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Cosmic Joke: 'The Strongest Man' Edward Newgate (2/2)

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Edward Newgate x Reader Length 18.5 K+ Rating: 18K+ Warnings: Emotional Vulnerability, Angst, Identity Dissociation & Appearance Anxiety, Telepathy, Kidnapping, Emotional Manipulation, Abandonment, PIRATE STUFF, Language, Implied assault,

As Tritoma’s right hand, you moved through the ship like a second shadow, calm, competent, impossible to shake. You handled logistics, secured information, managed disputes, and carried yourself with the assurance of someone who had lived several lives before this one. Tritoma trusted you with anything, and she had learned that you completed tasks with the precision of a blade and the patience of a saint.

But even with your improved focus and your razor-sharp determination to find Shakky, Tritoma had begun to notice something. Something small. Something only a woman with far too much experience in human nature could catch.

You had started mumbling to yourself.

It was not loud. Barely audible. Little scraps of half-phrases that fell from your lips when you believed no one was listening. Tritoma heard them while you sorted inventory or wrote reports, your voice low and unfocused, as if you were answering someone who was not physically present.

At first, she thought it was the strain of the workload. Then she thought it was a simple distraction. But the third time she caught you doing it, she waited until the room was empty and leaned back in her chair with the sharp, thoughtful tilt of someone about to pry into business that absolutely concerned her.

“You have been speaking under your breath again,” she said, tapping a nail against the desk. “Should I assume your soulmate is bothering you? I can give Gloriosa a call. He shouldn’t be acting as if he can just loiter in your head.”

The words struck through you like a bell, quiet but resonant.

You froze for a heartbeat. Your quill stilled. Your posture tightened by a fraction. Tritoma saw all of it, because Tritoma missed nothing.

In your mind, Newgate felt the shift as clearly as if you had spoken his name. His awareness brushed against yours in a way he had never allowed himself the year before. He had spent months trying to bury the ache of missing you, months trying to convince himself that he could carry on without the warmth of your voice, your dry humor, your steady presence at his side.

But every time your mind brushed against his, even by accident, he felt like a dying man given a gulp of air. A thousand emotions crowded, sometimes restrained, but mostly, given openly.

He loved you. He had accepted this fully now. He loved you in that deep, tectonic way he loved the sea and the horizon and the idea of a family he had not yet found. And he could not imagine a world where he lived without you in it.

He was putting out his heart to you, begging for a second chance, not with words but with constant mental awareness.

But you could not let yourself show any of that. Not the longing. Not the warmth. Not the quiet pull your soul made toward his whenever the bond stirred. Because he didn’t love you—not when he couldn’t see past the scarecrow.

But despite your cool tenor, he remained steadfast.

You swallowed once, kept your eyes on your work, and replied in the calmest tone you could shape.

“It’s… nothing.”

Tritoma gave a soft hum, the sign she did not believe you in the slightest.

You did not answer. You could not answer. Because the moment you even tried, your mind drifted back to that impossible man, the one who had finally realized he loved you at the same time you had begun to fear you would never be truly seen.

In the bond, Newgate exhaled slowly. Not a word. Not a plea. Just a steady presence, warm and aching and impossible to ignore. A quiet pressure against your thoughts. A reminder of everything you were trying to protect yourself from, and everything he was finally allowing himself to feel.

The two of you danced like jesters around your feelings, skirting the truth with a kind of stubborn grace. You pushed him away to survive the ache. He held still because he feared pulling would make you vanish. It was a ridiculous duet, one that might have gone on endlessly if fate had not decided otherwise.

Because then the news broke.

It began as a whisper carried across the deck, a ripple that moved from one pirate to the next, gathering urgency with every retelling. A courier ship had docked. A message had come in. Someone thought they recognized a description. Someone else mentioned a Marine report. Everything was fragments, half-truths, urgent scraps.

The tension settled into the air long before anyone spoke it aloud.

You felt your pulse spike. Tritoma stiffened beside you. The Den Den Mushi on her desk twitched its eyestalks, preparing to repeat information it clearly did not want to deliver.

When the final call came through, the atmosphere snapped taut.

“God Valley,” the voice crackled through the Den Den Mushi. It was unmistakably Gol D. Roger, steady even through distortion. “Possible sighting. Confirmation pending. The Celestial Dragons are holding some sort of event there, and they have a marine blockade too. Rumor says it is a human hunt.”

Tritoma stepped closer, her brows knitting tightly as she listened. The usually unflappable woman looked as if someone had driven a blade beneath her ribs.

“They’re hunting the humans of God Valley?” she repeated quietly. “That is in the West Blue, is it not?”

Her tone carried too many meanings at once. Distance. Danger. Politics. The kind of trouble that did not simply emerge. The type of trouble that was carefully arranged by powerful hands.

“Yes,” Roger replied. “You are out that way too, aren’t you?”

Your throat tightened. Your hands curled around the edge of the desk until your knuckles blanched. Even the bond at your back, where Newgate’s presence lingered like a heartbeat, seemed to be still for one suspended moment.

Tritoma ended the call and slowly set the Den Den Mushi down. Her expression hardened into something grim and deliberate.

“If this is true,” she said, “then the Kuja will not be going.”

On the other end of the line, Roger seemed to cry out in alarm, the sound sharp and distant, but your mind had already begun fitting the pieces together.

Your ship was the closest.

The Kuja were fast, capable, and relentless when one of their own needed rescuing. People Shakky could trust to help her without strings.

But if the Celestial Dragons had taken Shakky as the prize for their hunt, and if they were still gathered at God Valley, then sending an entire Kuja ship into the region would be courting disaster. Celestial Dragons loved trafficking Kuja women more than almost anything else, save mermaids. To them, Kuja were trophies. A ship full of them would be irresistible.

Tritoma would not risk our people, not even for Shakky. Not even for someone she respected as fiercely as she respected you.

A cold, precise clarity settled over you. What she could not do as a leader, you could do as one person. A shadow capable of moving where a ship could not. You had trained for missions like this. You had survived worse. And if Shakky was truly in God Valley, every moment you hesitated was a moment she was bargaining for sport.

“I’ll go,” you said.

The words landed like the drop of an anchor.

Tritoma turned toward you with a sharp, sudden movement, her brows crossing with disbelief and something perilously close to fear. Even the Den Den Mushi swiveled its eyestalks in your direction, as if the creature itself understood that the room had shifted around those three quiet words.

You no longer had the safety of anonymity.

Your scarecrow disguise was long gone.

The ragged hat and shapeless mask that once hid you so effectively had been peeled away after the chaos in Hachinosu. Now you stood revealed: face uncovered, posture straight, beauty no longer concealed beneath layers of dirt and theatrics. A Kuja-trained infiltrator with a dangerous level of visibility.

Tritoma saw all of that in a single glance, and she understood exactly what it meant.

Her eyes widened, not in surprise, but in the deep, resigned comprehension of what you were demanding. You were choosing to walk into the West Blue alone, into a human hunt, the center of a Celestial Dragon debauchery. A place where your looks, your skill, and your very identity would make you a prize on a silver platter if caught.

And yet, you were calm.

“Cross paths with the Oro Jackson,” you said. Your voice did not waver. It was steady, shaped by resolve rather than fear. “Roger’s crew is heading there. I will go with them.”

Tritoma held your gaze for a long moment, weighing the unspoken truths between you. You saw the calculation in her eyes, the swift assessment of your chances, the knowledge of what you had already decided before you even asked permission.

“You don’t need to do this,” she said quietly. “It’s not your fault she was taken. Shakky knew the risks of flaunting her beauty.”

“I don’t have to. I need to. I was the one who abandoned Shakky without ensuring she had backup,” you replied. “So don’t argue with me, just help me. And the Roger Pirates have treated the Kuja well, despite everything.” You hesitated only long enough to choose your next words carefully. “I can trust Rayleigh to make sure of it.”

She turned the Den Den Mushi toward the receiver.

Roger’s laugh burst through at once. “Is that Ragdoll? Sure, she’ll scare the shit out of those Dragons. We can meet nearby.”

Tritoma exhaled, and the sound carried both pride and dread. You were not her subordinate in this moment. You were her equal. Her blade. Her risk. Her responsibility and her fear.

“This is a poor idea,” she said at last. “But your guilt over Shakky is clear as day. Give me your coordinates, Roger.”

You nodded. The decision had settled in your chest the moment the confirmation left Roger’s mouth. Anything was better than doing nothing while Shakky was treated like a broodmare. Anything was better than sitting safely on a ship while her safety narrowed with each passing hour.

Your pulse steadied. Your resolve hardened.

Far behind your thoughts, almost hidden, Newgate’s presence shifted sharply in the bond. It was subtle at first, a faint tightening, a ripple of awareness. Then it grew. A stirring. A pull. As if a storm had been sleeping restlessly at the edge of your mind and had suddenly lifted its head the moment your decision solidified.

He had caught fragments of the conversation through the bond.

For the first time since the two of you had become telepathically linked, his quiet, aching longing twisted into something raw and unfiltered.

“They’re hunting people there—you can’t—please don’t go.”

The words were half-formed, pushed through the bond in a rush of panic rather than language. Fear hit you like a cold wave, sharp and instinctive, the fear of a man who had already lived through losing someone he could not bear to lose again. It pressed against your thoughts, heavy and trembling beneath the surface, as if his soul had surged forward before his mind could catch up.

“Don’t tell me what to do. We’re not even friends." You muttered. “I’m just a telepathic turn-off for you. Good enough to chat, but never enough to like.” You pushed him back.

“It’s not—okay, I was wrong. I messed up, didn’t understand, but you shouldn’t pay for it. Let me make it up to you, and I’ll get Shakky—

“No, Eddie. I don’t need your help anymore. In fact, I won’t ever call for you again. Consider us done.” You said. It was not harsh, but it was firm—the mental equivalent of placing a hand on his chest and closing a door. The bond strained, resisting, his presence trying to anchor itself to you even as you forced distance between your thoughts and his.

His voice broke against it.

“Stay with the Kuja, please. I can help Shakky, but please—“

The words were muffled, desperate, almost quiet enough to convince yourself you imagined them.

“I love you, please—”

Your jaw tightened.

“Edward,” you whispered in your mind, knowing he could hear only the echo, not the meaning, “Goodbye.”

The bond quivered like something living, wounded, and pulling towards you.

And then you turned away from it completely, sealing yourself in the cold, focused quiet you would need to walk into God Valley with a clear head.

-X-The Slip Up-X-

You boarded the Oro Jackson just after sunrise, boots steady on the gangplank, your signature hat pulled low, and your mask casting a familiar shadow across your face. The long coat you wore billowed behind you, but this time it was clean, well-fitted, and unmistakably yours rather than part of your old scarecrow camouflage.

Tritoma had ensured your current state— scrubbed the dirt from your skin. Straighten your posture. Tamed your hair into something that could no longer be mistaken for seaweed. Anyone who had known you only as the shipwrecked specter haunting Hachinosu would have taken one look and choked.

And Roger did exactly that.

He turned to greet you with a booming laugh that died halfway up his throat. His eyes went wide. His jaw went slack. He stared at you as if you had personally rewritten his understanding of the natural world.

“Oh, come on,” he blurted. “That you, Ragdoll? No—no, hold on—what—how—why didn’t anyone tell me she was—”

You punched him in the stomach before he could finish.

He folded like badly stacked firewood, wheezing, “Deserved… that… completely.”

The nearest handful of pirates froze. Someone dropped a crate. Someone else crossed themself. The entire deck vibrated with a collective, horrified whisper:

“That’s the cryptid?”

“That’s her?”

“She used to look like moldy driftwood…”

“You sure this isn’t a trap?”

“No, that’s definitely the same hat…”

Gaban approached next, a toothpick hanging loose from his lips as he stared openly.

He blinked once. Twice.

Then muttered, “Roger, you idiot, you didn’t say the swamp monster was actually—” his gaze traveled down and back up “—how do I put this politely—built by angels?”

You kicked him.

He yelped as his heel slid off the railing, arms flailing. He managed to hook a foot around a beam at the last second, dangling upside down.

Rayleigh stepped forward before Gaban could fall, catching the rope attached to his belt and tugging him upright without looking away from you.

He did not gawk.

He did not choke.

He simply smiled with polite warmth, bowing his head in greeting the way a gentleman greets a warlord.

“It is good to see you again, Ragdoll,” Rayleigh said. “Truly. You look well.”

“You charming suck up,” you said, unable to stop a wry smile from tugging at your lips.

Rayleigh’s grin broadened. “Shakky says the same thing.”

“She get a taste?” You cooed, rolling your eyes. “Or you are still pretending you don’t like her to spare your captain’s feelings?”

A few pirates choked on their drinks. Another whisper-shouted, “She talks? And her voice isn’t cursed? She actually sounds… normal. Pretty even—oh no, she heard me—”

Word spread across the deck like wildfire:

“The cryptid is hot.”

“The cryptid is really hot.”

“No, seriously, why is she hot?”

“Are we allowed to look? Should we not look?”

A small crowd gathered at a cautious distance, hovering near railings and crates as if observing a rare creature whose temperament was not yet documented.

“She has eyes.”

“She has a whole face.”

“She has bone structure.”

“I thought she was made of straw.”

“No, she sneezed dirt that one time—”

“That was camouflage, genius. She was hiding from the Marines.”

“I think she was hiding from us.”

You pretended not to notice them and walked further onto the deck. You were focused, your mission clear, your emotions carefully clipped beneath your calm exterior. The alternative was turning to ask why half the pirate population had apparently believed you were a cryptid with bad posture and worse hygiene.

Rayleigh followed at an easy, respectful distance. There was a shadow behind his eyes that had not been there the last time you met, a quiet grief held firmly in place. Even so, he offered a soft, genuine smile.

“It is good to see you safe,” he said. “Shakky…she would’ve been glad to know you decided to treat yourself like you matter again.”

Jeez, you could see why Shakky had fallen in love with his sorry ass of all men. Rayleigh had always been the type of guy who could see through your disguise, though both of you respectfully knew where your friendship stood. You and Newgate, he and Shakky—doomed love for various stupid reasons that no longer mattered.

You had always wished he had been more perceptive about himself rather than your own situation.

Your chest tightened, but you managed a small, crooked huff. “She would also complain if I didn’t. And if I forgot the hat.”

Rayleigh huffed a quiet breath of agreement. “She said it added character.”

“I see why Shakky likes you,” you said quietly.

Rayleigh’s expression softened—not with flirtation, not with smugness, but with the solemn gratitude of someone who needed to hear that more than he expected. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

As the initial bustle of your arrival settled, the Oro Jackson slipped into its usual rhythm. Pirates returned to their tasks but kept a respectful radius around you, whispering like naturalists uncertain whether you were an exotic bird or a mythical beast with impeccable aim. Either way, they knew not to touch, not to crowd, and not to test your patience.

Rayleigh kept beside you toward the bow, hands tucked loosely into his pockets. A natural deterrent, as your beauty seemed to have a similar effect as Shakky’s, though it is mitigated by your disguise. For a few breaths, he simply matched your pace, studying the horizon with a frown that held both focus and sorrow.

Then, quietly, he asked, “How’s Newgate? Can’t imagine he’s thrilled you’re here.”

You stiffened before you could stop yourself. Out of anyone on this ship, of course, Rayleigh would strike right to the hurt. He noticed people. He listened. He understood connections even when they were not spoken aloud.

“You knew?” you said.

“I suspected for years,” Rayleigh replied. “He’s not subtle when he cares for someone.” His gaze flicked to you, sharp and knowing. “And you are not as unreadable as you think, even in disguise.”

You exhaled slowly. “I blocked him.”

There was a pause, long and weighted.

Rayleigh did not scold you. He did not question you. He simply nodded once, a man acknowledging a difficult, necessary choice.

“Then you’ll meet at God Valley,” Rayleigh said. “He is probably already heading toward there with the Rocks crew.”

Your stomach tightened. “Yeah. I know.”

“Well,” Rayleigh murmured, rubbing the bridge of his nose, “he’s going to be very pissed.”

A small, breathy laugh escaped you despite yourself. “I am aware.”

“He has been asking about you,” Rayleigh added. “More than he realizes. Always casual. Always polite. But… persistent. He gets frustrated that we cross with you more than Rocks.”

You looked down at your hands. At the thin tremor you did not want Rayleigh to notice. “I cannot deal with him right now,” you admitted. “Not while Shakky is—”

Rayleigh’s voice gentled. “I understand.”

And he did. So he let it go.

The sea wind swept across the deck, filling the sails, guiding the Oro Jackson with a steady pull toward the hell waiting at God Valley. The crew moved with an almost reverent tension around you, giving you space while still sneaking curious glances as if afraid you might vanish—or sprout wings.

The ride itself was short, a straight shot across glittering blue water that should have been peaceful. It was not. Every minute felt taut. Heavy. A countdown.

Roger joined you at the rail somewhere around the halfway mark, leaning on it with all the grace of a man who had been punched recently and was still recovering from the betrayal of his own lungs.

“You know,” he began, rubbing the sore spot on his ribs, “Shakky is one of my favorite people in the entire world.”

“I am aware,” you said.

Gaban, now dry and mostly recovered from being kicked off the ship earlier, dropped down beside him. “Mine too. Always has been. I would marry her if she would let me.”

Roger nodded with solemn enthusiasm. “Same.”

You blinked. “…excuse me?”

Gaban shrugged. “Shakky is perfect. Scary. Smart. Has immaculate taste in coats. I am not ashamed to say it.”

Roger lifted a finger. “And she hits hard. Just my type.”

Rayleigh sighed beside you, already miserable. “Please stop telling people about your type.”

You raised a brow expectantly.

“And look, since we are sharing,” he announced, “I would also be open to marriage negotiations with you. Because you seem to be most of those things as well.”

Gaban did not even pause to think. He nodded immediately, stepping forward like a man volunteering for execution with suspicious eagerness.

“Me too. Absolutely. Please marry me.”

You stared at them, slow and incredulous, the way one might stare at a pair of parrots that suddenly learned to propose marriage.

Both men looked genuinely sincere.

Rayleigh had covered his face with his hand and was already regretting every decision that led him to this moment.

Several pirates were edging away, as though they expected the ground to explode.

“You do realize,” you said carefully, “that I am here to rescue Shakky, not acquire husbands.”

Roger considered the statement with far too much seriousness.

“You can do both.”

“No.”

Gaban leaned in as if you had whispered an invitation instead of a firm rejection.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. And are you forgetting that for years the two of you have actively avoided my mere presence? Are you really so influenced by a change in my appearance that you abandon your pride and ego this quickly?”

Gaban nodded with the bright enthusiasm of a man who had learned nothing and planned to learn even less.

“You are meaner than Shakky, but I can work with that.”

“No,” you repeated, flat and immovable.

Roger sighed with theatrical agony, pressing a hand to his chest as though you had stabbed him.

“Love is so unfair. Why do women always have the craziest expectations? Is my ship not proof enough that I am man enough?”

“It is proof that you are compensating,” you replied drily.

Roger’s pout deepened so dramatically it felt like the weather might shift in sympathy.

He pressed his hands to his heart and whispered with sinful delight, “Hurt me more, future mommy.”

Rayleigh finally lifted his face from his hand. His voice came out dry as sunbleached rope.

“Both of you should be grateful she has not thrown either of you off that ship yet.”

Something in you cracked at that.

Not in a dramatic way, not in a breaking way, but in a tiny, surprising way that felt almost like relief.

And before you could stop it, the sound escaped.

You laughed.

Soft, brief, real.

It slipped out of you like the first breath after surfacing from deep underwater.

The entire crew froze.

Their eyes softened all at once, brightening with immediate, dangerous hope, as if they had just witnessed a miracle and planned to worship you for it.

And then, without warning, you burst into tears.

They were not delicate tears.

They tore out of you with the force of everything you had been holding back, everything you had swallowed to stay sharp and steady and focused on saving Shakky.

Your hand flew to your mouth. Your shoulders shook.

You could not stop.

Every pirate on that ship made the exact same panicked noise.

Gaban flailed the moment your eyes filled, knocking over a crate of coiled rope as if your tears had physically struck him.

Roger froze beside him, going pale in a way that looked almost painful.

Rayleigh swore quietly under his breath and stepped forward, the steadying presence he always became when something cracked beneath the surface.

You lifted a hand before any of them could reach you.

“Please,” you said, trying to steady your voice. “Just… give me a moment. I am trying to make sense of why I was practically invisible to all of you before this, and now suddenly everyone cares.”

The words landed like a dropped anchor.

The deck creaked under the ship’s gentle sway, and for once, the Oro Jackson felt silent. No arguing. No laughter. Even the waves seemed to hush.

Roger’s expression faltered first—confusion, then guilt, then something heavier.

Gaban’s bravado crumbled entirely, his shoulders folding inward.

Rayleigh let out a slow breath, the kind that came from knowing he should have seen this sooner.

You looked at each of them, throat tight.

“I spent years on this ship disguised as a scarecrow. I was treated like a joke at best, a nuisance at worst. Not even worth a good morning unless someone needed their boots cleaned or wanted to laugh at how pathetic I looked.”

You swallowed. “And now that you suddenly think I am attractive, you are all kind? Gentle? Interested? It makes me wonder whether you ever saw me as a person at all. And now Shakky’s gone, I’m just the convenient choice? Do you even care about her?”

Another silence followed, deeper this time.

Roger stepped forward, slower than usual, without swagger or noise. He rubbed the back of his neck, gaze lowered.

“You are right,” he said quietly. “We did not see you properly. I did not see you properly.”

He looked up, shame and earnestness mixing in his eyes. “It was not fair. It was not decent. It was not worthy of a real man.”

Gaban nodded so vigorously it almost looked painful.

“I treated you terribly. I laughed. I teased. I acted like you barely existed. That was wrong. Completely wrong.”

Rayleigh’s voice came next, softer than both of them.

“I should have set the tone better. You deserved more respect than you received.”

The confession eased something tight in your chest, even if the ache did not vanish entirely.

Roger edged closer, careful this time, as though afraid of making it worse.

“Let us try again,” he said. “Not because you look different now. Not because we suddenly want things from you. But because you deserved better from the beginning.”

Roger bumped into you, surprisingly gentle for a man who had been doubled over by your fist not long ago.

“We will get Shakky back,” he said, voice low and sincere. “And we do care about her. I promise you that.”

You nodded, the full weight of what waited on the horizon settling over you again.

God Valley.

The hunt.

The Celestial Dragons.

Shakky was alone in the center of it, holding out longer than anyone had the right to expect.

The deck went quiet for a while. The crew drifted into softer conversations, boots scuffing lightly against the planks. The sea murmured against the hull. Even the breeze felt hesitant, as though aware of the storm waiting ahead.

Roger leaned against the railing and stared out across the glittering water. His expression tightened for a moment, thoughtful in the way he rarely let himself be.

Then he spoke.

“Does it really have to be Newgate?” he asked, sounding genuinely wounded. “I mean, I get why Shakky likes Rayleigh. That one makes sense. But Newgate? Losing to that guy feels like taking barnacles straight to the spine.”

The words slipped out with a mixture of sincerity and theatrical suffering.

You could not help it.

You laughed.

It was small at first, a short burst of sound you tried to swallow, but it grew despite you. Roger brightened immediately, relief softening the edges of his smile. There was a touch of sadness in it, but it was warm too, gentler than you were used to seeing from him.

And despite everything—despite the fear gathering like a storm cloud over the sea, despite God Valley waiting to devour the reckless and the brave, despite the soulmate bond pulsing faintly with Newgate’s rising panic, despite Shakky’s peril pressing sharp against the back of your mind—your lips curved into a helpless little smile.

Leave it to this crew to drag a laugh out of you on the way to hell.

Roger puffed out his chest proudly, as if the moment were entirely his doing.

“See?” he said. “We are good for morale.”

“You are exhausting,” you corrected.

“But loved,” Gaban added.

“Not by me,” you said.

Roger winked. “Yet.”

You were going to need a drink after this.

-X-Coming for that Ring-X-

The year had been one long, quiet unraveling for Edward Newgate.

He hid it well enough. To most people, he still appeared to be the towering man with the calm authority of an anchor dropped into stormy seas. They continued to see the strength, the unshakeable loyalty, and the steady hands capable of holding a ship together through the worst tempests. But anyone who watched him closely, anyone who had known him long enough, could sense the shift beneath the surface.

There was a hollowness slowly settling under his ribs.

The emptiness he carried did not roar. It pressed against him, soft and relentless. It lingered throughout the day and thickened at night, following him into sleep and greeting him when he woke. It was a space shaped exactly like you, carved out slowly and painfully, with no hope of being filled by anything else. Every attempt to ignore it only made the absence more defined.

And then, as if the universe wished to test the limits of his patience and sanity, you shut him out.

His scarecrow.

His soulbond.

The strange and stubborn woman who hissed at authority figures and mocked danger as if it were an annoying neighbor—you had boarded Gol D. Roger’s ship with all the confidence of someone with rage and no outlet.

The thought alone sent a jagged tremor through his chest.

You, who should never confront an armada or a Celestial Dragon hunt head-on, had chosen to do exactly that.

And you had done it without hesitation.

Edward felt the realization strike through the bond like a physical blow. You were moving out of reach, charging into danger for the sake of Shakky, risking yourself because you cared too fiercely and too deeply to do anything else. You had always been like this. It was part of what made you impossible to ignore, and impossible not to love.

But it frightened him in a way nothing else ever had.

The fear that surged through him was unlike the fear of battle, unlike storms or near-death brushes. It was raw and instinctive, threaded with the terror of a man who had already faced too much loss and understood that he could not bear to face yours.

Loving you, he now realized, was not something he could survive passively.

It demanded action.

It demanded movement.

It demanded he chase the bond he had once tried so hard to suppress.

It demanded that he stop pretending he could live without you.

It demanded movement, urgency, and the kind of decisive action only a man with everything to lose could muster.

And as God Valley loomed closer on your horizon, he felt something inside himself shift, sharpen, and awaken. The quiet ache he had carried for a year transformed into something fierce, focused, and wholly impossible to ignore.

So he moved.

He moved fast.

Edward Newgate hauled ass, expeditiously and without a scrap of hesitation, straight toward God Valley. He drove the ship forward with a determination that made even seasoned pirates take a step back. Every gust of wind, every shift of the current, every creak of the hull urged caution, but he dismissed each warning with the stubborn insistence of a man who refused to arrive a second too late.

Behind him, the world he had known was beginning to come apart.

Rocks had grown stranger by the day, muttering under his breath about gods, legacies, bloodlines, and power. His eyes gleamed with a manic worry that made even the boldest crew members uneasy. Newgate noticed this, but only distantly, the way one notices lightning on the horizon while sprinting toward a burning house.

The Rock’s crew was unraveling as well. Tension snapped between members like an overstretched rope, sharp enough to leave splinters. Men who once fought side by side now exchanged wary glances, as if each suspected the other of harboring some hidden betrayal. Arguments erupted over trivial things—territory, rations, imagined slights. The atmosphere aboard the Rocks ship grew brittle, volatile, and dangerously unpredictable, as though the entire vessel had become a powder keg waiting for a spark.

Newgate noticed every warning sign.

He saw the fractures forming in real time.

He felt the crew pulling apart at the seams, strained by egos, ambition, and secrets far too heavy for any ship to carry.

But none of it mattered—not compared to the truth burning in his chest.

He did not know how long the Rocks Pirates would remain intact. He did not know what honor he would still possess when this mission ended. He did not know what choices he would be forced to make or what lines he might have to cross in the process.

What he did know, what he felt down to the marrow of his bones, was that all of it meant nothing if you were hurt.

His hands tightened around the railing until the wood groaned in protest. The bond with you was faint now, softened to a muted echo after you had forced him out, but it still existed: thin, strained, trembling. It pointed him toward you in the barest way, a whisper of direction, a flicker of your resolve that pulsed against his own.

-X-CAUGHT-X-

You slipped off the transport ship with Rayleigh beside you, the two of you moving as one through the chaos already tearing across the island. God Valley was alive with violence. Smoke curled upward in uneven pillars, the ground shuddered every few breaths as some distant blast ripped through the forest, and the air carried the mingled scents of iron, scorched soil, and the faint sweetness of crushed trees trampled flat beneath the fighting.

Rayleigh swept the terrain with his observation, his gaze sharpening as he adjusted his grip on his blade.

“The center is where the fighting is thickest. If Shakky is here, she is likely there. Stay close,” he said, though he clearly questioned whether you would actually listen.

The first wave of fighters surged toward you. Rayleigh cut through them with clean, practiced efficiency, each strike controlled and precise. You kept to his flank, redirecting blows, knocking opponents off balance, and exploiting every moment of hesitation your face carved into the pandemonium.

A man with a hammer raised over his head froze the instant he saw you. His brows shot upward. His grip slackened. He stared as though he had stepped straight into the wrong story.

“What the hell?” he whispered, baffled.

You stepped in and drove a sharp strike into his ribs. The air left him in a wheezing gasp, and he crumpled to the ground with a pitiful thump that Rayleigh very politely pretended not to hear.

More fighters surged forward, but the reaction repeated itself with comedic regularity. One pirate tripped over his own boots when his brain stalled at the sight of you. Another blinked slowly, lowered his sword, and squinted as if he expected you to vanish if he looked too hard. You slipped between them with quiet precision, disarming each one with the same calm you might use to stroll a garden path.

Rayleigh made a sound suspiciously close to a laugh, half-lost beneath the clash of steel.

Then a Marine in a torn vest caught sight of you and executed a double take so violent it nearly rewired his spine. He dodged a sword swing purely by luck, because every cell of attention in his body had shifted to you.

“Mother of god, what is—who is—what is she doing here?” the Marine stammered, voice cracking like he had hit puberty for the second time.

Roger appeared behind him and smacked him over the back of the head with the flat of his sword. The Marine dropped instantly, limbs splaying in a heap.

“See?” Roger announced, pointing at the unconscious body as if presenting evidence to a jury. “This is exactly why we should have tied you to the ship. Look at you. You look like you belong in a palace courtyard, not knee-deep in smoke and screaming.”

“Shut up, Roger,” you snapped, kicking a stunned Marine square in the chest. “I told you I am saving Shakky myself!”

Gaban blocked a blade, shoved its owner backward, and rounded on Rayleigh with genuine outrage sparking in his eyes.

“You brought her here? You actually let her off the ship? She should have stayed sitting safely on a barrel, far away from this entire disaster. What were you thinking?”

You stepped past him and drove your heel into another attacker’s jaw. The man went flying backward with a strangled noise.

“Fuck off expeditiously,” you said in the sweetest tone imaginable, as if you were offering a pleasant farewell instead of concussing someone.

Roger threw his hands toward the sky with the despair of a man who had already exhausted his patience for the entire year.

“This is what I am talking about. She is cursing like a saint, fighting like a veteran, and looks like a goddess who wandered into the wrong dimension. This is not normal.”

Rayleigh parried a heavy strike and shrugged with infuriating calm.

“She is perfectly capable.”

Roger pointed at you as if your very existence proved his argument. Rayleigh continued anyway, completely unbothered.

“Let us go, Ragdoll.”

And that was when you encountered your first Rocks Pirate of the day.

Judging by the timing, they must have landed not long before you did. The chaos ahead parted for a brief second, just long enough for Shiki to catch sight of you through the churn of bodies and smoke.

His eyes widened.

“Who is the hottie, Roger?” Shiki called out, sounding delighted in the worst possible way.

“Ragdoll!” Roger shouted back immediately, cupping his hands around his mouth as though announcing a festival banquet. He paused, savoring the look of absolute confusion that spread across Shiki’s face.

“Ragdoll?” Shiki repeated. “That really you, baby?”

He never finished the sentence, because you slipped past Rayleigh and drove a clean, sharp strike into an incoming Marine, sending the man hurtling straight toward him. Shiki staggered back with a startled grunt.

His mouth fell open. His steps slowed. You could almost see the moment his brain jammed like a broken transmission.

“What the hell,” he demanded, voice pitching upward. “That is what you look like? Look at your face. Now look at this battlefield. These two things do not belong in the same universe. Why are we here for Shakky when we have you, baby?”

“Get bent, Shiki!” you hissed, already moving toward the next threat.

“Go wait at home for me, babydoll! Don’t scratch yourself up here!” he shouted after you, actually sounding concerned you might bruise your face. The audacity. “Rayleigh, tell her!”

Rayleigh deflected a blade and sighed, long and weary, the kind of sigh normally reserved for chronic migraines.

“She volunteered. I am not her jailer.”

“You should have refused,” Shiki shot back without missing a beat. “You should have said no. You should have thrown her back on whatever ship she crawled off. You do not let someone like that walk into a battlefield. Look at me. I am getting stabbed because she is confusing everyone, including me.”

Before Rayleigh could answer, you tore through a row of Marines, your haki cracking across the air like lightning. The ground shook beneath your boots as you landed. Shiki stopped mid-complaint and stared at you as if you had just stepped out of a divine warning.

“Not happening, asshole. And not interested.”

Shiki dragged both hands through his wild hair, visibly trying to reboot his entire brain. He placed a hand over his heart with theatrical injury.

“Ragdoll, come on, baby, forgive me for not recognizing your glory sooner. I will take you to my ship and save Shakky if you marry me.”

You did not dignify that with words.

Instead, you hooked a Marine by the collar, pivoted, and threw him straight at Shiki with unnervingly perfect aim. Shiki yelped and leapt aside, barely avoiding a full-body collision.

He pointed accusingly at the collapsing Marine as though the man had committed a personal offense against the Shiki bloodline.

“Thank you, baby!” he shouted. “I will assume that is a maybe!”

Gaban skidded into view, breathless and thoroughly irritated.

“I am putting this to a vote,” he declared, stabbing a finger toward the sky. “She goes back to the ship. Immediately. Ragdoll is too pretty for God Valley. The valley might combust out of shame.”

Rayleigh gave the group a look suggesting he had reached the border of his patience several minutes ago.

“She doesn’t need your pandering.”

“She needs someone’s protection,” Roger argued while blocking a strike. “Preferably ours. Preferably on the ship. Preferably very far away from swords and explosions.”

You stepped forward, caught a Marine by the sleeve, and flipped him clean over your shoulder. He hit the ground with a grunt and stayed there. Behind you, the collective muttering of your self-appointed guardians rose steadily, like water about to reach a boil.

Roger jabbed a finger at Rayleigh, voice rising.

“Okay, fine, but if she gets hurt, I am blaming you for the rest of your life.”

Rayleigh muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like a refusal to take responsibility for anything Roger had ever done or would ever do.

You walked straight past all of them without slowing. A Marine lunged in from your right, and you dropped him with a clean, practiced strike that did not even interrupt your stride.

Roger watched you go with the despair of a man witnessing his future anxiety play out in front of him.

“Unbelievable. Absolutely unbelievable. She is going to give me wrinkles.”

Behind you, the Roger Pirates groaned, argued, shouted unhelpful suggestions, and loudly insisted that someone should have tied you to a mast because God Valley was no place for someone as serene, lethal, and distracting as you.

Rayleigh finally stepped back into your orbit, matching your pace with the ease of a man accustomed to walking through chaos. His sword dripped with the remnants of a haki clash, but he looked almost leisurely, as if he were simply strolling through a crowded marketplace.

“Straight ahead should be the central arena,” he said, voice even and focused. “I think I feel Newgate there. Do you want to wait or come?”

You huffed, a quiet puff of annoyance that somehow cut through the noise of clashing steel. At least ten nearby pirates turned their heads just to catch the sound. Several sighed dreamily, as though your irritation were a blessing from above. One became so distracted that he walked directly into a tree.

Rayleigh’s mouth twitched, barely but unmistakably, before he resumed scanning the path ahead.

You rolled your eyes so hard the motion snapped you back into yourself. Tugging your hat lower, you shielded your face from sunlight and, more importantly, from the unwanted attention following you like a tide.

“I’ll take the long way,” you said. “Quietly. That way, exit paths are covered.”

Rayleigh stopped for a single heartbeat. His frown settled into place, deep and thoughtful, the kind he wore when he was weighing a thousand possibilities at once.

“If something happens, it will be hard to find you.”

You paused. His concern settled around you like an extra layer of air, warm and grounding despite the battlefield roaring around you in smoke, haki, ash, and confusion.

“I’ll be fine,” you said, stepping aside as a stumbling pirate collapsed unconscious at your feet. “I know how to disappear.”

Rayleigh sheathed his blade for a moment, watching you with that sharp, assessing warmth he always carried when you made choices he disliked yet respected all the same.

“You do,” he admitted. “That’s the part that worries me.”

A Marine lunged from behind him. Rayleigh flicked the man into the dirt with the ease of brushing lint from his coat. He did not take his eyes off you.

“Don’t get lost,” Rayleigh said quietly. “And don’t take risks, even for Shakky. And do not let the Celestial Dragons see you.”

Before you could answer, a shout echoed through the distant chaos. Someone screamed your nickname, followed by a crash and the unmistakable bellow of Roger complaining that “she better not be doing something heroic.”

Rayleigh closed his eyes for a brief, pained moment and exhaled through his nose.

“Go before Roger loses his mind.”

You nodded, the brim of your hat dipping in the fractured light. Then you stepped away, slipping into the jagged shadows cast by shattered buildings and broken trees.

Rayleigh watched until the smoke swallowed you whole.

Only then did he turn toward the central arena, blade sliding back into his hand as his posture shifted, becoming sharp and ready. Whatever waited inside, he would meet it head-on.

And somewhere deeper within God Valley, you moved quietly and deliberately, carving your own path toward the heart of the battle.

Then Rayleigh rushed forward, the ground trembling beneath his first step as he vanished into the storm.

Hat down and cape flowing, you kept to the shadows, weaving around fights much like you had at Hachinosu. Your movements were sharp, deliberate, but threaded with a tension that had nothing to do with the battlefield and everything to do with the bile rising in your throat. You tried your best to stay focused and out of sight, a difficult job when you encountered not only Marines and pirates, but also plain civilians who had been caught up in the disaster. Families. Merchants. Children who had no business being anywhere near the kind of violence now swallowing God Valley whole.

You grimly jumped over more than a few dead bodies, many lying on their fronts, victims of a one-sided assault. Their faces were still turned toward whatever direction they had been fleeing. Some small hands still clutched at the dirt.

Your boots splashed through a dark streak of blood.

So there had been a human hunt.

The realization did not settle quietly. It detonated.

You froze for a heartbeat, rage rising so swiftly it left your vision pulsing at the edges. A sharp, ugly heat spread across your ribs like something alive trying to claw its way out. You sneered, teeth bared even though no one could see your face beneath the brim of your hat. Outraged did not even begin to touch the feeling—this was fury sharpened by grief, the kind that hummed in your bones and made your hands shake.

The Celestial Dragons had always been monsters, but this—this carnage laid out as if a road paved in human lives—this was something else. And worse than that, worse than their arrogance and cruelty, was the fact that the World Government had allowed it, facilitated it. Framed it as acceptable. Necessary. A tradition.

How dare the Marines claim justice when they were the referees for an almost ritualistic human sacrifice?

Your breath came out in a harsh tremor. You had always somewhat sort of understood the supposed job of Marines. You may be a pirate, but you didn’t approve of other pirates if they took out a few of the more reckless pirates; good for them.

But walking through this massacre, seeing what had been done to people with no weapons, no training, no chance, carved something open in you.

And it struck you, with the brutal coordination you were witnessing, that this was not their first time. The Marines were too practiced and too comfortable. The Celestial Dragons were too entertained. The layout was too neat and the bodies too systematically placed.

This had happened before.

It had happened many times.

And nobody had stopped it.

A cold, shaking anger took hold in your chest. Anger at the Celestial Dragons, at the Marines, at the World Government, at every institution that smiled while stamping out lives as if they were vermin. But beneath the anger was sorrow so deep it felt as if your lungs could drown in it. You wanted to mourn every person you passed. You wanted to scream for them. You wanted to promise that this would never happen again.

You tightened your grip on your cape and forced yourself forward, each step heavy with a vow you had not spoken aloud yet but already felt like iron. And you would never, never forgive the hands that did this.

Your fear for Shakky doubled. If she truly was here, if she had suffered even a fraction of this cruelty, if she had been hunted the way these civilians had been hunted, would she be alright? Would she still be herself after a year in such brutal hands?

The question settled in your chest like a stone. It made your steps quicker and your breath shallower. You could not stand the thought of her laughter dimmed, her sharp wit bent, her bright eyes hollowed by the things she might have seen or endured. You could not bear the idea that she might be lying somewhere on this island like the bodies you had already stepped over.

You kept low through the chaos, gliding between smoke and broken walls, doing everything in your power to avoid drawing attention. Every shadow felt like a possible threat. Every scream reminded you that you were already too late for too many people.

Then you turned a corner.

A cluster of civilians huddled behind a toppled cart, trembling and holding one another. Standing over them was a figure dressed so colorfully and absurdly that they looked like they had wandered out of a festival rather than a battlefield. Even so, the pistol in their hand was leveled at the civilians with an executioner’s calm.

One of the famed Holy Knights.

Anger overrode strategy.

Your body moved before thought could catch up. You lunged forward, your hand striking the Knight’s wrist and forcing the shot wide. The civilians fled in a panicked scramble, scattering through the debris.

Your presence finally registered, and the Knight turned her head toward you with delighted curiosity.

Her hair was blue, her cap white, and she wore a smile fit for a cat who had found a mouse it wanted to keep.

“Oh wow. You made me miss?”

The Holy Knight tilted her head. She was young, maybe not much older than you, dressed in immaculate white armor that had somehow avoided even a single scratch despite the battlefield around her. She looked you over with the slow, appreciative interest of someone browsing a market stall for rare goods. Her gaze traveled across your hat, your cape, your stance. Then, slowly, it settled on your face.

The smile widened.

Her expression brightened with genuine delight, as though she had stumbled on a treasure.

“Ooh. You are stunning,” she cooed. Her voice was sweet, bright, and horrifically sincere. “Like that Grand Prize woman, but sharper. Are you a Kuja too? My family will be very pleased if I bring you home.”

Your heart dropped into your stomach.

Every word made it worse. Every second of her cheerful fascination felt like a rope tightening around your throat. She was talking about people as if they were stock to be cataloged—She was talking about you as if you were something she had a right to claim.

You did not bother to respond. You adjusted your stance, readying for the next attack.

She noticed the shift in your stance and smiled as if you were being cute. Then shifted her grip on her gun, switching to a hold meant for control, not execution.

“Oh, do not worry. I’ll only wound you enough to take you. You’ll still look very pretty when I’m done—I can’t wait to see everyone else’s faces.”

You closed the distance in an instant, aiming to knock the gun from her hand. She jerked back with a delighted gasp, clearly charmed that you had chosen to fight barehanded.

You feinted left, then drove your elbow toward her jaw. She blocked it with her wrist and spun, letting your momentum slide past her. You followed with a knee toward her ribs, but she hopped back neatly, cap jingling with the movement.

Her grin widened.

“You are brave. I like that.”

You lunged again, trying to get inside her firing angle, but she was quicker. In a blur of motion, she reached out and seized your mask. Before you could twist away, she ripped it off with a little sigh of satisfaction.

“Oh, wonderful. Even better up close. Even Garling might offer to buy you on the spot.”

You did not waste time reacting to the words. You slammed your palm into her shoulder, forcing her to stumble, then swept your leg toward hers. She jumped over it effortlessly and retaliated with a sharp jab of her pistol into your ribs.

You felt the metal scrape skin. She did not fire. She was not aiming to kill you.

Each strike came with a soft giggle, bright and airy, the sound of a child at play rather than a killer.

You ducked under her next swing and drove your fist toward her stomach. She twisted aside, laughter ringing through the smoke.

“You are fun,” she chimed. “But if you keep moving like that, I’ll have to break your legs. I only need you alive, but your bones will heal without a wound.”

Her tone was casual, almost sing-song.

Her movements were not.

She darted forward. You backflipped out of reach, landing hard, breath ragged. She skipped after you, perfectly composed, as if the ruins of God Valley were nothing more than a garden path.

You threw yourself sideways when she aimed the gun again. A bullet cracked into the stone where your head had been.

She clapped once in excitement.

“Good reflexes. Try that again.”

Yeah, no. Absolutely not. You were not sticking around with this smiling psycho for another second.

You vaulted over a broken column, grabbing the torn remnants of your cape so it would not snag your foot. The stone scraped your palms as you landed, but you kept running. Behind you, she chased with that same unbearable cheer, humming a lilting tune as if the two of you were sharing a game rather than fleeing for your life.

You cut through the smoke, heart pounding so hard it felt like each beat might crack your ribs. Shakky had escaped. That meant you could too. That meant there was a path out of this hell, and you only had to stay alive long enough to find it.

Her footsteps grew louder. Then the air beside your cheek ripped open as her next swing sliced past you. You felt the breeze of it, cold and sharp, far too close.

You jumped back just in time.

She paused only a few feet away, gun raised, eyes bright with giddy anticipation, as though this were her favorite part of the game.

“Oh, come now,” she said sweetly. “Do not run too far. I still need you to show off.”

You darted sideways, searching for any gap in the rubble, any path you could slip through before she closed the distance again. But as you sprinted toward a narrow passage between two collapsed buildings, a heavy figure dropped down in front of you, shaking the earth and cutting off your escape.

You skidded to a halt.

It was another Holy Knight.

The man who dropped in front of you looked like a deranged nobleman who had rolled through a battlefield and chosen to keep every stain. His flamboyant purple suit was torn across the chest. His gold embroidery was shredded. One gauntlet was completely gone, and the remaining sleeve of his black overcoat hung in tatters. His bright orange hair was half pulled free from its perfect style, and his glasses were cracked, one lens smeared with blood. A crushed rose dangled from his breast pocket.

He looked like he had been dragged through the dirt and stomped on for good measure.

His red eyes swept over the scene.

Then he saw you.

And everything inside him shifted.

The rage curdling his features melted away. His eyes widened with feverish interest. His breathing changed, smoothing into something calm and almost tender. A slow smile crept across his face, curling beneath his orange mustache like something blooming in rotten soil.

“Is that another Kuja?” he said softly. “And another astonishing beauty? It seems fortune has chosen to reward me after all.”

Your stomach twisted.

Behind you, Manmeyer stopped humming. The cheerful lightness that clung to her like perfume vanished in an instant. Her lips dropped into a tight line, and her fingers curled around her gun with a hardness that said she had no intention of sharing anything she wanted.

“Back off, Sommers. This one’s mine. I found her first. And I’m gonna sell her to Garling, since you fucked up guarding the other Kuja.”

The word hit you like a blow.

Shakky.

So she really had escaped. Relief shot through your chest, sharp and bright, but it lasted only a heartbeat. Both Holy Knights straightened as if sensing your shift, their bodies moving in eerie synchronization as they closed the distance, hemming you in with the ease of predators cornering prey.

Sommers stepped forward, brushing dust and leaves from his ruined overcoat with the air of a man who still believed he looked impeccable. The tattered fabric lifted behind him in the wind, giving him a phantom of dignity he absolutely did not deserve.

“Do not be an ass, Manmeyer. I can pay your fee,” he said, voice warm and unsettlingly smooth. “I was upset, but this one is even lovelier. Come along quietly, and I will not damage you.”

His gaze dragged over your face, slow and appreciative. It was not mere admiration, but a lustful appraisal.

You bared your teeth, a silent warning.

The girl moved behind you, boots crunching over broken debris. Her scowl deepened until her whole face sharpened with irritation.

“No way. Garling always pays more, and he’ll promote me. I am not losing that.”

Sommers snorted, wiping blood off his cracked lens without breaking eye contact with you. The smear only made his eyes gleam brighter behind the fractured glass.

“He won’t, and besides, just imagine how sour his face will be if I show up with a prettier wife and he walks away with nothing. Wouldn’t that be funny? Do you not want to see Garling play the sore loser, just once?”

He laughed under his breath. The sound was low, breathy, and disturbingly intimate, as if the idea of humiliating Garling thrilled him far more than the idea of actually capturing you. The laugh scraped along your nerves like a blade.

Behind you, Manmeyer hummed thoughtfully, the tune lilting and sweet, as if she were weighing your value against her own future promotions.

“You are pathetic, Sommers. Truly pathetic,” she said. Then her tone shifted, curious and contemplating. “But I admit it would be funny. Garling hates losing. His veins pop out when he gets angry.”

Sommers’ grin widened, showing too many teeth.

“Exactly. Let me take over. I promise to be soft.”

His definition of soft was not something you ever wanted to learn.

He stepped closer, the roses crushed against his lapel, spilling petals down his tattered suit. His gloved hand extended toward you, fingers curling as if inviting you into a waltz rather than a nightmare.

“Come here,” he murmured. “I can handle you gently. Far more gently than Garling would.”

Behind him, the girl scoffed.

“As if you know what gentle means,” Manmeyer scoffed.

They slipped into another round of bickering, voices overlapping in heated whispers over price, pride, and who had the better claim. For a brief heartbeat, their attention slid off you.

You lunged.

You pushed off the ground with everything you had, aiming to slip past the Manmeyer girl before either could react. You almost cleared the gap.

Almost.

Sommers flicked two fingers, and something sharp burst from the ground. A coil of thorned vines snapped around your ankle and yanked you off your feet. You hit the dirt hard, breath leaving you in a sharp gasp.

Sommers clicked his tongue, sounding more amused than annoyed.

“Tsk. Impatient. You should have let me finish.”

Manmeyer pointed her gun at him, scandalized.

“That’s cheating.”

He shrugged, the motion elegant despite his tattered coat.

“You were slow. And she is quick. I needed to keep her from ruining the negotiations.”

The vines tightened around your calf, dragging you closer. You clawed at the ground, forcing your body to twist, trying to kick free, but every movement only made the thorns tighten.

Sommers walked toward you with the lazy confidence of a cat returning to its injured catch. The vines dragged you closer with every step he took. He knelt beside you, close enough for you to smell the iron tang of blood still drying on his clothes. He ignored your instinctive jerk away from him, treating your resistance like nothing more than a flutter of wind across his coat.

With a smooth, possessive motion, he flipped your hat back and brushed your hair aside, fingertips grazing your cheek as if he had every right to touch you. His eyes drank in the sight of your face, widening with greedy pleasure.

His breath hitched in delight.

“Oh, lovely. Much better than I expected.” His voice dropped to a low purr. “You will be very fun to break in bed. God, Garling is going to piss himself when I marry you.”

Your stomach turned. Your pulse spiked so sharply it burned. Every instinct in your body screamed to get away, to run, to claw your way out of the vines and out of his reach. But his hand slid to your jaw, tilting your face slightly, evaluating you like livestock.

Something in you snapped with fear. But the vines tightened, your blood spilled, and faith—denied and buried—rose before pride. In that moment of rising panic, without thinking, you tore open your telepathic link and gasped out a single word.

Edward!

The connection snapped to life so violently that white-hot static burst behind your eyes. Your breath hitched as the bond yanked tight.

Then the world shook.

A deep, earth-splitting crack tore through the ground. The rubble beneath your body heaved upward in a violent surge. Dust exploded into the air like a bomb. Stones rolled. Broken beams toppled. The entire island seemed to inhale around you.

Both Holy Knights froze.

Their smiles vanished.

Manmeyer looked sharply toward the source of the tremor, her cheerful expression dissolving into wary confusion. Her brows knit, and for the first time since you had seen her, she seemed uncertain.

Sommers’ grip tightened on your jaw. His eyes flicked sideways, wide and startled, like an animal scenting something far larger and far more dangerous than itself. His breath hitched. His posture stiffened.

The ground rumbled again, louder this time. The vibration shivered up your spine and rattled through the ruins. Stones cracked. A wall collapsed somewhere behind you with a thunderous crash.

Sommers reacted first.

With a sharp jerk, he grabbed you by the waist and hauled you off the ground. The thorns around your leg surged upward, curling across your hips and ribs, binding you in a lattice of sharp vines. You struggled, but every movement only made them tighten.

He threw you over his shoulder like luggage, and you gasped.

“Enough games,” he muttered, voice tense with urgency. “I am not losing two beauties in one day.”

Manmeyer’s eyes widened as he turned to run.

“Hey. Hey. That’s my prize!” she snapped. She fired a shot near his feet, the bullet cracking stone. “Put her down. We aren’t done!”

Sommers did not slow.

“Garling can take it up with me later.”

“Absolutely not,” she snarled. “You are not stealing her. Give her back.”

He ignored her completely, vines tightening around you as he sprinted through the ruined ground. His long strides were awkward from your weight, but he pushed forward with single-minded determination, breathing fast and ragged.

Manmeyer cursed and ran after him, her boots slamming against the ground as she tried to keep pace.

The island shook again.

They were fleeing toward the center of the battlefield, dragging you with them, desperate to get away from whatever force was coming.

You could feel it too, rising through the earth like a gathering storm. Something enormous. Something furious. Something that answered to your voice.

The air thickened. Your ribs ached with every tremor. Sommers cursed under his breath and tried to sprint faster, vines dragging painfully across your skin as he cinched them tighter to keep you from slipping free.

Manmeyer shouted behind him.

“Give her back! Sommers, you idiot, stop running and help fight!”

He did not listen.

He only tightened his grip on your legs and pushed harder toward the center of the island, as if proximity to the Celestial Dragons might save him.

Then the ground split.

Not cracked.

Split.

A violent surge of force erupted underfoot, a quake so powerful it threw both Knights off balance.

Manmeyer skidded sideways.

Sommers stumbled forward.

And you felt it the instant before it happened.

A familiar roar of presence. A tidal wave of fury crashing toward you.

One moment, you were jolting over Sommers’ shoulder, struggling to breathe as you clawed at the vines.

The next, you were airborne.

Your body lifted by sheer force. The world flipped. Your vision went white. You hit the ground hard. The impact knocked the air out of your lungs. Blood flooded your mouth. Your ears rang.

A thunderous boom followed.

Eddie had come.

Not arrived. Not approached. Appeared. As if the earth itself had vomited him up in answer to your cry. His massive silhouette filled the shattered street, framed by rising dust and fractured light. Rage rolled off him in waves so thick the air seemed to bend.

He tore through the two Knights with a fury you had never felt from him before. His fist collided with Manmeyer first, a single, savage strike that hit with the force of a falling mountain. The blow launched her through the remains of a stone archway. Her body smashed through the broken structure and then skidded across the rubble, bouncing and twisting like shattered porcelain before disappearing behind a collapsed wall.

Sommers barely had time to raise his arms. Edward struck him hard, roaring your name.

The impact detonated through the ground. The shockwave split the pavement in a jagged line, sending shards of stone slicing through the dust cloud. Sommers let out a strangled scream as his body careened sideways. He hit the ground, rolled, and spun through the air like a broken rag doll.

But something else hit you first.

Your breath seized. A sharp, tearing pain ripped through your body. You looked down in agony.

One of Sommers’ thorned vines had driven clean through your flesh during the fall, the momentum shoving it in deep. Blood welled around the puncture, dark and hot, soaking into the remnants of your clothing. The thorns embedded themselves in muscle, making every small movement white-hot agony.

You choked, coughing blood onto the dirt, vision wavering.

Edward’s head whipped toward you with terrifying speed. His eyes widened, then narrowed into something deadly. His jaw locked until the muscles stood out like carved stone. The air around him vibrated. The earth rumbled beneath his boots, reacting to the rise of his fury.

“Eddie.” You cried out, blood pouring out of your face. “Finish it!”

Sommers staggered up from the rubble, swaying, dust falling from his ruined coat. His glasses were cracked beyond use, one lens missing entirely. He looked from his injured hand, still bristling with thorns, to the blood on you.

Then to Newgate.

His red eyes went wide with horror.

“No,” he moaned. “No. She was beautiful. I was going to keep her whole. You made me damage her.”

Newgate took one long, heavy step forward. The ground quivered beneath it.

Sommers backed away, voice cracking with a blend of disbelief and anger. “She was perfect. Perfect. And now I ruined it because of you. You monster. You ruined everything.”

Newgate did not respond.

He simply advanced, each step slow and deliberate, the weight of it heavier than the quake itself. His presence filled the air like a storm cloud settling over the land. Sommers’ breathing hitched. His hands trembled. Even the thorns around him quivered, reacting to his fear.

Edward’s expression was carved from fury and stone. No hesitation. No mercy. Only cold, focused wrath.

He reached for his massive naginata, gripping the weapon with both hands. The metal gleamed through the dust, reflecting his rage like a blade forged from the earth’s heartbeat.

Sommers tried to turn, to summon more vines, to run, to do anything, but he was too slow.

Edward swung.

One blow.

A single, devastating arc of force.

The air split with the impact. The ground beneath Sommers cratered. A deafening shockwave ripped through the island, flattening debris and sending dust spiraling into the sky.

Sommers was launched across the battlefield like a rag caught in a hurricane. His body disappeared into the distant ruins, a shrinking figure swallowed by shattered stone.

The island groaned under the force of it. Dust drifted down like ash. Broken stone settled in heavy, uneven clatters across the ruined street.

But before you could even process the damage, before you could fully appreciate the immensity of what he had just done, he was already at your side. One moment, he was across the battlefield, the next, he was kneeling beside you with a gentleness that did not match the destruction behind him.

He slipped an arm beneath your back and lifted you carefully, mindful of the thorns still lodged in your side. His hands trembled. His breath shook. He only paused for half a second when he finally saw your face, smeared with dirt and blood, eyes squinting with pain.

That half-second shattered him.

A pained sound escaped his throat, quiet but raw.

Your injury tormented him visibly. His jaw tightened, his brow furrowed, and anguish bled into every line of his expression.

“I am so sorry,” he whispered, voice breaking. “My love, I need to move you and find you a doctor.”

You blinked up at him, vision swimming. Your head tipped slightly against his shoulder, dazed and exhausted, your eyes narrowed from the pain. You could barely hold onto clarity, but you reached out and touched his wrist with shaking fingers.

“Eddie,” you murmured, voice small and strained. “Thank you.”

Something in him cracked.

Tears welled instantly along his lower lashes, large and heavy. He tried to blink them away, tried to hold himself steady for your sake, but the relief of hearing your voice, the gratitude in it, the fact that you were still alive, was too much.

He gave a soft gasp, breath hitching, and a tear slid down his cheek.

Then another.

He bowed his head over you as he walked, cradling you against his chest with all the care he could manage while weaving through a war. His shoulders shook as he fought the urge to sob outright, his breath breaking against your hair. His voice came out thick and trembling.

“I thought I was too late,” he whispered. “I thought I lost you again. I could not bear the silence—And to find you like that, manhandled by one of those demons?”

His hands flexed around you, fingers curling as if the thought alone made him want to crush the entire island into dust. His breath trembled over your hair, hot and frantic.

You blinked up at him, your lips quivering before a faint smile formed. Even through the haze of pain, even with your vision blurring at the edges, you could not stop yourself from reaching for him with whatever strength you had left.

“Edward,” you murmured. “You are such a soft guy. Do you know how silly that is, crying on a battlefield?”

He sucked in a sharp breath, as if the words struck something deep in him. His eyes widened slightly, shining with tears that gathered and clung stubbornly to his lashes. He tried to look stern for half a heartbeat, tried to pull his expression into something strong and steady for your sake.

But another tremor passed through his enormous frame, so raw and vulnerable that it made your heart ache. You felt it beneath your palm where your hand rested weakly against his chest, his heartbeat pounding with such force that it made your ribs vibrate.

“Yeah,” he murmured, voice hoarse and cracking. “It is really silly. As silly as realizing your soulmate is the prettiest woman to ever exist, and she has been hiding it because her soulmate was too big a fool to see it.”

The words broke you.

Not because of the compliment or the confession.

But because of the quiet guilt in his voice, the depth of regret, the way his arms tightened around you as if he was terrified you would slip away again.

Tears spilled from your own eyes, warm and sudden.

“Can we go?” you whispered, voice breaking gently. “And when I am better, will you marry me?”

You felt him stop walking.

Just one moment.

One breath suspended between the two of you. One heartbeat where the world seemed to fall away, leaving only the man holding you, trembling with fear and love in equal measure. His breath left him in a shaking rush, as if your words had shattered something inside his chest.

The battlefield did not stop with him. Screams echoed from every direction. Gunfire cracked through the smoke. Marines shouted orders. Pirates roared in fury. The smell of gunpowder and burning wood choked the air as bodies crashed together in brutal waves of force. The ground trembled under distant explosions, and a Marine cannonball tore through a building nearby, sending splinters raining down.

But Edward stood as if the world had gone silent, his massive frame curled around you, shielding you from every direction.

A single tear slid down his cheek and landed on your forehead.

He bowed his head slightly, his forehead brushing yours.

He nodded then, jaw trembling as he adjusted his grip with infinite care. He lifted you fully into his chest, cradling you like something fragile and priceless.

“Yes,” he whispered. “I will marry you. As many times as you want.”

Despite everything, you gave a weak, breathy laugh and closed your eyes.

“Hmm. Sure, crybaby.”

He exhaled sharply, a broken sound of sorrow and relief twisted together, and then he began to move again.

He weaved through the chaos with impossible precision, moving with a grace no man his size should have possessed. He ducked under stray gunfire, his broad shoulders shielding you from every bullet. He kicked debris aside with single, devastating sweeps of his massive boots. Stones that would have taken three men to lift scattered like pebbles under his stride.

Pirates parted for him instinctively, drawing back with wide eyes when they saw who he carried. Marines panicked at the sight of him charging through the smoke, some fleeing outright, others too terrified to move. A few brave or foolish souls fired at him, but the bullets ricocheted harmlessly off shattered stone as he barreled past.

He did not slow or falter. He was a force of nature, carved from muscle, grief, and fury.

He barreled through shattered walls without hesitation. Wood splintered. The brick cracked. Dust exploded around him as he shouldered aside wreckage that would have crushed a lesser man. Each impact sent small tremors rolling through the rubble beneath his feet. Every movement was deliberate, calculated to keep you safe.

A chunk of the collapsing roof slid toward you. Edward pivoted, taking the blow on his back with a grunt, then pushed forward as if nothing had touched him. His breath came out in hot bursts against your temple, ragged but steadying himself each time he felt you shift or wince.

He raced toward the outskirts, toward the hidden caches where the crew kept emergency medical supplies, toward any sliver of safety he could find. His arms tightened around you every time your breath hitched, as if he feared you might slip away between heartbeats.

“We are almost safe,” he murmured, voice thick with tears he no longer bothered to hide. “Stay awake for me, darling. I am right here.”

His words shook, but his grip did not.

And he held you tighter, cradling you against his heart as he carried you out of the hell of God Valley.

-X-The Climax-X-

The escape from God Valley was patchy in your memory. Your mind drifted in and out like a lantern sputtering in heavy wind. Faces blurred. Voices came and went. The world tilted and spun.

When you woke again, truly woke, Edward was there.

He sat beside you on a makeshift cot aboard a ship that was not the Oro Jackson and not Xebec’s either. His massive frame was hunched forward, elbows on his knees, fingers laced together as if he were holding himself in place in the small space. His eyes were red and exhausted, but warm the moment they realized you were awake.

He exhaled, long and trembling.

“You scared me,” he said quietly. “Again.”

You tried to sit up, but pain tugged through your ribs, and he immediately steadied you with a gentle hand. His touch was careful, measured, as though you were made of glass.

He began to speak, filling in the gaps your mind had left behind.

The island was gone. Not damaged. Not scorched. Gone. What remained of God Valley had crumbled into the sea as if the earth itself wanted to bury the shame of what had happened there.

Shakky was alive. Rayleigh had gotten her out just in time, dragging her into the chaos while Marines and Holy Knights scrambled in confusion.

Rocks, however, had not escaped. Not truly. He had detonated his own legacy in a fit of mania, turning on his own crew in those final moments as if the entire world had betrayed him. He swung wildly at allies and enemies alike, screaming incoherent orders and accusations while Marines closed in from every direction. The last sight anyone had of Rocks D. Xebec was a man surrounded, raging, consumed by the same ambition that had once made him unstoppable.

The world would remember him as a monster, not the man who had terrified even the Celestial Dragons.

The Rocks Pirates disbanded within the hour. Some fled to the four seas. Some vanished into obscurity. Some turned on each other. Some simply sat down amid the wreckage and gave up. What had once been the strongest pirate crew in existence scattered like ash in the wind.

But Edward had only one goal.

You.

The Polo Crew found him first, a small and opportunistic group of pirates who were far too eager to recruit a giant of a man with a weapon taller than their mast. Edward refused their offer without a second thought. He had no interest in new captains or new allegiances. But he did take advantage of their doctor, a weathered woman with sharp eyes and steadier hands, who knew how to treat deep wounds and who did not gawk at an especially pretty patient whose abdomen had been pierced clean through.

Edward paid them with gold and a glare that could have bent iron. The crew did not question him twice.

They went to work immediately. They stabilized your condition. They stopped the bleeding. They removed what thorns they safely could, leaving the deeper ones for later treatment. They packed the wound with medicinals that burned like fire but kept you breathing. They set up crude but effective devices to drain and clean the injury.

You drifted in and out for days.

Sometimes you heard Edward’s voice, low and rough, begging you to hold on. Sometimes, you heard the waves slapping the hull of the ship. Sometimes you heard the doctor muttering instructions. Sometimes you heard nothing at all, as if you were slipping into the quiet beneath the world.

Through all of it, Edward never left your side.

He sat beside your cot, night after night, massive frame squeezed into a space far too small for him, refusing to sleep, refusing to eat unless the doctor forced him. He held your hand in both of his, terrified to let go in case your pulse faded the moment he loosened his grip.

When you shivered, he draped his cloak over you. When you groaned, he steadied your shoulder. When you breathed easier, he whispered his thanks to whatever gods might be listening.

And even unconscious, you could feel him there.

A constant warmth, a quiet promise, and a tether that anchored you to life. Now, awake at last, you blinked at him through the lingering haze, your throat dry and your body heavy.

“It is over,” he said softly. His gaze fell to the floor as if he were afraid to look at you directly. “You are safe.”

You lifted your eyes to him, still tired and clouded, but steady.

“What about you?” you whispered.

His jaw tightened, but his expression gentled.

“I will be all right. Now that you are awake. And I will not hold you to any promises you made while you were not in your right mind.”

“My right mind?” you asked, brows knitting. “What are you implying?”

He turned toward the window. His chin twitched, a small tell of how deeply unsettled he truly was.

“I was not,” he said quietly. “I was half-mad looking for you. I felt like I was hearing your screams long before they happened, and I could not find you. And—” his voice broke as he lifted a trembling hand to his face “God, it was not until you actually screamed that I could reach you at all.”

He dragged his hand down as if the memory itself scorched him.

“And those bastards had already hurt you,” he whispered. “They were planning to take you. And I keep thinking about it. What if you had not screamed? What if I had failed you so thoroughly that you had been too afraid or too injured to tell me? The thought of it…”

Both hands covered his face. His shoulders shook, the admission tearing out of him after years of restraint.

“I barely made it in time. I saw what they were doing to you, how they were talking about you? I saw how close I was to losing you. And if they had taken you, I would have died right there. I know I would have. Or I would have been shot dead trying to climb the Red Line with my bare hands just to reach you. And even that still would not have been punishment enough for the way I dismissed you when we first met.”

His voice dissolved into a wet, aching sound. He was crying in a way that broke something inside you. It broke something inside him.

“You are my soulmate,” he said. “And I was embarrassed. I was scared. I was upset that fate had given you to me when I already felt too big and strange and unworthy compared to other men. I hated myself for wanting you. So I just… gave up. I ignored your feelings. I convinced myself it was a joke.”

He swallowed hard, but the tears kept falling.

“I pushed you away before I ever understood what you meant to me. I refused to accept you because I thought distance would protect both of us. And I just let you leave—”

He huffed, offended and revolted by himself.

“I told myself it was easier not to care, but the moment it struck me you were really gone—Only then I realized what I had ruined. Only then did I realize I had already fallen for you. I loved you long before I had any right to. I loved you without knowing a single detail of your face.”

His breath shook as he forced himself to continue.

“I searched for you because of that love. I fought for you because of it. And then, when I finally reached you and saw the truth of you with my own eyes, I felt completely undone. You were beautiful in a way I had never imagined, and it terrified me. Because now I fear you will never believe that my feelings came before that. I fear you will never believe that I loved you for you.”

You stared at him.

“So you are saying that you think I only told you to marry me so you would save me?”

He nodded once. It was small. It was ashamed. His posture faltered, the last of his defenses collapsing under the weight of what he had finally admitted.

And he had a point. Anyone else might have doubted too.

However, there was evidence he seemed determined to ignore. Proof that he had already changed long before he saw your face. Evidence that he had already chosen you.

You took a slow breath.

“Then explain something to me,” you said. “If you believed I didn’t mean it, why did you save me?”

He flushed pink behind his hands.

“I would have saved you no matter what. Even if you walk away now, I will follow, even if it is only to protect you. If you sail back to the Amazon Lily, I will live on a boat just off it to protect you. My only request is that you allow me to follow you, even if it is only as your slave.”

You frowned faintly, incredulous.

“Ah,” you said. “So how rude of you to claim that I doubt your sincerity, when the truth is that I called for you. And now you are recanting my proposal for me, begging to be my slave?”

He startled visibly. His head snapped up. His eyes widened.

“No. Not for you,” he insisted, flustered. “I only meant to be respectful. You were bleeding and frightened, and I thought perhaps you said it only because…”

“Because I was scared?” you finished for him.

He winced.

You studied him carefully. His face turned slightly away, his shoulders stiff, his breath uneven. Beneath all that strength, all that height and impossible power, there was the simplest truth.

He had not rejected your proposal. He was terrified you had not meant it, and ashamed to look at your full beauty.

Because he had known you only as the scarecrow, the half-rotted hermit girl who sneezed dirt and walked strangely, and he had dismissed your confession then. Now that he had seen you—truly seen you—he believed he had no right to want you.

Maybe he didn’t.

Except—

He had been the only man willing to speak to you when you were in disguise. The only one who treated you like a person when he believed you were forgettable and strange. The only one who apologized for hurting your feelings long before he ever realized you were beautiful.

And even now, after saving your life, after raging across an island for you, after seeing your face, he still offered you a choice. No pressure. No expectation. Just a quiet opening of his heart and his fear.

So you lifted your hand, waving it weakly like a shipwreck survivor trying to flag down help.

He glanced over, confused, brow furrowing. You motioned for him to raise his own hand.

He hesitated, as if unsure whether you meant him or someone else in the room. Then, very gently, he lifted his enormous hand.

You reached out, fingers trembling from effort and pain, and threaded your tiny fingers between his. Your hand disappeared inside his palm like a pebble swallowed by the tide. The size difference was ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous.

You could not help but laugh in a small, breathless laugh.

He froze. His breath hitched, cheeks turning a soft pink that climbed toward his ears. He stared at your hands joined together as if you had placed a crown into his grasp. His fingers twitched around yours, unbelievably gentle for a man who could split the ground with a blow.

He finally looked at you, eyes wide and shining.

“Marry me,” you whispered, voice thin and shaky. “Or I will cry. And it will be very loud. And let me be the mother of your giant babies, or else I will be mad.”

A startled sound escaped him, half laugh and half sob, the kind of noise a man makes when his heart is too full, and his brain cannot keep up. He shook his head slowly, the corners of his mouth trembling upward as if he were overwhelmed by how much he loved you and completely unequipped to handle it.

His eyes glistened again. He swallowed hard. Then his enormous hand curled around yours, soft and careful, as if he feared the slightest pressure might break you.

“You want to be the mother of my children?” he whispered, voice catching. He sounded like a man who had just been handed the world, and was still afraid it might vanish if he blinked too hard.

You nodded, exhausted but sure.

“All twenty-five of them.”

Edward inhaled so sharply it shook his shoulders. For a heartbeat, he simply stared at you, stunned, then a trembling laugh pushed out of him, warm and disbelieving.

“Twenty-five,” he repeated softly, as if the number itself were a blessing. “As many as you want.” But the smile that spread across his face was nothing short of radiant.

-X-Honeymoon-X-

He did marry you, eventually, but the path to that moment was far more complicated than either of you expected. After you returned to Sphinx Island, once your condition had stopped teetering on the edge of life and death, a difficult truth became clear.

The world after God Valley was not the same world you had known before.

The island itself had been wiped from the map. The government insisted nothing had occurred there, while privately the Celestial Dragons demanded stricter protections. Rumors spread in every port from the East Blue to the New World, whispering of a monstrous battle, a vanished island, and a pirate crew that had imploded under its own weight.

God Valley broke the balance of power.

And in the space left by the fall of Rocks D. Xebec, the seas began to shift violently.

Former Rocks pirates fled in every direction. Some tried to carve out their own territories. Others hid, not wanting to be associated with the man the World Government now declared its greatest threat. Rivalry grew like mold in the vacuum he left behind, each pirate scrambling to avoid becoming the next target of Marines emboldened by a rare victory.

You and Edward understood immediately that if he did not move, the world would move around him.

He had been one of Rocks’ strongest fighters. That alone made him a threat. But it also made him a target. If he wanted to survive, if he wanted to protect Sphinx Island, and if he wanted to build a life with you, he needed power of his own.

You saw all of this even before he said it aloud.

“You cannot sit here and watch me breathe,” you told him as soon as you could speak without wincing. “Others will rise. Some of them will be smarter than Rocks. Some of them will be idiots. But if you do not build something now, someone else will build over you.”

He resisted at first. He did not want to leave you. You practically shoved him out the door.

“Go,” you insisted. “Lead. I will still be here when you get back.”

So he listened.

Edward began gathering allies and former comrades, approaching those who were adrift after the disbandment of the Rocks Pirates. He claimed territory not with ambition, but with necessity. Sphinx Island became his foundation. That choice alone carried deep symbolic weight. Controlling his home island, he declared to the world that he was not merely another pirate drifting through the New World. He was a protector—a stabilizing force.

Meanwhile, you recovered under the care of the Sphinx villagers, who welcomed you with warmth and curiosity. Rumors spread quickly that Edward’s gorgeous wife had survived God Valley and was recovering in their care. That rumor mattered. It bolstered his image to the outside world, turning him from a former Rocks commander into a man worth following.

During this time, the Polo Crew found him again. They had always been opportunistic but not unkind, and they recognized Edward’s potential immediately. Their captain, Polo, offered allegiance without hesitation, and their doctor—who had saved your life once already—was invaluable in stabilizing your wound.

Polo’s son, Marco, also chose to follow Eddie. Young, sharp, and gifted, he became one of the first true pillars in what became the Whitebeard Pirates. Even then, he showed the steady loyalty and quiet intelligence that would define him.

With each passing week, more pirates joined. Some came seeking protection. Others came seeking purpose. Many came because they trusted Edward more than the rising monsters of the New World.

Step by step, the shape of a new crew began to form.

A crew built on loyalty instead of fear, built on choice instead of coercion. A crew that was not merely strong, but meaningful.

And all the while, as Edward forged alliances and carved territory from chaos, you healed on Sphinx Island, preparing quietly for your future together. A future where the two of you could build something softer than the world that had tried to tear you apart. A future where he could finally dream of a family with you.

But that dream carried weight.

Edward’s choice to prioritize you over Rocks had cost him more than a few friendships. He had walked away from a captain whose death was painful and strange, but who was a good man, and he could’ve saved him. Their parting so abruptly, so violently, left a bruise on Edward’s heart that he did not show often, but could never fully heal.

He carried guilt for it, hurt from the way it ended, and carried regret for the men he could not reach and the lives that fell apart after God Valley.

He carried the understanding that the moment he chose you over Rocks, the course of his life—and the fates of everyone around him—had shifted.

But he also carried something else.

Confidence.

A quiet, steady certainty that if he had to choose again, he would still choose you. Every time. Without hesitation. He told you this once, voice soft and low as the tide.

“I am sorry for leaving that way,” he said. “I am sorry for what followed. But if it happened again, I would still pick you. Even knowing what it cost.”

You believed him.

But believing did not remove the sting of consequence.

And there were consequences.

Your own request to become “pregnant expeditiously,” as you had so boldly declared in the middle of recovery, would never come to pass. The wounds carved across your midsection, deep and violent and cruel, had torn through more than flesh. They had left internal damage that no doctor, not even Marco’s growing medical talent, could reverse.

The news came quietly.

A soft voice.

A gentle explanation.

The doctor’s hands folded together with regret.

Infertile.

The word settled inside you as a stone dropped into deep water. It did not shatter. It sank. Slowly. Heavily.

You had imagined babies with Edward, imagined a ship full of laughter that matched his booming voice, imagined children with your smile or his strength or both. It had been a warm, bright picture in the middle of your pain.

And now it could never happen.

The reality settled with a heaviness that felt ancient, something older than grief and deeper than pain. It was not loud. It did not strike all at once. It seeped into you slowly, like cold tidewater creeping up a beach until you could no longer remember when you first began to shiver.

When Edward learned the truth, he sat beside you in silence for a long time. The kind of silence that felt reverent. Heavy. Necessary. His hands were clasped tightly in his lap, thick fingers digging into his palms as if he were trying to anchor himself. His shoulders were stiff, drawn in with a tension he never showed in battle, as if bracing against a force he could not fight, could not stop, could not protect you from.

His eyes were wet.

Not from disappointment.

Not from lost expectations.

But from the raw ache of watching you confront the loss of something tender and fragile. Something you had dared to want. You had faced death. You had survived monsters. You had walked into hell and come back changed. Your pretty face had scars from such an adventure.

But this—this quiet truth—felt to you like failure. For the first time in your life, you felt like you had failed him.

Your voice cracked when you spoke.

“You can marry Stussy. She would gladly have your babies.”

You meant it. You had seen how Stussy adored him, how she’d leave that laboratory she was sitting, waiting for Edward to miss her. You thought you were offering him something noble.

But Edward flinched as if struck.

Slowly—carefully, as though approaching a wounded animal—he reached out and cupped your cheek. His thumb brushed a tear you had not realized was falling.

“I wanted children because I wanted a family with you,” he said quietly. “There is no family without you. You always were my first choice.”

His voice was steady, but beneath it lay a truth so powerful it made the world feel still.

“If we want children,” he continued, softer still, “there are countless little ones across the seas with no parents at all. Boys and girls with no one to hold them, no one to feed them, no one to tell them they matter. Would you be opposed to adopting?”

The words were simple.

But they carried a gentleness that struck harder than any blow God Valley had ever dealt. A gentleness that did not pity you. A gentleness that chose you. Again. And again. And again.

Something warm cracked open inside you.

Your throat tightened, but you smiled anyway.

“No,” you whispered. “Not opposed at all.”

Edward exhaled a long, trembling breath, as if the universe had just righted itself in his hands.

And so life went on.

Not easily. Not without shadows. But it went on.

Your wounds knitted slowly, the deep ones aching on cold mornings and after long days. The scars remained, pale reminders of God Valley, reminders of the moment everything changed. But they did not define you. They did not limit you. They simply became part of the story the world whispered about you.

And when you were able, truly able, you rejoined Edward on the seas.

Your first day aboard his growing ship, the one that would one day become an entire fleet, felt like stepping into sunlight after years beneath water. The crew was small at first, but loyal. Many were former Polo pirates, still grieving their old captain but grateful for a future with purpose.

And then the future shifted again.

When Polo passed away unexpectedly, the weight of it hit the entire crew like a wave breaking against stone. For Marco, it was a wound that reopened every other wound he carried. He flew into your arms, his small frame trembling, his wings flickering with grief as he buried himself against you.

You held him without hesitation, whispering soft assurances into his hair.

In that moment, you knew with absolute clarity that your choice had been the right one. Your future would not be shaped by blood, but by bond, by love, by the children who found you rather than the ones you bore.

There would always be pain. Always a quiet ache for the life you almost had. A faint sting when you saw parents with infants in crowded ports, or when you overheard lullabies drifting from distant windows. Some losses never leave completely.

But the ache softened each time another young pirate joined Edward’s crew, drawn to him the way lost souls are drawn to warmth. Boys with nowhere to go. Teenagers who had survived too much already. Some were fighters. Some were dreamers. Some were simply exhausted by the world.

One by one, they started calling you “mum.”

And then, naturally, they started calling Edward “Pop’s.”

Even the men older than you called you mum, half joking and half not, moved by the way you stitched their wounds, scolded their recklessness, and looked at them with an affection they had never received in their lives. Some of them were even drawn to you in ways that alarmed you, attracted to both the fierce woman who had survived God Valley and the gentle one who carried the crew with grace and a few ass kickings.

Edward only smiled at their admiration. Sometimes he glared. Occasionally, he lifted them by the back of the shirt and reminded them whose soulmate you were.

One evening, as the stars stretched above and most of the crew slept below deck, you sat on your husband’s knee, gazing at the sky. The sea was calm, dark, and glasslike, reflecting the constellations as if the heavens were drifting on the water. Edward rested one massive hand on your hip and the other around your knee, holding you with a tenderness no one else ever saw.

The ship rocked gently. Lanterns swayed. A soft breeze carried the scent of salt and distant rain.

For the first time in weeks, the Grand Line felt quiet.

Edward pressed his forehead lightly to your shoulder, breathing you in. You could feel the warmth of him even through your clothes, steady and grounding. He always ran hotter than anyone else you knew, like his heart was some furnace inside his chest that never cooled.

“You’re thinking again,” he murmured, his voice low, the words slipping into your skin the way the tide touches sand.

You smiled faintly. “I am allowed to think, you know.”

“I know,” he said, lips brushing your collarbone. “But when you think too quietly, I start worrying you are planning something reckless.”

You laughed softly, leaning back against him. “I only plan reckless things when you deserve to be punished.”

He chuckled, a deep rumble that vibrated through your spine. “Then I am glad you are thinking peaceful thoughts tonight.”

But you were not entirely peaceful.

You tilted your head toward the sky, watching the constellations wheel above, sharp and bright against the dark. The moon gilded the waves in silver. The ship creaked softly beneath you, a cradle in motion.

“I was actually thinking,” you murmured, letting your voice slip into something mischievous, “that we never really got a honeymoon. I had to learn so much about you on the go.”

His arms tightened around you instantly, and you knew be was blushing. The shift in his body was unmistakable. His breath caught faintly. His chest pressed flush to your back. He straightened just enough that you could feel the alertness ripple through him, as if someone had just whispered a secret meant only for him.

He bent closer, lips brushing your ear.

“A honeymoon,” he repeated, low and thoughtful. “You want that now?”

You felt heat rise in your cheeks, but you kept your tone cheeky. “Well, we got married in the middle of political upheaval, pirate recruiting, and you crying every time I stood up too fast. It wasn’t very romantic.”

He let out a quiet laugh, warm and a little breathless.

“If you had told me then,” he said, voice rumbling warmly through your back, “that you wanted a honeymoon, I would have cleared the entire Grand Line for it.”

You snorted softly. “I did tell you. I told you to marry me, or I would cry. That counts as requesting a honeymoon.”

He buried his face against your neck for a moment, shoulders shaking with amusement.

You turned enough to meet his gaze, your smile tugging wider.

“So,” you said softly, “where do you want to take me?”

He did not answer immediately. Instead, he looked at you as if memorizing a sight he never wanted to lose. His hand came up to cradle your jaw with the tenderness of a man holding something sacred.

“Anywhere,” he said. “As long as you are with me.”

And you melted against him, because there was nothing in the world more romantic than a giant pirate emperor who spoke with that much sincerity and meant every word.

The stars shimmered overhead as the waves rocked beneath you, the night warm and open around the two of you. The lantern beside you flickered in the breeze, painting soft gold across his face.

You leaned your forehead to his. “Actually,” you murmured, “I just want to go annoy Roger and Rayleigh.”

He blinked, surprised. “You do? Why? Last time we passed Roger, he cried.”

“Shakky says his crew is getting a little too confident. Can we go shoot some cannons at them?”

For a heartbeat, he stared at you as though you had just handed him the very concept of joy.

Then he laughed.

Not a small laugh. Not a polite one. A great booming laugh that burst out of him with such force you felt it through your spine and ribs and straight into your heart. His eyes stung with tears again, but this time from pure happiness.

“You want our honeymoon to be shooting cannons at your friends?” he managed between laughs.

You grinned. “If we don’t humble him now, they will be unbearable later. Roger says he’s going to be the ‘greatest pirate ever’. That’s too much.”

He pulled you tighter into his chest, still laughing, still letting tears gather at the corners of his eyes.

“Then yes,” he said. “Let’s go annoy them. And we’ll bring every cannon we have.”

He kissed you, breath warm and full of affection.

“You really are perfect,” he added softly.

You smiled, tucked against him as the ship drifted into the starlit dark.

And far away, unaware of the chaos heading their way, Roger sneezed violently and complained out loud that someone must be talking about him again.

Cosmic Joke Status: Seismic Soulmate Acquisition

You are now bound to Edward Newgate, future Emperor of the Sea, current champion of emotional repression, and full-time disaster disguised as a gentle giant. He looks like a man who would build houses for orphans, and he does. He also looks like he would stutter when you flirt back at him, and he does that too. His hobbies include adopting strays with criminal records, drinking milk like it is a performance art, pretending he is not jealous when other men look at you, and apologizing to furniture he bumps into. He insists he is not scary, which is adorable considering entire islands shake when he gets upset.

He loves like the tide, quiet at first, then inevitable. A devotion slow and deep and tectonic. The kind of love that moves continents. The kind of love that reorders his entire life because he has already decided you matter more than the world he came from. And you would not trade him for anything. Not treasure. Not calm seas. Not a safer life.

Because you were never meant to have a small love. And you wouldn’t change it for the world.

-X-The End-X-

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