svetikya Chapter 489: Whitebeard's words were like daggers to the heart!
Chapter 489: Whitebeard's words were like daggers to the heart!
Whitebeard and Ace didn't say a word!
But Roger remained kneeling before Whitebeard.
Although the head wound was still bleeding.
But he didn't move. He breathed very softly, afraid that any unnecessary movements would bother someone.
The white-bearded man's words still echoed in Roger's mind. Every word was scathing, every sentence like a knife cutting into flesh.
There's no way to refute it.
I don't want to refute it.
Roger lowered his head even further. Blood trickled down his brow bone from his temple.
My vision was tinged with red.
But at this moment he could no longer feel the pain!
Marco stood behind the white-bearded man.
He stared intently at Roger.
This man was once the Pirate King of the high seas. The Marine Headquarters was on high alert.
Now he kneels amidst the ruins, his back bent in an arc. An old beast with its teeth pulled.
Marco moved forward half an inch. He stopped.
Roger's eyes showed no fighting spirit. He had even lost his guard.
He confessed too thoroughly.
Rocks leaned against a broken pillar, a half-empty cup of wine in his hand.
A cold smile played on his lips.
Wait until Luo Jie makes a fool of himself. Wait until the Pirate King loses all face.
But Roger truly swallowed his pride. He truly knelt down.
The smile on Lockes' face vanished completely.
The wine glass stopped in his hand. His gaze remained fixed on Roger's bent back.
This old man is really going all out.
They've abandoned even the last shred of dignity.
The night wind blows across the dilapidated island of the future.
Three large flags fluttered in the night wind.
The white-bearded man stood directly in front.
She looked down at the kneeling man.
There was no pleasure. Only scrutiny.
Decades-long rivals. Responding in this way.
Fate is absurd.
Whitebeard spoke.
"Roger, what does your kneeling mean?"
The sound wasn't loud. A muffled rumble of thunder pounded against my eardrums.
The white-bearded man spoke in a low voice, his imposing aura descending.
The team leaders around him tensed up.
There was no room for maneuver. There were no steps forward.
It hit Roger squarely in the face, forcing him to give an explanation.
Roger's shoulders trembled.
He didn't look up. He didn't explain. His Adam's apple bobbed up and down.
He stared intently at the blood on the ground.
The question was too direct. There was no excuse.
They're definitely putting on an act. There's no denying it.
But the apology was genuine. The guilt was genuine.
I wish I could tear myself to pieces to fill the void left by the past.
Who would believe that if I told them?
The scene in One Piece where the protagonist cries and apologizes is considered cliché even in traditional operas.
The white-bearded man took half a step forward.
The blade dragged across the gravel. A piercing sound followed. Stone chips flew everywhere.
Looking down from a high vantage point.
Roger's disheveled appearance was etched into his mind.
"You think kneeling on the ground and bowing your head will make all the suffering Ace has endured over the years go by? You think throwing away your Pirate King status will make Ace forgive you?"
Every word was piercing to the heart. A precise shot to the vitals.
The white-bearded man spoke slowly and calmly.
More terrifying than a roar.
It's not about venting anger. It's about stating facts.
Shanks sat on the wooden crate. The wine glass had long been set aside.
Staring in the direction of the standoff.
Whitebeard is right. Our captain really owes too much.
One apology isn't enough.
The more certain you are, the more painful it is.
Back then, we were full of youthful vigor. We laughed heartily from the bow of the boat.
Before him stood a hunched-over man kneeling on the ground.
My chest feels tight and constricted. I feel suffocated.
The white beard didn't stop.
Staring at Roger's lowered head. Blood trickled down his neck.
The anger in his chest burned ever brighter.
It wasn't for Ace. Nor was it for Rouge.
It is tragic.
They were once rivals. They were evenly matched. The Grand Line trembled in their presence.
But now it has become a stray dog with a broken spine.
Kneel on the gravel ground and await judgment.
The contrast was stark. The white-bearded man was extremely agitated. His heart clenched tightly.
"Back then, you chose to surrender in order to usher in the Great Pirate Era."
Whitebeard's voice lowered.
The churning undercurrents of the ocean floor carry a sense of desolation.
"You died a beautiful death, a glorious one. The whole world witnessed the execution in Loguetown. The Pirate King Gol D. Roger smiled as he faced death. How heroic, how full of ambition!"
From the pirates' perspective, you are a hero!
But have you ever considered that, in the eyes of Ace and his mother, it was a storm?
He stopped. He glanced behind him.
Ace stood there, his face ashen, his jaw clenched like a stone.
Hunted down by the world government!
"It all fell on their shoulders, mother and son."
Upon hearing this!
Roger's head drooped even lower. His breathing was heavy.
Whitebeard's words were piercing to the heart.
What was deliberately avoided was stripped away. The bloody truth was revealed.
I haven't thought about it. Or rather, I don't dare to think about it too deeply.
Death is a relief. The burden is left behind.
But they didn't consider who would bear the brunt of the burden.
The white-bearded man pointed a finger at Ace. His voice was muffled.
"Now you come kneeling here again. You're not atoning for Ace's sins, you're just throwing the burden of 'whether or not I forgive you' back onto some kid."
You are morally blackmailing my son!
Ace stood behind the white-bearded man, remaining silent throughout.
Hearing this, Ace's veins bulged on the back of his hand, and his chest heaved violently.
Hearing the white-bearded man question him.
This should have been a relief.
He should have hated Roger. Hated that man who gave him blood but not protection.
He died at the height of his glory, leaving all the infamy and suffering to his wife and children.
But you can't simply hate.
The white beard is correct. Roger has already confessed.
He kept his head down and endured the beatings and scoldings.
The resentment of more than 20 years has no outlet.
The back molars clenched tightly.
I wanted to rush up and punch someone. I wanted to vent my frustration and anger.
I want the Pirate King to taste what it's like to be trampled on.
His feet were stuck to the ground. He couldn't take a step.
It's not fear. It's just that my emotions are in turmoil.
The hatred is real. The disgust is real too.
But looking at Roger's humble appearance to the core...
shaken.
This wavering infuriated him. The hatred was diluted. It was no longer pure.
The white-bearded man withdrew his hand and gripped the hilt of his knife tightly.
His gaze fell upon Roger. A cold, scrutinizing look.
They were once formidable rivals. Acknowledged opponents. Countless efforts were expended in their battles.
Now I kneel at your feet. I humbly accept judgment.
There was no joy, only sorrow.
He should have felt relieved. Roger owed him a lot.
But now that moment has truly arrived.
I can't laugh.
"Roger, you're still making the living clean up your messes."
The words hit me like a ton of bricks. Icy water was poured over my head.
Staring at Roger's deeply sunken knee. His profile covered in blood and mud.
Whitebeard was extremely tired.
There were no winners in this trial. Roger lost. Ace lost. He didn't win either.
The accounts must be settled. The scars must be reopened.
"You don't deserve to be called Ace's father by looking like this."
The air condensed.
Everyone held their breath, their eyes darting back and forth.
Those were harsh words.
Lox accepted the mockery. Zepha straightened his back.
The white-bearded man wasn't cursing. He was Roger's last shred of self-comfort.
They gave Roger no chance to catch his breath.
Roger's shoulders were shaking.
He slowly raised his head. Blood trickled down his eyelids. His vision was bloodshot.
He didn't dodge. He didn't explain. He stared straight into her eyes.
He absorbed his nemesis's rage to his very core.
His lips moved. A dry, grinding sound came from his throat.
The words were carefully crafted, though difficult to compose.
The wind stopped for half a second. Roger spoke.
"I know."
Three words. The voice was extremely low.
The white-bearded man is right. The debt can't be paid off.
Remorse and atonement seem pale and laughable in the face of bloody reality.
I know everything.
But they still came. They knelt down, offering their faces to be hit and scolded.
It's not about what you want in return.
There was no other choice left.