One Piece : Brotherhood-Chapter 570

Tucked along the lower canal district, where the stone walkways met the spray of the open sea, stood a small stall known to every dockworker, shipwright, and fisherman in Water 7 — The Mackerel’s Smile.

It wasn’t much to look at — just a sturdy wooden stand with a patched awning of faded blue and white stripes, its corners frayed by years of salt wind. The signboard, hand-painted long ago, leaned slightly to one side, the cheerful cartoon of a grinning mackerel still managing to gleam under the morning light despite the peeling paint. The wood smelt of brine and old varnish, and the counter was worn smooth by a decade’s worth of customers leaning in to talk and bargain.

Behind the stall stood the stall owner, Raito, a broad-shouldered man with a weather-beaten face, gray streaks in his beard, and hands that looked as though they were carved from driftwood. His voice was rough from shouting over the gulls and the waves, yet there was always a warmth to it — a fisherman’s laughter that carried even over the sound of the canals.

To the people of Water 7, The Mackerel’s Smile was nothing more than a quaint, timeworn fish stall — a humble fixture on the city’s salt-slicked edge. Its striped awning fluttered in the sea breeze, the smell of grilled mackerel mingled with laughter, and its owner, Raito, was just another gruff but kindhearted fisherman who’d spent his life chasing tides and trading stories.

But appearances in Water 7 were often as fluid as the waves themselves. What the world didn’t know was that this simple stall was anything but simple.

Behind its rustic façade, The Mackerel’s Smile was one of six covert outposts scattered across the city, each funded and maintained by the underworld — the vast, unseen network of smugglers, brokers, and silent financiers who thrived beneath the world government’s nose.

Water 7 was a treasure chest of opportunity and danger both; nearly thirty percent of the world’s Marine warships were crafted here, along with an equal share of pirate galleons and smuggling vessels. Every shipwright guild, every dockworker, every merchant who dealt in rare timbers or forbidden alloys was part of the delicate ecosystem that kept the city’s heart beating.

And where trade flourished, the underworld watched. The Mackerel’s Smile served as one of their eyes — its nets cast not into the sea, but into the invisible currents of information that flowed through the city.

As the first morning customers began to gather — dockhands buying dried sardines, mothers bargaining for squid — Raito wiped his hands on a cloth and called over his shoulder, "I’m going to check on the stock we got this morning and process them for storage. Keep an eye on the stall, Mina."

His voice was steady, unremarkable. No one looked twice as he slipped past the counter, vanishing behind a curtain of hanging nets and fish barrels. He walked through a narrow corridor that led to a small storage shed, where crates of salted fish and spare nets were stacked neatly.

And then, with a practiced motion, he pushed aside a heavy crate and pulled a hidden lever carved into the floor beam. The false wall behind the shelves creaked open just wide enough for him to slip through. Beyond it lay the true heart of The Mackerel’s Smile.

The secret room was small and windowless, built deep into the foundation stone of the canal’s edge. Its walls were lined with dark steel plating — both to muffle sound and to keep the damp from seeping in. The faint hum of machinery and the low, wet croak of Den Den Mushi filled the air.

Dozens of the snail-like creatures sat in neat rows upon wooden shelves, each one connected by coiled cables and crystalline receivers that glimmered faintly in the dim lantern light. Some snails had odd metallic fittings grafted onto their shells — amplifiers, filters, even small antennae — all tuned to pick up stray transmissions drifting through Water 7’s communication network.

This was Raito’s true domain. He sat down on the worn stool before his cluttered desk, its surface covered in notes, dials, and half-disassembled transponders. A steaming cup of black tea rested beside a stack of logs — records of intercepted calls, coded messages, and lists of ship movements. Every morning, from sunrise to sundown, this was his ritual.

For nearly a decade, Raito had lived a double life — the smiling fishmonger above, and the patient listener below. He had long since lost count of the hours spent hunched in this tiny chamber, tuning one Den Den Mushi after another, searching for whispers in the static.

Most days, he found nothing of note — just dockhands gossiping about wages, sailors bragging about drunken nights, or routine transmissions from the shipwright guilds. Yet every so often, a spark of gold appeared amid the noise: the mention of a secret shipment of Adam Wood, the movement of a newly commissioned Marine battleship, or the rumors of a pirate crew making port under false names.

Those small discoveries were Raito’s livelihood — the currency of secrets. This morning felt no different. He adjusted the tuning dial on one of the larger Den Den Mushi, its eyes half-closed as it murmured out fragments of conversations in shifting tones. Raito leaned in, jotting down notes in his steady hand.

"...Dock Three... delays in the rivet orders..."

"...The workshop is pushing new prototypes for Caravels ..." 𝒻𝑟𝘦𝘦𝘸ℯ𝒷𝑛𝘰𝓋ℯ𝘭.𝘤𝘰𝘮

"...storm expected in the southern side of the island..."

All noise. He switched channels, flipping a lever to redirect the frequency through a smaller snail perched near the edge of the desk. The creature twitched its feelers, its expression sharpening as a new voice filtered through the receiver.

For nearly an hour, it was the same — background chatter, merchants haggling, petty talk from ship captains. He rubbed his temple, fighting the monotony. His tea had gone cold. The faint vibration of the snails lulled him into that strange half-trance familiar to all who worked in shadows: waiting, always waiting for something to surface.

Then, a click.

A new transmission cut through the static — faint at first, almost drowned out by another channel. But there was something in the tone, something cold and clipped, that made Raito freeze mid-movement.

A new frequency. Faint at first, distorted by static. Two voices. One heavy and commanding, the other tense and breathless. Raito leaned closer, his heartbeat steady but his instincts already alert.

"Are you absolutely sure?" The first voice rumbled through the snail, low and gruff, thick with authority — the kind of voice that belonged to someone who’d ordered men killed before breakfast. Beneath the growl, Raito could hear something else: greed. And fear.

"You know what’s at stake," the man continued. "If you’re mistaken about something like this, no one — no one — will be able to save you. Not even me."

For a heartbeat, all Raito could hear was the faint hiss of air between words — and the nervous, hurried reply that followed.

"Do you think I’d risk my life if I wasn’t absolutely sure?" The second voice trembled, not from doubt, but from the weight of what it carried. "I’m telling you again — it’s one hundred percent confirmed. The blueprints... for an ancient weapon... have been unearthed in Water 7."

Raito’s eyes widened. He instinctively reached for his logbook, scribbling down the words in haste.

"The island’s crawling with Government agents," the voice went on. "Cipher Pol, intelligence operatives, bounty brokers — everyone’s here. They’re all after the same thing: the blueprint."

A sharp exhale came from the superior. "If the World Government already knows... we won’t stand a chance," he said grimly. "You and I both know what happens when they take something seriously. They erase it."

There was a pause — a heavy, suffocating silence that seemed to fill the small basement. Even the Den Den Mushi fell still, its lips pursed in eerie imitation of the tension hanging in the air. Then the informant’s voice returned, urgent and defiant.

"No. We still have a chance. It’s only confirmed that the blueprint is on the island — but not where. Even the Government doesn’t know the exact location yet. If we move first... if we act now... we can take it before anyone realizes what’s happened."

Raito’s fingers tightened on his pen. The word blueprint burned in his mind. An ancient weapon — one of the forbidden legacies of the Void Century. A myth whispered only in taverns and hushed dealings between the darkest corners of the underworld.

"You’d better be right," the superior growled. "If I bring this to the others and you’re wrong, my head will roll before yours."

"But sir," the informant’s voice pressed, rising with urgency, "if we do get it — if we find the blueprint — think about what it means! Power beyond comprehension! Why else would the World Government risk exposure? Do you think they’d initiate a Buster Call just for rumors?"

The superior’s breath caught. "A... Buster Call?" His voice sharpened. "Where did you hear that?"

"It came through the trade channels," the informant replied, words quick and uneven. "Encrypted talk out of Enies Lobby. They’re preparing for it — or at least, planning it. You know what that means, sir. Once that order goes out, there’ll be no escape. Not for the blueprints. Not for Water 7."

The older man cursed under his breath. "You’re telling me the Government’s willing to burn the island?"

"They’ll do worse if they have to," the informant shot back. "We have no time — we need to move before this information spreads. Before the island is sealed and the blueprints disappear forever."

Then—silence. For the next few minutes, Raito penned down every syllable until the call disconnected.

A faint click echoed from the Den Den Mushi as the line went dead. Its expression sagged, eyes drooping back into calm neutrality, as though the conversation had never happened. But the air in the hidden room had changed — heavy, electric.

Raito sat motionless, his breath shallow. In all his years of listening — through ten thousand meaningless messages and lies — he had never stumbled upon something like this.

Blueprints of an Ancient Weapon. Cipher Pol agents. A possible Buster Call.

Each phrase was a hammer blow, echoing through his mind. The implications were catastrophic.

He leaned back on his stool, rubbing a calloused hand over his face, the low hum of the transponders buzzing like distant thunder around him. If what he’d just heard was true, then Water 7 was standing on the edge of a blade — a spark away from annihilation.

Raito reached for the black Den Den Mushi again — the secure underworld line — his movements careful but urgent. The snail opened its eyes, sensing the weight of the call.

"This is Station Six," he murmured, his voice low and grim. "I’ve intercepted a high-priority code black transmission. Topic: Water 7 — ancient weapon blueprints. Possible Buster Call authorization."

****

Minutes had barely passed since Raito’s transmission had vanished into the ether when the underworld stirred, as though a dark hand had swept across the seas.

The network of hidden stations, shadowed warehouses, and disguised trading posts erupted into quiet activity. Every operator, every courier, and every agent paused, listening for confirmation and new orders before making a move. There was no panic, no blind rush — the underworld never moved that way. It flowed, deliberate, invisible, and unstoppable.

A murmur rose through the Council of Underworld Emperors, the secret cabal that controlled the flow of the entire underworld network across the world. Their operators cross-checked the data: Den-Den Mushi reports confirmed that Water Seven’s island was crawling with Cipher Pol operatives, Marine scouts were active on every docking point, and Marine HQ had gone to red alert and completely sealed off.

Reports of fleet mobilization in the first half of the Grand Line poured in from independent sources: shipwrights under surveillance, merchant convoys rerouted, and communications intercepted from government officers indicated that the World Government was preparing for something monumental.

For years, Water Seven had been the subject of rumors — an island that might conceal relics of the past, ancient weaponry whispered about in secret conversations among pirates and marines alike.

Until now, none had confirmed it. Now, Raito’s transmission and the subsequent verification had made it undeniable. And it was not merely a weapon. The news that reached the underworld was almost absurd in its scope: a blueprint. A blueprint from which countless weapons of mass destruction could be made, if the right—or wrong—hands obtained it.

The implications were staggering. The underworld understood immediately: this intelligence could fetch more wealth than any treasure ever dreamed of. But it was also dangerous. One false move, one leak, and the world’s most powerful navy would descend, searing Water Seven from the maps.

Within hours, the waves themselves seemed to carry the news. Merchant captains in distant islands spoke in hushed tones. Smugglers adjusted their routes. Even small-time bounty hunters began taking dangerous detours toward the city of ships.

Across the Grand Line, whispers of Water Seven and its hidden treasure reached ears that had never before believed the legends. The underworld’s network had transformed a single report into a tidal wave, shaking the seas as if the earth itself were responding to the discovery.

Every piece of information gathered by the underworld added weight to the revelation: Marine fleets on the move, elite Cipher Pol agents rerouted, and Den-Den Mushi traffic in Water Seven tripled. The world was holding its breath.

And somewhere in the shadows, the true masterminds of the event observed it all, their faces unreadable, understanding that in the next days, the world would tilt.

As night fell, every major faction across the world, including the factions from the four blues—each contemplated the impossible potential of what lay ahead. Even the greatest treasures of the seas, even the mightiest fleets, paled in comparison to the ancient weapon blueprint’s value.

The ancient blueprint, hidden within Water Seven, had transformed from rumor to reality. Its existence promised untold power, untold wealth, and untold destruction.

The underworld, ever patient, continued to guide the information subtly, moving pieces across the seas, calculating, and waiting. And the world, unknowing, began to feel the first tremors of an upheaval that would not be contained by a single island, a single fleet, or even a single government. The storm had begun.

****

The island was small, jagged, and deserted, a lone outpost of rock and wind in the endless ocean, but it was exactly the kind of place Whitebeard needed. The waves crashed violently against the cliffs, spraying brine into the air as if applauding the spectacle unfolding on the shore.

Whitebeard stood before a massive chunk of metal ore, taller than he was, unearthed from the seabed a month ago. Its surface shimmered with traces of seastone essence, black veins twisting through its jagged exterior. The sheer weight and density of it made the task ahead monumental — but to Edward Newgate, nothing worthwhile had ever come easily.

He raised his massive fists and struck—no haki, no overwhelming tremor ability, just raw flesh and bone against stone and metal.

The impact was deafening. His bare knuckles slammed against the metal, leaving a visible dent that marred the jagged surface. A shockwave rolled outward in concentric ripples, sending dust, pebbles, and seawater flying across the island. The ground trembled beneath his feet, and the wind itself seemed to bend around him, whipping his long, flowing mustache and coat as though caught in the wake of his fury.

Again. And again. Each punch landed with precision and raw, unbridled force. His knuckles, already raw and bleeding, did little to slow him. Pain was nothing to Whitebeard; it was a signal, a gauge of the limits he had yet to shatter. The ore groaned and shuddered under the repeated onslaught, flecks of seastone dust spitting into the air.

For years, his body had carried the weight of battles, of old injuries, and hidden ailments that no one saw. But now, after being treated by Mansherry, after regaining vitality he had thought lost, he felt it — the full measure of his strength flowing again, unrestrained, pure, and lethal.

He stepped back for a moment, chest heaving, arms trembling from the exertion, and studied the dents forming across the seastone-laced ore. It was a test, a dialogue between his fists and the unyielding metal, each mark a note in the symphony of his power.

And then he attacked again. Every punch sent shockwaves racing across the island. Stones cracked, small fissures ran through the jagged rock floor, and the sea spray hissed as it met the force of the waves he generated. Each blow was measured, yet devastating — a dance of raw physicality, honed instinct, and relentless willpower. His body, once worn and tempered by age and battle, moved with the fluid precision of a predator at its peak.

He could feel the weight of the world pressing down on him — the looming threat of Rocks still lingering like a dark cloud over the seas, the lives of his sons resting in the balance, the knowledge that any lapse could bring catastrophe. He refused to let chance dictate fate. Not now. Not ever.

Blood ran freely across his knuckles, mixing with seastone dust and sweat, but he welcomed it. Each sting was proof, proof that he was alive, that his body was responding, that the raw force he wielded could still be shaped, honed, and unleashed.

Just as Whitebeard raised his massive fists to strike the ore again, he froze mid-motion. His Observation Haki flared, a subtle ripple through his senses alerting him to a presence he knew as well as the ocean itself. The air shifted; the waves stilled slightly in deference to the incoming arrival.

Before he could fully process it, a figure hurtled from the sky, landing with a bone-jarring crash on the jagged shore. Dust and seawater erupted around him as the impact sent tremors through the rocks. Whitebeard’s muscles tensed instinctively, dread curling like smoke in his chest — until his eyes fell on the figure struggling to rise.

It was Marco. Not a shadow of fear in his expression, only urgency, only raw determination. The sight eased the tension coiling in Whitebeard’s massive frame. He exhaled slowly, allowing himself to relax just enough to let his son regain his footing.

"Pops... pops..." Marco panted, clutching his chest as he forced in ragged breaths. His golden wings twitched slightly as he fought to steady himself. "...we need to cross the Red Line..."

Whitebeard raised a brow, muscles still taut, but the edge of curiosity and concern replacing the initial fear. He waited, watching as Marco drew another labored breath, and then, almost in a rush, the words came tumbling out.

"Water Seven... an ancient weapon’s blueprint... it’s been unearthed. The World Government... they intend to initiate a Buster Call... to erase the island completely..."

For a long moment, Whitebeard’s mind didn’t seem to register the words. He stood still, knuckles bleeding, sweat mingling with seawater, the jagged ore beside him nearly forgotten. The weight of the revelation hung in the air, thick as storm clouds over the horizon.

Then his eyes, sharp and piercing, locked onto Marco’s. Every line of urgency on his son’s face, every shallow breath, every tremor in his wings spoke louder than any words could. The island, the ore, even the crashing waves faded into the periphery as Whitebeard’s mind raced.

"What did you just say Marco...?" Whitebeard repeated, his voice low and measured, as if testing whether his ears had deceived him. At first, he thought it might have been a rumor—but the raw urgency etched into Marco’s expression left no doubt. This was no idle whisper; it was the pulse of a storm racing across the seas.

"The entire seas are in uproar, Pops," Marco shouted, his golden wings flaring with the force of his breath. "Every major faction—from the New World to the Four Blues—is stirring! We need to get that blueprint... now!"

Marco’s voice roared over the crashing waves. Ever since he had realized the true dangers lurking in the world—threats that could even imperil Whitebeard himself—he had trained relentlessly, pushing himself and the Whitebeard Pirates to heights capable of shielding their captain from any storm. Now, the news of an ancient weapon’s blueprint had reached him. The underworld had verified the information. Every faction with even a shred of power was scrambling like predators sensing blood in the water.

"This... this isn’t just a treasure hunt, Pops," Marco continued, his voice tense but resolute. "Every power from the Grand Line and the Four Blues is converging on Water Seven. Even the Marines alone couldn’t stop us unless they were willing to risk obliterating the island itself!"

"Tell me everything on the way," Whitebeard said, his voice carrying over the roar of the ocean like rolling thunder.

Whitebeard didn’t wait for another word. He felt the surge of adrenaline, the primal thrill of action stirring through him. With one hand, he gripped his massive naginata; with the other, he seized Marco’s arm, anchoring him for the ride ahead.

His feet dug into the fractured, jagged earth of the island, and with a single explosive leap, he launched forward. Each landing shattered the stone beneath him, sending tremors rippling across the small island, and each leap carried him miles at a time, propelled by the sheer force of his colossal strength.

Perhaps in the past, Whitebeard might have regarded an ancient weapon with indifference. Perhaps he would have weighed it against the worth of gold or legend and shrugged. But now, the stakes were far greater than any treasure or tale. This blueprint represented threats that could eclipse even his imagination—and in the hands of monsters, that could harm the people he had sworn to protect, it could become a nightmare, but if he could acquire it, it may very well become the safeguard that Whitebeard was looking for.

He had a duty: to safeguard his sons, his family, his legacy. And when Edward Newgate moved, the world itself trembled. Far across the seas, the ripple effect had begun. Factions that had once been separated by oceans and politics were now in motion, like dominoes falling in perfect sequence