CHAPTER 489: CHAPTER 489

"Ahhh..."

A low groan escaped Shanks’ lips as he stirred, drifting between the haze of unconsciousness and the harsh pull of waking pain. His breath hitched as reality anchored him—muscle memory screamed before thought could form. His eyes fluttered open, squinting at the soft flickering light of lanterns swinging overhead. The room was small—a modest wooden cabin, plain but warm, filled with the faint scent of medicine, herbs... and blood.

His own.

White bandages wrapped around his torso like a second skin, taut with dried blood. More covered his left shoulder and bicep, his right arm splinted crudely. His ribs ached with every breath, and he could feel stitches tugging along the edge of his brow. He looked like a man sewn back together.

Groggily, he tried to sit up—ignoring the protests of his battered body—only to notice the comical sight before him.

Buggy.

Slumped on a nearby chair, head back, mouth open, drool trailing down his chin, snoring with all the grace of a half-drowned goat. Shanks managed a hoarse chuckle—until memory returned. The last thing he remembered...

Rosinante.

That final moment. Blood, haki, steel, and then nothing. Not even the combined might of himself and Mihawk—staking everything—had been enough.

That bastard cut us down like we were nothing...

"Cursing me first thing after waking up? Touching. Truly. And here I was, worried about your wellbeing..."

The voice drifted in from the door, smooth as silk and laced with amusement. Shanks turned, already scowling. Rosinante.

Leaning casually against the doorframe, a faint smirk playing on his lips. Buggy shot awake with a jolt, eyes wide, hand instinctively diving into his coat to pull out a small, gleaming dagger. Without thinking, he placed himself between the door and Shanks, eyes narrowed.

"Put down the knife, Buggy," I said, strolling in. "If I wanted your captain dead, he wouldn’t be here sipping soup and bandaged like a burrito, now would he?"

Buggy blinked, realizing who it was, and relaxed—a little—muttering a few choice curses under his breath as he turned back toward Shanks. His eyes flicked briefly to the tattoo-like symbol on Shanks’ left arm just above the elbow before the red-haired pirate quickly pulled down his sleeve.

"You know it’s rude to read someone’s thoughts and emotions without asking..."

Shanks growled, irritation bubbling beneath the fatigue.

I chuckled, stepping inside and reaching for a nearby pitcher of water. "Well, if you want to keep your thoughts private, maybe you should work on that Conqueror’s Haki of yours. With high enough mastery, you can even counter observation Haki at my level. As of right now, your emotions are leaking like a broken faucet."

I poured him a full cup, handing it over with a nod. "Drink up. It’ll help." Shanks took the cup without a word, downing the cool water in long gulps. It seemed to help. Slightly.

"So... how long was I out?" His voice was gravelly, but there was steel in it. The kind that didn’t dull, no matter how bloodied the blade.

"Three days," I answered, casually. "Give or take..! Uta and your crew were all worried, you know. If you hadn’t woken up soon, I think Buggy might’ve tried to tear me apart himself."

"Damn right I would’ve!" Buggy barked, his voice cracking somewhere between anger and residual fear.

He glanced at me warily, muttering, "You’ve got no heart... hurting friends like that..."

I raised an eyebrow, silently asking if he’d like to try again. Buggy responded by very pointedly ignoring me and mumbling louder.

Shanks leaned back, eyes still shadowed.

"What about Mihawk...? Is he up yet?"

Even now, despite the defeat, he couldn’t help comparing. He had to know. Had the man who stood beside him woken first?

"Yeah. He woke up earlier this morning. Headed off to train, by himself," I said, picking up an apple and inspecting it lazily.

"You two bounced back quicker than expected. If I’d known, maybe I would’ve broken a few more bones just to buy myself some peace and quiet."

The smirk that followed was shameless. But Shanks barely heard it. His gaze fell to the floor.

"So Mihawk woke before me... huh. That’s a shame. I guess I still need more training..."

He tried to rise—but his legs gave out. Pain surged, and before he could collapse, Buggy caught him, his arm splitting instinctively to steady him back onto the bed.

"You idiot!" Buggy snapped, voice thick with frustration.

"You kept fighting even after Mihawk was down! Don’t you remember? You dragged that fight on alone until you ran out of blood and fell! Of course he woke up first!"

Shanks blinked, stunned into silence for a moment. He remembered Mihawk collapsing. He remembered standing alone. Bleeding. Barely able to lift Gryphon. But his will wouldn’t let him fall—not until everything had been spent.

I watched the scene unfold, arms crossed. "You should be proud, not disappointed." I added quietly, for once without teasing. "You lasted longer than I thought you would."

Shanks didn’t smile. But for a second, the tension in his shoulders eased. Buggy, however, was still muttering in the corner.

Something about "monsters in the shape of men", "no sense of friendship", and "heartless blade-wielding demons."

Knock... knock.

A soft, almost hesitant sound echoed through the modest cabin. Before anyone could respond, the door creaked open as Agatha stepped in—and a small figure darted past, footsteps light and desperate, like a heartbeat on the verge of breaking.

"Papa!!"

Shanks barely turned his head before Uta crashed into him, the force of her tiny frame slamming against his chest. He grunted sharply—a flash of pain lancing through his broken ribs—but his arms moved on instinct, pulling her close, cradling her trembling form in a fragile embrace that was more willpower than strength.

"Uta..." his voice came out ragged, a rasp from lips that had barely spoken since he awoke. She didn’t answer—she couldn’t. The moment she saw him alive, the dam broke.

Tears streamed down her cheeks in torrents, hot, desperate sobs wracking her small body as her fingers dug into the bandages around his sides, not caring about the bloodstains or the smell of salves. She clung to him like the world would rip them apart if she let go.

"You weren’t waking up! You... you didn’t move! I—I thought you were gone!"

The cries weren’t just of worry—they were of terror, of nights spent at his bedside, whispering into the void, begging him to breathe, to open his eyes, to smile. Each sob carried the weight of every second she had sat beside his unconscious body, every moment she had held his hand and felt only stillness.

Shanks gritted his teeth—not from pain, but from guilt.

He lowered his head, resting his chin lightly on the crown of her head, fingers trembling as they gently stroked her hair. Blood-stained bandages crinkled against her cheek, but Uta didn’t care.

Buggy turned away, suddenly silent, arms crossed, his mouth set in a tight line. Even the clown had enough decency to give them this moment. I stood at the edge of the room, arms folded, saying nothing. Because even monsters know when to let silence speak.

"Uta... your father needs to rest."

Agatha’s gentle voice cut through the tender moment as she stepped into the room, balancing a tray of steaming soup and carefully prepared side dishes. The aroma—rich with herbs, warmth, and comfort—instantly filled the air, curling into the senses like a familiar embrace.

She had done this every day for the last three. Quietly. Faithfully. Replacing untouched, cooled meals with fresh ones, always holding on to the hope that the Red-Haired Pirate would open his eyes.

And now, finally, he had.

Shanks’ stomach betrayed him before his words could—grumbling loud and long in protest of its three-day starvation. The scent of home-cooked food had struck its mark.

Uta, still wiping her tear-streaked cheeks with the back of her sleeves, glanced back as Agatha approached, then turned her gaze toward me—her eyes narrowing like a storm cloud about to break.

"You monster! What are you doing here...? Stay away from my Papa!"

She marched toward me with the fire of a thousand tempests and started kicking me with her tiny, slipper-clad feet. Her attacks barely registered, but I raised my hands in mock surrender anyway.

Buggy burst into laughter, snorting on reflex as Shanks chuckled too, even as pain laced his ribs from the sudden motion.

I looked down at the little whirlwind battering my shin with all the rage in her little heart. She knew her father had agreed to the duel. She knew no malice was meant. But children didn’t always listen to reason—especially when the one they loved most had lain still and pale for three days straight.

Her tiny fists might not break steel, but they carried a weight that was harder to deflect—the weight of love.

"You’ve got spirit," I muttered with a small smile. "Just like your old man."

Agatha gently placed the tray by the bedside, her voice kind but firm.

"Shanks-kun, here—eat while it’s still hot. Your body needs the energy to start healing properly." Then she turned to Buggy, who was already halfway to the tray like a man possessed.

"And here are the shrimp noodles you asked for, Buggy-kun."

Buggy grinned like a thief handed treasure, snatched the large bowl, and plopped himself down with exaggerated flair, already digging in as if he were the one who had just survived a war. Shanks arched a brow, a glint of amusement in his eye.

"Unbelievable... I’ve been lying here half-dead for three days, and you’ve been using me as an excuse to freeload off home cooking?"

Buggy just gave a muffled shrug, slurping loudly.

"Would’ve been rude to say no," he mumbled through a mouthful of noodles. "Besides, someone had to make sure your food didn’t go to waste."

Shanks let out a light laugh, one that ended with a grimace as his ribs protested. Still, he turned his gaze toward Agatha and offered a genuine smile.

"Thank you, Agatha-san... for the food—and more than that... for taking care of Uta."

His eyes softened as he looked at the girl still glowering in my direction.

"I know none of the knuckleheads in my crew would’ve been able to calm her down. You’re probably the only reason she didn’t go on a rampage of her own."

Agatha smiled gently, brushing her hands against her apron.

"She’s strong, just like her father. But even strong little girls need someone to hold them while they cry."

There was silence for a moment—not heavy, but warm. A kind of quiet that settled like a blanket over those present, reminding them that even amidst duels between titans and island-splitting clashes, there was still room for something human.

Soon, the room had fallen quiet, leaving only the three of us — Shanks, Buggy, and me.

Buggy was seated beside the bed, carefully peeling away blood-stained bandages from Shanks’ torso, revealing the bruises and deep gashes that had barely begun to scab over. The white linen was now soaked in dull crimson — a grim testament to the battle fought just three days prior.

Shanks winced, but didn’t flinch. His eyes were distant, fixed on nothing — until they quietly drifted toward me.

"Ross... is Ace really Garp’s grandson?"

His voice came low, almost a whisper, as if even the walls might betray the weight of that question. I didn’t answer immediately. My brows lifted — not from surprise, but calculation. What prompted that?

Shanks was many things: a fool, a showman, a warrior — but never someone who asked without intent. I looked away, casually leaning against the nearby wall as if the question were nothing more than passing curiosity. But in truth, my mind was already at work.

He knows something... or suspects.

Yes, I had known Shanks since we were boys — when Garp’s wild chases led him across the seas after Roger. But did I know who he truly

was now? The Shanks of the current era, the one who walked into Mariejois and spoke to the Five Elders without ever being seen as a criminal — that Shanks was a different beast.

Too much of his history after the disbanding of Roger’s crew remained cloaked in shadow.

And from my sources, I was almost certain: Shanks had visited Mary Geoise more than once.

Worse — I suspected he had once trained alongside the God’s Knights.

That made him dangerous in a way few people understood.

So no — I wasn’t about to risk Ace’s identity, not without knowing where Shanks’ true loyalties lay. I gave a small shrug, feigning ignorance.

"Well... if Agatha-san is Garp’s niece, then I suppose that makes Ace his grandson by relation, doesn’t it?"

My tone was laced with practiced confusion, as if I had misunderstood the real question. But I was watching his eyes — closely. Shanks didn’t bite. He just stared at me for a long moment, clearly weighing something.

"I don’t know... but that kid, Ace... there’s something about him. He feels too familiar."

His words hung in the air like a blade half-drawn. Buggy, who had been focused on dressing Shanks’ wounds, chimed in with a rare seriousness.

"Yeah... Shanks is right. I thought the same thing. And Agatha-san? I doubt she’s just a ’niece.’ Something smells fishy. You’re hiding something, Rosinante."

I gave a quiet chuckle, still composed.

"Well, you’re welcome to ask that old marine yourself. I can call him up right now — tell him the Red-Haired Pirates are lounging around in Foosha Village. I’m sure he’d love to pay you all a personal visit."

I pulled out a small Den Den Mushi from the inside of my coat and held it up with a grin. Buggy practically leapt out of his skin.

"You bastard! Are you trying to get us killed?!"

He shrieked, waving his arms as if trying to ward off the very idea.

"You really wanna drag Garp to East Blue?! He’d drop a fist of judgment on us faster than I can blink!"

Shanks, for once, was quiet — but not amused. His gaze had dropped, unreadable. That’s when I dropped the next stone into the still water.

"So..." I began slowly, my eyes settling on his left arm, the sleeve still rolled up from when Buggy had been treating the wound.

"Did you take that mark willingly?"

Shanks’ brow twitched. Buggy paused mid-motion, his hand frozen above the bandage roll.

"You do know what that symbol means... don’t you?"

I didn’t need to clarify. My eyes were locked on the clear, sigil-like tattoo just above Shanks’ elbow — barely visible now, but unmistakable once seen. I had seen that very same mark on the arm of a God’s Knight in Sabaody.

A cursed sigil. A brand of allegiance. The moment I recognized it back then, I had severed the arm carrying it. Buggy blinked, then slowly turned to look at the mark I was referencing. His clownish demeanor vanished.

"Rosinante... you know what this is?"

He grabbed Shanks’ sleeve and tugged it up further, fully exposing the symbol. The room chilled. I nodded, slowly. But I said nothing more. I was done speaking.

This was his moment to answer.

Shanks looked down at the mark on his own arm, his jaw tight. He let out a long, steady sigh — the kind that carries years of silence with it. Perhaps he was weighing what to say. Or perhaps he realized there was no more hiding.

"I only got it recently..." Shanks finally murmured, voice heavy with the weight of truth. "And I had no choice in the matter."

His eyes didn’t meet mine — not yet. Because he knew what I was. He knew what my Observation Haki could do — the way I didn’t just see the world around me, but felt it. Every flicker of emotion, every pulse of guilt, regret, resolve — it all rang louder to me than spoken words.

He could’ve tried to lie. But he didn’t. And that was the only reason my sword hadn’t left its sheath. Yet. Across the room, Buggy’s brows furrowed in confusion. He wasn’t used to tension like this — not the real kind.

"Oye, Ross... you gonna tell me what that damn mark’s about or what?"

His voice was serious now, absent its usual clownish flair. But I didn’t answer. My eyes were locked onto Shanks — tracking every twitch of his fingers, every quiver in his breath.

"Hey! I’m talking to you, bastard!"

Buggy stepped forward, but before he could go further, my hand shot out and clamped firmly onto his shoulder. The room shifted. The air grew heavier. Denser. Tense. The floor beneath us seemed to groan beneath the sudden spike in Haki.

"Why don’t you ask your captain?" I said coldly. My voice cut like frost.

"You are part of his crew, aren’t you? The one carrying that mark... isn’t me." Buggy opened his mouth to protest — to say something, anything — but froze when he felt it:

my arm pressing down, not just physically, but with spiritual weight. A subtle application of Haki that pinned his fragmented form into one piece. His Devil Fruit abilities were locked down entirely, like chains forged from pure will.

The silence returned. Not awkward. Not empty. Tense. Charged. Lethal. My other hand drifted lower — fingers brushing the hilt of Akatsuki. Shanks watched me carefully now. His jaw was tight. Sweat began to bead on his temple.

"Tell me, Shanks..." My voice was low, cold, and final. "With that mark on your arm... can I still trust you?" Buggy’s eyes widened. He turned toward his friend — confusion becoming panic.

"Ross... Rosinante, stop this joke, man. You’re taking this way too far — it’s just a tattoo!"

He tried to break free again, his arms splitting in instinct — but my Haki surged through him like iron clamps. Then he saw my eyes. Dead calm. Cold. Focused.

And in that moment, Buggy realized — this wasn’t a joke. I wasn’t bluffing. If Shanks said the wrong thing... Akatsuki would taste blood.

"Tell me!" I snapped, my voice like thunder in a whisper. "If you’re going to betray Roger-san’s trust someday... if you’ve already broken it... then tell me now. Let me end this before it festers."

My hand gripped the hilt tighter. "So tell me, Shanks — can I still trust you?" Shanks was silent.

He sat on the edge of the bed, blood still fresh under his bandages, right hand gripping his left elbow, as though trying to cover the cursed sigil that now marred his flesh. His face was unreadable — a storm of regret and quiet pain swirled behind those eyes.

Then he answered — not with defiance, but with a kind of weary finality. "...I suppose not." Buggy’s breath caught.

"...But all I can tell you," Shanks continued, finally meeting my eyes, "is that I will never betray Captain Roger’s trust. Not in this life. Not in the next."

For a moment, the world stopped. No one moved. No one breathed. Buggy trembled, still caught in the web of my Haki. He didn’t understand what was at stake — what that mark meant, or what the existence of it implied about the things happening behind the curtain of world affairs.

But I did.

I stared at Shanks — not just the man in front of me, but what he represented. And in his eyes, I didn’t see lies. Not yet.

"Click."

The sound of my blade sliding back into its sheath echoed like the toll of a bell. Buggy collapsed backward, panting in relief. I let go of him.

"I hope you keep that promise, Shanks." My voice had softened — but only just. "Because I’d really hate to find us on opposite sides. I can tolerate a rival... but not a traitor."

I turned, stepping toward the door. The light from outside streamed through the cracked wood, casting long shadows across the room.

"And if the day comes that you do break that vow..." I paused at the doorway, casting one last glance over my shoulder. "Then I’ll hunt you down myself."

My eyes narrowed — sharp, resolute.

"After all... I swore to Roger-san I’d protect his dream. Even from those he once called family."

And with that, I stepped into the sun, leaving silence behind me — a silence filled with too many thoughts, too many unspoken truths, and the lingering tension of a sword that almost sang.

"Oye, Shanks... you bastard, what the hell was that all about?"

Buggy’s voice cracked as he spoke, still sprawled across the floor, his chest heaving, drenched in sweat, every muscle trembling as if he’d just survived the wrath of a god.

His wide eyes remained locked on the now-empty doorway where Rosinante had just exited, his presence still lingering in the room like a storm cloud refusing to fade.

Buggy wasn’t one to be shaken easily — not after everything they’d been through together.

But that... that wasn’t the Rosinante he remembered from their years of friendship, tagging along behind Garp and then later avoiding the marines relentless pursuit after he turned pirate.

No, that was a monster.

That Haki — it wasn’t just powerful. It was precise, unflinching, and drenched in killing intent so cold it froze the air. There was no fanfare. No showmanship. Just the silent, suffocating promise of death if the wrong words had been spoken.

For the first time, Buggy had felt true pressure from Rosinante. Not sparring tension. Not the light-hearted duels between friends. This was what it felt like to be a heartbeat away from execution — a predator coiled and waiting.

But Shanks said nothing.

He remained seated on the edge of the bed, shoulders hunched, fingers clenched so tightly around his left arm that the knuckles blanched white. The cursed symbol — that damned mark — burned beneath his grip, like a brand of guilt etched into flesh.

He stared down at it, as if willing it to disappear. As if he could tear it out by force and be rid of what it represented. But he couldn’t. Not yet. Because Shanks knew — as strong as he had become, he was still not strong enough.

Not like Rosinante. Not yet. Rosinante stood as a man who could confront the World Government — alone.

A man who could stare into the abyss and make the abyss blink. Shanks, for all his renown, knew the difference. He had danced with that power three days ago... and lost. He didn’t respond to Buggy’s question. His gaze remained locked on his arm, his jaw tight, the shadows under his eyes speaking volumes.

Regret. Shame. Restraint.

Buggy, finally rising on shaky limbs, looked over at his old friend. His voice was quieter now.

"Shanks... that mark... it’s not just some weird tattoo, is it?"

No answer.

Just the rustle of cloth as Shanks slowly pulled down his sleeve, covering the symbol again — hiding it from view, even if the weight of it pressed down on him like iron chains. In the silence that followed, Buggy realized something he hadn’t wanted to admit until now.

Whatever was going on... Shanks wasn’t just playing pirate anymore. And Rosinante hadn’t just come here to fight. He came to warn. Whatever that symbol meant — it was a bridge to something bigger, darker, and more dangerous than anything they had faced on the Grand Line.

And now, it was etched into Shanks’ flesh.

As the quiet settled once more, Shanks exhaled deeply. His eyes, though tired, burned with a buried fire.

"Not yet..." he whispered to himself.

"But one day, when I’m strong enough... I’ll tear this damn thing off myself."

Buggy didn’t know what that meant. But for the first time since their youth, he was afraid for Shanks. Not because of the scar or the mark... But because of what might come for them both — if trust truly shattered, and Rosinante returned with his blade unsheathed.