In the shadows of the New World.
Deep in the thick fog, a massive ship flying Whitebeard's flag lay still. The lights on its deck were turned down low.
From a distance, it looked like a reef floating in the mist.
There was no feast.
No revelry.
None of the scent of wine and laughter that used to last through the night.
Marco stood beneath the mast, weighted training chains wrapped around his body.
Bare-chested, Jozu drove punch after punch into an iron post reinforced with Seastone.
Each blow sent a faint tremor through the entire ship.
Vista sat at the rail, head lowered as he wiped down his twin swords. Their edges gleamed coldly in the dim light.
The rest of the Whitebeard Remnants no longer gathered around barrels of wine, laughing as they once had.
Compared with their defeat at Ink Tide Island, the crew seemed completely transformed.
In the past, Whitebeard's name had carried them along with the tide of the age.
Now that mountain had fallen.
At last, they were learning to survive at sea without Pops to shelter them.
At the bow.
Teach stood at the edge of the fog, gazing toward waters stained red by distant flames.
That stretch of sea had once been the freest, most chaotic place for pirates, and the best place for ambition to grow.
But now, one blaze after another was going out.
The Navy's flag of Justice was driving the darkness scattered along the New World's outer reaches deeper inward, bit by bit.
Marco walked slowly to his side.
His familiar gentle smile was gone, leaving only composure and exhaustion.
"All the pirates are flocking to the Three Emperors now."
He looked into the distance, his voice low.
"Are we going to keep hiding?"
The bow fell quiet