It was an auspicious day.
The deck of the Moby Dick was swept clean of dust, and Whitebeard’s jolly roger flew tall and proud above.
It was time for the ritual of cups.
Upon a wooden stand was arranged a bottle of liquor, a smaller jar for pouring, the wide and flat cups, a ceremonial pile of salt for good luck, and a pair of red sea bream.
The division leaders and other principal members of the Whitebeard crew lined the scene. Deuce and the other Spade Pirates waited on the lower part of the deck as the star of today’s event, Portgaz D. Ace, proceeded toward the stage.
He had taken off his hat for once, and removed his weapons and the beaded necklace as well. He was entering pure of body and spirit.
“This is the ritual of taking oaths through cups. It will be a more informal version of the full ritual,” said the master of the ceremony, a man dressed in the kabuki costume and face paint of a woman—an ancient tradition.
A ritual to bring together strangers as family. To have them swear on the sea itself that they would be bound as relatives. It looked very stately and grandiose, but to pirates, this was a major occasion: the start of their second life. These little wine cups carried with them the weight of all the life ahead of them.
Edward Newgate would be the father, and Portgaz D. Ace the son.
“We will now conduct the ritual of father and son’s cups. My name is Izo, and I will be the speaker for this ceremony. Thatch will conduct the ceremony, Marco will be the observer, and Teech will be his second…”
In this informal ceremony, as the conductor, Thatch’s job was to take the cup from the father figure, Whitebeard, and bring it to the man who was to become the son, Ace. Once Ace had drunk the ceremonial saké, he wrapped the cup in traditional paper and placed it in his pocket.
Then more saké was poured into two other cups, which made their way down the row of division leaders to the left and right. The cups traveled from top to bottom, at which point the man on the end of each row traded those cups so that they could travel back up to the top position.
This was the trading of cups. At the end, the cups were stacked, and the entire group joined in a special clapping rhythm.
After a pause, Thatch the conductor motioned to Ace to say his part.
“Pops.”
“Yes, my son.” They said their parts, quickly and briefly.
“And so these two have now auspiciously joined together as father and son!” Izo announced, and the ship was enveloped in applause.
In addition to the Whitebeard Pirates, other crews affiliated with him had come from far and wide to be present. There were at least ten large ships congregated around them. Some of them were probably hoping to get a glimpse of the rumored “Fire Fist.” That was how notable the event of Portgaz D. Ace taking the ceremonial cup was in the New World.
“I hear you burned your flag,” Whitebeard said to Ace.
“I did.”
“You could have kept your flag, and joined us as an affiliate crew.”
Many people chose to retain the structure of their own crews when they became family with Whitebeard.
“To me, that wouldn’t be respecting the code,” Ace replied.
“I see.”
“Plus…I’m fire. I turned that flag to fire in my hands, and now that fire is part of me.” He held up his hands, showing off his palms.
“Ah, yes,” said Marco the observer. He took it upon himself to explain to Ace the mentality of being Whitebeard’s son. “Listen, Ace, when you join us—”
“May I say something first?” Ace interrupted, taking a step forward.
“Oh?” Marco exclaimed, taken aback.
That allowed Ace to continue. He crouched slightly, turning his left shoulder toward Whitebeard—exposing the tattoo that read
“My name is Portgaz D. Ace. I received my name from the mother to whom I owe my life. And this tattoo represents my brothers, whom I owe as well. The followers behind me…are my family. And on this day, Whitebeard…I received a ritual cup from you.”
Young Fire Fist turned his back, exposing its surface.
“I leave my back open for you. To me, this cup means that I found what I was searching for, right here. And that the time is right to bear your mark on my back. Pops…”
To bear the ideals of Edward “Whitebeard” Newgate.
To carve a tattoo of Whitebeard’s Jolly Roger onto his back, a mark that would last forever.
“Gura ra ra ra ra!” Whitebeard laughed, long and loud.
“This is the lesson I’ve learned.”
“Very good,” said Marco.
He clapped his hands, and another round of applause filled the air, rising into the blue sky overhead.