Garp didn't get angry after being stonewalled by Shendu.
It wasn't because he's easy-going.
It's because… he couldn't win.
When you sail these seas, survival isn't just about strength; it's about reading the room and knowing when to swallow your pride. If Shendu's son could solo four top tiers, mouthing off would only end badly.
He turned to Ronn at the bar.
"Brat—would you mind letting him treat us?"
Ronn nodded. "I don't mind at all."
"Really?!"
"Total price is six Devil Fruits. When can you deliver?" Ronn smiled.
Garp lowered his head and drank in silence.
Seventy-odd years of living, and only now did he fully understand: it isn't only pain and hardship that make a man fall quiet and howl inside.
Poverty does it just fine.
Good grandson, your grandpa's useless. You'll have to lie there for a year.
"Gurararara… You weren't like this before," Whitebeard teased, swigging now that he was hale again. "What's wrong—age sanded off your edges?"
"I'd say it sanded off his exclamation points too," Rayleigh piled on. "All he's got left is a lonely period."
Garp glowered at his two lifelong "friends." When I'm healed, I'm killing you both—scatter your ashes while I'm at it…
He ignored them, sat down beside Ace.
"Brat. If you can move, sit up and have a drink with me."
Ace pushed himself up—then caught sight of those fists of iron, bone showing white.
"Gr—Grandpa…" His eyes reddened; his voice shook.
"Hahaha, don't cry!" Garp forced a laugh. "And don't let me see you out there again, or I'll still have to arrest you!"
Ace wiped his tears. "You can't beat my old man now."
A knot twisted under Garp's breastbone. He wanted to deliver a loving Iron Fist… but held back—Ace was still grievously hurt. One misjudged tap and it'd be white hair sending off black.
Garp handed him a cup. "Finish this, then go."
"Okay."
Clink.
The crystal chime of touching cups, then grandfather and grandson drank deep.
"Set sail," Whitebeard said, rising. "We've wasted enough time. Boss, I'll be back—your liquor suits me."
Ronn smiled. "Come again."
Marco set down a thick stack of beri, lifted Ace, and followed. Outside, Ace's voice floated back: "See you, Grandpa. See you, Uncle Rayleigh…"
Watching the backs retreat into daylight, the two old men fought not to let their tears fall. Both knew: after today it might be years before they met again—if not at their own funerals.
—
A mechanical chime sounded in Ronn's head.
[Ding. Customer Whitebeard finished unburdening.]
[Customer Whitebeard: Tremor-Tremor Fruit, Conqueror's Haki, Armament… choose one.]
[Ding. Customer Garp finished unburdening.]
[Customer Garp: Conqueror's Haki, martial arts… choose one.]
[Customer ...]
After the cascade of prompts, Ronn said, "Take Whitebeard's Tremor-Tremor Fruit, and Garp's Conqueror's Haki."
From the others he took Ace's Armament Haki, Akuma Dragon's Water Demon Qi, Rayleigh's martial arts, and finally Shendu's Horse Talisman—he couldn't keep using the dragon as a walking med-kit forever; even Ronn felt a little bad.
[Ding. Detected Garp's Conqueror's Haki is slightly stronger than host's. Fuse?]
"Fuse."
His body was too strong now; the fusion passed without a ripple—just a subtle surge. Thanks to the tavern upgrade, the new Haki didn't overwrite the old—it stacked. At this level, even Shanks couldn't compare.
"As for the Tremor Fruit… I'll save it as a post-meal snack," he murmured.
—
After seeing Whitebeard's fleet off, Garp left some cash, grabbed his unfinished drink, and trudged out. He still looked broad and indomitable… but lonely.
"Finally don't have to watch Ace every day," Rayleigh exhaled. "Maybe I'll sleep without nightmares."
"You should have a kid," Ronn said. "Who'll bury you otherwise?"
"Too late." Rayleigh winced. "The body can't, uh… keep up."
The door slammed open.
Keisha and Morgana strode in—one holding the Flame Sword, the other the Silver Stiletto. Somewhere on the archipelago two certain "cool guys" looked at their empty hands and felt their happiness pop like a soap bubble—especially Akainu; his heart twisted. Twice. Are you done yet?!
"You gave them away twice and still took them back? Peak b*tch behavior," Morgana sneered, dusting off her sleeves.
They'd argued over the weapons, and—since cussing didn't settle it—sparred in the sky. Morgana lost and had to reclaim the Stiletto.
"I won't debate meaningless things," Keisha said coolly, dropping onto a barstool, long white legs tapping the wood. "I should've killed you earlier—then I wouldn't have to hear you buzz."
Morgana's bluster shrank by half; cheeks puffed, she took a seat and turned her head aside. Neither looked at the other.
Ronn arched a brow, running through the sisters' history. In the end, one conclusion: Keisha was the prototypical sis-con big sister; Morgana the edgy rebel little sis. Millennia of war—just their twisted sister-knots writ large.
Silence stretched.
Then the new guest—the slender man in the white haori with the gentle smile and black-rimmed glasses—broke it, voice mild:
"May I have a look at that dagger?"
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