Marco, the First Division Commander of the Whitebeard Pirates and the man who knew Edward Newgate better than anyone alive, once believed he had learned every secret his Oyaji ever carried. He was wrong.
It happened late one night—long before the war, long before fate stole Ace and tore their world apart. Whitebeard’s sickness had begun sinking deeper into his bones, and Marco visited his captain’s quarters for a routine checkup. The room was dim, lit only by a lantern swaying with the Moby Dick's rhythm. Marco worked quietly, checking IV lines and listening to the old man’s breathing.
Then Whitebeard spoke—voice low, rough, almost hesitant.
“Marco. There’s something you need to know.”
Marco paused mid-check, brows furrowing. “Oyaji—save your strength. You can tell me in the morning-yoi.”
“No," Whitebeard rumbled, a rare seriousness cutting through his usual warmth. "Not morning. Now.”
Marco straightened, concern flickering across his face. “What is it-yoi?”
Whitebeard looked toward the window, toward the horizon he had chased all his life. “I have a daughter.”
Marco’s breath caught. “A… daughter? Oyaji—since when—?”
“Since before I ever raised this flag,” Whitebeard said softly. “She grew up on Sphinx Island. Peaceful girl. Strong. Not in the way of pirates—but in the way of people who love their home enough to protect it quietly.”
Marco had never seen the old man look so vulnerable. “She didn’t want this life,” Whitebeard continued. “And I wouldn’t drag her into it. So I kept her safe. Hidden. Away from enemies. Away from the world.”
Marco swallowed, the weight of this revelation sinking in. “Why are you telling me this now-yoi?”
Whitebeard’s eyes softened with the kind of affection he reserved only for his sons. “Because you…you are the one I trust most. If anything happens to me—you’re the one who’ll make sure she isn’t alone.”
Marco felt his heartbeat spike. “Oyaji—”
“Promise me,” Whitebeard said. “If I die, you’ll find her. Look after her. Marry her if she allows it. Be her shield. Be her family.”
The room fell silent except for the gentle creak of the ship.
Marco’s voice came out rougher than he meant. “…I promise-yoi.”
Whitebeard smiled, slow and proud. “Good. She’ll need someone like you.”
Those were the words Marco could never forget.
And now, after the war, after the loss, after placing flowers on the graves of Ace and the man who raised him, Marco walks alone through Sphinx Island.
The air is warm. The wind smells like citrus and sea salt—Whitebeard’s final request pounds in his chest with every step.
He follows the winding path uphill just as Oyaji described. And there it is:
A house tucked deep into a meadow overflowing with wildflowers—pinks, yellows, blues dancing in the breeze. A small animal pen where bunnies hop lazily and chickens wander freely. A fat white cat sleeps in the sun, tail flicking. A flourishing garden grows in neat rows: fruits, vegetables, and herbs. More flowers than Marco has seen in years sway softly like they’re welcoming him.
This place feels alive. Loved. Safe. Just like Whitebeard said.
Marco stands before the home of the woman he promised to protect—the daughter Whitebeard treasured but kept hidden from the world. A woman who has no idea her father’s final wish is walking up her hill right now, fire in his veins and a ring of responsibility weighing on his heart.
He lifts his hand to knock—steady, calm, but undeniably nervous—carrying a promise that changed the course of his life forever.