Sabaody Archipelago — "Shakky's Rip-Off Bar."
The wooden door creaked open as it was pushed aside.
A red-haired man stepped in—and at a glance, he spotted a familiar figure sitting at the bar. Gray-white hair, glasses perched on his nose, leisurely sipping his drink as if the world outside didn't concern him in the slightest.
Shanks lifted his head, a broad, carefree grin spreading across his face as he called out:
"Mr. Rayleigh! I knew I'd find you here."
Hearing his name, Rayleigh turned around. When he recognized who it was, a flicker of surprise crossed his face.
"Shanks? You brat… What, heading back to the New World already?"
As he spoke, Rayleigh's gaze habitually swept over Shanks from head to toe.
When it landed on the empty left sleeve, his brows immediately knit together.
With Shanks's current strength and swordsmanship, anyone capable of costing him an arm was no ordinary opponent.
Almost instinctively, a certain possibility surfaced in Rayleigh's mind. His tone grew serious as he asked:
"Your arm… what happened to it? Was it cut off by that guy—Hawk-Eye?"
After all, he'd heard bits and pieces. Two years ago, Shanks had been chased around rather miserably in the New World by the world's greatest swordsman. You could even say it had been a strategic retreat.
Hearing Rayleigh's question, Shanks subconsciously reached up with his right hand to touch the place where his left arm had once been. A complicated smile tugged at his lips as he shook his head.
"No. It wasn't Mihawk."
He was just about to explain—
When suddenly, inside the bar, Shakky—cigarette dangling from her lips—smoothly bent down and began rummaging through the intelligence drawers beneath the counter. As she searched, she muttered to herself:
"A strong enough monster to make Shanks lose an arm… Has someone like that popped up in the New World lately?"
"I haven't heard anything about him fighting a Yonko or an Admiral to the death… Looks like the intel network still needs strengthening…"
Watching Rayleigh and Shakky fall into this mode, Shanks froze for a split second. A few beads of cold sweat formed on his forehead.
This… this can't be right.
There was no way he could tell them the truth—
That he, Red-Haired Shanks—Yonko candidate, supreme Haki user, no Devil Fruit, top-tier swordsman—
Had jumped into the sea in the most backwater corner of the East Blue, in a place called Foosha Village, to save a random kid—
And then had his arm bitten clean off by a Sea King that anyone could one-shot, and that wasn't even particularly large.
If he said that out loud, where would his dignity go?!
How was he supposed to survive in the New World after that?!
He'd become the punchline of every top-tier powerhouse's after-dinner gossip!
So—
In a flash of inspiration—Shanks's quick thinking (or rather, a man's pride) won out.
His expression instantly hardened, becoming deep and solemn. In a voice heavy with the weight of destiny, he slowly began to speak:
"Mr. Rayleigh. Sister Shakky…"
"In the East Blue, I met a boy."
"He said… the exact same words Captain Roger once did."
"So—"
He paused. His gaze seemed to pierce through the walls of the bar, looking toward a distant, unseen future. His voice rang out, firm and resolute:
"I bet this arm… on the New Era!!!!"
The moment those words fell—
The presence shot through the roof.
The gravitas skyrocketed.
The whole story was elevated by several levels in an instant.
Rayleigh and Shakky both froze where they stood, shock and emotion written plainly across their faces.
They stared at Shanks's empty sleeve, their expressions completely transformed.
No longer probing. No longer doubtful.
Instead—complex emotion, deep reflection, and even a hint of respect filled their eyes.
"The same words as Roger…" Rayleigh murmured softly, as if recalling something long buried. When he looked at Shanks again, his gaze was filled with relief.
"I see… So you saw that kind of future…"
"Using one arm to gamble on the future…" Shakky stopped rummaging through the drawers, took a long drag from her cigarette, and slowly exhaled. "Shanks, you really are something else."
Having successfully suppressed the room with sheer scope and sentiment, perfectly preserving his dignity, Shanks finally let out a silent sigh of relief.
Luffy… my reputation is riding entirely on you, he muttered inwardly.
Keeping up his solemn expression, he accepted the glass Rayleigh slid toward him and took a deep gulp.
Then, smoothly changing the subject, he swirled the drink in his hand and said:
"Mr. Rayleigh, this time when I traveled the Four Seas, I deliberately took a detour to the South Blue."
"I went to that place as well…"
"'The Ruins of the Fallen God.'"
At the mention of that name, Rayleigh's hand paused mid-lift. Even Shakky, who was wiping a glass, slowed her movements.
"I saw it…" Shanks's voice carried a faint, unmistakable heaviness. "Captain Roger's sword—Ace. It's still stuck right in the very center of that forbidden zone."
"I tried to get closer. I tried to retrieve Ace…"
"But I failed."
He shook his head despondently, his expression tinged with lingering fear and helplessness.
"That place has become a complete dead zone for life."
"It's not just the extreme weather and chaotic currents. What's truly terrifying are the fractured spatial flows—forming an invisible domain that repels anything that tries to approach."
"Even with my Haki, I couldn't force my way into the core."
Rayleigh listened in silence, his expression gradually darkening.
He removed his glasses and slowly wiped them with the corner of his clothes. Only after a long while did he finally speak:
"Shanks… let Ace remain where it belongs."
"That battle between Gern and Roger in the South Blue… no one knows exactly what happened."
"But that 'Ruins of the Fallen God'—it's the permanent scar left behind by that fight."
"Ace, as an extension of Captain Roger's will, has, in a sense…"
"Become a part of that forbidden land itself—a monument and witness to that legendary battle."
Rayleigh put his glasses back on and looked at Shanks.
"As things stand now, letting Ace remain there may be the best ending for it."
"Let it… accompany Roger, and sleep together with that battlefield."
"…I see."
Just as Shanks was finally relaxing inside, about to take another sip and casually chat—
A familiar voice, tinged with playful mockery, suddenly came from the direction of the bar's entrance without the slightest warning.
It made his scalp go numb.
"Eh? Isn't this the infamous 'Man Who Toppled Nations'—Red-Haired Shanks?!"
At some point unknown, Gern Reginald Sigmar was already standing inside the bar.
He looked completely at home, a teasing smile on his face as he strode straight up to Shanks.
He even reached out without ceremony, pinched the empty sleeve with his fingers—and gave it a tug.
"Tsk, tsk, tsk…" Gern smacked his lips, his tone dripping with amusement. "What happened? Haven't seen you for a year and you've already fallen this far?"
"Came to the first half of the Grand Line to show off, and ended up getting your arm chopped off?"
As he spoke, Gern pretended to ponder, stroking his chin.
"But if I remember correctly, Mihawk's been holed up in the New World this whole time, hasn't he?"
"So it wasn't him?"
"Then losing your arm like this… that's kind of inexplicable."
"It's you!!"
The moment he saw Gern, Shanks's pupils contracted violently. His heart slammed against his ribs.
He had clearly stationed his core officers outside the bar to stand guard—no one was supposed to get close!
For this man to stroll in so openly, without a single sound—
And for there to be no reaction from outside—
That could only mean one thing…
Shanks instantly felt like he was sitting on needles. Almost reflexively, he tried to spring up from his seat to check on his crew.
But the instant he moved—
A massive hand slammed down on his shoulder, crushing him straight back into the chair. The wooden barstool let out a strained creak under the pressure!
"Relax." Gern smiled lightly, his tone casual. "Your men aren't dead."
The words were spoken offhandedly—
But to Shanks's ears, they exploded like thunder.
Not dead?
"What do you mean 'not dead'?!" Shanks demanded, shock and anger flaring as his single arm clenched into a fist. His Conqueror's Haki surged instinctively, threatening to erupt.
"What?" Gern's smile didn't fade—but his eyes sharpened instantly, his voice turning cold. "You sure you want to fight me right now?"
He leaned closer to Shanks's ear, his voice dropping so only the two of them could hear. A chilling, mocking note laced his words.
"Heh. Or is it that…"
"You've already gotten used to fighting with just one arm, Shanks?"
The moment the words fell, Shanks's body stiffened violently.
The Haki that was about to explode was forcibly suppressed. His expression turned ugly.
Gern was right.
He hadn't lost his left arm long ago. For a top-tier powerhouse—
This wasn't just about missing a limb.
It meant his balance, force application, and entire combat rhythm were thrown completely out of alignment!
"Damn it… If I still had both arms—!"
Off to the side, Rayleigh watched the entire exchange unfold. He let out a quiet sigh, shaking his head slightly at Shanks, his eyes carrying both a warning and helpless resignation.
As a former supreme swordsman, he understood all too well—
For someone of Shanks's level, losing an arm was fatal.
Right now, Shanks probably couldn't even bring out half of his true strength.
Provoking Gern in this state?
That was nothing short of suicide.
And besides—
Even if you hadn't lost your arm, you still wouldn't beat Gern anyway!What exactly are you feeling wronged about?!
Such a stubborn, pride-obsessed idiot…