Foosha Village was quiet in the late afternoon, bathed in amber light as the sun began its descent over the sea. The breeze carried the smell of salt and warm grass, ruffling the trees and sending the clotheslines dancing between small houses. Birds chirped lazily above, and the only sounds in the distance were the soft clinks of fishermen unloading their late-day catch and children's laughter spilling from behind the tavern.
Victor Creed walked through the village with the ghost of a smile on his face. He had taken off his coat, leaving only a dark shirt and trousers, his sleeves rolled just past his forearms. His white hair had been tied back casually, a quiet defiance against the chaos he had waded through for most of his life. It had been too long since he'd seen Garp — the man who raised him into a warrior, a teacher, and something bordering on a good man.
They'd spoken little when Victor arrived. Garp had greeted him with a loud laugh and a hearty slap on the back before ushering him behind the tavern and straight into a sparring match — just like old times.
Now, the match was over.
Victor leaned against the wooden railing of the pier, the fresh welts on his arms slowly fading, a thin line of blood drying at the corner of his mouth. Garp had landed a few good ones. The old man still had it.
Footsteps padded behind him.
"You still punch like a sea train," Victor said without turning.
Garp chuckled, stuffing a new piece of rice cracker into his mouth. "And you still dodge like a show-off."
Victor exhaled through his nose. "Thanks for calling me out here. I needed the reminder."
Garp gave a rare nod, something close to paternal pride flickering behind his grin. "You've changed, Victor. You don't carry that same weight in your stance."
"I carry different weight now," Victor said softly.
Garp glanced at him sideways. "The girl?"
Victor gave a small, solemn nod. "She's not a weapon. She's not a monster. She's a survivor."
There was a pause.
Then, a sound tugged at the wind.
A small, boisterous laugh. It was wild and unshaped, like a match struck in the dark.
Victor turned his head slightly.
At the edge of the field near the tavern, a boy with black hair and freckles was crouched low behind a crate, clearly trying to sneak up on a chicken with a long stick. The chicken noticed — and promptly pecked him on the forehead, making him yelp and fall back with a grin.
Victor's brows lifted. "That your grandson?"
Garp looked, then burst out laughing. "He wishes. That's Ace."
Victor narrowed his eyes. "Portgas D. Ace?"
"Yep. Son of Rouge." Garp said it simply, but the air behind his words was loaded with something unsaid. "His mother died shortly after birth."
Victor studied the boy longer. There was something... untamed about him. His stance. His eyes. His spirit. All caged behind a small frame, but already straining at the bars.
"Where's his father?" Victor asked carefully.
Garp didn't answer immediately. "Gone."
Victor didn't press. It wasn't his place. But his Observation Haki, always simmering under the surface, picked up a storm of emotion behind that answer.
The boy noticed them watching and walked over with that defiant stride only five-year-olds with something to prove could master.
"You look strong," Ace said to Victor, squinting up at him. "Are you a fighter?"
Victor knelt down, eye-level with him. "Sometimes. Are you?"
"I will be," Ace said proudly. "I'm gonna be strong enough that nobody can ever tell me what to do."
Victor gave a small smile. "Good goal. Got a name?"
"Portgas D. Ace," he said loudly, sticking out his chin. "Who're you?"
Victor paused. Then, with a faint smirk, "Just a traveler."
Ace looked at Garp, then back at Victor. "You and Gramps fight?"
Victor nodded. "He hit harder when I was younger."
Garp laughed again. "Liar. I'm just pacing myself."
Victor turned back to Ace. "You got any dreams, Ace?"
Ace paused, his freckled face screwing up in thought. "...To find out if I should've been born."
The air shifted. Victor blinked, stunned by the rawness in the child's words.
Garp tensed beside him, but said nothing.
Victor studied Ace. This boy carried something dark. Something burning inside him. Not hate — but a need to prove his right to exist.
Victor knelt deeper. "I don't know your story, Ace. But I do know this. You were born. And that alone is proof enough that you were meant to live."
Ace looked at him curiously, his small fists unclenching slightly.
"You don't have to earn your place in this world by fighting everyone who doubts you," Victor added. "Sometimes, the strongest thing you can do is protect the people who believe in you."
Ace stared for a moment longer. Then gave a small, toothy grin.
"You talk weird," he said.
Victor chuckled. "Yeah. I do."
Ace ran off again, chasing another chicken.
Garp watched him go. "He doesn't know who his father was. And I'd like to keep it that way... at least for now."
Victor nodded. "That's your call. But keep an eye on him. He's got something inside him that can either be a fire of justice... or a wildfire of destruction."
Garp didn't disagree. "The world won't let him live quietly."
Victor looked up at the reddening sky. "It never does."
They stood there for a long while, the sun touching the sea, painting gold across the waters. Eventually, Garp broke the silence.
"Are you staying the night?"
Victor shook his head. "Robin's waiting."
Garp gave a grunt. "That girl... she's lucky to have you. And you, her. The world won't give either of you peace."
"Then we'll carve out our own," Victor said.
The walk back was quiet.
Victor passed through the small trails and open fields of Foosha, lifting a hand in quiet thanks to the village folk who nodded at him. He didn't give a name. They didn't ask. Just the way he liked it.
When he reached the edge of the village, a gust of wind curled at his feet, lifting leaves and dust. With a flex of his fingers, the gust grew. Then soared.
High above, the Byakko descended from the clouds like a phantom, silent and imposing.
Robin waited at the railing, her eyes lighting up as she spotted him.
Victor landed lightly on the deck beside her.
"You're back," she said.
Victor nodded. "Had a chat with an old friend."
Robin smiled faintly, studying his face. "You look like someone who just remembered something important."
"I did," Victor said, his voice quiet.
"What was it?"
He looked at her. "Why I keep fighting."
She didn't respond right away. But then she took his hand, her fingers warm against his.
"Let's go, then," she said softly. "Where to next?"
Victor looked up, the wind gathering again around the ship's turbines.
"Wherever the road leads," he said. "But first... let's rise."
The Byakko's engines thrummed to life. The propellers spun. The wind gathered under the hull like a storm being cradled. And slowly, steadily, the ship ascended — into the clouds, into the unknown.
Behind them, Foosha Village grew smaller. But the fire they'd found there — the spark in a child's eyes — stayed with them.
Far below, on the edge of the dock, a small boy with a freckled face watched the ship vanish into the sky.
And he smiled.