Chapter-2

Blackbeard grunted, a guttural noise erupting from his cavernous chest as he shoved another scrap of meat into his mouth. Across the rough-hewn table, Atlas watched him, eyes narrowed in disgust. The air hung heavy with unspoken tension, as thick as the rum fumes Jozu was steadily inhaling.

"What's the glare for, Atlas?" Blackbeard finally rumbled, wiping grease from his beard with a scarred hand.

"Oh, nothing much," Atlas drawled, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Just enjoying the, uh, ....spectacle...of your feeding habits." He contorted his face in a mock grimace, the movement like a viper striking.

Jozu, ever the peacemaker, thumped Atlas on the head with a meaty fist. "Enough of that, already."

Atlas rubbed his head, muttering under his breath, "If you only knew what's coming..."

A sudden thrumming sound echoed from his chest, a rhythmic beat like a drum solo played by a frantic heart. Jozu's gaze snapped to the swirling mark etched there, his brow furrowed.

"What was that?" he demanded.

"The mark," Atlas explained, his voice strained. "It moved."

Jozu leaned closer, scrutinizing the mark. "Feel any different?"

Atlas shrugged. "Not yet, at least."

Another thwack from Jozu's fist landed squarely on Atlas's head. "What was that for?" Atlas yelped, nursing the new ache.

"Did it hurt?" Jozu chuckled, a rumble deep in his belly. "I put some extra muscle into that one."

"Actually," Atlas admitted, surprised, "just a sting. Nothing more."

Jozu's eyes gleamed with a mixture of amusement and curiosity. "You just adapted to my fist, I'd say." 

He got another playful fist on his head.

This time, Atlas barely flinched. "What is it now?" he grumbled.

"Blunt attacks, eh?" Marco chimed in, leaning back in his chair, a toothpick dangling from his lips. "How many hits does it take, or is it processing time?"

Atlas shrugged again, a wry smile playing on his lips. "Don't know. Probably a bit of both."

The air crackled with unspoken implications. Blackbeard grunted, shoving another wad of food into his mouth, the sound strangely subdued.

***

Years Passed, a warm glow appeared on Atlas' face, but his twelve-year-old frame couldn't hide the simmering intensity in his dark eyes. Clad in familiar black, he stood on the deck, the plate in his hand half-finished, his gaze fixed on the fiery ball sinking into the vast ocean. The air buzzed with unspoken worry, heavy as the setting sun.

"They ain't shy no more," a gruff voice cut through the silence. "Since Pops' heart gave out, Marines swarm around us like flies around dung."

Atlas turned, food untouched, his black hair catching the dying light. "What happened?"

"Patrols bolder by the day," the man muttered, "Ships visible even with one eye shut. They ain't scared, them arrogant fools."

Atlas scanned the horizon, a storm brewing within him. "And Brother Marco?"

"Says to bide our time, wait for Pops to heal."

A muscle twitched in Atlas' jaw. He finished his food slowly, the setting sun mirroring the rising fire in his eyes. He strode towards Whitebeard's chamber, the worry morphing into anger with each step. He found his captain, a giant frame slumbering, chest rising and falling in a struggle unseen.

Atlas stood there, watching, the anger flickering into something deeper, colder. His hand clenched, knuckles turning white. This weakness, this vulnerability – it gnawed at him, the silence in the room amplifying the roar in his veins. He couldn't stand it. The Marines' boldness was one thing, but this, this helplessness... it wouldn't stand.

A shadow darkened the doorway. Marco's calm gaze met Atlas' burning eyes. "He needs rest, Atlas," the First Division Commander said, his voice laced with concern.

But Atlas wouldn't be soothed. "For how long?" he whispered, the tension vibrating in the air. "How long do we wait while they dance on our doorstep?"

Marco's silence spoke volumes. Atlas knew the answer.

The next ship's deck buzzed with chatter. Atlas arrived before izou and said, "Brother Marco," Atlas greeted, voice taut with urgency. "He wants you, now."

Izou raised an eyebrow, his crimson sash whispering against his thigh. "Urgent, is it? Any word on what's amiss?"

Atlas shook his head, frustration tightening his jaw. "No clue, but his face was thunder. Best not keep him waiting."

Izou nodded, a flicker of concern flashing across his sharp gaze. "On my way then," he said, disappearing.

His eyes, dark and determined, flicked towards the horizon where a Marine ship, emboldened by Whitebeard's illness, cut through the waves. A fire ignited within Atlas, fueled by frustration and a simmering protectiveness.

With a swift stride, he reached the sails, hands already reaching for the ropes. Confusion rippled through the crew.

"What's the meaning of this, Atlas?" rumbled a burly pirate, his voice thick with concern.

Atlas met his gaze, his own filled with unwavering resolve. "No more waiting," he declared, his voice echoing across the deck. "Their disrespect ends now!"

He threw his head back, his voice booming like a ship's bell. "Raise the sails! We fight!"

A stunned silence followed, broken only by the creaking of the ship. Then, a spark ignited in another pirate's eyes.

"Been itching for a brawl!" he roared, rushing to join Atlas at the ropes.

One by one, the pirates' hesitation wavered. Atlas' words, imbued with the unspoken pain of Whitebeard's illness and the rising tide of Marine arrogance, resonated within them. They were Whitebeard Pirates, damn it, and fear wasn't in their vocabulary.

"Those arrogant fools think they can dance on Pop's doorstep?" A wiry, scar-faced woman spat, her words sparking laughter and cheers. "Let's teach them a lesson they won't forget!"

Adrenaline coursed through Atlas' veins as he burst into the ship's control room. Ignoring the surprised shouts of the helmsman, he seized the wheel, his grip tight and unwavering. Under his control, Moby Dick lurched forward, the sails catching the wind and propelling them towards the encroaching Marine vessel.

A frantic message echoed from below deck. "Commander! The ship's moving on its own!" Jozu's booming voice filled the air, tinged with worry.

"Who's at the helm?" came his gruff reply.

Silence hung heavy for a moment before a panicked response, "Izou... but I saw him leaving for Marco's ship just now!"

On the Marine ship, the alarm bells clanged, shattering the evening calm. "Whitebeard's ship is charging!" a lookout screamed, pointing at the Moby Dick gaining momentum with frightening speed.

"Prepare firearms!" barked the Marine commander, his eyes narrowing at the approaching behemoth. Cannons were loaded, muskets readied, but they felt pitifully inadequate against the Moby Dick's imposing form.

Atlas ignored the frantic fire aimed at them. Pushing Moby Dick even faster, he felt the wind whipping through his hair, the roar of the ocean a battle cry in his ears. The Marine ship loomed closer, fear etched on the faces of its crew. Then, with a bone-jarring crash, the Moby Dick's prow slammed into the enemy vessel, splitting it in two like a rotten apple. Screams mingled with the splintering of wood as marines were thrown into the churning sea.

But Atlas wasn't done. He spun the wheel, guiding Moby Dick on a rampage. One after another, Marine ships fell victim to the Whitebeard ship's fury. Atlas danced with the Moby Dick, its massive bulk turning into a weapon of precise destruction. Cannons bounced harmlessly off its thick hull, musket fire a mere annoyance. In a whirlwind of splintered wood and panicked cries, four Marine ships met their demise, their wreckage floating like macabre offerings on the blood-tinged water.

Standing tall at the helm, Atlas watched the chaos unfold. His chest, marked by the mysterious symbol, thrummed with a power he barely understood. It fueled his anger, his determination, his reckless courage. This wasn't just about defending Whitebeard; it was about declaring their presence, reminding the world that even a wounded beast could unleash untold fury.

"Just cause the tiger's asleep," He said, looking at the sinking ships. He raised his arms, then army of pirates pointed their guns at the marines on the sea, floating and trying to get away in the water.

"How dare the deer make it's territory his grazing ground," He dropped his hand. Massive amount of gun fire, each and every marine slain with barrages of bullets.