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When that bizarre purple beam struck Shanks, the entire battlefield fell silent for an instant.
No one knew what Devil Fruit ability it was, nor even who had unleashed it—someone on one side of the chaotic battle, a desperate ability user releasing their power haphazardly at the last moment. The beam struck true, hitting Shanks just as he was raising his sword to charge the enemy lines.
The Red Hair Pirates' crew cried out in alarm: "Captain—!"
The next second, the light mist dissipated.
What stood in the place was no longer the Yonko who shook the New World, but a... child.
About five years old, with a mop of messy red hair, Shanks' original clothes hanging loosely on him like an oversized cloak dragging on the ground. The child blinked big eyes, looking at his own short arms, then lifted his head to gaze blankly at his surroundings—his eyes were heartbreakingly clear, devoid of sharpness and depth, holding only pure confusion.
"Ca-Captain?" Lucky Roux's meat leg fell to the ground with a thump.
Benn Beckman's cigarette dropped from his mouth.
On the other side of the battlefield, Figarland Shamrock's eyes instantly narrowed.
The shrunken Shanks—now perhaps he should be called Little Shanks—obviously hadn't grasped the situation yet. He looked down, tugged at the oversized clothes on his body, then raised a small hand to look at it, finally lifting his head to look at the nearest person: "...Benn?"
The voice was childish, soft, carrying obvious dependence and uncertainty.
Benn's heart was struck hard by that call. He quickly took off his coat, wanting to step forward and wrap the little one up.
But someone was faster.
A black shadow streaked across the battlefield, so fast it left only an afterimage. Figarland Shamrock, the leader of the Holy Knights, had moved almost the instant Shanks shrank. He broke through the Red Hair Pirates' defensive line—or rather, the Red Hair Pirates simply hadn't expected him to move against Shanks—and scooped Little Shanks into his arms.
"Shamrock!" Benn roared, instantly raising his gun to aim at Shamrock, who held Shanks, but he didn't fire, afraid of hitting Shanks.
The other crew members also reacted, quickly following suit. In an instant, weapons were drawn, tension crackling.
But Shamrock didn't even look at them. He looked down at the child in his arms. Little Shanks was looking up at him, his big eyes reflecting Shamrock's image. There was no fear in that gaze, only curiosity—and a strange sense of familiarity.
"Shanks?" Shamrock spoke, his voice uncharacteristically gentle.
Shanks tilted his head, as if trying to recognize the person holding him. After a few seconds, he grinned, revealing a mouthful of baby teeth: "Shammy."
That single word "Shammy" sounded natural and affectionate, as if he'd said it a thousand times before.
The battlefield fell silent again.
Benn's gun hand froze. Shammy? Since when did Shanks call Shamrock Shammy? Wait, if Shanks now has the mind of a five-year-old, then his memories...
"Memory regression," Shamrock said flatly, answering everyone's unspoken question. "It seems it's not just a physical shrinking; his mind and memories have also reverted to that age." His posture holding Little Shanks was surprisingly skilled—one hand supporting the child's bottom, the other protecting his back—completely like someone with long experience holding children.
Little Shanks very naturally wrapped his arms around Shamrock's neck, resting his little face on his shoulder. The action was so natural, natural as if practiced countless times.
Shamrock ignored everyone's shock. He looked down and asked Shanks: "Hungry?"
Shanks nodded: "Hungry."
"What do you want to eat?"
Little Shanks' eyes lit up: "Chocolate!"
A corner of Shamrock's mouth seemed to twitch upward slightly, so fast it was almost invisible. He turned to leave, completely ignoring the Red Hair Pirates surrounding him with weapons drawn.
"Wait!" Benn blocked his path. "Where are you taking him?"
Shamrock finally looked at them, his eyes regaining their usual indifference: "To feed him. Or would you prefer he continue standing on a battlefield dressed in this dragging cloth?"
Shanks chose that moment to sneeze—indeed, Shanks' original clothes were far too large for his current small frame, letting the wind rush right in.
Benn hesitated. He looked at Little Shanks' hands tightly gripping Shamrock's neck, at the little guy's expression of complete trust. Five year old Shanks... recognized this person.
"We're coming with you," Benn finally said, lowering his gun. "Until the Captain recovers, we won't let him out of our sight."
Shamrock didn't seem to care: "Suit yourselves."
Inside the temporarily erected tent, the atmosphere was bizarre.
The core officers of the Red Hair Pirates sat in a circle, their eyes fixed on the center of the tent—Shammrock sat cross-legged on the ground, holding baby Shanks in his arms, carefully cutting roasted meat into small pieces with a dagger.
"Ah—" Shamrock held a small piece of chocolate to Little Shanks' mouth.
Shanks obediently opened his mouth: "Ah-umm."
After eating the chocolate, he squinted his eyes contentedly, his short little legs dangling in the air. Shamrock reached out and wiped the chocolate crumbs from the corner of his mouth, an action so natural it seemed done a thousand times.
Benn lit another cigarette—his seventh today. He needed nicotine to digest the scene before him: Figarland Shamrock, the noble leader of the Holy Knights, the man rumored to be cold and merciless, was patiently feeding a five-year-old child—and with a gentleness that gave one goosebumps.
"You... used to do this often?" Lucky Roux couldn't help asking.
Shamrock didn't look up: "No, it's a natural bodily response."
Natural bodily response?! Everyone was dumbfounded. He must have rehearsed this in his mind countless times!
Shanks, full, began to yawn. A child's energy is limited; after the battlefield scare and the transformation shock, sleepiness came quickly. He rubbed his eyes and snuggled deeper into Shamrock's embrace.
"Sleepy?" Shamrock asked softly, reaching out to smooth the boy's messy red hair, his eyes revealing a tenderness he himself was unaware of.
"Mm-hmm..."Shanks mumbled in response, his small hand clutching Shamrock's clothes.
Shamrock adjusted his position to let the little one lie more comfortably. He began humming a strangely-tuned lullaby—if it could be called a lullaby, the melody carried an ancient, warrior-like rhythm. Little Shanks soon fell asleep, breathing evenly.
The tent was quiet except for the crackling fire and the even breathing.
"When will he recover?" Benn asked in a low voice.
"Don't know," Shamrock said, looking at the sleeping little face in his arms, his expression complex. "Could be a few hours, could be a few days. This kind of Devil Fruit ability is very rare; I haven't seen it either."
"And during this time..."
"During this time," Shamrock interrupted him, "he stays with me."
His tone was flat, but carried an indisputable sense of possession.
"He's our Captain," Yasopp frowned.
"He's my brother," Shamrock looked up. "Five-year-old him recognizes me, not you."
That hit everyone's weak spot. Yes, five-year-old Shanks looked at them with strange, curious eyes, but utterly without the trust forged through life and death. And his look at Shamrock...
Shanks seemed to sense something, moving in his sleep, his small hand unconsciously tightening its grip on Shamrock's clothes. Shamrock lowered his head, gently rubbing his chin against that mop of red hair.
"You all can leave," he said. "I'll take care of my brother myself."
The Red Hair Pirates' officers exchanged looks, but ultimately left the tent. Benn stood at the entrance for a while, peering through the gap to see Shamrock still holding that position, motionless, like a statue guarding its young.
The following days at the Red Hair Pirates' camp unfolded in a bizarrely domestic routine.
"Shammy look!" Little Shanks held up a leaf-folded boat, presenting it like a treasure to Shamrock.
Shamrock took it, examining it carefully: "Well folded."
"Lucky taught me!" The little redhead pointed at Lucky Roux, who immediately puffed out his chest—goodness knows how a rough guy like him learned to fold paper boats.
"What else do you want to learn?" Shamrock asked.
"Sword!" Shanks' eyes sparkled. "A sword like Shammy's!"
Shamrock was silent for a moment, then actually had someone find a wooden sword suitable for a child. He began teaching Little Shanks the most basic sword-holding posture, with a patience that made everyone's jaws drop.
"Wrist like this, yes."
"No, straighten your back."
"Again."
Shanks learned very seriously, his little face flushed with effort. Shamrock crouched half behind him, adjusting his posture hand-in-hand. Sunlight spilled over the two figures, one large, one small, creating a scene so harmonious it felt... unsettling.
"Is this really Shamrock?" Yasopp whispered to Benn. "That Shamrock?"
Benn didn't answer, just took a deep drag of his cigarette.
What surprised them even more was the extent of Shamrock's "spoiling."
Shanks said he wanted something sweet, so Shamrock sent someone dozens of miles to the nearest town to buy the finest chocolate—not caring how his subordinates protested about not being errand boys, subduing any objections by force.
Shanks said he wanted to see the stars, so Shamrock took him to the highest cliff, held him all night, pointing at the stars and telling ancient stories.
Shanks woke up crying from a nightmare, and Shamrock would hold him in his arms, patting his back over and over, whispering gently in his ear that he'd always be there, until he fell asleep again.
This was completely unlike the Shamrock they knew. This was... a brother who doted on his younger sibling.
"I think," Lucky Roux said, chewing on meat, "even if the Captain returns to normal, Shamrock probably won't let him go."
Benn heartily agreed.
On the evening of the seventh day, something happened.
A group of unidentified pirates attacked the Red Hair Pirates' camp—seemingly having learned of Shanks' condition and wanting to take advantage. When the battle broke out, Shamrock was with Little Shanks by the river, picking up stones.
"Stay here and don't move," Shamrock hid Little Shanks behind a large rock, his tone more serious than ever before. "No matter what happens, don't come out."
Shanks grabbed the hem of his clothes: "Shammy..."
"Be good," Shamrock patted his head. "I will be back soon."
He turned to face the enemy, his back resolute.
The battle was fierce. The attackers were not weak, and they were numerous. Shamrock showed no mercy; with the Cerberus, enemies fell one after another in his wake. But he still had to protect the area behind him—where Shanks was hidden.
A stray bullet shot towards the direction of the large rock.
Shamrock's pupils contracted. Without hesitation, he used his own body as a shield.
Thud. The bullet embedded itself in his shoulder. He grunted, but his movements didn't stop, backhandedly sending the attacker flying.
Shanks peeked out from behind the rock, just in time to see Shamrock get hit.
"Shammy!" he screamed, rushing out.
"Get back!" Shamrock shouted sharply.
But it was too late. A pirate spotted Little Shanks and sneered as he pounced: "Got you, brat—"
Shamrock's eyes instantly turned crimson.
Time seemed to slow down.
No one saw what happened. The next second, the pirate who had lunged at Shanks was lying ten meters away, a terrifying hole in his chest. Shamrock stood in front of Shanks, the wound on his shoulder rapidly healing, the aura around him so terrifying it froze the entire battlefield.
He bent down, picked up the little redhead with his uninjured arm: "Scared?"
Shanks shook his head, his small hand touching the not-yet-fully-healed shoulder: "Shammy hurts..."
"Doesn't hurt," Shamrock said, pressing the little head against the crook of his neck. "Close your eyes, count to a hundred. Don't open them until you finish."
Shanks obediently closed his eyes and began counting softly: "One, two, three..."
Shamrock looked up at the remaining enemies. That gaze was no longer human; it was the stare of some ancient beast of prey.
The next three minutes became a lifelong nightmare for the attackers.
By the time Shanks reached ninety-seven, the battle was over. Shamrock held him, standing amidst the battlefield strewn with corpses, the blood on him indistinguishable as his own or the enemies'.
"Ninety-eight, ninety-nine, one hundred."Shanks opened his eyes and saw Shamrock's face close to his. "Shammy..."
He didn't finish. He froze.
Because Shamrock was crying.
Not wailing, just tears silently slipping down, dripping onto Shanks' face. This man who had just slaughtered like a demon god was now as vulnerable as a child.
"I'm sorry," Shamrock's voice was hoarse. "I almost failed to protect you again."
Shanks reached out a small hand, clumsily wiping his tears: "Shammy don't cry. Shanks is okay."
Shamrock held him tightly, so tightly, as if he would lose him if he let go.
That night, Shanks developed a low fever. Perhaps from the fright of the day, perhaps the ability was beginning to fluctuate. Shamrock stayed by his bedside, not leaving for a moment.
When Benn came in with medicine, he saw Shamrock holding Shanks' hand, his forehead pressed against the bedside, as if in prayer.
"He'll recover," Benn said.
"I know," Shamrock didn't look up. "I just... haven't watched over him like this in a long time."
"When he recovers, will you two still..."
"Still enemies," Shamrock straightened up, his eyes regaining their usual indifference. "He is the Yonko Red-Haired Shanks. I am the Holy Knight Commander, Figarland Shamrock. We walk our own paths."
But Benn saw the pain hidden beneath that indifference.
In the latter half of the night, Little Shanks' fever broke. But a faint glow began to emanate from his body—the ability was about to be lifted.
Shamrock gently picked him up, walked out of the tent, and went to the cliff where they often watched the stars. The Red Hair Pirates silently followed behind, maintaining a distance.
As the first light of dawn broke, Little Shanks woke up. He opened his eyes, his gaze gradually clearing from childishness to clarity.
Shanks had returned.
He looked at his own hands—an adult's hands. Then he looked up at the person holding him—Shamrock.
The two looked at each other, silence stretching in the morning breeze.
After a long while, Shanks spoke, his voice hoarse: "...Shammy."
Shamrock's hand trembled slightly. But in the end, he just set Shanks down, took a step back, re-establishing the proper distance between them.
"Welcome back, Red-Haired Shanks."
Shanks looked at the man before him—his brother, his blood relative, his enemy. Memories flooded back like a tide, including every bit of the past few days.
"Thank you," Shanks said, "for taking care of the five-year-old me."
Shamrock turned away: "It was nothing."
He started to leave, but Shanks grabbed his wrist.
"Brother," Shanks said softly, "no matter what paths we walk, you'll always be my brother."
Shamrock's back stiffened for an instant. He didn't turn around, just gently pulled his hand free.
"Take care, Shanks."
He vanished instantly into the morning light.
Shanks stood in place, looking at the sky. Benn walked over and handed him a coat: "Going after him?"
"No," Shanks took the coat and draped it over his shoulders. "He needs time."
He looked down and saw a small, leaf-folded boat on the ground—the one Little Shanks had folded that day, which Shamrock had kept with him all this time, accidentally dropping it just now.
Shanks bent down, picked up the leaf boat, and carefully placed it inside his coat.
On the distant horizon, the sun had fully risen. A new day had begun. Shanks had returned to being the Yonko who shook the New World, but something had quietly changed.
Perhaps the next time they met, they would still draw swords against each other. But before that, in some unknown moment, they would still be brothers—the brother who would fold leaf boats to make his younger brother happy, and the younger brother who would always believe in his brother.
That was enough.
Shanks turned, giving his crew his familiar, brilliant smile: "Let's go. Time to head back."
His red hair fluttered in the morning wind, as if nothing had changed.
But everyone present knew that some things had forever altered. Like that leaf-folded boat, seemingly fragile, yet carrying the toughest bonds, stubbornly sailing on the turbulent sea.