Foosha Village was quiet, just as Victor remembered it.
A warm sea breeze rustled the trees, brushing against old wooden homes and fishing docks weathered by years of salt and sun. The village, nestled at the edge of Dawn Island, had not changed in decades. It was peaceful, far removed from the tides of war and politics that swept the world.
Victor Creed stood at the edge of the shoreline, boots crunching against gravel. He stared at the waves crashing lazily against the dock, arms crossed over his chest. His long white coat swayed with the breeze, the very air around him subdued, calm.
Behind him, the wind-borne silhouette of the Byakko hovered high above the clouds, hidden from sight. Robin remained aboard. She had wanted to come, but Victor had insisted—this was a meeting that had to be his alone.
Garp was waiting.
The Meeting
The old Marine sat beneath a tree near the village's edge, tossing peanuts to a seagull that kept hopping closer and closer. His blue jacket was slung over one shoulder, and his laugh still carried with the same booming strength that had once silenced battlefields.
"About time you showed up, brat," Garp said without looking up.
Victor approached with calm steps, his expression unreadable.
"You said it was important."
"It is," Garp replied. He finally turned to face Victor, his eyes sharp despite the years. "You've been gone two years. The higher-ups thought you'd died. The lower ranks thought you became a ghost story."
"Maybe I did," Victor replied, eyes narrowing.
Garp laughed.
"Still dramatic as ever."
The two stared at each other for a long moment. The air between them was not cold—there was history there, respect forged in battle, in grief, and in choices that still echoed in their bones.
Victor finally broke the silence. "Why did you call me here?"
Garp's smile faded. "Because they're looking at you again. The Phantom Hunter's trail is no longer quiet."
Victor said nothing.
"I don't care what you're doing," Garp added. "Hell, part of me's glad you took that girl in. You know I never agreed with what happened to Ohara."
Victor's gaze dropped briefly. "She's strong. Stronger than they realize."
"And yet," Garp said, voice lower now, "she's still a kid."
Victor nodded. "I know."
There was another pause. The wind picked up, carrying the scent of the sea between them.
"Still using that fancy wind fruit?" Garp asked with a smirk.
Victor rolled his shoulder. "It keeps me airborne."
Garp chuckled. "Show me."
Victor raised a brow. "You want to spar?"
"Not a full brawl. Just enough to see if you're still sharp. I need to know you won't get that girl killed."
Victor looked up, then sighed. "Fine."
The Spar
They stood across from each other in a clearing beside the village. The sea glistened behind them, distant voices of villagers faint and unaware.
Garp made the first move.
With no warning, he launched forward, fist cocked, an ear-splitting grin on his face.
Victor side-stepped, wind bursting around his feet, and caught Garp's wrist mid-swing. Their clash sent a shockwave outward, blowing leaves from trees and forcing birds into flight.
"Not bad," Garp said, twisting his arm and throwing a punch with his free hand.
Victor leaned back, letting the blow pass just inches from his face. With a smooth step, he circled behind the old Marine and delivered a palm strike to his back—tempered, but powerful. Garp stumbled forward, then turned with a laugh.
"Hah! So the boy didn't get soft."
"I've never had the luxury."
They exchanged a few more blows—swift, heavy, filled with control and precision. Neither used their full strength. It was not a fight to win, but a clash of respect, of understanding.
Eventually, Garp dropped his fists and stepped back, breathing evenly.
"You've grown stronger, Victor. More than I expected."
Victor lowered his hands. "And you haven't aged a day."
"Liar," Garp snorted. "I'm older than dirt. But I can still tell when someone's walking a path few can follow."
Victor gave him a quiet nod.
"She's lucky to have you," Garp said at last. "Just don't let that girl drown in the world's darkness. She's not like us yet. Let her be something better."
The Child with the Flame
They sat on the porch of the village tavern afterward, nursing cups of sake. Garp told a few stories—laughing about past missions, slapping Victor on the back hard enough to make the wooden bench creak.
That was when they heard the shout.
"Grandpa Garp!"
A small voice—bright, energetic, and running fast.
Victor turned to see a boy racing toward them, barefoot and covered in dirt. His black hair was messy, eyes wide with mischief. He couldn't have been older than five.
He came to a skidding halt, panting.
"Who's this guy?" the boy asked, pointing at Victor.
Garp chuckled. "This is an old friend. Victor."
Victor gave a polite nod. "And who might you be?"
The boy puffed out his chest. "Ace. Portgas D. Ace!"
Victor blinked.
That name…
"I'm gonna be a pirate!" Ace declared with a grin that almost mirrored Garp's. "The best there ever was!"
Victor exchanged a glance with Garp, who merely sipped his drink.
"And I'm never gonna die," Ace added with a laugh.
Victor leaned forward. "That's a dangerous dream, Ace. The sea isn't kind to those who underestimate it."
"I don't care," Ace said defiantly. "I'll beat it. No one can tell me what to do!"
Victor watched the boy carefully. There was fire in his spirit—wild and untamed. A quiet storm brewing beneath that smile.
"Why do you want to be a pirate?" Victor asked.
Ace's smile faltered, just for a second.
"Because I want to know if I was meant to be born."
The words hit Victor like a blow.
He stared at the boy, unsure of what to say.
Garp looked away.
Departure
Later that evening, Victor stood at the edge of the docks, eyes on the sky. The sun had begun to set, painting the ocean in shades of gold and crimson.
Robin's voice crackled through the wind-dial communicator clipped to his coat.
"Victor. Everything alright?"
He pressed the button. "I'm on my way back."
"Did you see your friend?"
"I did."
"…Did he help?"
Victor hesitated.
"Yes. In his own way."
He paused again, then added, "I met a boy today. His name is Ace."
Silence on the other end.
"Something about him reminds me of you," Victor said softly.
"How so?"
"He's angry. But he doesn't know why yet."
There was a quiet breath from Robin.
"Maybe… you can show him what it means to choose your own path."
"Maybe," Victor said.
With that, he stepped off the edge of the dock.
The wind surged upward, catching him like an old friend. He flew into the sky, toward the distant shimmer of the Byakko.
The stars were beginning to shine.
The world, once again, was moving.
Closing Note
Back in Foosha Village, Garp sat alone beneath the stars. Ace had fallen asleep on his lap, clutching a wooden toy boat.
The old Marine looked up toward the sky, where a single streak of cloud trailed faintly in the air—evidence of wind passing by.
"Keep flying, boy," Garp whispered. "But don't forget… the world's watching."
And somewhere above the clouds, the Phantom Hunter soared into the night, with a flame in his memory and the weight of a future that refused to be ignored.