Chapter Text
Shamrock had long accepted he was the villain in every story, but his own, and he found the role suited him. Morality was a quaint, flimsy concept for those who lacked the power to reshape the world to their will.
The world needed order, not heroes. It required the firm, unyielding hand of a god, not the chaotic, fleeting hope of a boy. So when that boy—Monkey D. Luffy—died in a blaze of foolish, self-sacrificing glory, Shamrock felt nothing, but a clinical distaste for the waste. It was an equation solved poorly. Yet, as he watched the grief shatter the man who was once his brother. This "Sun God" had been a symbol, a catalyst. And symbols, Shamrock reasoned, were simply tools that had not yet been placed in the correct hands.
In the end, the "D" stood for demolition.
The World Government, an edifice of eight hundred years, was reduced to rubble. Marie Geoise was a ghost town, its former residents now prisoners or corpses. The Celestial Dragons' divine right was proven a farce, their history of theft and genocide laid bare for all to see. The slaves were freed, the Marines disbanded and a new, chaotic order rose from the ashes.
Sitting in his cell, Shamrock accepted this not as a defeat, but as the conclusive result of a failed experiment. His upcoming execution by firing squad was merely the disposal of a contaminated sample. He waited.
The distant, rhythmic clang of the provisional military court outside was the only noise, until it stopped. The air in the corridor shifted, growing heavy with a silent, familiar weight. Shamrock didn't need to look up. He had only encountered that unique density of spirit a handful of times in his life.
"They're allowing visitors now, are they?" Shamrock asked, his voice flat and devoid of surprise, his eyes fixed on the blank stone wall opposite.
A low, resonant chuckle answered him. "Only the necessary ones."
Shamrock finally turned. Leaning against the bars of his cell, dressed in a simple, dark cloak that did little to hide his imposing, one-armed physique, was the man known to the world as "Red-Haired" Shanks. He had on his head a worn straw hat, the brim slightly tilted, which Shamrock recognised instantly as the ridiculous, childish cap the late Monkey D. Luffy had rarely been seen without. It was a practical, if flimsy, piece of headwear, suitable for a low-life, he supposed.
"Shanks," Shamrock greeted, the name tasting like dust. "I thought you'd be too busy celebrating the new age of low-lives."
Their relationship was defined by scarce, weighted meetings. A brief, tense exchange in a tavern after Gol D. Roger's death. A quiet, almost accidental encounter on an uncharted island years later.
Shamrock had always used these moments to try and impress upon the pirate the 'right way'—the nobility of structure, the necessity of the World Government's order. Shanks had always politely, definitively, declined. After the third such meeting, Shamrock had simply dismissed him as a beautiful, powerful savage, a high-quality example of the detritus he was meant to rule.
"There's no celebration yet, Shamrock," Shanks replied, his voice calm, like the eye of a storm. He reached into his cloak and pulled out a simple, tarnished hip flask. He unscrewed the top and held it toward the bars.
"Care for a drink? Waiting for the end is a thirsty business."
Shamrock stared at the flask, then at the man who was now sitting cross-legged just outside his cell, seemingly content to share the vigil.
Shamrock did not take the flask. He merely nodded once toward it, a gesture that meant, I acknowledge your offer, and decline. His acceptance of his fate was so complete that he saw no value in extending his pleasure by a few minutes. He remained standing, his posture rigid and formal, as if he were waiting for a carriage, not a firing squad.
Shanks offered no further insistence. He simply uncorked the flask himself, took a long, slow swallow, and then leaned his head back against the cold stone of the corridor wall. He closed his eyes, his breathing deep and even.
It was a display of utter calm that grated on Shamrock’s nerves more than any insult. The silence stretched, measured by the beat of their two distinct lives winding down—one paused, one ending. His kept returning to the moment the structure failed. It all pivoted on one variable, one foolish, self-sacrificing boy. Why? What was the fundamental force he had missed?
Abruptly, Shamrock pushed himself off the wall. He gripped the bars with one hand.
"The boy. Tell me about him."
Shanks opened his eye, a slow movement. He let out a short, rough bark of laughter, a sudden, surprising noise that echoed in the silence. "The boy? Out of all the world-ending secrets you could ask about, you choose the kid who ate a random Devil Fruit and died on a battlefield? Still trying to find the logical fault in the spirit, are you?"
Shamrock held his temper. "I do not seek fault, I seek precedent. And I did not build this structure only to see it toppled by sheer, unstructured sentiment. If I am to be executed for misjudgement, I must understand the mechanism of that error. Yes, the boy. Tell me about the fool who made a god weep."
Shanks nodded. He leaned his head back against the stone, the straw hat casting a shadow across his face. "Fine," he said quietly. "You want to understand the fire, you have to look at the spark. No theories, no history, just the simple truth of the life. If you want to know what he was, you have to know where he came from."
He shifted, placing his arm comfortably over his knees.
"We first met on Dawn Island, years ago. It’s one of those forgotten patches of green the World Government barely bothered to tax. My crew and I, we were anchored near a tiny seaside village called Foosha. The air smelled of salt and cheap wine. That's where I first laid eyes on him..."
──★ ˙🍓 ̟ !!
The cobblestones were slick with a dampness that had nothing to do with rain. It was the condensation of a thousand held breaths, the sweat of a bloodthirsty crowd. Shamrock walked, his gait steady, the grip of the Revolutionary Army escorts firm, but unnecessary on his arms. He was not a man who needed to be dragged to his end.
His gaze swept over the sea of faces—a taxonomy of vengeance. He categorised them: the rabid, the relieved, the simply curious. And then, he found the anomaly. A pocket of stillness amidst the chaos. Red hair under a straw hat. Shanks. Their eyes met across the heaving square. No words, no dramatic gestures. Just a look.
And for the first time since his capture, the ghost of a smile touched Shamrock’s lips. Brother, he thought, the word surfacing with strange certainty. The brother I never knew. He’d told Shamrock about a boy, about a rubber-limbed child who declared war on the world for a friend, who punched a Celestial Dragon for a principle.
A ridiculous, illogical, magnificent spark.
To think a child’s dream could topple empires.
The steps to the platform were solid beneath his feet.
The cold wood of the guillotine’s frame pressed against his neck. He heard the executioner shift his weight and the grind of the mechanism being prepared. And then, cutting through the morbid silence, he heard it. A sound so out of place it was jarring. Distant, carried on the wind from the edge of the crowd—a laugh. Not a jeer, not a cry for blood, but a pure, unburdened and utterly loving laugh. It was the sound of a soul that had never known true malice, and for a fleeting second, it made the guillotine’s shadow feel less dark.
It was quiet.
Not the expectant silence of the crowd, but absolute, perfect quiet.
The blow had been fast—a simple, elegant conclusion. It didn't hurt. There was a sudden, jarring stop to the world and then this. Shamrock was aware. He was aware of the silence, aware of his own continuous thought process and aware that he was definitively dead.
This was the first surprise. He had fully expected the definitive, cold blankness of non-existence—the only logical outcome. Yet, he was here. He found himself sitting. Sitting on what felt like a hard, cool surface in an enclosed space that had no discernible light source.
Theologians spoke of Heaven, Hell or the Void, he mused.
Awaiting judgment? An anteroom of the dead? He registered no pain, no fear.
Shamrock had just begun to analyse the spatial dimensions of this non-place when it happened. It was a physical sensation—a sudden, dizzying pull. It felt like a deep-sea current grasping him with accelerating force, dragging his entire being through a funnel of pure energy. He didn't have time to categorise the sensation. The pull became a wrenching force, and the featureless room shattered into white, agonising light.
Then—
He woke.
Waking was an absurd concept. Dead men do not wake.
Shamrock’s consciousness slammed back into his body with the force of a tidal wave. He gasped, the sudden return of air in his lungs a shocking physical trauma. He was sitting bolt upright on a silk-draped reading chair. The setting was the master study of the Figarland Mansion, a room utterly familiar from his former life—rich, dark mahogany, antique globes and the heavy, oppressive silence of inherited wealth.
His heart, a muscle that should have ceased all function, was beating a frantic, irregular tempo. He pressed the heel of his hand against his sternum, commanding it to quiet. He then looked down at his hands, noting the unfamiliar suppleness of the joints, the lack of the rigidness he’d lived with for the last two decades. He touched his neck. The skin was unbroken, smooth, the memory of the cold steel blade utterly negated.
He moved quickly, crossing to the full-length mirror recessed into the wall. The man who looked back was him, Saint Figarland Shamrock, impeccable in his tailoring, but undeniably younger. The face was lean, focused, but lacked the deep, cynical weariness that had defined his final years. The age was unmistakable: mid-twenties, a decade and a half before his execution.
His mind, reeling from the impossibility of the situation, reached for a rational conclusion and found only void. A complex hallucination? A neurological spasm from the beheading?
He gripped the edge of the mahogany dresser, his knuckles white. The sensation was too clean, too sharp, too real to be a dream. He was alive, in the past, in the exact physical form he had possessed before the World Government began its long, terminal decline.
Shamrock released the dresser and, with a sudden, violent motion, slapped his own cheek hard enough to sting. The pain was immediate, sharp and entirely physical. He repeated the action on the other side. The burning sensation and the audible smack confirmed the reality. He spent the next minute pacing the study's perimeter—three precise circuits—allowing the old, cold discipline of the Figarland name to smother the last vestiges of panic.
The temporal flow has been violated. He was back. Back in the early days, before the final, catastrophic chain of events was forged. Back when the World Government felt invincible. The past is now the present. I am fifty-years-old consciousness trapped in a twenty-five-year-old vessel.
A slow, dark grin stretched across his face.
"Bloody, self-important cosmic bastards. Couldn't even leave a defeated man in peace."
He stopped by the massive window, his eyes glazing over as he accessed the memory of his final conversation. Shanks's voice, calm and measured, echoed in his mind, detailing the life of the late Pirate King.
Monkey D. Luffy.
Dawn Island. Foosha Village. The earliest data point. The accidental consumption of the Gum-Gum Fruit. The scar under his eye. The promise to Shanks.
Shamrock’s smile widened, transforming into something sharp and predatory. The entire timeline of chaos, destruction and his ultimate execution hinged on a few, simple, predictable moves made by a boy fifteen years from now.
He walked to the door and rang the silver bell pull set beside the frame. The resulting high, discreet chime was instantly familiar. He returned to the centre of the room and waited. The door opened almost instantly, admitting Finrak, the lead butler for the estate’s private wing—a man whose impeccable uniform and air of professional detachment had not aged a day in the last twenty years.
"Finrak," Shamrock stated. "The precise date and time, if you please."
The butler inclined his head slightly. "It is currently 3:15 PM, on the 14th of April, Year 1503, Saint Shamrock."
Shamrock nodded, filing the confirmation away. "And the Elder Saint Figarland's disposition?"
"The Elder Saint is currently concluding his mid-afternoon correspondence. He has a viewing scheduled for 17:00," Finrak reported.
"Inform Father that I will require a few moments of his time before his next engagement," Shamrock commanded. "I have a matter of immediate importance to discuss."
Finrak's neutral expression didn't waver, but his duty required the next question. "Regarding what particular matter, Saint Shamrock? For the prioritisation of his schedule."
Shamrock’s smile grew sharper, colder. He leaned against the desk, tapping a finger against the mahogany. "Inform him that I require an immediate, unscheduled personal trip to the East Blue, specifically near the Goa Kingdom—an unexpected, but necessary, vacation to escape the doldrums of Marie Geoise."
He paused. "Tell Father I am travelling to secure a most desirable souvenir, one with undeniable future influence that will enhance the family's standing significantly. It's a high-value piece of leverage that our rivals have overlooked. He will be exceptionally pleased with the returns on this small investment."
Finrak bowed deeply. "Understood, Sir. I shall inform the Elder Saint that the matter is urgent and geo-strategic. May I ask for how long you anticipate your absence?"
"It is a rapid extraction," Shamrock replied. "I anticipate no more than three weeks." He pushed off the desk. "Begin preparations immediately. I require the swift-response frigate, fully fuelled and provisioned for a deep-water sprint. Pack two weeks' worth of my tailored light-weather clothing. Crucially, I will require a small, highly secure, soundproofed cabin prepared for the transport of a delicate, volatile cargo on the return voyage."
"Understood, Sir. The frigate will be provisioned, your luggage attended to and the unique cargo requirements communicated to the Head Steward immediately. I shall return directly to brief you on the vessel status."
Shamrock walked toward the far side of the study, where a discrete door led to his private chambers. "Do not bother returning to this study, Finrak. I will be in my personal quarters, arranging necessary documentation and changing into travel attire. Any updates are to be delivered there, and only there."
"As you wish, Sir," Finrak confirmed. He executed a precise, low bow. With a silent, efficient turn, he departed, leaving Shamrock alone in the sudden, charged silence of his study, the gears of the future already grinding into motion.
Shamrock pushed through the discrete door and stepped into his room.
The contrast was stark. Here, the floors were covered in thick, pale velvet; the air was temperature-controlled and subtly scented with rare wood oils. His personal quarters were spacious, opulent and silent—a gilded box designed to exclude the messy vulgarity of the outside world. He looked across the room at the custom-made canopy bed, its sheer size dwarfing the space.
He remembered the cold, cramped cell, the rough stone walls he had measured with his boot, the shared, damp air. That cell, despite its dimensions, had felt full—full of finality, full of Shanks’s quiet presence, full of the immense, settling truth of defeat. This grand room, conversely, felt vast and strangely empty. It was a sterile, perfect vacuum, and the feeling was merely noted as unexpected sensory feedback.
His internal clock ticked over the standard evening schedule. At this time, he would usually be immersed in the study of archaic texts or preparing for dinner with the Elder Saint. However, the memory of the execution was still too fresh, the sensation of his own clean skin too new. He felt an almost visceral need to scour the residual taint of the guillotine, the prison and the last decades of decay from his resurrected body.
Shamrock walked past the summoning cord without touching it, heading directly toward the marble-tiled bathing suite. The shower was a brutal blast of cold water, a physical violence that scrubbed the phantom grime of his death and the humiliation of his failure from his skin. He stood under it for several minutes, allowing the shock to refine his focus, emerging feeling less like a resurrected corpse and more like a reset machine.
He dressed, selecting light trousers and a simple, high-collared cream shirt—casual attire, but tailored perfectly. He paused before the full-length mirror, adjusting the cuffs. The man reflected was pristine and young. He looked whole.
His mind, however, immediately supplied the image of Shanks. The pirate, scarred and one-armed, was physically incomplete. Yet, Shanks had carried an invisible weight, a gravity that filled any space he occupied, regardless of its size or splendour.
Shamrock, here in his ancestral gilded cage, felt acutely the difference.
Shanks's eyes, despite their weariness, held an authentic, earned conviction, a raw commitment to freedom. Shamrock’s own eyes, even rejuvenated, held only the brittle, intellectual certainty of unearned privilege and lost ambition.
The pirate was genuine.
Shamrock was manufactured.
A series of precise, soft knocks sounded at the door to his private apartment.
"Saint Shamrock," came the muffled voice of Finrak. "I apologise for the intrusion. The Elder Saint is prepared to receive you in his office at once. Your transport preparations are proceeding as ordered."
──★ ˙🍓 ̟ !!
The Elder Saint's office was located in the West Tower.
Shamrock entered without preamble, closing the thick door with a controlled thud that barely disturbed the air. He found the Elder Saint Figarland Garling, his father, seated behind a vast, impeccably clean desk crafted from ancient petrified wood. He wore his formal dress uniform, complete with medals and the distinctive, star-like scars that marked his participation in the Holy Knight's bloody past.
He was not looking at Shamrock.
Instead, Garling was hunched over a collection of documents—the emergency requisition forms and logistical notes Finrak had just delivered. The papers were slightly askew, an indication of the speed and confusion of the sudden request.
Garling tapped a single fingernail against the documents detailing the "swift-response frigate," the "three-week timeframe" and the highly unusual requirement for a "secure, soundproofed cabin for cargo."
The silence was weighted.
Garling had clearly spent the intervening half-hour trying to decipher the true objective from the flimsy cover story of a "valuable souvenir." Finally, he looked up. His eyes, cold and sharp as twin diamonds, fixed on his son. He surveyed Shamrock's unusually casual attire with a mixture of disdain and suspicion.
"A spontaneous East Blue vacation—how vulgar," Garling stated. He tapped the documents again. "A souvenir worth an immediate deployment of a Naval frigate? Or is this, as Finrak claims, a 'geo-strategic acquisition' intended to secure 'future influence'?"
He leaned back, folding his hands. "Which is it, Shamrock? A frivolous escape from responsibility, an unexpected impulse to engage in pirate-level asset theft or are you really showing some initiative by bringing home a piece of actual leverage?"
Shamrock walked to the centre of the vast, cold room and stopped. A faint smile curved his lips. He met his father's gaze. "Yes, Father," he replied. "It is all of the above. And you should approve the deployment immediately."
Shamrock knew the man across the desk.
Figarland Garling was less a father and more a living foundation upon which the World Government's stability rested. He was the legendary Elder Saint and the Supreme Commander of the Holy Knights . He was the brutal, necessary executor of celestial will, feared not just by the common pirates, but whispered about in terrified awe by the other Saints themselves. He was the Whip of Mary Geoise, whose word held more weight in the shadows than the Marine Admirals possessed in the light.
Garling's gaze intensified.
"I don't play games, boy," his voice dropped, eliminating all warmth from the air. "The Figarland name is not a pawn to be risked on a whim, nor is a frigate a toy. You look older today, Shamrock. Your eyes carry a different kind of conviction—a desperation I recognise from the battlefield."
He leaned forward. "Speak plainly, or stand down. I will allow you exactly three sentences to explain why I shouldn't have you confined for a sudden lapse into madness. But if you have finally found something real worth my time, I will listen."
Shamrock allowed his posture to soften slightly, adopting a loose, effortless stance—one hand tucked into his trouser pocket, the other resting lightly on his hip, projecting the ease of a hunter cornering guaranteed prey.
"My investigation has revealed a critical lapse in asset management in the East Blue," Shamrock began, his voice dry and conversational. "This 'souvenir,' Father, is a boy. A child with an entirely wasted potential residing in a low-grade backwater. A child by the name of Monkey D. Luffy."
He paused, letting the name hang. "And he is the biological son of Monkey D. Dragon."
Garling's composure cracked—a nearly imperceptible tightening around his eyes, a reaction so rare it felt like an earthquake in the room. He remained silent for a beat, processing the lineage. "I see," he finally murmured. He understood the leverage instantly. Shamrock's father smiled. He retrieved a pen and signed the requisition forms with a sharp, decisive stroke. "Very well. Go. Bring the brat back alive, and ensure he is cared for—correctly. The Elders will be immensely satisfied to see Dragon's bloodline quietly managed. Your initiative will be noted, Shamrock."
Shamrock gave a short, dry chuckle. "That is precisely the intention, Father. But we must be smarter than the standard Holy Knight protocol."
He took a slow, deliberate step forward. "There is no benefit in making this a public spectacle. Do not issue any formal declaration to the Elders. This project must remain entirely black budget—Figarland private initiative only. Why give the Revolutionary Army the satisfaction of knowing where their leader’s offspring has gone?"
Shamrock’s smile was cold and contemptuous. "The beauty is in the uncertainty. Dragon and his foolish Marine hero father, Garp, will have to burn resources hunting for a ghost while the boy is right here, under our direct tutelage. Let them feel the slow, consuming panic of the unknown. No one must know we possess this chip until the exact moment we choose to reveal it. Our leverage is absolute only when it is invisible."
Garling watched his son. "You have surprised me, Shamrock." He paused. "The World Government's intelligence apparatus, run by fools, certainly failed to identify this threat. Did you stumble across a forgotten file? Which compromised agent finally gave up this secret? I want the full report on how you gained access to information that has evaded every one of our Holy Commanders for years."
Shamrock offered a brief, utterly self-assured smile. "There was no investigation, Father. Merely the recognition of an obvious, structural flaw in the system. I only need to correct the weakness."
Garling stared at him, recognising the finality in the statement. The Elder Saint grabbed the Signed Authorisation and Frigate Manifests and slammed them onto the desk. "Your arrogance is only tolerable if your results match your ambition. Do not return until the acquisition is complete."
Shamrock accepted the challenge with an easy, almost theatrical bow of his head. "Consider it done. I always deliver on my ambition." He neatly folded the papers, securing them into his inner jacket pocket. "As for the subsequent integration, Father, I anticipate the boy will require a rather intensive period of study and rehabilitation. However, I also believe the introduction of this... variable... will be highly beneficial."
He smirked, glancing around the massive, silent, obsidian-panelled office. "This place, for all its structural perfection, can be dreadfully static. The child possesses a unique, if unrefined, energy. I believe that dynamic will ultimately be far more interesting for the Figarland name than a simple political leverage."
Garling tilted his head slightly. "You speak of this child as though he were a rare resource and not merely a tool," he noted, trying to understand the shift in Shamrock’s focus. "What evidence do you have, beyond his parentage, that this unrefined potential is worth the significant effort of extraction and integration?"
Shamrock offered a careless, open-handed shrug. "None that I can articulate to your satisfaction, Father. You will have to simply trust the calculation until the asset is delivered."
Garling considered this. He reached for the internal Den Den Mushi speaker. "Finrak," his crackled, cutting through the silence, "cancel all non-essential meetings for the next month. Also, prepare the East Wing Annex. I require high-quality linens, comfortable furnishings, and a full collection of complex architectural blueprints and historical tomes suitable for a young, highly privileged charge. We have a new, sensitive resident arriving, and his environment must reflect our standards."
Shamrock leaned against the doorframe. "High-quality linens for a criminal’s son," he commented, his grin easy and wide. "You are spoiling the asset before it even arrives, Father. However, if I were you, I would also order a steady supply of exotic meats and perhaps hire a competent cook who specialised in volume."
Garling paused his instruction to the Den Den Mushi. "Your logistical suggestions are recorded," he dismissed the ideas curtly. "Go. I require uninterrupted time to ensure the security measures are absolute."
Shamrock chuckled softly, knowing he had successfully implanted the seed of curiosity. "Very well. I depart for the mundane world. Farewell, Father. I promise to return with the most interesting creature you've ever owned."