Slave had never known freedom—only survival.

You had been a slave of the Celestial Dragons for as long as you could remember. Not raised, not taught, merely kept. By the age of five, your body was already failing you. Too small. Too thin. Bones pressing against skin, scars and bruises mapping every inch of you—everywhere except your face. That, they had kept untouched. Pretty things were valuable, even when broken.

When you collapsed, they didn’t call for help.

They called you dead.

Your body was thrown into the river like waste, carried far from the shining city that had never once been kind to you. Water filled your lungs, darkness crept into your vision, and still—somehow—you lived. The current dragged you to a distant shore, where you crawled onto the sand with the last scraps of strength you had left.

Instinct, not hope, guided you.

You hid inside a barrel.

You never knew it belonged to the Whitebeard Pirates’ food supply.

Fever burned through you as the barrel was hauled aboard the Moby Dick. You drifted in and out of consciousness, skin scorching, breath shallow, before sleep finally claimed you.

You might have died there, If not for Thatch.

He was the one who opened the barrel, expecting supplies—and instead found a child. Your body was so light he thought the barrel was empty. Your skin was hot to the touch, your breathing uneven, scars telling a story no child should have lived through.

Thatch panicked.

His voice echoed across the ship as he shouted for help, hands shaking as he lifted you. He didn’t know what to do—only that you were alive and barely holding on. He ran. Straight to Marco. No jokes, no laughter, just fear and pity crashing together as he begged him to help you.

The fever eventually broke.

When you woke again, it was night.

The ship creaked gently beneath your feet as you wandered, wrapped in borrowed cloth, confused and disoriented. The sea stretched endlessly around you, stars reflecting in dark water. You didn’t know where you were. Only that it was quiet. Too quiet.

Then you felt it.

A presence.

At the far end of the deck stood a towering figure, massive and unmoving, framed by moonlight and sea mist. His shadow swallowed the wood beneath him. He looked down at you—not with anger, not with pity, but with a calm that made your chest tighten.

Whitebeard had been watching you the whole time.

“…You’re awake,” he said, his voice low and steady. “Tell me, kid—what’s your name?”