But then—how was Ace even captured by the Navy?

The report didn’t mention any details. It seemed more like a rumor piece, and its authenticity was questionable.

Still, since Captain Davy Jones had raised the question, everyone racked their brains to give an answer.

“I heard Ace only set sail three or four years ago,” Alvida said after thinking a moment. “He’s originally from the East Blue. He founded his own pirate crew and quickly made a name for himself on the seas—he was one of the ‘Supernovas’ of his time. Later, Whitebeard subdued him, and he became one of his sons.”

“Mikita the ‘Miss Valentine'” also chimed in: “I think he was even offered a chance to become one of the Seven Warlords of the Sea, but he refused.”

“His epithet is ‘Fire Fist,'” Kuro said calmly, seated with perfect poise. “He’s a Logia—user of the Mera Mera no Mi. His current bounty is 550 million berries.”

That bounty alone already surpassed the combined total of the entire Davy Jones Pirates.

Which was why, in the New World, bounty figures became both highly important—and not important at all.

Buggy scratched his chin, adding, “I’ve heard Whitebeard values Ace more than most of his sons. Even among all of them, Ace holds a special place.”

Buggy had paid attention to Ace for a while.

The very first time he saw the name “Ace” in the papers, he had frozen. After all, Roger’s sword was also called Ace.

Later, upon learning that Ace was a member of Whitebeard’s crew, and recalling how close Whitebeard and Roger had been, Buggy couldn’t help but imagine connections.

At one point, he even thought Ace looked somewhat like Captain Roger himself.

Could they be related?

But eventually he dismissed the thought.

Roger had never once mentioned having a son, and Rayleigh had never brought it up either. So the chances were slim.

Buggy preferred to think that the reason Whitebeard cherished Ace so much—aside from his strength and maturity—was that Ace’s name stirred memories of an old, fallen friend, evoking an unconscious sense of fondness.

Yes—while the world called Roger and Whitebeard irreconcilable rivals, they were also undeniably kindred spirits.

Davy Jones merely nodded after hearing all this, then pressed for more intelligence on the Whitebeard Pirates.

The crew shared what they recalled from newspaper reports: how many sons Whitebeard had, the strength of his commanders, what territories they controlled, and so forth.

In this way, they deepened their understanding of the Whitebeard Pirates.

Crocodile once again opened his weary eyes.

The familiar ceiling of the storage room came into view—the same wooden planks, the same barrels, the same walls.

Here again? Damn it.

Was this some endlessly looping nightmare? Each time he died in the dream, he would awaken again in this same cramped storage room? Was this… Davy Jones’s Locker?

Apprehension and unease made his breath quicken, drawing attention from the man beside him.

“Crocodile-san, I thought you’d be out for another day at least.”

The spotted dome hat of Trafalgar Law came into view.

“Seems I underestimated both your constitution and your will to survive…”

“Trafalgar Law?”

“Good. You’re lucid, and your memory’s intact.”

Suppressing the pain wracking his body, Crocodile forced himself upright, realizing this time he lay on a wooden cot—not simply tossed onto the floor like before.

His body was wrapped in layers of white bandages.

“That bed, I requested from Captain Davy Jones,” Law explained, rising from his chair and moving to a table that Hachi had carried in.

“My advice is to keep resting for a few days. Old wounds on top of fresh ones—you’re nowhere near healed.”

Crocodile glanced down. His golden hook still adorned his left hand, while his right was encased tightly in plaster.

“Drink this.” Law brought over a vial of medicine he had prepared.

Crocodile simply stared at it, not taking it.

Law sighed. “If I wanted you dead, I’d have had plenty of chances. As a doctor, I won’t harm a patient, even if you betrayed us before. That’s my line I won’t cross.”

Still, Crocodile refused.

Puzzled, Law glanced at his hands, then understood. “Fine—open your mouth. I’ll feed you.”

“No.”

Crocodile shook his head sharply, unwilling to accept such humiliation.

With sheer stubbornness, he let his neck turn to sand, sending his head floating over to the vial. He clamped the bottle in his jaws, tilted back, and downed the contents in one swallow.

“As you wish,” Law chuckled. “My only orders are to keep you alive, nothing more.”

Crocodile spat out the empty bottle with a cold snort.

Quick as ever, Law caught it before it shattered, setting it back on the table.

“You’ve joined Davy Jones’s crew then?” Crocodile asked.

“Yes,” Law replied tersely. “After you left, my crew was attacked by monsters… Captain Davy Jones avenged them, and promised me certain things. So I became his subordinate.”

“Didn’t expect you’d stoop to serving under someone,” Crocodile sneered.

Law gave him a mild smile. “And coming from a former Warlord of the Sea, that line carries no weight at all.”

Crocodile’s face darkened. Memories of his two humiliating defeats at Davy Jones’s hands surfaced. What use were words, when he had been utterly powerless both times?

“What does he intend to do with me?”

“Captain already made it clear. You’re to serve as crew aboard this ship—until death claims you.”

“Impossible.” Crocodile shook his head. “I won’t accept that. I have too much left to do. I don’t have time to rot away on this ship…”

“Crocodile-san,” Law said evenly, “I don’t think the captain was asking for your opinion. I was only tasked with informing you.”

Crocodile’s expression turned pitch black.

But Law detected a subtle softening in his tone. So he pressed further:

“What is it you still have to do? Aim to become one of the Four Emperors? Or… the Pirate King?”

Crocodile’s eyes narrowed.

“Ah, the Pirate King, then,” Law said with a wry smile. “Though your road’s been a crooked one—first defeated by Whitebeard, then serving as a Warlord, and finally crushed by Captain Davy Jones.”

Law’s words cut sharp, his calm smile carrying a biting edge.

Crocodile glared at him, his scarred face twisted, stitches twitching like rippling waves, as if ready to explode at any second.

But he didn’t.

Law shook his head. “I get the sense Captain Davy Jones doesn’t care for the Pirate King’s throne. He seems to be aiming for something far greater. So in truth, you two don’t really conflict.”

“And even if you do want to become Pirate King, you should take it one step at a time. I’d wager you dream of avenging yourself on Whitebeard, don’t you? As it happens, Captain’s heading straight into Whitebeard’s territory.”

“You must realize—facing the Whitebeard Pirates alone, you don’t even come close to qualifying.”

Law leaned back into his chair, resting Kikoku casually on his shoulder, one leg crossed over the other, his demeanor relaxed.

Crocodile had to admit—Law was an excellent persuader. He couldn’t deny the temptation gnawing at him.

Why had he lost to Whitebeard all those years ago?

Beyond his own inferiority, his crew had been utterly inadequate. That defeat shattered his forces—most killed or scattered. He had been forced to crawl back to Arabasta, lying in wait, recruiting anew.

Yet no matter how he rebuilt, the best he managed was Baroque Works. Only a handful there had true merit.

It was that failure that drove him to seek the ancient weapon Pluton. But his plans collapsed in ruin.

Now—here was a new opportunity, laid before him. Crocodile could not help but weigh it carefully.

He sat in silence for a long time, his golden hook carving pale scratches into the wooden cot.

If serving this crew was already a foregone conclusion… could he perhaps use it to achieve his own ends?

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