Chapter-8

The Moby Dick creaked like an old man's bones, groans echoing through the air heavy with unspoken worry. Whitebeard, a mountain of muscle and scars, sat at the head of the table, his gnarled hand fiddling with a chipped mug. Marco, the Phoenix, perched nearby, his golden eyes reflecting the flickering lamplight. The silence stretched, taut as a sail in a storm.

"Big Mom," Marco finally said, his voice low. "Her brutes were there assisting the attack. Could be coincidence, but…"

Whitebeard grunted, the sound rumbling. "Nah, not possible." He took a swig of sake, the burn seeming to ease the weight on his chest. "He planned it all. Used her pirates as pawns, knew we wouldn't suspect him with Linlin in the picture."

"But why, Pops?" Marco's frown mirrored the confusion etched on the faces of the other commanders gathered around the table. "He was one of us. Family. And you know just how much he loved us!"

Whitebeard chuckled, a dry rasp. "Aye, that's the damnable part. Loved the runt in his own way, I did. Even I can't understand, he is too young to even think of something."

The air thickened with the weight of betrayal. Izo, the calm swordsman, spoke, his voice heavy. "But was it right to thrown him out, Pops."

"Easy, son," Whitebeard rumbled. "He had already sold himself to Bigmom, I couldn't stop him even if I wanted." He slammed his hand on the table, the mug jumping. "Damned if I know where I went wrong."

Vista, the flamboyant swordsman, snorted. "Maybe love ain't enough, Pops."

Whitebeard looked at him, his gaze heavy. "Maybe. But we don't get to pick our family, Vista. We take them as they are, flaws and all. And sometimes, that means lettin' them go If they wish to."

The words hung heavy in the air, a bittersweet truth settling over the crew. Marco met Whitebeard's gaze, understanding passing between them.

***

In the small town, in the whole cake island. Among the cheerful children, seven-year-old Pudding Pudding stood out, not for her vibrant dress or the bow adorning her hair, but for the peculiar mark upon her forehead—a third eye.

As the sun cast its warm rays upon the playground, a chilling wind of disdain blew through the crowd. A group of children, like a pack of wolves sensing weakness, closed in on Pudding, their laughter echoing like a haunting chorus.

One of them, with a sneer, pointed a finger at her. "Look, everyone! It's Pudding the Cyclops! What a weirdo!"

Another, feeding off the first's cruelty, chimed in with a twisted glee. "Yeah, she's so strange with that big eye on her forehead!"

The taunts grew louder, piercing Pudding's fragile heart. next kid, a malicious glint in their eyes, added, "Eww, I don't want to play with her. She's a freak!"

The weight of their words crushed Pudding's spirit, her eyes welling up with tears. She turned away from the heartless crowd, desperate to find solace in the shadows. With trembling legs, she fled to the nearby alley, seeking refuge from the tormenting world.

The alley, once a place of forgotten dreams and discarded hopes, now became Pudding's sanctuary of sorrow. Cold bricks pressed against her back as she sank to the ground, her tears flowing like a river of despair.

"Why do they hate me?" she whimpered, her voice barely a whisper. "I just want to be like everyone else. It's not fair!"

Her cries echoed through the desolate alley, absorbed by the darkness that surrounded her.

pudding's's sobs grew louder, her anguish filling the air like a mournful melody. Each tear that fell from her three eyes carried with it the pain of a thousand wounds, carving deep into her young soul.

The echoes of pudding's sobs were suddenly interrupted by a deep, rumbling voice. "What's all this ruckus?" It boomed, sending shivers down the alleyway.

Pudding, startled, peeked around the corner, her tears still wet on her cheeks. There, towering over her, stood the fearsome figure of Katakuri. His usually stoic expression was furrowed, still nothing noticeable.

He spotted Pudding in a flash, his gaze softening slightly. "Pudding," he rumbled gently, taking a step closer. "What's the matter?"

Pudding hesitated, unsure whether to approach or hide further. But in Katakuri's gruffness, she detected a flicker of warmth. She sniffled and, in a small voice, told him about the taunts, the loneliness, the pain of being different.

Katakuri listened patiently, his brow furrowed with a newfound understanding. He knelt down, bringing himself to her level. He didn't offer empty reassurances or force smiles. Instead, he spoke his truth, "Even I know what it's like to feel different, Pudding. Not everyone understands things the same way."

His words, surprisingly comforting, resonated within Pudding. They shared a silent understanding, a bond forged in their unique experiences.

Suddenly, Katakuri did something unexpected. He chuckled, a low, almost unheard sound. "But remember, Pudding," he said, his eyes twinkling, "different doesn't mean bad. Your extra eye sees things others miss. It's your special gift, just like my Mochi powers."

Pudding looked at him, surprised. No one had ever called her extra eye a "gift" before. A shy smile tugged at her lips. Katakuri saw it and extended a large, flour-dusted hand. "Come on," he rumbled gently, "let's get you out of this gloomy alley. I found the most amazing new recipe for donuts, and even weirdos deserve delicious treats."

Taking his hand, Pudding felt a warmth spread through her.

***

The night sky was a fisherman's net, vast and black, stitched with silver stars. Atlas lay sprawled beneath it, his back warming against the scorched earth. He found Whitebeard's face there, etched in starlight, the old man's smile a jagged scar above the churning sea.

Grief welled, a tide pulling him under. He clenched his fists, sand digging into his palms. Anger, hot and sharp, cut through the sorrow. It didn't erase the ache, but it damn well kept him afloat.

"Papa," he choked, the word scraping raw against his throat.

His eyes, wide and red as embers, scanned the horizon. Blackbeard's laughter, a vile squawk on the wind, echoed in his memory. The bastard would pay. Every laugh, every sneer, every drop of blood spilled on Moby Dick's deck – Atlas would count them all.

He stood, knees shaky, the starlit net of night above him. His voice, hoarse and low, carried across the silent sands. "You will die the worst death, Blackbeard. Mark my words, you black-hearted son of a bitch!"

The threat died on his lips. He reached up, a single fist raised towards the stars.

"In the name of Whitebeard pirates," he swore, his voice cracking with raw emotion, "I will bath in your blood."