaper beside the shattered frame.
Identical.
A slow, terrible grin spread across her face.
"MA-MA-MAMAMAMA! HE LIVES!"
She stood, lifting the massive frame above her head.
"GUNNAR!" she bellowed, her voice shaking the foundations. "THE BLOOD OF NEWGATE!"
Homies and chess soldiers erupted in chaotic celebration.
But the Sweet Commanders did not cheer.
"He survived that?" Cracker whispered. "Impossible. I saw his burned body tossed myself."
"Smoothie," Katakuri said, voice low and dangerous. "You swore his death. You confirmed the body along with Cracker."
Cracker paled. "It… it was his body! The face was burned, but the hair, the clothes… It had to be him! We were deceived!"
"A Warlord…" Smoothie mused. "He's hiding. Under the Government's nose. But why?"
Katakuri's eye flickered. A glimpse of the Past. A girl with white hair. Golden eyes.
Big Mom was lost in triumph.
"Find him!" she roared. "I don't care if he's a dog of the Government! A soul like his belongs to ME!"
Her eyes gleamed with hunger.
"Find Gunnar… and bring me his daughter. There is a possibility he has my Grand-kid,"