Fleet Admiral Kong sat in silence as Ayr's remark echoed in his mind "Anyone who can survive my blade deserves to be a Marine Admiral." Though the words were bold, Kong found himself unable to dispute them. Ayr was no ordinary pirate; he was a man whose strength rivaled legends, who had stood alongside monsters like Rocks and Roger and walked away untouched. Even Sengoku, a bastion of Marine pride, didn't argue. He simply nodded and muttered, "Yes." Kong finally exhaled, glancing at the report. "These two newcomers… they might really have a future."
A few days later, as the waves calmed, a dark shadow loomed on the horizon. The flag was unmistakable: a skull with a crescent mustache the emblem of the Whitebeard Pirates. Ayr's crew, alert and tense, felt a sudden shift in the atmosphere, the kind of weight only one man could bring. Their hands twitched toward weapons, but recognition stilled them. No one made a move as the Moby Dick docked and its towering captain landed with a thunderous crash that shook the pier.
Edward Newgate Whitebeard strode ashore like a titan returning from war, his bisento strapped to his back, his smile wide and voice thunderous. "Gurarara! Long time no see, Ayr!" His booming laugh filled the air as he clapped Ayr on the back, his massive hand landing like a hammer. "You've gotten younger somehow!" he joked. But Ayr, calm as always, met his gaze with quiet clarity. "You're trying to hide it, Edward. But I can see it. Your body's failing."
Whitebeard's smile faltered for a moment, the briefest crack in an otherwise impenetrable mask. "Tch... should've known I couldn't fool you." The two walked into the nearby tavern, where Whitebeard sank into a custom chair made to bear his bulk and slammed his enormous mug on the table. "Another round!" he barked, chugging deeply before sighing in satisfaction. Ayr, sitting opposite, didn't drink. He simply observed, his expression unreadable.
"I haven't been this relaxed in years," Whitebeard admitted. "The New World's full of little pups barking for territory, but none of them bite like you did." He paused, swirled his drink, then added, "Still, I know my limits. My time's winding down." Ayr said nothing, but the understanding between them didn't need words. The legendary pirate took another drink, wiped his mouth, and stared at his old friend. "I wanted to see for myself if the stories were true if you're still the one who could stand above Roger, Rocks, and anyone else who's dared to claim this sea."
Ayr smirked faintly. "So, you doubted me." Whitebeard laughed. "Not a chance. I just needed to feel it again. You, sitting here calmly after all these years, still make the sea hold its breath." He glanced around the quiet tavern and sighed. "You're just out here fishing while the world keeps spinning. That's so like you."
Ayr leaned forward. "And you? You're still carrying the weight of a fleet, protecting those 'sons' of yours?" Whitebeard nodded, his face briefly somber. "That's the only reason I'm still alive. I don't care if this body breaks down as long as I can protect them, I'll keep standing." He chuckled again, but this time the sound was tired. "I'm old, Ayr. But I'm not dead yet."
The two men, once pirates under Rocks, now legends in their own right, clinked their mugs. The clash of their pasts, present, and convictions reverberated in that small tavern, where for a brief moment, the weight of history pressed down like gravity. Whitebeard leaned back, content and nostalgic. "It's strange. For all the wars, treasure, and blood we've seen... this right here, talking with an old friend, is the part I'll remember when it all ends."
Ayr didn't respond with words just a nod that said everything. Legends, after all, didn't need to explain themselves.