The sun was blazing high over the ship of the Whitebeard Pirates. The wind was gentle, the sea calm, and the deck was filled with the smell of grilled meat.
"Oi! Marco! Don't even think about touching this one!" Ace shouted, his cheeks stuffed like a squirrel as he tore into a thick slab of roasted meat. He lounged on a crate near the railing, one leg dangling, enjoying the breeze.
Marco just waved lazily and went back to his nap. A few of the other crew laughed, their usual banter echoing across the sunny deck.
But then—
Ace squinted toward the sea.
Something... floated in the water.
He stood up, licking his greasy fingers, and walked toward the railing. At first, he thought it was driftwood. But then the sun hit it—and he saw the sheen of metal. Armor.
And blood.
"...Oi," Ace muttered. His voice turned cold. "There's a body in the sea."
The crew turned.
Another body.
Then two.
Then ten.
Within minutes, dozens of armored samurai—still, silent, bloodied—rose with the tide like forgotten memories.
The sea, once calm, now seemed to breathe death.
Jozu barked orders. Thatch and Vista helped haul the corpses onto the deck. Each one wore tattered, blood-drenched armor. Swords still clutched in fingers that would never move again. Most had slashes so clean they looked like silk had been cut.
"A war," murmured Vista. "And it wasn't recent."
Ace knelt beside one of the bodies. He gently lifted a small, strange device from its death grip.
"Log Pose," he said, frowning. "No... this one's different. It's got three needles. It's an Eternal Log Pose."
That's when Gunnar stepped forward.
He towered over them, arms crossed, the sunlight hitting the twin marks of black lava and icy frost that ran down his arms like veins of a volcano glacier.
He stared at one of the samurai, his expression unreadable.
"...That helmet," he said. "Crescent moon crest."
"You know it?" Ace asked.
"...That symbol," he said, voice like a quiet storm. "The men who attacked me months ago had it burned into their chest. Didn't say a word. Didn't need to. Their swords did the talking."
He stepped forward, eyes sharp, voice rising—not loud, but firm.
"I'm going wherever this log pose points."
Silence.
Then Thatch chuckled nervously. "Hold up, big guy. What do you mean, just like that?"
"Could be a trap," Jozu added.
"Could be a graveyard," Marco said.
Gunnar turned to face them all, ice crackling across one arm, lava hissing from the other.
"I didn't ask," he said coolly. "I told you."
"Oi oi oi," Ace stepped in, grinning despite the tension. "You're not going without me. This feels too damn weird to ignore."
"Fine," Gunnar said, eyes still on the horizon. "But don't slow me down."
"Slow you down?" Ace laughed. "You throw a tantrum every time the kitchen runs out of meat."
Some of the crew chuckled nervously.
But Whitebeard remained silent. His mustache twitched.
He stood slowly, the deck groaning beneath his weight.
"You plan to walk into enemy land over a memory and a crest?" he asked.
Gunnar didn't flinch. "No. I plan to burn down the lies behind it."
Silence.
Then a low, rumbling laugh.
"Gurara ra ra… fine. Go," Whitebeard said, waving his hand. "But take a vivre card. If either of you die without telling me the full story, I'll come drag you both back myself."
Ace gave a quick salute.
Gunnar? He just nodded once.
***
The ship was small—a single-mast scout vessel—cutting across dead waters under a sky of ash.
Ace leaned on the rail, his eyes narrowed. Smoke coiled from the island ahead like ghostly serpents rising into a poisoned sky. The closer they got, the worse it smelled—burnt metal, blood, and something older... like ancient fire and death.
Gunnar stood behind him, silent, arms folded. The wind fluttered his long coat. Steam hissed from his shoulders—lava veins quietly pulsing beneath frost-bitten skin.
As they neared the shore, bodies began to drift past the ship.
Pirates.
Burned. Torn. Cut clean through. Some with weapons still clutched. Some missing heads. All dead.
The boat creaked as it reached shore.
Then—
A man stumbled from the treeline. A pirate. Armor cracked, face pale, eyes wild. He ran along the shore, limping, gasping.
Thwip.
An arrow buried into his back. He dropped mid-step, face-first into the wet sand, blood washing into the sea.
Ace raised an eyebrow. "Friendly island."
Gunnar cracked his knuckles. "Smells like war."
They moved into the dense trees.
Ash fell like snow, catching on the green leaves of a dying forest. The world was silent except for distant clashing steel.
Then they saw it—
Below, in a forest clearing: a blur of steel, cloth, and blood.
A dozen ronin in torn cloaks stood against a horde of pirates. No words were exchanged. Just blades.
One ronin moved like flowing water, sliding past a pirate's clumsy axe swing and slicing his throat with a reverse draw.
Another—taller, with a red sash—locked blades with a twin-sword pirate. They clashed, sparks flying. The ronin ducked low, swept the legs, rose, and severed the arm in one stroke.
A third ronin, bald and wide-eyed, took on three at once. His blade rang out—a blinding flurry of counters, parries, and crushing stabs. He spun and drove his katana through a pirate's chest with surgical grace.
Ace and Gunnar crouched high in the branches, watching.
"Straw hats," Ace whispered. "That one—see the orange band?"
Gunnar said nothing, just observed.
Below, the pirates roared and charged.
The ronins stood still. Not a word. Only breath.
Then, like wind
CLANG! CLASH!
It became a dance of death. The forest echoed with metal. No wasted movement. No flash. No drama.
Just war.
One ronin slid behind a tree, stepped out, and stabbed upward through a pirate's chin. Another caught a blade with his own scabbard and slammed a kick into the attacker's gut.
Gunnar's eyes gleamed.
"Efficient," he muttered.
Ace grinned. "Scary, too."
When the last pirate collapsed, blood pouring from his mouth, the ronins stood—tired, bleeding, but victorious.
Twelve entered the fight.
Twelve stood at the end.
The clearing was littered with corpses. Some pirates were cut so clean they didn't fall until a breath later.
The leader of the ronin—a tall figure with a straw hat and a crimson half-mask—looked up toward the trees.
---
The wind rustled through the forest, carrying the scent of blood and ash.
The ronin stood still, blades faintly trembling with the breath of battle, when Ace and Gunnar dropped from the trees like falling shadows.
Ace raised both hands casually. "We come in peace, you know."
The ronin with the crimson half-mask stepped forward, his hand still on the hilt of his katana. His voice was calm, but firm.
"You followed the corpses."
Gunnar nodded. "We saw too many samurai in the sea. Thought someone had to be alive to answer for it."
A few of the ronin exchanged glances.
One of them, the bald man with scars across his cheek, spoke, "An alliance of pirates struck last moon. Hit our coast from all sides. Three ships. Their flags were false, borrowed—some claimed Big Mom, others wore beasts."
"They weren't ours," Ace said sharply. "We don't go around starting wars on peaceful islands."
The masked ronin relaxed his grip slightly.
"The Ashina Clan ruled here," he said. "Warriors of the old blood. They held this land for centuries." His voice faltered for a moment. "They are no more."
Gunnar's brows narrowed. "Ashina?"
His mind flashed back—to a burning shore, a tall man with a black spear, a crescent moon on his armor, and a dying whisper:
'Why did you kill ken Ashina?' Gunnar remembered the name.
Gunnar clenched his fists. "I fought one of them. Called himself the Last Flame of Ashina. Madman. Powerful."
The ronins stayed silent.
Ace looked around, solemn. "So you're all that's left."
Then he turned his back to look over the fallen pirates—his black vest shifting, the massive tattoo of Whitebeard's skull crest visible across his upper back.
The moment they saw it—steel rang out again.
"You—!"
A blade shot toward Ace like lightning. He spun around, catching the glint.
"You wear that mark?" shouted one ronin. "Whitebeard's crest led them! Your people spilled our blood!"
"It wasn't us!" Ace barked. "We don't move without a reason!"
But the swords were already coming.
Gunnar stepped forward once. "Bad idea."
The first ronin slashed down—CLANG! Ace caught it with his forearm, his skin bursting into flame.
WHAM! A burst of fire flared out, knocking the ronin into a tree.
Three more charged Gunnar.
He didn't move.
The first came in with a fast strike—CRACK!
A quake rippled from Gunnar's foot, unbalancing the ronin. His fist swung up, caught the man in the ribs—BOOM!—and sent him flying ten feet through the air.
The second tried a reverse dash. Gunnar's right arm turned to obsidian-black lava. One swipe—SHHHHRK!—the katana melted mid-swing. A frozen palm met the ronin's chest. CRACK! He collapsed, frozen solid.
The forest shook with small tremors. Trees bent. Leaves caught fire.
Ace weaved through his attackers like a dancer. One came with a thrust—Ace stepped inside and slammed a burning elbow into his jaw. Another swung from behind—Ace ducked, spun, and kicked him with both feet aflame, sending him crashing into his comrades.
"Still think we're your enemy?" Ace growled.
"Your symbol cursed us!" yelled one of the remaining ronin, charging blindly.
Gunnar's eyes narrowed. He stomped the ground once.
GRRRRMMM... A sharp localized quake split the dirt under the ronin's feet—he fell, stunned, before Gunnar raised his hand.
A storm of icy mist froze the ground around him.
"You don't want to see me angry," Gunnar said coldly.
The last ronin swung at Ace in desperation. Ace caught his arm mid-air, flames crawling up his own skin.
"You think a mark makes a man?" Ace whispered. "Whitebeard gave me family. I don't burn islands for fun."
He let the flames flare once—burning just enough for pain, not death—and threw the man into the brush.
Silence followed.
Ten ronin lay beaten, scorched, or frozen. None dead.
Ace dusted off his vest.
Gunnar crossed his arms, back to silence, steam rising from his shoulders again.
The crimson-masked ronin, still standing, finally sheathed his blade.
"...You didn't kill us. You could've."
"We came to help," Ace repeated.
Gunnar's voice was low. "Maybe it's time we learn who really flew our flag."