Chapter Text
Chapter 5: Roads Untraveled
The hull of their small boat scraped against a gnarled mangrove root with a final, jarring thud. The vibration shot up through the soles of Y/N’s feet, a stark end to the gentle rhythm of the sea.
For days, their world had been two things: the endless blue and the shared space of the boat. The creak of the oars, the pattern of the stars, the silent way they’d learned to move around each other—it had built its own fragile reality. That reality shattered as the noise of Sabaody Archipelago hit her like a physical blow.
After the stark silence of the Calm Belt, her senses recoiled. Dockworkers shouted. Pirates laughed, already deep into their morning drinks. A hammer clanged against metal with a rhythm that pounded directly into her skull. The air was a thick soup of smells—tar, frying fish, overripe fruit, unwashed bodies, and underneath it all, the faint, coppery hint of blood. Overwhelmed, she took an involuntary step back, her shoulder bumping solidly into Macro's chest.
Macro’s hand was on her elbow, his grip firm and grounding. "Steady," he said, his voice low, meant only for her. But when she glanced at his face, the calm, watchful mask he’d worn for their journey was gone. His storm-blue eyes were in constant, sharp motion, assessing every face, every shadowed alley, every ship's rigging. He was no longer her fellow castaway; he was a pirate re-entering his world .
"Stay close," he commanded, his tone leaving no room for argument. "This place preys on the unaware and the vulnerable . Don't make eye contact. Don't give anyone a reason to remember your face."
He helped her out of the boat. Her Lunarian sandals felt absurdly thin on the rough, damp root. As he secured the mooring line with a series of efficient, practiced knots, her gaze swept over the scene, trying to impose order on the chaos. It was a brutal ecosystem. Pirates swaggered under Jolly Rogers she didn't recognize, their confidence a palpable force. The ordinary people of Sabaody—shopkeepers, barmaids, laborers—navigated it all with a weary, practiced indifference.
This was the gateway to the New World. The place she had fought so hard to reach. And staring into its roaring, chaotic heart, a primal part of her screamed to get back in the boat and row until the world was quiet again.
I made it. So why do I feel like I’m stepping off a cliff?
Macro turned back to her, hefting his pack with the precious medicinal plants. He didn't smile. His expression was all hard lines and focused intensity. "Ready?"
No. She was not ready. But she gave a tight, jerky nod anyway.
——
They moved into the grove, a tiny island of two in a seething sea of strangers. He walked slightly ahead, his body a living shield, and she was acutely aware of the space he occupied, the way people subtly moved aside for him. But she could feel the distance opening between them already, not in feet, but in focus.
As he navigated the crowded, winding path, One moment he was just Marco, a tired man walking through a crowded port. The next, a torrent of power, raw and incandescent, exploded from his core. It was a feeling so sudden and so vast it was vertigo-inducing. It was like a sun igniting inside his chest after a long, cold eclipse.
A searing, blissful heat flooded his veins, scouring away the deep-seated weariness in an instant. The subtle, nagging ache of dehydration that had plagued him for days vanished, replaced by a vibrant, thrumming vitality. He glanced down, his eyes widening in shock, as the raw, blistered skin on his palms shimmered with a faint blue light for a fraction of a second. When it faded, the calluses were gone, the skin smooth and whole, as if the days of grueling labor had never happened.
Most startling was his mind. The fog of exhaustion, the subtle dulling of his senses, was violently burned away. His thoughts became razor-sharp, his awareness expanding with a clarity that was almost painful. The world snapped into hyper-focused detail—the grain of the wood beneath his feet, the individual threads in a passerby's coat, the complex harmonics of a hundred different conversations happening at once. It was the return of the Phoenix, not as a flicker, but as a roaring conflagration, instantly and violently healing every minor physical insult he had accumulated in her presence.
The sheer, sudden rightness of it, the overwhelming return of his true nature, was immediately followed by a single, terrifying, undeniable realization.
He was whole again because he was far enough away from her.
The cage was open.. The cage was opening.
His head snapped around, his heart seizing in his chest. His eyes, wide with a dawning, cold horror, scanned the space beside him.
It was empty.
Y/N was gone.
The panic that lanced through him was sharp and alien. His gaze, now wild and desperate, raked across the crowd, seeking a glimpse of her simple Lunarian tunic, her determined yet perpetually scared face.
"Y/N?" he called out, his voice cutting through the din. There was no answer, only the indifferent roar of the port.
She has no money, not a single berry. She's stubborn and scared and has no idea what's really hunting her.
The worst-case scenarios unfolded in his mind. Slavers would see a young woman, alone and disoriented, and she'd be in chains before she could scream. A sharp-eyed Marine might recognize the description of an escapee from the Holy Land. Or the unthinkable: the sleek, silent ships of the Celestial Dragons. She'd be a curiosity, a toy, or delivered to Vegapunk's lab to be dissected and understood. They would destroy her. They would take that brave, battered spirit and grind it into dust until nothing was left but the terrifying power she contained.
He had to find her. Now.
He stopped dead in the middle of the thoroughfare, becoming an obstacle. He ignored the curses and shoves. He closed his eyes and pushed his Observation Haki to its absolute limit. He cast a wide, fine net of awareness over the entire grove, searching, straining for the unique, quiet presence he'd grown so accustomed to. He sought the 'silence' that she carried with her, the void where the breath of all things simply ceased to be.
He found… nothing.
Not a trace. Not even a whisper. His Haki, was utterly, completely blind to her.
She doesn't just nullify Devil Fruits, he realized, the full, horrifying implication sinking into him like a stone in deep, dark water. Her powers are the void itself.
A null zone in the very fabric of this world . And he, Marco the Phoenix, a man who could find a single ship in a storm, had lost her.
"Damn it," he whispered, the words a raw scrape in his throat. He opened his eyes, his gaze sweeping the chaotic grove one more time. The vibrant, teeming world around him suddenly felt like a vast, hungry mouth. And he had just willingly fed it the most vulnerable, most valuable person he had ever encountered.
——-
The walk to the secluded cove where the Moby Dick was anchored was the longest of Marco's life. Each step was a conscious effort, as if he were dragging chains wrapped around his soul. The familiar, beloved sight of his home—the massive, whale-like ship with its proud white sails and the smiling, crescent-mustached Jolly Roger—usually filled him with an immediate sense of peace and belonging. Today, it felt like a stark, silent accusation.
He crossed the familiar gangplank, his footsteps echoing with a hollow sound on the weather-beaten wood. The moment his boots touched the sacred deck, a roar of celebration erupted from the crew gathered there.
"Marco's back!"
"Look who finally decided to show up! You're late, commander!"
"Did you get the stuff for Pops?"
His brothers swarmed him, their faces alight with genuine joy and relief. Calloused hands clapped him on the back, rough and affectionate. He saw Thatch's familiar, grinning face; Izo's elegant, precise nod from near the railing; Haruta already darting forward, trying to peek into his pack. This was his family. This was his world.
But he couldn't muster a smile. His responses were muted, automatic. "Yeah, I'm back. Got the plants." His eyes, however, were distant, scanning the crowd of his beloved siblings not for their familiar faces, but for one that wasn't there, that couldn't possibly be there. The celebration, the warmth, the overwhelming love—it all felt like it was happening on the other side of a thick, soundproof pane of glass. He was separate from it, trapped in a cold, silent bubble of his own making.
Whitebeard, seated on his massive throne at the far end of the deck, took one long, penetrating look at his first son. He saw the uncharacteristic tension in Marco's shoulders, the storm of self-recrimination brewing in his usually calm eyes, the way his attempted smile was a brittle, fragile thing. The boisterous celebration began to die down as the crew, sensitive to the mood of their father and their commander, sensed the profound shift.
"Everyone, stop," Whitebeard boomed, his voice leaving no room for argument. The command, laced with just a hint of Conqueror's Haki, vibrated through the deck timbers. "I need to speak with my son. Alone."
The jovial mood sobered instantly. No one questioned it. With worried glances and hushed murmurs, the commanders and crew filed out, leaving the vast main deck eerily quiet. Thatch gave Marco one last, deeply searching look before following the others below.
The silence that descended was heavy, broken only by the gentle creak of the ship and the muffled sounds of Sabaody.
——-
The moment the distraction came—a cart laden with exotic fruit overturning, sending a splash of color and chaos through the crowd—Y/N acted. It wasn't a conscious decision; it was the culmination of days of simmering fear, a survival instinct screaming at her to run, hide, disappearbefore the walls of another cage could close. While Macro's head was turned, assessing the commotion with a warrior's focus, she took two steps back, then three, and melted into the deep, shadowed gap between two bustling stalls. She didn't allow herself to look back.
Her heart hammered against her ribs, but her mind was cold, clear, and terrifyingly focused. He's a good man. I believe that. But I’m doing what is best for him and for me . I can't risk my mission, the entire reason I'm here, for a temporary safe harbor. I can't let anyone else dictate my path again. Not ever.
Her first priority was to become someone else, someone invisible. She found a quiet, grimy alcove near a dripping drainage pipe. Using dark mud, charcoal from a cold firepit, and the staining juice from crushed berries, she got to work on her own destruction. She didn't try to make herself beautiful or ordinary. She made herself unappealing, repulsive. She painted a web of fake, weeping scars across one cheek and her forehead, using the charcoal to add depth and the berry juice to simulate a nasty infection. She worked the dirt deep into her skin and under her fingernails. She tore at her hair, messing it into a greasy, tangled nest. When she finally dared to look at her reflection in a stagnant puddle, a disfigured, half-staved person stared back. It was perfect. It was armor.
The power was a problem. In the Calm Belt, its thirty-foot radius hadn't mattered. Here, in the crowded groves, it was a beacon. Any Devil Fruit user who passed too close would feel their power stutter and die. She couldn't afford to be memorable.
Her power was a liability here. In the open sea, its silent radius had been irrelevant. In the teeming groves of Sabaody, it was a flare. Any Devil Fruit user who walked within thirty feet of her would feel their ability wink out. She couldn't afford that kind of attention.
Y/N found a cramped space between two storage shacks, the air thick with the smell of rot and salt. She had to try. Her power's constant, thirty-foot radius was a danger here. It would announce her to any Devil Fruit user like a struck bell.
She focused, trying to pull the nullifying energy inward, to compress it against her skin. She pushed with her mind, straining against the invisible boundary. It was like trying to shrink a stone wall by wishing it smaller. The field pushed back, solid and unyielding. Minutes passed, marked only by the building pressure behind her eyes and the sweat trickling down her temples. Nothing changed.
A sharp, frustrated sound escaped her. She threw her will against the barrier one last time, a final, desperate shove.
And something broke.
Not the field. Something inside her. A mental barrier she hadn't known was there shattered, and with a sudden, almost painful clarity, she could feel it. The exact, fifteen-foot perimeter of her power was now as defined in her senses as the outline of her own body. She could feel where the world's energy faded into nothing and began again.
She sat there, breathing heavily. She hadn't won. She couldn't change the radius, couldn't shrink it by an inch. But now she knew its precise, unchangeable dimensions. It was a cold comfort, but it was knowledge. And in a place like Sabaody, even knowing the shape of your own cage was a form of power.
———
Marco followed his captain into his spacious, well-appointed cabin. The room smelled of old wood, high-quality sake, and the faint, clean scent of ozone that always clung to the world's strongest man. It was a place of strategy, of refuge.
Here, in the deep privacy of this room, Marco's composure finally cracked.
He didn't slump or cry. The fracture was in the way he leaned heavily against the massive map table, his head bowed, his fingers pressing white-knuckled into the polished wood. The story poured out of him then, in a low, relentless, unadorned stream.
He told him everything. The successful retrieval of the plants. The long flight back, the decision to take the shortcut over the Calm Belt. The glimpse of a boat. The fall. The shocking, gut-wrenching moment his flames snuffed out and he crashed onto the deck. The girl, Y/N, sunburned and skeletal, dying under a brutal sun.
He described her power—not as a weapon she wields, but as a state of being. A field of absolute void that cancels Devil Fruits . The long, grinding days adrift. The shared struggle. Her stubbornness. The CP9 agents, and the way she'd known their names. The Sea Kings, their silent escort, and the way one had looked only at her.
"It's not just Devil Fruits, Pops," he said, his voice raw. "After she disappeared, I tried to find her with Observation Haki. I pushed it as far as I could. Nothing. It's like she doesn't exist. She nullifies everything. Devil Fruits. Haki. It just… stops where she is."
He finally looked up, meeting his father's deep, knowing gaze. The weight of his regret was a physical presence.
"And I lost her out here in the worst place for someone with her powers .” The words were a confession. "I should have told her. 'I'm Marco of the Whitebeard Pirates, and my captain will keep you safe.' But I was a commander assessing a catastrophic variable. I was protecting the crew. I didn't trust her with the truth. And now… she's alone. Completely helpless. If her powers are discovered ,every monster in the world would tear the seas apart to get their hands on her. They would wage wars for her. This… this is on me."
Whitebeard listened. He didn't interrupt, didn't offer hollow platitudes. He simply absorbed the story, his massive, scarred hands steepled, his gaze fixed on Marco. He let the silence hang after his son finished, a respectful space for the gravity of the tale to settle.
"This girl… Y/N…" Whitebeard rumbled finally, his voice a low vibration. “She will shake the world , one way or another , this world's balance is changing.” He leaned forward slightly. “Whoever will hold her loyalty will hold the power to control the world's greatest strengths. The balance of power now rests on the shoulders of a single, frightened girl."
He looked at Marco, his expression softening from that of a grand strategist to that of a father. "Your worry is valid, Marco. But you are not a failure." The words were simple, direct, and carried the weight of absolute truth. "You acted as the First Division Commander of the Whitebeard Pirates. You looked out for us, for this family, by assessing a threat you could not understand. And in the same breath, you showed compassion, wanting what was best for her, offering her protection when you were under no obligation to do so. That balance—between the duty of a commander and the heart of a protector—is a difficult path to walk. You walked it with honor. That is what makes you my son."
He sighed, a sound full of the weight of ages. "We will search for her. But our time here is short. There are troubles brewing in the New World. We cannot linger."
He laid out the plan with crisp efficiency. "We have two days. Send out the commanders with Devil Fruits and know how to use Haki. Their orders are to find a young woman, alone, likely frightened. The goal is not to capture. It is to offer sanctuary. A place to rest, to heal, to learn. To give her the strength to protect herself, so that no one can ever use her as a tool again. She must not fall into the hands of the Government or the other Emperors."
He paused, his gaze holding Marco's. "But after two days, we sail with her or without her . We have a wider family to protect. Her fate, for now, is her own to chooseand we will face the storm when it gets here as a family .”
It was a painful, practical balance. Marco knew it was the best he would get. He nodded, the weight on his shoulders now shared. "Thank you, Pops."
"Go," Whitebeard said, gesturing toward the door. "Mobilize your brothers."
——
The meeting room felt suffocating. Marco stood before his fellow commanders—Jozu, Izo, Blenheim, Vista, Thatch, and Haruta. He had just finished laying out the bare facts, his voice a hollow monotone that failed to mask the turmoil beneath.
Haruta, ever unable to read a somber mood, let out a low whistle. "So let me get this straight. You, the unflappable Marco, got outmaneuvered by a girl who was half-dead a week ago? She must be something else."
Thatch, leaning against the wall, added with a familiar, teasing grin. "Come on, Marco. Spill it. What's she really like? You’ve been scowling and miserable . Did she steal your heart along with your fire?"
The last thread of Marco’s composure snapped.
He slammed his hands flat on the wooden table, the crack echoing like a gunshot in the sudden silence. "Enough!" The word wasn't a shout; it was a low, guttural roar, vibrating with a fury and despair that made even Jozu stiffen. Marco’s eyes, usually calm and lazy, were blazing.
"You think this is funny, A joke?" He straightened up, his voice dropping into something cold and deadly. "That 'defenseless woman' you're joking about is out there right now, alone, with a target on her back the size of the Red Line. She isn't a conquest. She's a person. A sick, terrified person who is being hunted by cypher pol right now, and she's drowning in a power she never wanted or know how to control!”
He swept his gaze across all of them, his chest heaving. "Do you have any idea what they would do to her if they find her again? Or if someone else does? Big Mom would cage her and either force her to marry into her family and use her powers . Kaido will give her to Queen and we all know that Queen would break her. But the World Government... They wouldn't just use her. They would take her apart. They would strap her to a table in some Vegapunk lab and experiment on her until they could replicate that nullification. They would turn her into a weapon. A soulless, mass-produced tool to eradicate every Devil Fruit user, every Haki-wielder who dares to defy them. Starting with us!"
The raw, visceral image hung in the air, silencing any remaining hint of amusement. Marco’s voice cracked, the commander's mask slipping to reveal the sheer, terrified dread underneath. "She doesn't need your jokes. She needs help. And I lost her. I let her walk into that jungle because I was too much of a coward to tell her who I am. So you will listen to me now, not as your brother, but as your First Division Commander."
He leaned in, his voice a desperate, fervent whisper. "This is not a request. Find her. Before anyone else does. This secret dies with us. If it gets out, we won't just be signing her death warrant—we'll be unleashing a hell on the seas that none of us will survive. Do you understand me?"
The room was utterly still. Thatch's face was pale, all traces of humor gone. He gave a slow, solemn nod. "Understood, Commander."
"Good," Marco said, the fire in his eyes banked to smoldering coals. He took a deliberate breath, forcing his tone back to something resembling tactical calm. "There's one more thing. If any of you spot her, you do not approach her as Whitebeard Pirates. You do not call me 'Marco' or 'Commander' within earshot. You signal me immediately, and you stand down."
Izo's eyebrow arched in quiet question. "You believe she would run from our banner?"
"She's running from everything," Marco stated, the certainty in his voice born of their days adrift. "She's paranoid, and for good reason. The name 'Whitebeard' might be too big, too loud. It might scare her right back into the shadows." He gestured to his own face, now bare of the scarf, and his unbuttoned tunic that showed the Jolly Roger. "I will recover my hair, cover the mark. I will approach her as 'Macro'. It's the only identity she trusts, even if that trust is fragile. The revelation of who I am... who we are... that has to come from me, carefully, and alone. It's the only chance we have of her not bolting."
The commanders exchanged looks, understanding the nuance. It was a delicate operation, not just a military one.
"Fine," Jozu rumbled. "We find her, we signal you. You talk."
Izo spoke for the group, his voice soft but firm. "We will find her, Marco. You have our word."
The plan was laid out with grim efficiency. Jozu to the auction houses, a battering ram of intimidation. Izo to the bars and casinos, a silent observer. Vista to the amusement park, Blenheim to the quieter groves, their Haki and keen senses their primary tools. Thatch would accompany Marco to Shakky's Rip-Off Bar, their best hope for a whisper of information.
As they filed out, the weight of the mission was a physical presence. They weren't just searching for a girl. They were racing against a future of chains and fire, and the clock was ticking.
———
For Y/N, the immediate problem was simple: she needed money.
The few berries Macro had shared were gone, spent on food that was already a memory. The freedom of being on Sabaody meant very little when her stomach was empty and she had nowhere to sleep.
She found work in a grimy bar in Grove 41, a part of the archipelago where people kept their heads down and asked no questions. The air was thick with smoke and the smell of stale beer. The owner, a hulking brute with scarred knuckles, took one look at her 'diseased' face and put her to work immediately, washing filthy cups and hauling heavy kegs from the cellar. The pay was meager—just enough for a single, stale bun and a handful of dried beans a day—but it was something. It was a foothold. She kept her head down, her movements slow and subservient. The fake scars were her shield. Men who might have harassed a healthy young woman simply gave her a wide, disgusted berth. It was exactly what she needed.
It was there, amidst the clatter and drunken boasts, that she heard the whispers.
"---the Whitebeards are here. Just saw their massive ship, the Moby Dick, anchored in Grove 1. Can't miss it."
"Heard they're searching for someone. One of their own crew gone missing?"
"Nah, doesn't sound like it. They're asking about a girl. No description, just a girl."
Her heart leapt into her throat, a painful, hopeful, terrifying thing. The Whitebeards. Here. On Sabaody. This was it. This was the opportunity she had been desperately searching for, the reason Rouge had sent her here. She could go straight to the source, to the very heart of the matter. She could find a way to talk to Whitebeard himself, to stand before the great man and warn him about the snake in his garden, about Thatch's impending murder, about the betrayal that would shatter his family and ignite a war. He was a great man, a Yonko, one of the only forces in the world that could potentially stand against Imu. He would listen. He had to. This was her purpose.
———
The order from Marco had been clear, and the urgency in his voice sent a jolt through the division. The Whitebeard Pirates mobilized with a quiet, grim efficiency. Two days. They had two days to find a ghost.
Jozu, a mountain of diamond, took the more notorious groves. His method was direct. At the first large auction house, he simply walked through the reinforced front doors, tearing them from their hinges. The auctioneer's spiel died. The wealthy clientele shrank back.
"We're looking for a girl," Jozu's voice echoed. "Young. Alone. New to the island." His diamond-hard eyes scanned the cages. "Has anyone here been sold a girl matching that description? Speak now."
The manager scurried forward. "C-Commander Jozu! We have no one! I swear!"
Jozu's gaze swept the room, his Observational Haki a passive pulse. He found only truth in the man's panic. With a grunt of contempt, he turned and left, the ruined doors a stark message.
Similar scenes played out across Sabaody. Izo visited the more "discreet" establishments with lethal grace. The commanders with Devil Fruits used their abilities to cover ground quickly, scanning crowds from the air, their senses stretched to the limit. The entire underworld buzzed with the news: Whitebeard was turning the archipelago upside down for a single girl.
Vista, his twin swords at his waist, took a different approach. As a non-Devil Fruit user, his search was grounded, methodical. He walked the less-traveled paths, his sharp, kind eyes missing nothing. He checked flophouses, questioned street vendors, peered into seedy bars.
It was in Grove 41, in "The Gurgling Seastone," that their paths almost crossed.
Y/N was hauling a heavy keg of cheap ale up from the cellar, her arms straining, the fake scars on her face itching under a film of sweat. The lunch rush had ended, leaving the place in a sticky quiet. She pushed through the swinging door into the main room, her gaze fixed on the floor.
At that exact moment, Vista walked in. He stood at the entrance, letting his eyes adjust. He saw a bartender, a few drunkards, and a scrawny, disfigured girl struggling with a keg. His heart went out to her. She was the right approximate age, but Marco's description was of a girl with a determined fire. This girl's posture was one of broken defeat. She was exactly the kind of person everyone's gaze slid right over.
He approached the bar. "A glass of water, please," he said to the keeper. He then turned slightly, offering the struggling girl a small, sympathetic smile. "Rough day?"
Y/N flinched, keeping her head down. She muttered something incomprehensible and shuffled quickly towards the storeroom, her heart pounding. The man was armed, confident, and carried himself with the same air of capability that Macro did. He was searching, and his presence here could only mean one thing.
Vista watched her go, his smile fading. Another dead end. He'd seen dozens of poor souls like her. He turned back to the bartender. "I'm looking for a friend. A young woman, new to the island. Might be scared, alone. Have you seen anyone like that?" He's one of them. One of Macro's crew.
The bartender, shook his head vigorously. "No, sir. No one like that. Just the usual scum and my help." He gestured towards the storeroom.
Vista nodded, taking a sip of water. He believed him. The man's fear was of the Whitebeards in general, not of a specific lie. He finished his water and left, his eyes continuing their search elsewhere.
In the storeroom, Y/N leaned against the cold wall, shaking. She had heard his question. He was looking for her. For me. The realization was an ache. He had seemed… kind.
But the logic of her mission was cold. This is Macro's crew. They might be good people. But they're not the solution. They're not strong enough. Getting them involved just puts them in the crosshairs of Imu. The only ones who can possibly help are the Emperors. I need Whitebeard himself.
The paranoia, now fused with a desperate, calculated strategy, silenced the part of her that was screaming for help.
She stayed in the storeroom until her breathing calmed.She never noticed his WhiteBeared tattoo .
Pushing herself off the wall, she returned to the main room and began mechanically wiping down tables. The weight of her isolation was a strategic necessity, she told herself. But in this crowded, dangerous archipelago, playing a lone hand had never felt more terrifying, or more lonely.
——
For the next two days, during every spare moment between her grueling shifts at the bar, Y/N searched for the Whitebeard Pirates themselves.
Her first attempt to get close to Grove 1 was cut short. From her hiding place, she saw a massive, hulking figure standing watch near the Moby Dick's gangplank. Even at a distance, he was unmistakable: the missing teeth, the curly black hair , the greedy glint in his eyes. Marshall D. Teach. Her blood ran cold. Of all the people to be on guard duty, it had to be him. Approaching now was unthinkable. If he sensed her power, if he even saw her, his ambition would latch onto her as a tool. He would try to use her, to control her, long before she could ever get to Whitebeard. She melted back into the shadows, her heart hammering.
The next day, she tried a different angle, hoping to find a commander she might recognize from the stories—a man with a crescent mustache, or one made of diamonds. But the reality was different from the manga panels she'd memorized. The pirates she saw were rougher, their features less distinct at a distance. She couldn't pick out a specific commander from the crowd of formidable-looking men.
Then she saw Macro. He was standing on a dock not directly at the Moby Dick, but near a smaller, sleeker ship flying a Jolly Roger. He was deep in conversation with another pirate, his expression serious. Her breath hitched. A part of her, the lonely, tired part that remembered his steady presence, ached to run to him. But seeing him there, so clearly integrated with that smaller vessel, solidified her assumption. That's his crew's ship.
The logic, cold and brutal, reasserted itself. He's a good man, but his crew isn't the solution. Even if their captain is decent, they're not the top. Getting them involved just paints a target on their backs. Imu and the Elders… they wiped out the entire Revolutionary Army in Rouge's timeline. What chance would a single, smaller crew have? The only forces that can stand against that are the Emperors themselves—Whitebeard, Shanks—or the Revolutionary Army.
Revealing herself to Macro's crew would be a strategic error. She had to get to Whitebeard himself. But with Teach on watch and no clear path to the Emperor, her hastily formed plans crumbled to dust. She was trapped, watching her only hope prepare to sail away, with no way to reach it.
On the third day, Y/N watched from her hiding place in the mangrove roots. The Moby Dick was preparing to depart, its crew a swarm of final activity. Her two days of frustrated searching had yielded nothing but near-misses and dead ends, blocked by the ever-present threat of Teach or the simple, impenetrable wall of the crew's routine.
Then she saw him. Macro. He stood apart on the dock, scanning the grove one last time. Even from this distance, the defeat in his posture was clear: the slumped shoulders, the bowed head. It was the look of a man closing a book he never wanted to finish.
A deep, booming voice she knew could only be Whitebeard's shouted a final command. At the sound, Macro's shoulders dropped further, as if the last bit of hope had been physically knocked out of him. In a weary motion, he reached up and untied the purple scarf from his head, letting it hang loose. Then, as if the Sabaody heat had finally gotten to him, he unbuttoned the top of his tunic.
And there it was.
Clear and unmistakable against his tanned skin, even from hundreds of yards away: the Jolly Roger of the Whitebeard Pirates.
Y/N’s breath hitched. The noise of the archipelago seemed to fade into a dull hum.
Whitebeard.
The pieces she had stubbornly refused to connect suddenly locked together with brutal, simple clarity. His strength. His authority. The medicine for a captain's cough. His unwavering loyalty to his 'family'. He hadn't just been a member of some random crew. The smaller ship she'd seen him near wasn't his; it was just an auxiliary vessel.
Macro. Marco. Marco the Phoenix.
The truth was a cold wave, washing away all her assumptions and leaving only the stark reality of her mistake.
On the dock, Marco took a running start and leapt. And in mid-air, he transformed. Not a flicker, but a full, brilliant eruption of blue flame. The Phoenix emerged, wings of fire spreading wide, a majestic and impossible sight as he soared to his ship.
She had shared a boat for days with the right-hand man of Whitebeard. The one person who could have walked her straight to the Emperor himself. The direct line to the very power she needed to complete her mission.
And she had run from him. Her paranoia, her over-calculated strategy, her fear of dragging a 'lesser' crew into her mess—it had all been a catastrophic error in judgment. She had been hiding from her only viable path forward.
The blue phoenix, a symbol of freedom and rebirth, flew away from her, shrinking into the horizon. She slid down the rough bark of the root until she was sitting, the fight gone out of her. The fake scars on her face felt foolish now. A pointless disguise.
She was alone. Truly alone. She had her freedom, her power, and her mission.
And she had just watched her best chance to succeed disappear over the edge of the world, leaving her with nothing but the crushing weight of what she had thrown away.