Water 7, Grand Line

The smoke of Water 7 clung stubbornly to the sky, a bruised, gray shroud that refused to lift even after a couple of weeks had crawled by. What had once been an island of laughter, craftsmanship, and the rhythmic music of hammers striking steel now lay as a blackened graveyard of charred beams and collapsed workshops. Where the canals once shimmered crystal blue, only stagnant pools and broken stone remained.

The city of shipwrights—pride of the seas—was gone. When Iceburg led the first column of survivors out from the ancient subterranean vaults beneath the island, a hush fell over the hundreds of men, women, and children who followed him. They stared at the devastation with wide, hollow eyes. Some dropped to their knees. Others clutched their loved ones as if the ruins might swallow them next.

A stifled sob broke the silence—and then another. Tears ran quietly down soot-stained cheeks. They were the tears of people who survived... yet wished they had not seen what survival cost.

Iceburg did not cry. Not because he lacked grief, but because his grief had already burned through him like fire through dry tinder. What remained now was only resolve.

He stood amidst the destruction with his shirtsleeves rolled up, arms coated with dust and ash, his youthful face drawn but fierce with purpose. In his mid-twenties, he already carried himself like a man twice his age—a man who had known responsibility long before the flames arrived.

He placed his palm on the splintered remains of a central support beam, feeling the heat still radiating from it. Steam rose off the wreckage where Aqua Laguna’s floodwater had clashed against the inferno of the Buster Call.

If not for the storm... They would all have been ash.

"Everyone," Iceburg called out, voice steady even as the wind carried the lingering scent of smoke. "Listen to me. We don’t have the luxury to mourn yet. Not today."

Faces lifted toward him—exhausted, frightened, waiting for leadership that no one else could give. Iceburg grabbed the edge of a half-burned timber, braced his legs, and heaved. The massive piece of wood rolled aside with a harsh crack, clearing a small patch of open ground.

"This area will be our first clearing," he said. "We establish temporary shelters here."

People exchanged uncertain glances, but Iceburg pressed on.

"We need volunteers to locate surviving Yagara Bulls. They scattered during the Aqua Laguna, but some will have lived through it." His eyes swept over the men nearest him. "Bring them in. Carefully. They’ll be skittish."

A few men nodded and hurried off.

"With the bulls," Iceburg continued, "we can begin fishing the outer waters. Fresh water is our top priority next—start clearing the debris around the western reservoir. If it’s intact, we can restore it within a day."

Already he was moving again, lifting beams, pushing aside broken stone, directing people with a natural command that made even despairing men stand straighter.

The survivors followed his lead—not because he demanded it, but because the island needed a spine to stand upon again. And Iceburg... he was that spine.

A middle-aged shipwright, sweat mixing with the soot on his brow, exhaled as he pushed aside a pile of shattered brick. "Maybe the Aqua Laguna was a blessing this year," he murmured to the man beside him.

It wasn’t meant to be hopeful. It was simply the truth. The great tidal wave had swallowed the initial flames, smothered the worst of the burning oil and embers, and given the island a chance at rebuilding. Without it, Water 7 would have been reduced to nothing but drifting ashes.

Rebuilding would be near impossible. Foolish, even.

But Iceburg’s expression hardened as he surveyed the wreckage—because impossible was the exact mission entrusted to him. The Donquixote Family had made it clear.

"Water 7 will rise again, Iceburg. Higher than before. Stronger than before. And when the day comes, its heart will beat in time with ours."

The family had protected him ever since he and his master had sworn allegiance, their influence hidden deep beneath the island’s noble façade. They offered him a vision—a future where Water 7 would be a powerhouse not just of craftsmanship, but of wealth, technology, and covert strength. All they required was that Iceburg rebuild it... and lead it. 𝒻𝘳ℯℯ𝑤ℯ𝒷𝘯ℴ𝓋ℯ𝘭.𝑐ℴ𝑚

He never desired power. But he desired the island’s rebirth. He desired its safety. And that was enough. Somewhere among the survivors, disguised as ordinary civilians, he knew their operatives protected him. Invisible guardians. Silent shadows. He didn’t know their faces, and that was intentional. But if danger arose... they would intervene. They always had.

Iceburg took a long breath, letting the salty air fill his lungs. He turned to the crowd and raised his voice again.

"We rebuild from nothing," he declared. "Stone by stone. Beam by beam. This island will not die today."

But not everyone shared Iceburg’s resolve. How could they?

Around them stretched a nightmare made real—a skeleton of a city, charred, broken, and still warm in places where the flames had licked the stone raw. The once-magnificent canal city, jewel of craftsmen and architects, now smoldered like a corpse after cremation. What remained of Water 7 was little more than blackened beams jutting upward like ribs, shattered docks sinking into ashen tides, and canals clogged with debris and soot.

The air tasted of smoke, salt, grief, and death. Survival alone felt miraculous. Rebuilding...?

That sounded like madness. Or worse—a cruel joke.

Even the most seasoned shipwrights stood in silence, blank-eyed and hollow-chested. Mothers clung to children. Fathers stared at the ruins of the workshops where their ancestors had carved legends into timber. Apprentices cried quietly, wiping filth and ash from their faces as if it might wipe away reality itself.

A thin, middle-aged shipwright—face drawn tight with exhaustion—stepped forward. His voice trembled, half with fear, half with shame.

"Iceburg... we are grateful. Truly. Your master... he sacrificed himself so we could live." Iceburg’s jaw tightened, but the man continued, helplessly gesturing at the devastation around them.

"But rebuilding the island...? Look around us. We’re standing on a grave. We’re not even sure if we can feed ourselves tonight, let alone rebuild Water 7."

Murmurs rippled through the survivors—quiet at first, then swelling like a rising tide.

"He’s right..."

"We have nothing left..."

"Even if we tried... the resources alone..."

"We can’t even afford tools anymore... or timber... or nails..."

Despair grew teeth. It began to bite. But before the man’s words could rot their spirits any further, Iceburg stepped forward—and when he spoke, his voice cut clean through the ruin-filled silence like a ship’s horn blasting through fog.

"ENOUGH."

The survivors startled. Even the smoldering embers seemed to quiet out of respect. Iceburg’s chest rose and fell with the ragged breath of a man carrying far more weight than his young age should allow, yet his blue eyes burned—not with fear, but with conviction.

"We are alive today because of countless sacrifices," he said, voice steady, carrying over the broken streets.

"Tom-san and the rest gave their lives believing this island... our island... was worth saving. That we were worth saving." Faces lifted. Tears stilled, held by the gravity of his words.

"You think rebuilding Water 7 is impossible?" Iceburg continued. "So did I, but not anymore..."

He swept his hand toward the horizon—toward the shattered skyline, toward the rising smoke, toward the broken bones of a city that had once touched the heavens with its ambition.

"But this island was not built by cowards," he said. "It was built by people who shaped miracles out of seawater and sawdust. By shipwrights who created the greatest vessels ever to sail the Grand Line. By hands—your hands—that have crafted wonders the world still whispers about."

A hush fell.

Hope—small, faint, but unmistakably present—flickered among the crowd like the rekindling of dying flames.

"I know what stands before us," Iceburg said. "Rebuilding Water 7 will take more than strength. More than skill. More than everything we have left." He placed his hand on his own chest—a gesture of oath, of family, of legacy.

"But I made a promise. Not only to Tom-san..." His voice softened and grew heavier. "...but to my family."

Some shipwrights blinked at that. A few exchanged confused glances. Iceburg rarely spoke of family—and when he did, it was only of Tom.

But this time... "I have been entrusted with a mission," Iceburg declared. "A mission to rebuild Water 7. Not as it was..." He pointed to the ruins. "...but stronger. Greater. Beyond anything we have ever achieved."

People listened now with full attention. Even the children stopped fidgeting.

"We may not have resources," he said, "but I have already requested aid. Supplies, craftsmen, protection. Help... is coming."

Shock rippled through the survivors.

"And until that help arrives," Iceburg continued, "we will do what we have always done—we build. With what we have. With who we are. With everything that remains." He stepped closer to the man who had spoken, placing a firm hand on his shoulder.

"You are right," Iceburg said softly. "We are standing on a grave." He looked back at the ruins—at the fallen towers, the burnt homes, and the drowned docks.

"And that is exactly why we must rebuild. Because if we do nothing, then everyone who died here... died for nothing."

Silence. Then—slowly, hesitantly—a few heads nodded. A few backs straightened. A few hearts steadied. Iceburg raised his voice one final time—powerful, commanding, the voice of a future mayor forged in catastrophe.

"Water 7 will rise again. Not because of fate. Not because of miracles. But because we will build it with our own hands."

He pointed toward the fractured city with a resolve as unbreakable as steel. The people straightened. Some wiped their tears. Others picked up tools or pieces of debris with new purpose.

"The first shipment of resources and emergency supplies is on its way," Iceburg continued. "We’ll have food, tools, blankets—everything we need. Help is coming."

A small ripple of hope sparked through the group. They didn’t know where the aid came from.

Only Iceburg knew. And he would take that secret to his grave. He brushed ash from his hands and stepped forward, taking hold of another fallen beam. This one was even heavier, charred nearly black. He gritted his teeth, muscles straining, until a pair of hands joined his on the other side.

Another shipwright. Then a third. Then a fourth. Together, they lifted. Together, they cleared another space where something new could be built. For the first time since the disaster, Iceburg allowed himself a small, tight smile.

Water 7 might have been scorched to the bone... But as long as its spirit survived, even in these ashes, it would rise again. And under his guidance—under the unseen shield of the Donquixote Family—it would become far greater than before.

A city reborn. A city rebuilt. A city whose true allegiance would be hidden beneath the surface... just like the foundations he now laid.

"Let’s get to work!" Iceburg shouted.

A sharp, mocking clap... clap... clap cut through the ruins like a blade. Iceburg froze.

The others—men hardened by shipwright labor, yet shaken to their core by devastation—unconsciously dropped the beams and splintered timber they had been lifting. Even the children behind them went silent. The crackling of lingering fires and the soft hiss of settling rubble fell away beneath that rhythmic, scornful applause.

The sound came from atop a jagged mound of collapsed stone and blackened wood. A man stood there. A pirate—lean, cocky, with a jagged grin carved across his face. His coat, tattered to look intimidating, fluttered dramatically behind him even though there was barely any breeze. At his hip hung a cheap cutlass polished obsessively clean, as if it were the only thing he owned worth pride.

Behind him lounged about two dozen more—men with sneers, rotting teeth, and eyes gleaming with the kind of hunger that civilization kept leashed. Here, amidst ruin and ash, no leash remained. The captain dipped his head, still slowly clapping.

"Well now," he drawled with theatrical admiration, "that was truly inspirational." He flashed a wide grin. "For a moment there, young man... I was almost tempted to toss aside my cutlass and join your noble crusade."

He cupped a hand to his ear as if listening. "Rebuild Water 7, is it? Stirring stuff, really. Goosebumps."

His crew cackled—high, sharp, ugly laughter that echoed between the hollowed-out skeletons of collapsed workshops. Iceburg’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t move. Not yet. The pirate captain continued strolling down the rubble as if descending a grand staircase.

"See... me and my boys? We’ve been watching and waiting." He tapped the side of his nose. "Not from too close, of course. When the real monsters showed up—those big-name bastards from the New World tearing the island apart for the blueprints? Ohhh, no."

He shuddered dramatically. "We aren’t stupid. We let them Fight it out. Then, when the Buster Call rolled in?" He clicked his tongue. "Certainly didn’t want to get caught in that little barbecue."

The men around Iceburg stiffened. A few of the women pulled children behind them. Everyone knew the Buster Call’s destruction. Everyone had watched their city burn. Some had watched their loved ones disappear in the flames. The pirate shrugged casually.

"So we waited offshore. Figured the place’d be a graveyard by the end." His smile grew. "And would ya look at that? We were right. But never did I expect to find you all here..." He spread his arms wide, gesturing to the devastated landscape—the fallen canals, the shattered towers, the scorched earth where shipyards once stood proud.

"I was expecting nothing but rubble... and now we have thousands of you lovely folk still alive."

A hush fell over the survivors—cold, sharp, suffocating. Iceburg felt every gaze turning to him—not with hope this time, but dread. The captain chuckled darkly.

"You know what we came for? Scraps. Metal. Maybe some forgotten loot you shipwrights hid away." He leaned forward, voice dropping. "But now? Hah... now, we’ve hit the damn jackpot."

His eyes swept the crowd.

"Got yourselves a workforce, don’t ya? Strong hands, skilled hands." He licked his lips. "Hands that could dig through this wreckage and find us every last treasure buried under the rubble."

A murmur rose through the pirates behind him as his men discussed the possibilities.

"Sell ’em."

"Put ’em in chains."

"Get a good price for the kids."

"Maybe the nobles are still looking for craftsmen. These Water 7 brats fetch a fortune." Their voices oozed cruelty—not even hidden, not softened. They didn’t see people. They saw merchandise. The captain smirked wider.

"And when we’re done picking the bones of this island clean?" He shrugged. "Well... slaves fetch a pretty penny in Sabaody. Especially shipwrights, with Water 7 being all but history now. Some of you could rebuild half the archipelago with your skills."

A wink. "Nice retirement plan for us, eh?"

A few people gasped; others trembled with rage or fear. Iceburg saw despair beginning to creep back into their eyes, the same despair he’d been fighting to keep at bay since the attack ended. He stepped forward. Slowly. Deliberately.

He said nothing, not yet. His presence alone pulled the townspeople into a fragile formation behind him—like a man trying to shield his family with nothing but his own body. The pirate captain laughed.

"Ohhh, are you planning to be the hero...?" He tapped the hilt of his cutlass.

"Don’t make that face. This is just the natural order of things. Weak fall, strong rise. Islands burned, pirates profit." He tilted his head. "That master of yours—Tom, yeah? He sacrificed himself for you folks. Admirable. But me?"

He smirked. "I’m no hero. I’m merely a pirate." He pointed his cutlass at Iceburg’s chest.

"So how about you be a good little craftsman and tell everyone to cooperate? The sooner they help us dig, the longer they live." The crowd stirred—fear, anger, and uncertainty mixing like volatile oil.

Iceburg’s hands curled into fists, knuckles whitening beneath dust and ash. His gaze flicked—just once—toward the right side of the clearing where, among the soot-streaked shipwrights, Franky stood half-tensed. The young teen’s eyes were burning, his shoulders coiled like springs ready to burst.

Franky wasn’t like Iceburg. Iceburg had never learned how to fight—even after becoming a part of the Donquixote family, his forte had been diplomacy, infrastructure, and leadership.

But Franky? Though he hadn’t become part of the Donquixote family like his master or Iceburg. Franky had been molded by Kyros himself—the gladiator whose legend still haunted the Colosseum. The man who could slice through mountains with his blade. The man who had become a phantom protector assigned by the Donquixote family to ensure the safety of Tom. And during those years after the incident with the Cipher Pol, Franky had even learned the secrets of haki.

If Franky moved now—if he revealed even a fraction of the skill Kyros had carved into his cybernatic bones—every hidden Donquixote operative embedded among the refugees would be compromised. And Iceburg needed those shadows unseen for as long as possible. Water 7 could not afford to lose its aces, not now. Not when the island’s fate depended entirely on unseen hands and quiet alliances.

So Iceburg made a near-imperceptible gesture. A subtle shake of the head. A plea. Not yet. Franky stopped cold, jaw clenching so hard Iceburg feared he would crack a tooth.

The pirate captain atop the rubble—lean, ragged, and carrying the overconfidence of a man who had only ever fought downwards—was still sneering triumphantly. He had no idea that the teen who could have ripped him apart was standing only meters away.

He was too busy reveling in the sound of his own voice and the pathetic show of might from his dozen followers. But then—he paused. Because behind him... the racket his men had been making—cheering, laughing, brandishing weapons—died all at once.

Silence spread like a stain. A coldness crawled down the pirate captain’s spine. He opened his mouth, confused—but then a shadow fell over him. Huge. Solid. Heavy as judgment itself.

Before he could turn, before he could even inhale—a massive hand wrapped around his skull.

The pirate didn’t even have time to scream.

"You really found me..." The voice behind him was low, quiet—dangerously so. "...on a very bad day."

KRRRRRK.

The skull shattered under the pressure like rotten driftwood. The pirate’s body dropped bonelessly, legs folding beneath him before he hit the rubble. The remaining pirates froze—paralyzed by shock, by terror, by the sudden awareness that they were not predators.

They were prey.

And standing behind their fallen captain, wearing a dog-eared cap, a justice coat and an expression that barely contained a storm, was Monkey D. Garp.

His fists trembled—not with hesitation. Not with restraint. But with rage. A boiling, volcanic fury that threatened to erupt from every pore in his body. He had just received the news from Headquarters.

Fishman Island was gone. Massacred. An entire race—who had been trying their best to become a part of this world—eradicated by the same government he served. Garp was many things. A Marine hero. A living weapon. A man tempered by decades of war. But he was not merciless. Not cruel. He never killed unless he absolutely had to.

Yet today... today was different.

The scars the World Government had carved into Water 7 were still fresh—still smoking, still staining the earth. The cries of survivors had only just begun to fade. And now, on top of that, the Elders had wiped out an entire species. The last vestiges of Garp’s patience, his restraint, and his sense of "proper protocol"—all snapped.

The remaining pirates screamed, tripping over each other as they scrambled backward—but Garp was already moving, a blur of steel muscle and fury. The first pirate swung his cutlass.

Garp didn’t even look at him.

His fist slammed into the man’s chest—and the pirate imploded, the air bursting out of his lungs in a bloody spray as his body launched across the clearing like a broken cannonball. Every pirate tried to flee as they finally realized who the man standing before them was, the Marine Hero himself.

The rage that had nowhere else to go. The grief of knowing the innocent had suffered while he wore the Marine uniform. The bitter, choking truth that the organization he dedicated his life to had become indistinguishable from the monsters he once fought.

And these vultures... these scavengers preying on survivors... They were the only outlet he had. In mere moments, it was over. The dozen pirates lay scattered across the rubble—unconscious, broken, or dead. The survivors stared in stunned silence, not daring to breathe too loudly.

Franky’s eyes were wide. Iceburg exhaled slowly, tension leaving his shoulders.

"Crack..." The stone struck Garp’s temple with a hard crack. Not because the Marine Hero couldn’t dodge it—Garp could avoid cannon fire in his sleep—but because he chose not to. He stood unmoving as the pebble bounced off his head and fell into the ash-smeared ruins beneath his boots.

A small gasp rippled through the crowd. Then a voice—tiny, trembling, and sharp with pain—cut through the silence.

"Give me back my father..."

A little girl emerged from between the crowd of shipwrights and families. Barely six years old. Her hair was tangled with soot, her face streaked with dirt and dried tears. Her small fist was still curled around another stone. Her eyes were full of grief—raw, cracked, bleeding grief—and beneath it, a hatred too heavy for a child to bear.

She knew exactly what that coat meant. She knew exactly who stood before her. And she still threw the stone.

"Give him back!"

Another stone flew—this one from someone older. A boy no more than twelve, face twisted, voice hoarse.

Then an older woman screamed, "You marines did this! You burned our homes! You buried our families!"

And that was all it took. The dam burst. Dozens of stones, broken wood, chunks of debris—whatever they could find—were hurled toward Garp. Some struck his chest. Others his legs. One bounced off his cheekbone. He didn’t move. He didn’t raise a hand to defend himself.

He simply stood there, expression unreadable, letting their fury batter against him. Because he understood. Because this—this grief, this outrage, this stabbing betrayal—was the weight of the uniform he had chosen to wear.

Behind him, the pirates lay broken and unconscious, scattered like discarded dolls after the brief, explosive burst of his rage. But the survivors didn’t care. The pirates hadn’t destroyed their home. The Marines had.

"I—I said stop!" Iceburg’s voice cracked as he shoved through the crowd, arms raised. "Everyone—please—he’s here to help!"

No one listened. The little girl shrieked again, her tiny arm whipping forward as she threw another stone. This one clipped Garp’s jaw. A small cut opened, bleeding down into his beard.

"I said STOP!" Iceburg roared, desperation tearing through him. "He’s not the enemy—!!"

But how could they believe him? Around them lay the charred skeleton of Water 7—the island of shipwrights, now a graveyard of blackened beams and melted stone. The once grand canals were choked with debris, the smell of smoke still thick in the air even a week later. Every face was hollow, every pair of hands trembling from exhaustion and despair.

Their families dead. Their homes erased. Their dreams burned. And the man standing before them? He wore the coat of the people who ordered the attack. Iceburg felt something twist painfully in his chest. Garp... the Hero of the Marines... being pelted by the very people he would’ve died to protect.