The Moby Dick drifted into a sunlit cove, sails slack and anchor dropped. On deck, the crew moved about in relaxed chore—Haruta teaching Rakuyo a card game, Vista sharpening swords, Marco kneeling over a weld, blue flames flickering. Gunnar sat at the rail, his bare feet swinging, eyes fixed on sunlight dancing on the water. The IV stand was gone; Marco had decided Gunnar could manage without its support now, though the faint tracings on his arms.
A shadow fell across him. Gunnar looked up into the calm, deep-set eyes of Jinbei, the Knight of the Sea. The fish-man's broad frame was wrapped in a karate gi, folds dipping into his powerful tail-fin.
"Morning, Gunnar-kun," Jinbei rumbled, voice warm as surf on stone. "I hear you've awakened from quite the long sleep."
Gunnar's golden eyes widened, a tentative smile forming. "Ohayō, Jinbei-san. Yes… very long."
Jinbei settled beside him, careful not to crowd. "The crew's overjoyed. Like spring after winter's end."
Gunnar watched them: laughter over card hands, polished swords glinting, Marco's gentle scold to a misbehaving spark. "They're… loud," he said, voice soft but amused. "And… kind."
"Aye," Jinbei nodded. "Boisterous, loyal—and you belong here now."
Silence fell. Then Jinbei's tone turned gentle, inquisitive. "I wasn't at Ikki Island, but I've heard what happened."
Gunnar's gaze dropped to his arms. Under his skin, veins shone faintly. "I… don't remember much. Just the pain. Before I slept, they held with experiments."
Jinbei's jaw softened. "There are places cruel enough to break anyone. But here—on this ship—Oyaji built a home. A family where even the lost are welcome."
"Why?" Gunnar's voice cracked. "Why does Father… why do you all care? I was a subject… broken."
Jinbei stared at the horizon, considering. "Whitebeard-oyabun sees potential where others see scars. He took in a fish-man, a giant child… me and you. He asks nothing but loyalty—and to be called 'Father.'"
He turned back with a gentle smile. "He maybe seen something in you. But I think, he simply knew you needed a family, and he could give you one."
Gunnar absorbed the words, heart warm. "So it's not because I… grew into a titan, or because of this?" He tapped his arm.
"Those are just labels," Jinbei said. "Circumstances. What matters is his choice—pure and simple. That's the Whitebeard way: family by heart, not blood."
A soft breeze carried the ship's creaks and distant laughter. Gunnar closed his eyes, feeling the salty air fill him with peace.
"Thank you, Jinbei-san," he whispered.
Jinbei placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder.
***
Few days later,
The Moby Dick had anchored near a newly charted island. Landing parties were being formed, with the more boisterous pirates already arguing over who got to explore which crumbling temple first.
Gunnar watched from the railing, his small hands gripping the weathered wood. His legs ached from just the short walk from the infirmary. While he could walk now, it was a slow, painstaking process. Each step required immense concentration and effort, his muscles still relearning, the mutations weren't cured enough in his system.
The thought of trekking through potentially treacherous ruins, keeping up with the energetic strides of his pirate brothers, filled him with a quiet frustration.
He sighed, a small sound lost in the general hubbub, and turned away from the railing. "Guess I'll just… stay here," he murmured to himself, already planning to find a quiet spot with a book Marco had given him.
"Not planning on joining the treasure hunt, little anchor?"
Gunnar looked up. Whitebeard stood before him, his massive frame momentarily blocking the sun. The Emperor's golden eyes, though tired, held a knowing gentleness.
"It's… it's a long walk, Father," Gunnar admitted, his gaze dropping to his own unsteady feet. "I'd… slow everyone down." The words were quiet, tinged with a disappointment he tried to hide.
Whitebeard let out a soft rumble, not his booming laugh, but a gentler sound. He looked at Gunnar. He knew that stubborn pride, that unwillingness to be a burden; he saw so much of himself, in this small, remarkable child.
Without a word, Whitebeard bent down, a slow, deliberate movement. He then scooped Gunnar up with surprising gentleness, settling the boy onto his broad, powerful shoulder. Gunnar, startled, let out a small yelp, instinctively grabbing onto Whitebeard's thick, white crescent mustache for balance, much to the amusement of a few nearby pirates.
"Gurarara!" Whitebeard chuckled, the sound vibrating through Gunnar. "Slow us down, will you? Nonsense. You'll have the best view in the house. And besides," he added, his voice softening, "this old man could use the company of his wisest son on a stroll through some dusty old rocks."
Gunnar's face flushed, a mixture of embarrassment and a burgeoning, shy delight. Perched on Whitebeard's shoulder, the world looked entirely different. He was high above everyone, the wind ruffling his crimson and white hair. The journey that had seemed daunting now felt like an exciting adventure.
They joined one of the landing parties, though Whitebeard's presence naturally made it his party. The other pirates, while initially surprised, quickly fell into their usual boisterous chatter, though they gave their captain and his small passenger a respectful berth.
The ruins were magnificent, albeit decaying. Crumbling stone walls, covered in strange, indecipherable carvings, rose from the sands. Broken pillars lay like fallen giants. A sense of immense age and forgotten stories hung heavy in the air.
As they walked, or rather, as Whitebeard walked, carrying Gunnar, the Emperor would point out details, his voice a low rumble, weaving tales from the cryptic carvings and the silent stones.
"See those markings, Gunnar?" he'd say, gesturing with a massive hand towards a faded relief. "They speak of a people who worshipped the sea, not as a conqueror, but as a giver of life. They believed krakens were messengers from their gods." He'd then recount a story of a youthful encounter with a particularly grumpy kraken, much to Gunnar's wide-eyed fascination.
He pointed to a series of circular indentations in a massive, flat stone. "This, I'd wager, was a star chart. These old civilizations, they knew the sky almost as well as they knew the sea. Navigated by whispers the stars told them." He'd then try to explain some basic celestial navigation, though his explanations often devolved into amusing anecdotes about getting lost with a particularly inept navigator in his younger days.
Gunnar listened, captivated. His father's voice, though sometimes strained, was rich with experience, with the weight of a thousand adventures.
At one point, they reached a partially collapsed amphitheater. Whitebeard carefully lowered Gunnar to sit on a smooth, sun-warmed stone. He then sat beside him, the ancient structure groaning slightly under his weight.
"They would gather here," Whitebeard mused, looking out at the empty stage. "Tell stories, sing songs, perhaps even argue about who had the biggest fish. Just like my own rowdy sons, eh? Gurarara!"
Gunnar leaned his head against his father's massive arm, the faint scent of sea salt and old battles strangely comforting. "Did you… explore a lot of ruins when you were younger, Father?"
"Aye, lad," Whitebeard said, a nostalgic glint in his eye. "The world is full of forgotten places, each with a story to tell if you're patient enough to listen. Some hold treasure, true. But the real treasure… is the knowing. Understanding those who came before." He looked down at Gunnar. "And sharing those stories with those who will come after."
[A/N: I think I blew up the father-son chapter. Maybe i will do better next time. Seesh!]
[We're gonna pick up pace from next chapter. Get ready guys]