Somewhere in Whitebeard's territory, aboard the Moby Dick.
A simple feast was being held to welcome Marco and Vista back aboard after narrowly escaping death.
But clearly, no one was in high spirits. Even Marco, who was usually mild-tempered, had kept a gloomy face as he silently drank himself into a stupor.
No one could bring themselves to be happy.
The safe return of the two division commanders was certainly worth celebrating, but the loss of three divisions in this battle weighed heavily on everyone's hearts like a boulder.
It was an unacceptable loss, and a disgrace to the Whitebeard Pirates.
Three entire divisions... Though Whitebeard commanded many pirate crews, the main crew only had fifteen divisions in total. They had lost a full fifth of them at once...
Even back when Roger was still alive, when the New World was a chaotic battleground where countless powers fought for supremacy, they had rarely suffered such a crushing defeat!
Marco looked terrible, while Vista was even more despondent. He was utterly drunk, his face full of guilt.
He hated that his swordsmanship still had not been strong enough.
In that three-against-one battle, he had not been much help to Marco. Even with Marco's healing support, and even after using his trump-card Rose Secret Technique, he had failed to turn the tide.
Thud, thud, thud...
Just then, heavy footsteps sounded. Everyone turned toward them and saw an exceptionally tall figure striding out from the cabin.
"Dad!"
Everyone rose to their feet. Marco hurriedly tossed aside his bottle and stepped forward to support Whitebeard. "Your injuries haven't healed yet. Didn't we agree that you'd rest properly in your room? Why did you come out?"
The battle between Emperors of the Sea a few days ago had ultimately ended in Whitebeard's victory. Big Mom