Chapter 709

Dressrosa, New World

The mausoleum stood upon the eastern side of Green Bit like a monument carved from memory itself. Built entirely from pristine white marble, the structure radiated a quiet majesty that seemed untouched by the passage of time. Every pillar had been painstakingly sculpted by master craftsmen, every arch adorned with intricate carvings depicting the history of those who rested within these sacred grounds. Sunlight filtered through the open colonnades, causing the polished stone to gleam softly beneath the afternoon sky.

Unlike the grand castles and fortresses of kings that sought to inspire awe through excess, this place possessed a different kind of grandeur. It felt peaceful. Reverent. Timeless. Ancient flowering trees surrounded the mausoleum, their pink and white blossoms drifting lazily upon the sea breeze. Petals danced through the air like fragments of forgotten dreams before settling upon the marble pathways below.

Beyond the cliffs, the sea stretched endlessly toward the horizon. Gentle waves lapped against the rocky shoreline far beneath, their rhythmic whispers becoming a natural hymn for the dead. The entire place felt less like a graveyard and more like a sanctuary. A place where legends came to rest. A place where the burdens of an era could finally be laid down.

The Donquixote family had spared no expense in its construction. The mausoleums of their own fallen members stood nearby, each maintained with meticulous care and respect. Yet there was one tomb among them that drew the eye more than any other.

A solitary monument apart from the others, resting beneath the shade of a great flowering tree. Its marble surface bore a single name. Gol D. Roger.

No grand titles. No boasts. No declarations of conquest. Just a name. As though the man himself would have preferred it that way. Sitting cross-legged before that tombstone was a giant of a man. A legend in his own right. Edward Newgate. Whitebeard.

The old Emperor looked strangely at peace in this place. Gone was the overwhelming pressure that once shook the seas. Gone was the terrifying aura that had caused entire fleets to tremble. Here, he was simply an old man visiting an old friend. In one hand rested a massive sake jug. The other held an equally oversized cup.

"Glug... Glug... Glug..." The sound echoed softly through the quiet sanctuary as Whitebeard tilted the jug back.

Then—"AAAHHHH!" A satisfied breath escaped him. The old pirate wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before setting the jug beside him. For a while, he simply sat there. Silent. Watching the ocean. Watching the drifting blossoms. Listening to the waves.

As though expecting a familiar laugh to suddenly erupt beside him. The silence did not feel empty. It felt occupied. Filled with memories. A faint smile slowly appeared beneath Whitebeard’s massive mustache.

"Still got the best view, eh Roger?" His voice carried no sadness. Only warmth. Only familiarity. The sort of tone reserved for someone who had shared a lifetime of experiences. Someone who understood. The world often spoke of Whitebeard and Roger as rivals. Enemies. Monsters who stood atop opposing crews.

The newspapers had loved such stories. The Marines had encouraged them. The common folk had believed them. But only a handful of people truly understood the relationship between those two men. They had fought. Countless times. Clashed so violently that islands had split apart beneath their feet.

Exchanged blows capable of shaking the heavens themselves. Yet somewhere amidst those endless battles, mutual respect had grown. Then friendship. Not the friendship of ordinary men. Not the friendship of companions. But the friendship of equals. Of two individuals who had reached heights nobody else could truly understand. Whitebeard picked up the cup again. His eyes lingered on Roger’s name.

"Tch..." The old Emperor chuckled quietly. "You always were a pain in the ass." Another blossom drifted onto the tombstone. Whitebeard watched it settle there. "I still remember that look on your face when you came asking about the meaning of the D." His laughter deepened. "Like some damn kid chasing treasure."

The memories flowed freely now. Endless battles. Endless drinking contests. Arguments. Stories. The final meeting. That last conversation. The one Roger had shared with almost no one else. Whitebeard’s smile slowly faded. Not entirely. Just enough for nostalgia to take its place.

"You knew, didn’t you?" The ocean breeze stirred gently around him. "You knew your time was running out." No answer came. Only the sound of distant waves. Whitebeard lowered his gaze.

"You always charged forward anyway." That was Roger. Always laughing. Always smiling. Always moving toward the horizon regardless of what awaited him there. A man who had carried the weight of an era upon his shoulders and somehow never allowed it to crush him.

A man worthy of admiration. Even from Whitebeard himself. Especially from Whitebeard himself. The old Emperor slowly poured another cup. Then a second. One he placed before Roger’s tomb. The other remained in his own hand. For a moment neither moved. The living and the dead sharing a drink beneath the flowering trees.

Finally, Whitebeard raised his cup. The sea breeze rustled through the blossoms. The sunlight reflected off the marble. And somewhere beyond the horizon, the age Roger had begun continued onward.

"To you, Roger." Whitebeard’s voice carried quietly through the sanctuary. No theatrics. No grand speeches. No declarations. Just simple sincerity.

"Even after all these years..." His eyes remained fixed upon the grave of the only man he had ever truly considered an equal. "...the seas still haven’t produced another fool like you."

A deep chuckle escaped him. Then Whitebeard lifted the cup higher. A toast shared across the boundary separating life and death.

"Cheers, old friend." And for the briefest moment, beneath the drifting blossoms and endless blue sky, it almost felt as though another cup had been raised in return.

For a long while, silence reigned over the mausoleum. The sea whispered against the cliffs below. Flower petals drifted lazily through the air. And before the grave of Gol D. Roger stood the only man who had ever truly walked beside him at the summit of the world.

Slowly, Edward Newgate rose to his feet. His massive frame cast a long shadow across the marble pathway as he set aside the empty sake jug. The old Emperor lingered for a moment longer, his gaze resting upon Roger’s name etched into white stone.

Then a voice broke the tranquility. "You know..." The voice carried lazily through the breeze. "If you miss him that much, maybe someday when you’re dead, I can lay you to rest beside him."

Whitebeard glanced over his shoulder.

Beneath the shade of a flowering tree several dozen meters away sat Donquixote Rosinante. Rosinante had deliberately kept his distance. This visit wasn’t for him. Nor for Dressrosa. Nor for politics. This was a moment between two old legends. So he had remained beneath the tree overlooking the sanctuary, quietly waiting while Whitebeard paid his respects.

Nearby, Marco immediately frowned. The First Division Commander had been sitting beside Rosinante for most of the visit, respecting Whitebeard’s wish for privacy. But hearing someone casually mention Whitebeard’s death instantly soured his mood.

A faint growl escaped him. His blue eyes narrowed slightly. "Watch your mouth." The irritation in Marco’s voice was obvious. "That’s not something you casually joke about."

To Marco, the mere mention of Whitebeard dying felt wrong. Unacceptable. The old man wasn’t merely his captain. He was family. The pillar that held everything together. Even entertaining the thought of his death left a bitter taste in Marco’s mouth.

Rosinante merely shrugged. Unbothered. Whitebeard, meanwhile, wasn’t offended in the slightest. Because unlike many others, he understood exactly what Rosinante meant. There was no mockery behind those words.

No malice. No disrespect. Only a sincere offer. An offer that very few people in the world would ever receive. The Donquixote family’s sanctuary was sacred ground. The final resting place of all the fallen Donquixote family members. The fact that Rosinante was willing to offer him a place there spoke volumes. A deep laugh erupted from Whitebeard.

"Gurarararara!" The sound echoed across the cliffs. Birds scattered from nearby trees. The ocean itself seemed to tremble slightly beneath the force of it.

"As tempting as that offer is..." Whitebeard reached down and casually pulled his massive naginata from where it had been planted beside Roger’s grave. The weapon emerged from the grassy earth with ease despite weighing more than most men could even lift.

"I’d rather be buried in my homeland." For a brief moment, something softer entered Whitebeard’s eyes. A distant nostalgia. A longing. Far away from the endless wars. Far away from piracy. Far away from the seas that had defined his life. Home. No matter how vast the world became.

No matter how legendary his name grew. That desire had never changed. Marco immediately seized the opportunity to redirect the conversation.

"Pops." His tone carried obvious displeasure. "You shouldn’t talk about things like that so casually." Whitebeard turned toward him. The old Emperor instantly understood what troubled his son. Marco wasn’t angry. He was afraid. Afraid of a future he refused to acknowledge. The possibility that someday Whitebeard wouldn’t be there anymore.

That fear lingered in the hearts of many aboard the Moby Dick. But especially Marco’s. Whitebeard’s smile softened. There was no mockery in it. No dismissal. Only understanding.

"It’s alright, Marco." The old Emperor rested the shaft of his naginata against one shoulder. The afternoon sunlight reflected softly across his weathered face.

"Death comes for everyone eventually." The words were spoken calmly. Matter-of-factly. As inevitable as the tides. "As much as people like to pretend otherwise..." His gaze drifted briefly toward the endless sea beyond the cliffs. "Even someone like me isn’t exempt from that truth."

The breeze stirred his coat. Flower petals drifted between them. For a moment, Whitebeard’s expression reminded Rosinante strangely of Roger’s. Not in appearance. Not in mannerisms. But in acceptance. The acceptance that only came from men who had stared death in the face countless times and no longer feared it. Whitebeard looked back toward Marco.

"The sooner a man accepts that..." His voice carried the weight of decades. Countless battles. Countless losses. Countless farewells. "...the less miserable he’ll be when the day finally arrives."

Marco lowered his gaze. Unable to respond immediately. Because deep down he knew Whitebeard was right. That didn’t make hearing it any easier. Whitebeard noticed the conflicted look and laughed again. A gentler laugh this time.

"Gurararara!" He reached out and patted Marco’s shoulder. The gesture nearly knocked the commander sideways. "Don’t look so gloomy." The old Emperor grinned broadly. "When that day finally comes, I’ll be far too dead to care about any of your crying."

"Pops!" Marco’s face immediately darkened. Rosinante burst out laughing beneath the tree.

Even several nearby Tontatta tribe dwarves struggled to suppress smiles. Whitebeard’s grin widened further. For a brief moment, the heavy subject lost its weight.

The shadows hanging over the conversation dispersed beneath laughter. And as the sea breeze carried drifting petals across Roger’s grave, the old legends stood together beneath the flowering trees—not as emperors, commanders, or infamous pirates—but simply as men appreciating the precious time they still had left.

The laughter gradually faded. The sea breeze still carried flower petals through the air, and the distant sound of waves crashing against Green Bit’s cliffs remained as peaceful as ever. Yet something had changed. Subtly. Almost imperceptibly.

But everyone present felt it. The atmosphere shifted. The casual warmth that had surrounded the conversation moments ago slowly disappeared, replaced by something sharper. More deliberate. More dangerous. The kind of shift that occurred when two legends stopped reminiscing and started speaking as the leaders of powers capable of shaking the world.

Under the shade of the flowering tree, Donquixote Rosinante finally pushed himself to his feet. He brushed several petals and blades of grass from his black jacket before straightening his posture. The easygoing smile that had lingered on his face throughout Whitebeard’s visit was gone now.

In its place remained something far more fitting for the man who ruled these waters. Sharpness.

Awareness. Caution. For all the hospitality the Donquixote Family had shown since Whitebeard’s arrival, Rosinante had personally remained nearby from beginning to end. Not out of distrust.

Not entirely. But because a man like Edward Newgate did not simply appear within another Emperor’s territory without reason. Especially not with the world in its current state. Rosinante folded his arms. His gaze remained calm. Steady. But beneath that calmness lay the weight of authority.

"Well..." His voice broke the silence. "Now that you’ve paid your respects to Roger..." The breeze stirred the flowering branches overhead. "Why don’t you tell me why you’re really here, Newgate-san?"

Marco immediately glanced toward Rosinante. The question itself wasn’t hostile. But it wasn’t casual either. Everyone understood what was being asked. Rosinante’s eyes never left Whitebeard.

"It can’t possibly be that you sailed all the way into our territory with a single ship..." His tone remained polite."...just to visit Roger’s grave."

The words hung in the air. Heavy. Direct. For a moment, nobody spoke. Even the wind seemed quieter. Marco instinctively shifted his weight. The Whitebeard Pirates had entered Donquixote waters without an escort fleet. Without commanders. Without allies.

Only Whitebeard’s personal vessel. At first glance, it appeared harmless. Yet that very fact made it more suspicious. Because men like Whitebeard never acted without purpose. Across from them, Whitebeard simply stood there with his naginata resting against one shoulder.

Then a deep chuckle escaped him. "Gurararara..." The old Emperor’s laughter rolled across the mausoleum grounds. Not mocking. Not dismissive. Amused. Whitebeard’s eyes settled upon Rosinante. And for a brief moment, genuine admiration appeared within them. Sharp. The boy was sharp.

Had someone else his age asked such a question, Whitebeard might have laughed it off entirely.

Ignored it. Redirected the conversation. But not Rosinante. Never Rosinante. The young man standing before him had long since surpassed the point where age mattered.

Many across the seas already whispered it openly. That the title of World’s Strongest Man no longer belonged to Whitebeard. That it belonged to Rosinante. The man who had shattered fleets. The man whose bounty had climbed beyond six billion berries.

The man who had become a living calamity in the eyes of the World Government. Whitebeard himself knew better than most how terrifying Rosinante had become. And because of that—the old emperor answered honestly. His laughter slowly subsided. A rare seriousness entered his expression.

The smile remained. But it was softer now. Touched by nostalgia. Touched by memory. Touched by loss.

"I am here..." Whitebeard’s voice rumbled quietly. "...to fulfill a promise." The words immediately caught everyone’s attention. Rosinante’s eyes narrowed slightly. Marco looked surprised.

"A promise..." His grip tightened slightly around the shaft of his naginata. "...that I made to a dear friend." The atmosphere changed again. This time not because of tension. But because of the weight carried within those words. Whitebeard was not a man who threw around terms like friend lightly. Especially not when speaking with that expression.

The moment Whitebeard mentioned a promise made to a dear friend, the pieces fell into place almost immediately for Donquixote Rosinante. He was not a fool. Nor was he blind to the circumstances surrounding Whitebeard’s arrival. The old Emperor had not come to Dressrosa alone.

Accompanying him was none other than Neptune, the former monarch of the now-fallen Ryugu Kingdom and current King of New Fish-Man Island. At the time, Rosinante had found the arrangement peculiar. Now it made perfect sense. A long silence settled between the two men. The sea breeze continued to carry flower petals through the mausoleum grounds.

Yet the atmosphere had become noticeably heavier. More restrained. More dangerous. Rosinante’s eyes narrowed slightly.

"You came here for Shirahoshi, didn’t you, Newgate-san?" The question was calm. Measured. But the edge hidden beneath it was unmistakable. Whitebeard said nothing. And that silence alone was answer enough.

Rosinante continued. "Tell me..." His gaze remained fixed upon the old Emperor. "Did you promise King Neptune that one day you would help his daughter find her way back to her father?" For the first time since arriving at the mausoleum, Whitebeard’s expression shifted. Only slightly.

But enough. Enough for Rosinante to know he had struck the truth.

Nearby, Marco frowned. The air itself seemed to tighten around them. Whitebeard eventually exhaled.

"A child belongs with her parents." His voice carried no aggression. Only conviction. "With her family."

Before he could continue, Rosinante cut him off. "No." The single word landed like a blade.

Even Marco visibly blinked. Rosinante’s expression had hardened completely. "We are Shirahoshi’s family."

The warmth that usually lingered within his voice had vanished. What remained was absolute certainty. The certainty of a man defending something precious. The certainty of a man drawing a line.

"And have you already forgotten what happened at Fish-Man Island?" His gaze sharpened. "A father who couldn’t protect his own daughter." The temperature of the conversation dropped noticeably. "A king whose kingdom that nearly became a grave for his child."

Rosinante took a slow step forward. The petals drifting around him suddenly felt insignificant against the pressure beginning to build beneath his calm exterior.

"Can such a man truly call himself a parent?" Whitebeard’s eyes narrowed slightly. Not in anger.

But in understanding. Because Rosinante wasn’t speaking from hatred. If anything, that made it worse. He genuinely believed every word he was saying.

Rosinante folded his arms. "And you know what Shirahoshi is." The statement carried weight.

Ancient weight. Dangerous weight. The weight of secrets buried beneath eight centuries of history. Poseidon. One of the Ancient Weapons. A power capable of commanding the Sea Kings themselves. A power that could shake the world.

"I hold no hatred toward Neptune." Rosinante’s voice softened slightly. "But I cannot entrust Shirahoshi’s safety to him."

The silence that followed felt oppressive. Whitebeard remained calm. Yet there was steel behind his eyes now.

"Then I will protect her." His answer came immediately. "I’ll personally ensure no harm comes to her." The old Emperor’s voice rumbled like distant thunder. "You are depriving a child of her father."

For a brief moment—something dangerous flashed through Rosinante’s eyes.

"That’s enough, Newgate-san." The words were quiet. Far quieter than before. Which somehow made them more dangerous. The sea breeze stopped feeling gentle. The mausoleum no longer felt peaceful. Even the distant cries of seabirds had vanished.

Rosinante’s gaze became ice. "We will not discuss this matter any further." Every word landed with finality. "And I sincerely advise you not to bring this matter before my brother." A warning. Not a threat. A warning. Which was somehow worse. "Because things may become very ugly between our two sides."

Marco immediately stepped forward. "Rosinante—"

The moment their eyes met, Marco stopped. A single glance. That was all it took. No Conqueror’s Haki. No killing intent. Just a look. Yet the First Division Commander instinctively fell silent. Because for a split second he understood something. Rosinante wasn’t negotiating anymore. This wasn’t politics. This wasn’t diplomacy. This wasn’t even about Neptune.

This was about family. And there was nothing more dangerous than a man protecting his family.

Whitebeard watched the exchange quietly. Then slowly shook his head. A sigh escaped him.

"I really hoped it wouldn’t come to this." The old Emperor rested Murakumogiri against one shoulder. The movement was casual. Yet somehow the atmosphere grew heavier. The air itself felt denser. More oppressive. More volatile. Whitebeard’s gaze met Rosinante’s directly.

"If your concern truly lies with Shirahoshi’s safety..." The words came slowly. Carefully. "...then why don’t we settle this the old way?"

Marco’s eyes widened. Rosinante remained motionless. But the pressure surrounding him intensified. Whitebeard continued.

"If you win..." The old Emperor smiled faintly. "I’ll walk away.... No arguments... No complaints. No more discussions regarding Shirahoshi." The sea itself seemed to hold its breath. Then Whitebeard’s smile vanished. And for the first time since entering Dressrosa, the Emperor of the Sea revealed the man who had once stood as Roger’s greatest rival.

"But if you lose..." The temperature dropped. "...you hand Shirahoshi over to Neptune." Silence.

Absolute silence. Flower petals drifted between them. One landed atop Roger’s grave. Neither man moved. Neither looked away. And for the first time since Whitebeard had arrived in Dressrosa, the spark had finally ignited.

The tension hanging over the mausoleum had become almost tangible. The gentle atmosphere that had once accompanied Whitebeard’s visit to Roger’s grave was gone completely now.

The sea still lapped peacefully against Green Bit’s shores. The sun still bathed the marble sanctuary in warm golden light.

Yet none of it mattered anymore. Because standing beneath the shade of Roger’s resting place were two men capable of overturning the world itself. And neither was willing to yield. For a few moments, silence lingered between them.

Then a faint smile tugged at the corner of Donquixote Rosinante’s lips. Not amusement. Recognition. Understanding.

"You know..." Rosinante’s voice broke the silence. "For someone the world believes to be nothing more than a brute..." His gaze remained fixed on Edward Newgate. "...you are remarkably cunning, Newgate-san."

The observation caused Marco’s eyes to narrow slightly. Most people viewed Whitebeard through a very simple lens. A living natural disaster. A monster who shattered islands with brute strength alone. A giant of a man who solved every problem by swinging his naginata.

But those assumptions only existed because most people had never truly met Whitebeard. Rosinante knew better. One did not survive decades atop the seas through strength alone. One did not build the largest pirate family in history through brute force alone. And one certainly did not stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Roger for an entire generation without possessing a sharp mind.

Rosinante had already pieced together Whitebeard’s intentions. The old Emperor hadn’t entered Donquixote waters with a fleet. He hadn’t arrived with dozens of divisions. He hadn’t brought commanders, allies, or overwhelming numbers. He had come with a single ship. At first glance, it appeared reckless.

Now Rosinante understood. Whitebeard had already calculated the odds. If the Whitebeard Pirates and the Donquixote Family truly went to war here, the advantages overwhelmingly favored Dressrosa. Home territory. Prepared defenses. A number of powerhouses with admiral-level capability.

And above all—Rosinante himself. Whitebeard had understood immediately that a large-scale confrontation would only complicate matters. So he had chosen the oldest solution available. A duel. A clash between leaders. A contest where numbers became irrelevant. Where fleets became meaningless. Where only strength and conviction of the strongest from each side remained..

Whitebeard’s laughter echoed softly. "Gurararara..." The old Emperor adjusted Murakumogiri upon his shoulder. The movement was casual. Yet the weapon’s sheer size made it feel like a mountain shifting.

"I may be rash..." His grin widened. "...but I ain’t foolish." The old pirate’s eyes gleamed knowingly. Truthfully, he had expected this conversation from the moment he entered Dressrosa.

He had known Rosinante would never simply hand Shirahoshi over. Had known there would be resistance. Had known there would be conflict.

And yet he came anyway. Because some promises were worth risking everything for. His expression softened slightly. Thinking of the man waiting elsewhere in Dressrosa. Neptune. A king. A father. And a broken man. Whitebeard had seen the guilt in Neptune’s eyes.

The regret. The helplessness. The years of suffering. And despite everything, Neptune had still never stopped loving his daughter. That was why Whitebeard had agreed. Why he had personally crossed the seas. Why he now stood here. To fulfill a promise. A promise made not merely to a friend—but to a father.

Rosinante remained silent for a moment. Then he exhaled slowly. "Unfortunately for you, Newgate-san..." The amusement vanished from his face. Only seriousness remained. "...I’ve also given my word."

The words carried a weight that immediately caught Whitebeard’s attention. Rosinante rarely spoke lightly when it came to promises. His gaze drifted briefly toward the ocean beyond the cliffs. Toward memories long buried. Toward a woman whose face still lingered in the deepest corners of his mind.

The previous Poseidon. The Mermaid Princess who had carried the burden of the Ancient Weapon before Shirahoshi’s birth. A tragic figure. A victim of circumstances. A woman whose fate had ultimately ended beneath Rosinante’s own hands. Even now, years later, fragments of those memories still surfaced from time to time. The guilt. The responsibility. The regret.

And the vow that followed. Rosinante’s eyes hardened. "I swore that I would protect her." His voice dropped lower. Colder. Not because he was angry. But because this was one of the few subjects that genuinely mattered to him. "I swore that I would safeguard Poseidon."