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The two men each walked toward an unoccupied golden chair.
No throng of subordinates followed them, yet as they sat, the weight settling over the air was no less than that of the legends occupying the other three thrones.
"Dragon."
Whitebeard's gaze swept over the dark green cloak as though it could pierce the fabric.
"If your father knew the path you're taking now, those old bones of his would probably be angry enough to chase you all the way from Marine Headquarters to beat you up."
An extremely low, almost inaudible grunt came from beneath the cloak.
"Mm."
The hood slipped down, revealing a face reproduced on countless wanted posters.
Black hair hung to his shoulders, and the dark red diamond-shaped markings on his left cheek stood out starkly in the firelight, like an unhealed burn.
"And what makes you so certain the old man has never laid a hand on me?"
The air froze for a moment.
The Whitebeard Pirates' commanders stopped pouring drinks, the Charlotte Family's children exchanged startled, doubtful glances, and the captains who had followed Golden Lion all reached for the weapons at their waists.
Someone instinctively uttered that name, then quickly swallowed it back down-after all, the man before them was no longer the young man with limitless prospects at Marine Staff Headquarters, but a banner standing against the world.
"Fufufu, everyone's here."
"This looks more like a reunion for retired veterans."
A pink coat swept over the jewel-inlaid floor tiles as eyes behind scarlet lenses surveyed the room.
The man beside him was far more casual: his rumpled shirt was tucked into cropped trousers, his bare feet slipped into flip-flops, and his gray cloak sat crookedly across his shoulders.
But when that face, its features deepened by the years, turned toward the