Post-battle.
In an uncharted sea of the New World, aboard the slightly scuffed Oro Jackson.
The sky, freshly rinsed by rain, gleamed a rare kind of clarity. And with the sun barely breaking through the clouds, Roger had already rallied the crew for yet another celebratory feast.
As for the reason?
He just made one up on the spot:
"Let's celebrate shaking off Garp's pursuit—again!"
"FEAST TIME!!!"
"YEAHHHHH!!!"
At their captain's thunderous cheer and raised cup, the crew burst into laughter and hollering, the deck soon flooded with a rowdy, exuberant atmosphere.
"BANG—!"
In the midst of the merriment, a door slammed open violently—a noise so common on this ship it didn't even turn heads. No one noticed the red-haired brat storming out, gritting his teeth, a massive lump swelling from the back of his head.
Perched askew on that very lump was his trademark straw hat, making the scene unintentionally hilarious. The crew nearby burst into laughter the moment they saw him.
"Did your head get hit during the last battle, Shanks?"
Roger, hugging a wine jug and in the middle of a good drink, noticed him. This redhead kid—one he personally had high hopes for—had always shown promise. Roger walked over, chuckling as he ruffled Shanks' hair.
"Where's Ozz?"
Shanks avoided answering, clearly unwilling to talk about the bump. His expression turned awkward as he shifted the conversation.
After waking up, he'd immediately grabbed Buggy and demanded an explanation for the mysterious blow to the head. The ever-untrustworthy Buggy, desperate to deflect blame, ratted Ozz out without hesitation.
Now, Shanks considered himself a laid-back guy. But getting knocked out cold by a sneak attack from a crewmate? And waking up with a massive goose egg on his head?
That crossed a line.
Everyone knew: Shanks only valued two things—his crewmates and his pride.
And today, someone had stomped all over the second one.
Nine years sailing without incident, and this was the first time someone had done him so dirty.
The red-haired boy was fuming.
He needed to settle this. To restore his pride—or at least get some payback for the bump.
He marched through the celebration, eyes scanning the crowd, looking for his target.
He found him.
Surrounded by giants, Ozz was in the middle of devouring a roast.
A massive slab of meat on the bone, chugging drink after drink, completely unbothered. It was almost therapeutic to watch him eat. In another world, he'd be a top-tier mukbang streamer.
"Oh? Shanks, why are you glaring at me? You want some of this roast?"
"What's with the knife in your hand? It's already cut. Look—meat on every bite."
"What? A duel between men? I'm starving—at least let me finish eating first. You wouldn't want an unfair fight, right?"
"...Okay, food's digested now, but I overate earlier. I need to take a dump. Wanna come with?"
"You serious? Now you're standing guard outside the bathroom door? You really want to fight that bad?"
"Fine, then. Behold—my mop… covered in SHIT!"
Shanks knew firsthand that Ozz was both inhumanly strong and a monster at Observation Haki, so when faced with the threat of a mop soaked in poop—a weapon of psychological warfare—he wisely chose to retreat… for now.
It wasn't that he was afraid of a fair fight. Even losing didn't scare him. Wrap some bandages, lie in bed a few days—whatever.
But a shit-covered mop?
Absolutely not.
Still, the humiliation gnawed at him. For the next few days, Shanks tailed Ozz relentlessly, making him visibly uncomfortable.
Fine, the brat wants a fight? Let's fight.
Ozz sighed, heading to the storeroom. He emerged with a standard longsword, tossing it to the sulking redhead.
Shanks fumbled to catch it.
Ozz crooked his finger, beckoning with a lazy smirk that practically dripped sarcasm.
"You bastard!"
Shanks lit up—finally, Ozz was taking him seriously. Gripping the sword one-handed, he tensed up for a strike. Ozz didn't move an inch.
"You planning to use the gun on your back?" Shanks asked, narrowing his eyes. "I'm not letting you get the chance to draw it."
He acknowledged Ozz as a crack shot—but up close? Shanks wasn't afraid of him.
Then again, they'd been trained by the same masters—Rayleigh and Roger. Shanks thought he had the edge.
He lunged forward, bringing down his sword in a clean, aggressive arc.
SWOOSH—
SWOOSH—
SWOOSH—
Ozz closed his eyes. He didn't fight back.
He simply leaned aside, turned his shoulders, twisted his waist, and effortlessly avoided every slash.
"Dammit, Ozz! Are you just gonna dodge the whole time?!"
Shanks was burning with frustration—he felt like he was being toyed with.
"...You wanted me to use a weapon, didn't you?"
Ozz sighed and finally opened his eyes, reaching into his coat. He pulled out a tiny blade he'd "borrowed" from Buggy.
"Sorry. It's the smallest knife I have."
"ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!"
Turns out, there's a massive gap between with Haki and without Haki—even for someone like Red-Haired Shanks.
At nine years old, all Shanks could do was throw his best sword techniques at Ozz—but every strike was met with pinpoint parries from a man casually toying with a butter knife.
Clang!
Clang!
Clang!
The sound of steel-on-steel rang out again and again.
Shanks gave it his all. But against Ozz' freakish strength and refined Observation Haki, his blows did nothing—each clash only drove him back.
"Shanks is completely overwhelmed…"
Around them, crewmates gathered like an eager audience. Roger, Rayleigh, and Scopper Gaban watched in silence. Rayleigh shook his head with a sigh.
To them, it was a rookie scuffle—barely worth comment. But they couldn't deny it: Ozz was clearly one of those born monsters—someone destined to rise above the rest.
People like that? They always carried the will of kings.
Roger burst out laughing. "With these kids around, the future's gonna be one hell of a show!"
The rest of the crew?
They were pirates. And if there's one thing pirates love more than rum, it's a good fight.
Ozz' mentor, Betam, had even opened a betting pool.
Ozz: 1 to 1
Shanks: 10 to 1
Draw: 5 to 1
The whole thing got so popular, even Roger joined in, excitedly wagering treasure he'd plundered just days ago.
"Go, Ozz! Finish it and win!"
"C'mon, Shanks! Don't back down now!"
"Hah?! Are you blind? Shanks can't win this!"
"You never know! It's ten to one odds!"
"Gambling kills, idiot!"
The crowd roared with cheers and arguments, the energy electric.
And in the midst of all the shouting and wagering—
Ozz' Observation Haki suddenly flared. A strange sensation washed over him, like a whisper against the skin.
Then a voice spoke beside his ear:
"Call it a draw, Ozz."
"...Uncle Betam?"