Chapter 35: Sworn Brotherhood

After hearing this, Whitebeard suddenly burst into hearty laughter. “Gurararara! What an interesting brat. Go help Jinbei and stitch up his wounds as well.”
Buffon nodded, walked over to Jinbei, and began to stitch him up.
At this moment, Marco whispered to Whitebeard, “Dad, should we take this kid under your wing?”
Before Whitebeard could reply, a man with heart-shaped lipstick, pale skin, and hair styled like an island topknot swept behind them and said, “Dad, I checked their ship. He’s probably one of Moria’s men.”
“Gurararara! So he belongs to that little bat. No wonder his stitching skills are so impressive.”
While the three were talking, Buffon had already finished closing all of Jinbei’s wounds.
Having obtained the Flame-Flame Fruit and Fishman Karate, Buffon felt a secret delight. After all, Jinbei’s Fishman Karate was renowned for its strength. He wondered if he could wield it with the same power as a true Fishman.
Buffon stood up and addressed the three with his usual cold demeanor, “Jinbei also needs rest.”
Whitebeard nodded, then boomed with heroic spirit, “Kid, what’s your name? Would you like to leave that little bat Moria and join my banner, bearing my name as you conquer these seas?”
Buffon shook his head, his voice still cool and distant. “Castile Buffon. Thank you for your offer, but I have no such intention.”
This did not surprise Whitebeard. From what he’d seen of Buffon’s calm and indulgent demeanor during the battle, regardless of his strength, he was not someone who would easily switch allegiances.
“Well then, Brother Buffon, could I trouble you to tend to Dad’s wounds as well?” Marco asked.
Before Buffon could answer, Whitebeard interrupted, “These wounds were left by those bastards. They are proof of my battles before the era of the great pirates. Let them remain on my body until the day I die!”
Though his words sounded ominous, coming from Whitebeard, they brimmed with boldness and pride.
Buffon nodded, saying nothing. He wasn’t particularly bothered about missing this chance to copy the Tremor-Tremor Fruit—there would be plenty more opportunities by the time the Summit War arrived.
“Buffon, for treating Jinbei and Ace, I owe you a favor. If you ever find yourself in trouble at sea, just say my name!”
Buffon nodded and, for once, managed a rare, “Thank you.”

Only then did Whitebeard turn his gaze to Saul. He searched his memory for a long time before recalling the former vice admiral who had been missing for nearly twenty years.
“You’re Saul, aren’t you? You’ve been gone for so many years—I thought you’d died in the Buster Call on Ohara.”
Saul was surprised that this legendary pirate, whom he had only met a few times, still remembered him. He nodded earnestly. “Thanks to Captain Buffon for saving me. I’d been frozen by that guy Kuzan’s ice all those years.”
Hearing this, Marco’s doctorly curiosity got the better of him. He wanted to know the details, so he said, “Buffon, since you don’t want to join Dad, how about being our guest on the ship for a few days? I have some medical questions I’d like to ask you.”
Buffon nodded without refusal; he, too, wanted to spend some time around truly top-tier warriors.
So he followed Whitebeard’s crew aboard the Moby Dick.
For Buffon, who was used to the horror of the Thriller Bark, this ship—destined to be destroyed at the Summit War—didn’t hold much that could surprise him.
What did impress him, however, was the culinary skill of the fourth division commander, Thatch. The food was several times more delicious than anything Buffon had tasted at Fortress G8.
Buffon quietly resolved to find an opportunity to stitch up Thatch as well—what could be more delightful for pirates adrift on the sea than fine food?
If anything could rival that, it would have to be treasure.
A day later, Jinbei awoke stronger than before. Seeing his whale shark skin fully restored and learning of Buffon’s skills, he invited Buffon to visit Fishman Island as a guest.
Buffon was tempted, but he politely declined. He wanted to return quickly; inside Rosinante—now carrying Shiryu’s shadow—a new creation awaited him.
He was eager to see just how powerful this zombie puppet, with Shanks’ left arm, a Celestial Dragon’s body, and Shiryu’s shadow, would become!
While chatting with Jinbei, they suddenly heard a scream from the ship’s hold, like a pig being slaughtered. “Captain Haruta, can’t you be a bit gentler? I feel like you’re torturing me!”
Jinbei, accustomed to such things, explained with a smile, “Buffon, that’s Captain Haruta of the twelfth division, giving a newcomer his tattoo!”
Buffon smiled and nodded, saying nothing more.
When they reached the deck, they saw a man burst from the hold, blood covering his back, shouting, “Captain Haruta! Let’s stop here for today. We can continue tomorrow!”

But Haruta, dressed in sixteenth-century European aristocratic garb, had no intention of stopping. “Gurit, better short pain than long. If we finish today, you can lie in bed for a week and no one will bother you!”
Gurit took off running, hiding behind Marco, who was reading on deck, and pleaded, “Captain Marco, please, just give me an anesthetic! I can’t take it anymore!”
Marco glanced at Gurit, then looked at Buffon nearby and said, “Buffon, I wonder if your lightning-fast stitching could be used for tattooing?”
Buffon nodded. He’d already demonstrated his speed—over six hundred stitches per second—on Oars, and tattooing was just another extension of his work on corpses.
Seeing Buffon agree, Marco turned to Haruta, “Haruta, let Buffon show you his technique. Learn from him. Don’t make this sacred rite of carrying Dad’s mark look like an execution.”
Haruta grumbled, “I was never a professional to begin with—why force me into this? Buffon, please, let’s see if Marco’s praise is warranted.”
Buffon nodded, signaling Gurit to turn his back, then took the ink from Haruta and set to work.
In just fifteen minutes, Buffon had tattooed the Whitebeard Pirates’ mark perfectly onto Gurit’s back.
Throughout the process, Gurit felt only a slight tingling, never the searing pain from before.
Haruta looked at the flawless tattoo and sighed, “I’ll never learn this.”
Marco, who had watched the whole process, could only shake his head in resignation. “We can’t compare! Only Buffon’s skill is worthy of this sacred ceremony. How about—”
Before Marco could finish, Buffon interrupted, “Captain Marco, I’m leaving now.”
Just then, Whitebeard himself strode over, holding a giant sake bowl.
“Gurararara! Buffon, your tattooing skills are truly impressive! Come, let’s drink together before you go!”