Whitebeard bent down, scooping a fistful of coarse, sun-baked sand into his hand. He rubbed it slowly between his palms, letting the granules grind into his skin. The sensation was strange—foreign. His once-calloused hands, hardened by decades of war, had been healed so thoroughly that they now felt smooth, soft even.
It irritated him. He wanted the roughness back—the texture that had earned him his title.
The World's Strongest Man didn't fear weakness. He feared losing the edge, the familiarity of a warrior's grip. And so, he let the sand scour his skin, like a ritual, until the ache reminded him of who he was.
Beside him, Murakumogiri, the supreme-grade naginata, stood impaled in the desert like a monument. The blade gleamed beneath the harsh sun, humming faintly with anticipation.
This place… it was a wasteland. A dead island of nothing but sand. No rocks, no trees, no shadows—just an endless desert that devoured the horizon. We were over two hundred miles from Sphinx Island, and not even my Observation Haki—stretched to its full range—could sense a single sign of life.
A perfect battlefield.
Whitebeard rose to his full, monstrous height—towering more than 6.6 meters, dwarfing even my own considerable frame of 3.2 meters. The sun framed him in gold, his silhouette like a titan carved from legend.
He glanced at me with a grin, his mustache twitching as his hand reached for Murakumogiri.
"Rosinante," his deep voice rolled like distant thunder. "I hope you don't hold back… because I sure as hell won't. I've learned the hard way—stay idle too long at the top, and the rust starts to set in."
I knew what he meant. His recent defeat at the hands of Rocks D. Xebec had shaken something inside him. Not fear—no, Whitebeard feared nothing—but self-awareness. A sharpened sword unused is still a weapon, but a dulled edge invites death.
I smirked, shrugging off my overcoat. The fabric drifted away like a fallen feather in the desert wind.
"Don't worry, Newgate-san." I slid both Shusui and Akatsuki from their scabbards in a fluid motion, their edges gleaming black and crimson under the harsh sun. "Even if you get injured, I'll have Mansherry patch you up. Free of charge."
"Gurararara!" He threw back his head with that earth-shaking laugh. "You cocky little brat. Let's see if you really traded blows with Garp... or if the old man went soft on you because of old blood."
The moment shattered. His demeanor changed in an instant. The battlefield fell into silence.
Then— BOOM!
He vanished. One moment Whitebeard was standing before me—the next, the desert exploded in a thunderous roar of force. My Observation Haki locked onto him even as he reappeared above, blotting out the sun, his naginata already descending in a brutal, arcing slash. The wind screamed from the sheer velocity.
I moved. Shusui, now bathed in pitch-black Armament Haki, slashed up to meet him.
CLAAANG!!
The blades collided with a force that shattered the sound barrier—a shockwave erupted, vaporizing the sand for dozens of meters around, sending pillars of grit and flame into the sky. The ground cracked like glass, forming a massive crater beneath us. The entire island trembled.
Still airborne, Whitebeard didn't pause. He shifted his massive body mid-air, flexing his free arm—and I saw it. That ominous white glow. The power of the Gura Gura no Mi—the quake fruit. A halo of shattering energy wreathed his fist as he brought it down like divine judgment.
But I was already there. Akatsuki, the crimson blade laced with black lightning and searing heat, met his punch mid-air.
BOOOOOOM!!!
The sky ripped open as quake met lightning, sound met silence, and raw will met raw destruction. The resulting shockwave wasn't just force—it was annihilation.
The desert beneath us split wide open. Entire dunes were leveled. Gales of compressed air and sand raced across the wasteland like tsunamis. The island, once eerily still, now howled with chaos. Thunder cracked as if the heavens themselves flinched from the impact.
We hadn't even begun, yet already, the landscape was dying around us. He grinned mid-air, a trickle of mischief at the edge of his lip. The sandstorm had barely settled from our first collision when the air split again—not from movement, but from sheer will.
Conqueror's Haki. Mine. And his.
A pressure wave erupted from both of us as I unleashed Haoshoku Haki alongside Whitebeard. The desert screamed. The sky turned black in an instant, the sun swallowed whole by the vortex of our colliding wills. Tendrils of black and red lightning danced and lashed out like titanic serpents, each strike a war drum heralding the storm to come.
BOOM.
Reality groaned beneath our power. The ground didn't just crack—it shattered. For more than a kilometer in every direction, the desert was obliterated, reduced to nothing but floating shards of sand and fractured debris suspended in the maelstrom. Storm clouds gathered overhead, swirling like summoned beasts as the unnatural storm raged around us.
Lightning—black and red—split the heavens. I moved first.
Shusui spun in my left hand, Akatsuki pulsed hellishly in my right. I poured everything into my blades—Advanced Conqueror's Haki, howling and cracking like an ancient god's wrath—and then I vanished, the crater where I stood exploding behind me as I launched toward Whitebeard.
He met me head-on, swinging Murakumogiri in a wide, devastating arc. His blade rang with haki of his own, both armament and conqueror's, the air itself splitting in protest.
CLAAANG.
We didn't even touch. Our haki collided midair, canceling each other out and forming a pressure vacuum so dense, even sound dared not enter. The ground beneath us didn't break—it melted, turning into molten glass under the weight of our wills.
I twisted mid-air, riding the recoil, flipping backward through the static-filled sky. With a single seamless motion, I flipped Akatsuki over my shoulder and slashed downward. A wave of crimson lightning exploded toward him.
ZAAAKRAAAK!
He didn't flinch—he punched the air. The quake shattered my attack, tore it apart like paper, and the resulting shockwave howled toward me, reality cracking in its wake. I flash-stepped. Appeared above him, both blades crossed in an "X."
"Twin Sword Style: Reaper's Edge!"
I swung down. The world obeyed. A double-bladed arc of Haki-infused force screamed toward him, so sharp and fast it carved into the clouds above. He roared in response, spinning Murakumogiri in a wide arc, creating a cyclone of seismic force that detonated my attack midair.
He stomped.
CRAAAAACK!!!
The world split open. Literally. The desert tore itself apart beneath me, a gaping fault line yawning open as if some god had sliced the earth in two. A quake surged from below, aimed directly at me.
I flipped again, airborne, and brought Akatsuki down—BOOM—into the rupture. Fire and lightning exploded downward, sealing the fault with a pillar of molten glass that screamed skyward. But Whitebeard wasn't done.
He jumped. The old man flew. He shouldn't have been able to move like that—but he did, soaring through the air like a war comet, bringing Murakumogiri down with such force that even the sky rippled. I crossed my blades, haki surging, forming a guard.
BOOOOOOOM!!!
The shockwave was beyond sound. Mountains of sand vanished behind us. The desert shifted, reshaped by our clash. Winds tore in every direction, a hundred knots strong, ripping the world apart. Our eyes locked mid-collision. I grinned. So did he. Then I dropped to one knee, slamming my blades back into their sheath, and unleashed them once more, infused to the brim with conqueror's haki.
"Two Heavens as One—Twin Reapers' Scythe…!"
The pulse was invisible—but irresistible. Gravity bent around me. Whitebeard's massive form lurched forward, dragged toward me like the planet itself demanded his presence. I moved.
Fast as lightning. Shusui slashed right. Akatsuki slashed left. He blocked both with the shaft of his naginata—and countered. A quake punch. Point-blank.
"Titan Fall…!"
Whitebeard roared as he punched to counter the blades. The world ended. A full circle of shockwave blasted out, vaporizing everything within miles. I was hurled back through the chaos, sandstorm tearing around me, blades screaming in my hands as I fought for control mid-flight.
I landed on one foot, blades digging into the earth to slow my skid. I stood and pointed Akatsuki at him. "Still the strongest for a reason."
He grinned, planting Murakumogiri in the ground and cracking his knuckles. His haki flared around him like obsidian fire.
"Damn right, brat. But if you think this is my limit… you're still dreaming."
He clenched his hands together. And the sky split. Not parted—broken. A jagged vertical crack ripped through the clouds above, spilling divine light across the battlefield like the heavens themselves were bleeding.
I surged forward, aura now a maelstrom of red lightning and black smoke. I was done being a swordsman. I was a storm now. Shusui became shadow. Akatsuki burned with cursed flame.
I spun, slashing both blades.
He parried with one arm—and punched the air again, a quake rippling toward my chest.
I didn't dodge. I struck the tremor with both blades, channeling all my Conqueror's Haki into the clash. Two titanic forces collided.
And then—
Implosion.
A void of crushing force formed between us, sucking in everything—and then detonated in a flash that blinded the world. You could see it from the edges of the New World. When the light faded… the island? It wasn't an island anymore.
Just a crater. A battlefield carved by gods. The ocean beyond thrashed like it wanted to flee. Tides reversed. Storms spawned. Sea Kings vanished into the depths.
The last clash had sent both of us flying, our feet tearing through the desert terrain as we landed, carving deep trenches in the glass-scarred earth. The once golden sands had long since turned to molten crystal, forged under the unbearable pressure of our Conqueror's clash. The center of the battlefield—the eye of the storm—was now nothing more than a cratered wasteland of obsidian glass and shattered reality.
It was an even match.
Neither of us staggered. Neither of us relented. We stood firm, each step a testament to the power we carried. No hesitation. No fear. Just will. Whitebeard could see it now—this wasn't a fluke. The opening exchanges, the lightning-fast tempo of blows, the haki-laced strikes—none of it had been luck. He knew.
I was his equal.
"Gurararara… Not bad for a warm-up, brat," he bellowed, his voice a thunderclap that rolled over the fractured dunes. "So you really did fight Garp head-on after all. But I hope you're not afraid of a little quake…"
His battle-lust spiraled, a storm with no end. It radiated off him in waves, boiling the air, distorting the horizon. And then—he dropped his naginata.
With a grunt, Whitebeard dug his clawed fingers into the very air, and the sky itself screamed. Cracks formed—jagged, glowing, cosmic—splintering out from his fists like spiderwebs of broken glass across the fabric of space. He didn't just strike the world.
He rewrote it.
Reality crackled beneath his grip as he twisted, flexing his quake-fractured power not just across the land—but into the world's will itself. What began as a rumble beneath the feet grew into a crescendo that eclipsed even Marineford's destruction from the canon I remembered. The island shook, but this time, it didn't stop there.
The quake spread. The sea tilted. The sky tilted. Space tilted. Everything—the ocean, the heavens, the wind itself—bent under the pressure, like a page folding in the hands of a titan.
I watched, my heartbeat syncing with the rising chaos, adrenaline surging like wildfire through my veins. Every instinct in my body screamed survive, but another part—the pirate, the one that had faced gods and stood tall—roared for more.
The part of the desert I stood on had tilted to an impossible angle—nearly vertical to sea level—but I stood steady, anchored not by gravity, but by sheer will. Even as the very laws of reality bent, I remained unmoved.
Whitebeard clenched his fists—and tore the world. The earth, the ocean, and the sky itself folded. A few dozen miles of existence were crumpled like parchment, reality cratering inward, collapsing onto me like the fist of a vengeful god. Every breath became a scream against nature's fury.
But I didn't retreat.
I smiled. A mad glint danced in my eyes as I stepped forward into the cataclysm, haki surging through my veins like liquid fire. Akatsuki burned in my right hand, eager. But it was Shusui that howled—black steel vibrating, screaming with bloodlust. And then… something changed.
For the first time, Shusui didn't just respond. It sang.
The nascent soul within the blade—long dormant—awakened, resonating with the bloodlust and chaos. The spirit within the black blade was being born, like a storm given sentience, answering my call.
Akatsuki flared, its internal fire now a roaring inferno, while Shusui's blade began to crackle with lightning-black energy, forming a scythe-like arc of gravity-bent light. My aura exploded around me, red lightning and black smoke dancing like serpents across my skin, as I crouched low and whispered to the storm in my bones.
"World Breaker: Midnight Severance."
I vanished. And then I was everywhere. My blades blurred through space, cleaving through folded sky and distorted land, cutting across Whitebeard's collapsing world like a comet of obsidian light. One swing—one slash—and the power within Shusui and Akatsuki collided in a storm of haki so dense it cut through dimension itself.
A black arc tore across the horizon. It didn't stop at the battlefield. It didn't stop at the sea.
It didn't stop at the sky. The attack surged outward—unrelenting, absolute—tearing through Whitebeard's very will and his reality-bending tremor; it was the same intensity with which I cleaved the Red Line. And left a scar across its face.
The heavens convulsed as the arc sliced through the atmosphere, parting clouds, sending whirlwinds howling in its wake. The air imploded, a vacuum created by the sheer force of the slash as it split open the sea like a scar from the gods.
Time itself seemed to pause. And then—
KRAKABOOOOOOM.
The world howled in protest. The ocean was ripped in half for miles, the sky ruptured into chaotic spirals of black lightning and white fire, and the land between us was vaporized into oblivion. Whitebeard stood tall amidst the chaos, one hand raised, blood trailing from his knuckles where the blades had met, his grin wider than ever.
I stood too—my shirt already in tatters, sweat down my brow, but my grip on my blades unshaken. We had rewritten the rules of what a battle could be.
****
A few hundred nautical miles away, on the peaceful yet alert shores of Sphinx Island, the earth trembled. Though the heart of the clash raged far beyond the horizon, its echoes reached even here—deep, distant rumbles that made the sea churn uneasily and the clouds above roll in unnatural patterns.
The Whitebeard Pirates, or at least those who had stayed behind, stood at the edge of the island, eyes fixed toward the source of the tremors. Marco, Vista, Jozu, and several division commanders remained at Sphinx not because they were unwilling to fight—but because this battle, they'd been told, was simply a spar.
A spar. And yet… the seas were splitting.
The sky beyond the visible horizon had cracked, lightning in unnatural hues—black, violet, and red—streaking across distant heavens like the world itself was being torn apart. The vibrations under their feet, once faint, had grown more defined, almost rhythmic—as if the world's heartbeat had changed.
"...Is Pops fighting someone?" a voice asked behind Marco.
The commander of the First Division didn't respond at first. His phoenix-blue eyes remained locked on the distant shimmer in the sky. Behind him, the rest of the commanders were beginning to gather, murmuring amongst themselves. The battle may have been over the horizon, but its presence was undeniable.
Marco finally turned. From the corner of his eye, he spotted a curious contrast—just a few dozen meters away, members of the Donquixote Family lounged in the shade of a sand-worn stone outcrop. Some played cards, others shared drinks or napped lazily beneath the looming clouds. Despite the tension vibrating through the very earth, they looked... unbothered. Almost bored.
Marco narrowed his gaze. There was no fear in their posture. No anxiety. Just an eerie calm. If anything, they seemed more confident in Rosinante than Whitebeard's sons did in their own captain.
The irony wasn't lost on him. Then he heard it—a cough, rough and wet, followed by the dragging sound of something heavy against the sand.
"Why aren't we moving to help Pops?" the voice croaked.
Marshall D. Teach.
Marco turned fully as Teach hobbled forward from the interior treeline. His massive frame was swathed in thick bandages, his chest tightly wrapped, and a large steel-reinforced crutch supported his weight. Every step he took seemed labored, and his usually boisterous demeanor was replaced by a grim urgency.
His body had not yet healed from the incident—and Marco knew why. Rosinante had refused to treat him. But despite his broken state, Teach's eyes burned with something sharp. Something too intense to be just pain.
"I'll go if no one else will," Teach growled, dragging his crutch, his breath ragged. "We don't even know if that's a spar anymore. For all we know, Pops is out there alone… and they've set a trap."
A beat of silence followed. The wind howled softly across the sand. Vista stepped forward, arms folded, his expression calm yet firm. "There's no need to panic, Teach. Oyaji knows what he's doing. This was agreed upon—a sparring match, nothing more. You think Rosinante would betray the code like that?"
Teach's eyes widened, disbelief swimming in them. "You're just going to trust them? A pirate from Donquixote's bloodline? You think this ain't some setup?"
Vista's brow furrowed, but he kept his voice even. "Rosinante may share the name, but he's not the same man as the rest of the ones above. Oyaji sees that. So do I."
Other commanders nodded. The Donquixote pirates, though unorthodox, hadn't shown any hostility since arriving. And Rosinante had come, extending a helping hand, and had helped heal not only Whitebeard but also many among the Whitebeard pirates, and now he was seeking only a duel of strength, a clash between kings.
But Teach wasn't convinced. His gaze wandered—to the Donquixote Family members laughing softly in the distance, the cards slapping the table, the idle chatter. His eyes narrowed as they lingered just a moment too long on the giantess among them, her laughter echoing across the field.
Then, with a pained grunt, he spoke again.
"Then we detain them temporarily. Just until Pops returns. For his safety."
The words dropped like a stone in still water. Several commanders turned to him with raised brows and confused glances.
"You want to capture Rosinante's crew?" Rakuyo asked incredulously. "Are you mad Teach…? Have you grown dull because of the blow to your head?"
"They ain't even armed right now," Namur muttered, squinting at the group. "You want to throw 'em in cuffs while they're playing cards?"
"It's just precaution," Teach said quickly, waving off the judgment. "You think Oyaji would be angry if we protected him? Kept a few strangers under watch while the world's shaking? And if this is simply a spar, we could release them later, and surely the Donquixote family would understand.""
To many, it sounded like concern—overbearing maybe, but genuine. He looked like a man worried for his captain. A brother looking out for his family.
But not to Marco.
The First Division Commander hadn't spoken since Teach arrived. But now, his eyes flicked toward the bandaged man, sharp and contemplative. Something in Rosinante's words—spoken the night before the duel—echoed in Marco's mind.
"Watch him. He doesn't show his fangs. Not until he's certain the bite will kill."
Back then, Marco had disregarded the warning, even willing to stand against Rosinante to defend Teach. Thought it was paranoia. Thought it was born of old grudges. But now… Now he listened.
And the suggestion Teach made—that seemingly harmless, well-intentioned idea of taking the Donquixote crew as "precautionary captives"—seemed far more deliberate. Subtle.
Dangerous. A wedge. A spark to create mistrust between the two sides. Between Oyaji and Rosinante. To sow a fracture that could be exploited later. He studied Teach carefully—the eyes, the posture, the words. The man looked broken. Loyal. Concerned.
But Marco was no longer sure. Was this genuine concern? Or calculated manipulation? And now, Rosinante's warning didn't sound like a bitter pirate's suspicion—it sounded like truth.
Was Teach really just a wounded brother desperate to help his captain?
Or was he a viper, nursing his wounds in silence, waiting for the perfect moment to strike?
The tremors under their feet intensified again, the sea roaring louder as the horizon flashed white. The battle continued—gods clashing beyond sight.
Marco didn't answer Teach right away. Instead, he turned toward the battlefield, wind brushing his blond hair aside, his expression unreadable.
"And the next one who suggests something foolish…" Marco's voice cut through the salty wind like the edge of a blade, his usually calm tone laced with quiet finality. "…I'll personally throw them into the sea and let the sea kings sort them out."
There was no shout. No theatrical anger. Just a cold, surgical truth in his words—a sentence delivered like judgment. The shoreline fell silent. The rumble of distant shockwaves and crashing waves far to the east filled the void where no one else dared speak.
Several division commanders looked to each other, uncertain whether Marco was serious or merely venting tension from the surreal spectacle miles away. But one man among them… knew. Teach felt it like a spear between the ribs.
He stood near the rear of the formation, one hand gripping his crutch tight, knuckles white beneath the bandages. His wounded frame sagged, but it wasn't from pain. No, the pain was secondary. What clenched at his insides now was that creeping, cold sensation—the one he knew too well. The one that whispered: You've been seen.
He swallowed hard, a dry click in his throat. Marco hadn't looked at him when he said it. Not once. But Teach knew. That warning—veiled as a broad command—had been meant for him. And for the first time in years, Teach felt like he had been seen through.
He averted his gaze, letting his crutch sink deeper into the sand as he leaned on it, keeping the tremor out of his legs. But inside, his thoughts twisted into tighter, blacker knots.
"Let's wait," Marco said finally, voice quiet but certain. "Oyaji won't fall. And neither will Rosinante."
Behind his calm tone, though, his mind raced. He would watch. Not just the battlefield—but the people around him. Especially Teach. Because the snake had begun to move. And Marco was no longer blind to the sound of its rattle.