The funeral was held three days later, on an island that Whitebeard had once liberated from a tyrannical World Government affiliate. Thousands gathered allied crews, grateful citizens, even a few Marines who had respected the old man enough to risk their careers by attending. They stood in silence as Whitebeard's body, wrapped in the flag of his crew, was committed to the sea.
Ace stood at the front, flanked by Marco and Jozu. His fire had returned to normal or what passed for normal now, after everything that had happened. But something in him had changed permanently. Something that would never go back to what it had been.
"He knew," Marco said quietly, as Whitebeard's body sank beneath the waves. "He knew this day would come. He prepared for it. Prepared us for it."
"That doesn't make it easier."
"No. It doesn't." Marco's hand found Ace's shoulder, squeezed once. "But it means we can honor him. By living the way he taught us to live. By protecting what he taught us to protect. By being the family he believed we could be."
Ace nodded, not trusting himself to speak.
The ceremony continued around him words spoken, songs sung, toasts raised to the memory of the Strongest Man in the World. But Ace barely heard any of it. He was too focused on the hole in his chest, the absence where Whitebeard's presence had been. The knowledge that he would never again hear that rumbling laugh, never again feel that massive hand on his shoulder, never again sit in that cabin and know, without question, that he was home.
You're my son.
The words echoed in his memory.
That's all that matters. Not Roger. Not your blood. You.
A tear traced down Ace's cheek, and he didn't wipe it away.
Later that night, after the crowds had dispersed and the ships had returned to their positions, Ace sat alone on the Moby Dick's deck, staring at the stars. The Vivre Card Whitebeard had given him was in his hand, slowly crumbling to ash as the life force that had sustained it faded.
Soon, there would be nothing left.
Soon, he would have only memories.
"Ace."
He turned to find Marco approaching, two cups in his hands. The First Division commander sat beside him without asking permission, pressed one of the cups into his hand.
"Sake. Pops's private reserve. I thought " He shrugged. "I thought we should drink it together."
Ace looked at the cup, at the clear liquid within. Then, without a word, he raised it toward the sky.
"To Pops."
"To Pops."
They drank.
The sake burned going down, but it was a good burn. A clean burn. The kind of burn that reminded you you were alive, that you still had purpose, that the world hadn't ended just because one man had left it.
"What happens now?" Ace asked.
Marco was quiet for a long moment. "Now, we rebuild. We consolidate. We make sure that everything Pops built doesn't crumble without him." He glanced at Ace sidelong. "And we figure out who's going to lead us."
The implication hung in the air between them.
Ace shook his head. "Not me."
"Why not? You're stronger than you were. You proved that against Teach."
"Strength isn't the same as leadership." Ace stared at his empty cup. "I'm still learning. Still growing. Still figuring out who I am without Pops to guide me." He met Marco's eyes. "You should lead. You've been First Commander for decades. You know the crew better than anyone. You're the obvious choice."
Marco's expression was unreadable. "And you?"
"I'll serve. Whatever you need commander, fighter, scout I'll do it. But I'm not ready to be the one everyone looks to. Not yet." He paused, then added, almost reluctantly, "Maybe not ever."
Marco studied him for a long moment. Then, slowly, he nodded.
"Alright. But Ace?" He waited until Ace met his eyes. "When you are ready if you ever are the crew will follow you. I've seen how they look at you. How they talk about you when you're not around. You're more than just Pops's son to them. You're hope. You're proof that his way works. That love and family aren't weaknesses."
Ace didn't know what to say to that.
So instead, he just nodded, and the two of them sat together in silence, watching the stars wheel overhead, feeling the absence of the man who had made them brothers.