Chapter 51 – Moby Dick (Patreon)

Just as the massive stone named “Roger’s Fate” in Kyle’s heart had finally settled, granting him a brief reprieve from worry, the sea had other plans. Before he could savor even a few days of calm, the ocean called forth new challenges.

The Oro Jackson glided unhurriedly across the New World’s waves, the ship alive with the familiar rhythm of laughter, banter, and playful clamor. Shanks and Buggy were engaged in their daily sparring match. But this time, their duel was more than simple swings and blocks. The techniques they had been quietly learning from Roger, Kyle, and the rest of the crew were starting to weave into their movements, adding precision, timing, and cunning to their youthful chaos.

“Take this, Red-Nose!” Shanks bellowed, stomping the deck with his boot, a sudden burst of speed sending his cutlass arcing toward Buggy.

Buggy responded with equal energy, letting out a defiant cry and twisting his body sideways, his dagger drawing an intricate arc through the air. “This great me won’t fall for that trick again! Your move barely scratches the surface compared to Kyle-bro’s teachings!”

“Urusai!” Shanks shot back, a grin stretching across his face.

The deck resounded with the clash of metal, the flurry of footwork, and the occasional cheer from onlookers. Roger, draped in a flamboyant pink shirt, sat perched on the figurehead, sake in hand, loudly rooting for the young fighters. Rayleigh leaned lazily against the main mast, book in hand, a faint smile playing across his lips. Kyle reclined in a lounge chair, orange juice swirling gently in his glass, observing the scene with quiet amusement.

Everything seemed tranquil, a still-life painting of life at sea—until the serenity was shattered by a sharp, urgent shout from above.

“Huge ship silhouette spotted at three o’clock! Approaching at high speed!” Dolinger’s voice rang from the crow’s nest, cutting through the deck’s noise like lightning.

Immediately, the playful chatter and clanging of weapons ceased. Every crew member froze, eyes snapping to the horizon where Dolinger pointed.

There, cutting through the waves, was a shape of impossible scale. A ship so massive that its sheer presence seemed to bend the horizon itself. Its bow rose like a white mountain, and even from this distance, Kyle could sense its overwhelming might.

“Whoa… you’ve got to be joking. What kind of monster is that?” a young crew member murmured, swallowing hard.

Buggy instinctively shielded Shanks behind him, poking out only half his head. “That ship… it looks like it’s going to swallow us whole!”

Shanks, though slightly nervous, was more electrified than afraid. His sword hand tightened around the hilt, eyes gleaming with anticipation as he stared at the colossal vessel drawing closer.

As the distance shrank, the ship’s banner became unmistakable—a skull adorned with a crescent-shaped white mustache on a pristine white field.

“It’s… Whitebeard. Edward Newgate…” Rayleigh muttered, closing his book and straightening, his eyes sharp with recognition.

“Kuhahaha!” Roger leapt from the figurehead, energy radiating from every muscle. “It’s Newgate! Long time no see, you old sea wolf!”

Kyle stepped forward to the rail, narrowing his golden eyes.

The Moby Dick.

That legendary ship, carrying the strongest man of an era and his vast family of pirates, now loomed directly before him. And atop its deck, unmistakable, stood Edward Newgate—the man known across the seas as the “Strongest Man in the World.”

Even so, Kyle’s thoughts were pragmatic. Roger, in his prime, rivaled or even surpassed Whitebeard at this very moment. And if one were to debate seriously, Jabba’s own claim as a formidable powerhouse wasn’t unfounded.

Yet it wasn’t only Whitebeard who caught Kyle’s attention.

He noticed the younger generation aboard the ship: a boy with a pineapple-like hairstyle, leaning lazily against the railing and yawning; a broad, square-jawed youth standing with arms crossed, vigilant; another sporting a small mustache, sword at his side, chatting animatedly with a companion.

Marco, Jozu, Vista… the future commanders of the Whitebeard Pirates, men who would one day shake the New World and haunt Marineford, were here in their adolescence, still wide-eyed, still curious, still forming the bonds that would later cement them as legends.

“Hey, Shanks! Look!” Buggy tugged on Shanks’s sleeve, whispering. “That ship is huge! Imagine the treasures it’s hiding!”

“Idiot! Is this the time to think about that?” Shanks whispered back, though his eyes betrayed his excitement. “That’s the Whitebeard Pirates! Legends of this era, equal to Roger himself! Look closely—there are guys our age aboard too!”

Across the waters, the eyes of the young Whitebeard crew met those of Shanks and Buggy. A silent, electric tension hung between the two generations, an unspoken recognition of potential rivals. Sparks of competition and curiosity seemed to crackle in the air.

The two massive ships edged closer, stopping barely a hundred meters apart. The wind tugged at their respective flags, both displaying the pride and defiance of their crews.

“Gurararara!” Whitebeard’s laughter thundered across the sea, sending ripples through the water. “Roger! You troublesome bastard! Why aren’t you hiding in your little rat hole and leaving my waters alone?”

“Kuhahaha! This ocean isn’t your private playground, Newgate!” Roger shot back, hands planted on his hips, voice booming like a cannon. “I heard there’s a gourmet island ahead. I’m going to feast! Care to join?”

“Hmph. My sons are hungry too.” Whitebeard’s Murakumogiri tapped the deck with a dull thud, each strike resonating through the wood. “But before that… let’s stretch our muscles. Last time’s fight wasn’t finished!”

“Exactly as I intended!” Roger grinned, drawing Ace from his waist. At the same time, Whitebeard hefted Murakumogiri, each man radiating Conqueror’s Haki so potent it seemed capable of tearing the sky apart.

The heavens themselves darkened as storm clouds spiraled above. Lightning forked violently through the sky, thunder rolling across the horizon, and the air thickened with palpable pressure. Kyle watched the titanic men below, black and red sparks crackling in his golden pupils, reflecting their raw power.

This was a world stripped of schemes, of diplomacy, of words. Here, strength spoke first. Combat was greeting, respect, and declaration.

“Hey, Pops! Let us join too!” young Marco called out from Whitebeard’s deck, eyes wide with excitement.

“Your sons are lively, Newgate,” Rayleigh remarked, drawing his sword with a faint smile.

Jabba hefted his twin axes with a grin. “Time to sharpen these old bones!”

Weapons were drawn, the air electric with anticipation. A legendary clash of crews was imminent, a confrontation that would echo across the seas.

Yet even as tension crackled like lightning, Roger called out with a booming voice: “Hey, Newgate! After the fight, we’ll feast together! I brought the finest rum from East Blue!”

Whitebeard paused, then roared with laughter. “Gurararara! Well, that depends on whether you have the skill to snatch the food from me! The chef aboard my ship is a master of cuisine!”

The tension melted into excitement, the scene transforming from battlefield to festive chaos.

“Lads! Ready to board! Time to grab some booze!” Jabba shouted, his axes swinging energetically.

“Sons! Show them who rules the seas!” Whitebeard’s call rang across the waves.

The two colossal ships moved ever closer, crews brimming with eagerness to clash, to compete, to live.

Kyle drained the last of his orange juice, a wide grin spreading across his face.

From this moment onward, there would be no time for leisure, no time for small comforts. Adventure, chaos, and the purest form of pirate life had arrived.


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