"Get ready to suffer."
The hand gripping Marco's neck didn't loosen. The other drew back, the force contained in the simple motion. The air around them grew heavier. The glow of blue wings wavered.
THWACK!
The first punch struck straight to the face. The hybrid Phoenix's head snapped to the side from the impact. The dry sound echoed in the sky. Blood and feathers scattered in opposite directions. Marco's body twisted midair, but it couldn't break free from the hand holding him.
BMMMM!
The second blow landed in the abdomen. The force drove the creature's torso backward. His spine arched. His claws clenched reflexively. His breath was ripped away. Riser's fist, still coated in Haki, was solid, unyielding.
Marco spat blood into the air and roared, eyes wide.
"Son of a bitch!"
The snarl came through gritted teeth, savage, defiant. But Riser didn't answer. His fist was already rising again.
KRRRACK!
The third punch hit the collarbone. The sound of bone cracking reverberated through the open air. The right wing lost lift for a moment. Marco's body hung in the air, supported only by his neck, like a torn flag on an enemy's mast.
SHHHWWUMP!
The fourth punch landed on his flank. The Zoan's natural armor cracked. A thin trail of blood ran down to his hip. The Haki on Riser's arm vibrated with pent-up tension. No room for hesitation. No wasted movement.
And then came the fifth.
DWWWWHHAAAM!
Right to the chest. The impact split the hybrid Phoenix's skin. The sound was muffled, like a blow to compressed flesh and bone. Marco's head fell back, his eyes half-lidded, breath faltering.
Riser didn't speak a word.
But the way he kept Marco suspended by the neck, even after the final blow, made it clear this wasn't about speed. It wasn't about efficiency.
It was humiliation.
The precision of the punches. The order of the targets. The choice to keep his opponent alive. Everything pointed to Riser wanting more than victory — he wanted to deface the memory of what Marco once stood for.
Then Riser lifted his gaze.
Below him, across the island, the battlefronts spread like stains on a game board. The vampires of the Phoenix Nest were in motion — and the advantage was obvious.
Zala moved between shadows and wreckage, cutting with precision. Every blade stroke sealed a fate, and none of Whitebeard's men could keep up with her for more than two moves.
Mikita shifted her weight midair, crushing and flanking with brutal drops. Her spinning umbrella struck with unexpected savagery, breaking guards and bodies with the same ease she wore her smile.
Alvida swung her mace one-handed, her body coated in Haki, the Sube Sube no Mi nullifying physical attacks. Every enemy rush ended in fractures, knockouts, or bones smashed into the cracked ground.
Kaya stayed in the shadows at the rear. Her arrows never missed. Each shot, infused with Haki and shadow manipulation, cut like a razor. The men never even heard the sound before collapsing.
Kalifa and Nojiko, working in tandem, dominated the field like seasoned veterans. Doors opened and shut at key points, teleporting the living electricity of the Goro Goro no Mi straight into enemy flanks. Lightning lashed the field like divine whips.
And then there was Boa Hancock.
The only one without absolute control of her fight.
She faced Jozu.
The ground between them was cracked in a radial pattern. The marks didn't come from weapons — they came from impact. Jozu's body reflected the light like black crystal. Diamond pulsed beneath his muscles. Every strike Hancock delivered met absolute resistance.
She didn't back down.
But every advance cost effort.
She spun hard, her hair following the twist of her hips, arms swinging wide. Her legs flexed and exploded in precise sequences. But Jozu blocked. His arm, hardened like stone, deflected the blows, and diamond skin did the rest.
The tension between them was visible. The difference lay in their eyes.
Hancock showed no doubt. Only disdain.
And even under strain, she remained regal.
Riser watched it all in silence. The field, the positioning, the victory sketched in clean movements. His warriors weren't just winning — they were cementing themselves as new forces in the New World.
This is way too easy.
The gap between us and Whitebeard's legacy is… pathetic.
The old man died, and with him went any shred of relevance this crew might've had.
Marco still breathes, but only because I allow it.
I don't know what I enjoy more — the sound of bones breaking or the look in his eyes trying to figure out when he lost.
Tomorrow, I expect to see it on the front page.
The end of Whitebeard's fleet. The end of the last ghosts of Marineford.
The world needs to see what happens when you refuse to accept you've already lost.
After I kill Marco…
…and steal that Devil Fruit…
…Jozu will be next.
Riser's hand still clamped around his opponent's neck. Marco's hybrid body hung between ship and island, suspended in the void like a burnt standard. His eyes half-shut. Blood dripped from his mouth and feathers. His wings no longer beat with strength. But he was still breathing.
Riser looked at him without emotion.
"This is the end for you."
The answer came in a thin voice.
"The Phoenix never dies…"
Marco spat more blood.
"…just like my father's legacy."
The silence that followed wasn't dramatic.
It was awkward.
The words echoed in the sky like a rejected prayer. Empty, powerless. The kind of line that only convinces the dead… or those who refuse to face the truth.
An illusion.
Plain and simple.
The blind repetition of a broken ideal.
The conviction of a fool who chose to be a symbol… even in the face of annihilation.
Riser didn't answer. Not with words, not with expression.
He simply turned his head slowly, looking down.
The ocean looked calm. Gentle waves. The sky's reflection mirrored on the water. A serene scene in complete contrast to the destruction unfolding.
The grip on Marco's neck tightened.
CRRRRRK!
The dry sound of bone under pressure carried through the air. The Phoenix's body shuddered in pain, his eyes widening again, as if he could wake from his own failure.
Riser looked back at him.
And smiled.
Slowly.
Sinister.
But as dark, cruel, and final as Riser's smile was, it didn't erase what lingered in his opponent's eyes.
Marco was still looking back.
His breath faltered. His body barely responded. His wings hung like tattered rags from a forgotten flag. But his eyes… his eyes stayed steady.
There was no illusion there.
No hope.
Just the gaze of someone who knew he had already lost and yet still refused to yield entirely. A scrap of dignity held onto by sheer will.
And as useless as it was…
…it was still resistance.
📢 Bonus Chapter Available!
Are you following my stories DXD: The Awakening of Phenex, Reincarnation in Smallville, or DXD: Gasper's Awakening?
Then I have a surprise for you!
Support my work on Patreon and gain access to exclusive bonus chapters, behind-the-scenes content, and much more.
Your support means the world to me and helps me keep writing the stories you love.
💖 Support here: patreon.com/22Mirko22
Thank you so much for reading — see you in the next chapter!