Inside the reinforced cabin of the world government command ship, Saint Saturn sat motionless. The rhythmic crash of waves against the hull and the faint hum of the flickering lights were the only sounds that filled the silence.
Moments earlier, he had witnessed—through the razor edge of his observation Haki—the unbelievable spectacle that had unfolded over Water 7. Even he, one of the Five Elders, had felt a chill crawl down his spine. Garp. That man was always an anomaly—a beast whose strength defied the logic of the world they ruled.
For centuries, the Celestial dragons had categorized every threat, every variable—pirates, revolutionaries, even rebel Celestial dragons—all calculable. But not Garp. Never, Monkey D. Garp. He was an aberration that even the World Government's divine hierarchy couldn't quite define.
Then—
Peri… peri… peri…
The sharp trill of the transponder snail cut through the silence, shrill and insistent. Saturn's eyes narrowed. This particular snail was a restricted line, used only among the highest echelons of the Celestial Nobility. For it to ring now—in the middle of this operation—was more than odd.
He reached forward, his clawed fingers brushing the receiver, irritation flickering behind his calm exterior. "Who dares—?" he muttered, half to himself. The other Elders were well aware that he had been dispatched personally for this mission to recover the ancient weapon's blueprint and its suspected holder. If one of them was calling, it had better be for something that warranted his immediate attention.
But as the receiver clicked open, the voice that greeted him wasn't one of the other elders. It was far worse.
"Elder Saturn," came the crisp, sharp tone—Saint Figarland Garling.
The very sound of that man's voice made Saturn's jaw tighten. Figarland's arrogance was infamous even among the Celestial Dragon elite. A man who looked down upon everyone—even the Elders themselves.
Saturn prepared to remind him of his place, but Figarland spoke first—and this time, the sharp-edged pride in his tone was gone, replaced with something Saturn had never heard from him before. Urgency.
"Elder Saturn…! You and all God's Knights currently deployed at Water 7 are to retreat immediately. Use the Abyss Mark for instant recall if you must—now. No delay."
Saturn blinked, momentarily thrown off by the direct command. Because the World Noble hierarchy never allowed Figarland to command him, even though the other party held the status of the supreme commander of the God's Knights.
"What is the meaning of this…GARLING?" he demanded, his composure slipping into irritation. "You're aware this mission is of critical importance. We have yet to secure the ancient weapon's blueprint, and the fishman—"
"Elder Saturn!"
Figarland's voice thundered through the line, laced with fury and something else—shattered pride.
"Did you not hear me? The Holy Land is under attack!"
The words hit Saturn like a hammer. For a moment, he forgot to breathe. He stared at the snail, the world around him narrowing to the voice echoing from the other side.
"What…?" he managed, his voice quieter now. "You jest… This is no time for a joke."
But Figarland was not known for jokes.
"Do I sound like I'm jesting?" The God Knight snarled. "This is not a drill, Elder. The alarms are ringing across Pangaea itself. Entire sectors of the lower sanctums are in flames—the slave-holding quarters have been breached. The skies over Mary Geoise are burning."
Saturn's blood ran cold. Such a thing was deemed impossible. Ever since Doflamingo's insurrection years ago, the Elders had layered the Holy Land in every conceivable protection—seastone barriers, fourfold sentries, additional fortresses, and watchtowers. Even the air above the city was watched.
For someone—anyone—to breach that fortress of gods? It was unthinkable. Still, his mind sought reason amidst the chaos. "Was it those cursed Donquixote brothers again…?" Saturn demanded. "That madman has done this before. His crew has been suspiciously absent from this war—"
"We are not certain," Figarland interrupted sharply. "Unlike last time, the attack is focused entirely on the slave quarters. No movement in the upper city yet. But if this is a diversion… then the real storm has not begun. So I want my knights back in the Holy Land if it is going to be besieged."
For a fleeting moment, Saturn thought he could hear chaos in the background of the transmission—shouting soldiers, the distant rumble of detonations, and the crackle of fire. Figarland's voice returned, harsher and more desperate.
"I don't care what plans you have at Water 7. Leave them. Bury the island if you must—but bring my Knights back to the Holy Land. Now!"
And before Saturn could speak another word, the line went dead. The cabin fell silent again, but it was a silence that roared louder than the sea. Saturn's reflection stared back at him from the polished steel of the wall—pale, unreadable, and trembling slightly.
"The Holy Land… under attack…" he whispered.
He stood slowly, his chair scraping against the deck. The room seemed to tilt as the realization sank in. The impossible had happened again—the palace of gods was burning again.
Without hesitation, Saint Saturn stormed toward the cabin door, his expression a mask of cold resolve. Outside, the storm howled over the sea. Lightning cracked across the clouds, momentarily illuminating the chaos around the World Government flagship.
Saint Sommers and Saint Gunko stood on the deck, their cloaks whipping in the wind as they weighed their next move—whether to reinforce Maffey and Killingham on the island or to brace for the approaching threat that now darkened the horizon.
Out there, beyond the sheets of rain, a colossal formation of ships was cutting through the storm—the Whitebeard Pirates' armada. Their fleet had aligned into a massive wedge, splitting the waves with terrifying precision, the unmistakable intent in their movement: ram through the World Government's line and crush everything in their path.
Gunko's gaze sharpened as her gaze shifted in the direction of the incoming armada. Sommers couldn't help but let out a disdainful chuckle as the realization dawned—their flagship's current course, the one upon which they currently stood, pulled away from Water 7 moments earlier with Gunko's ability and had placed them directly in Whitebeard's path.
And then—the cabin door exploded open with a metallic crash that drowned even the thunder. Every head on the deck turned. Cipher Pol agents, Marines, and World Government operatives alike froze where they stood. And then, one by one, they fell to their knees, their faces pale with dread as the figure stepped out.
Even the rain seemed to hesitate as Saint Saturn emerged under the tempestuous sky. The entire deck seemed to hush at the presence of the highest authority of the World Government. No one had expected that a member of the Five Elders themselves had been aboard the fleet. The air thickened instantly, heavy with awe and fear.
Gunko and Sommers turned to face him. Though both bore the title of God's Knights, their divine authority shrank before the elder's presence. But what they saw made their unease grow. Saint Saturn's face was pale and drawn tight, his eyes cold yet burning with a rare urgency. His usual composure, that air of untouchable authority, was cracked—replaced by something none of them had ever seen on an Elder before.
Pure, unadulterated rage.
When he spoke, his voice rolled over the storm—calm, commanding, and final. It was not the tone of a man issuing orders. It was the tone of a god delivering judgment.
"Change of plans," he said, his words cutting through the rain like a blade. "We return to the Holy Land. Immediately."
Both Gunko and Sommers stiffened. Sommers took a hesitant step forward. "Elder Saturn—? The mission—"
"The mission," Saturn interrupted sharply, his eyes flashing with authority. Saturn turned toward Gunko, his gaze sharp enough to slice through steel.
"Inform Maffey and Killingham of their new orders," he continued. "They are to retrieve the target at all costs. Should capture prove impossible…" He paused, his eyes narrowing. "Eliminate him. Bury both him and the blueprint before retreating."
****
The rain hammered down on the decks of the approaching fleet, a black storm swallowing the horizon. Standing tall at the prow of the leading battleship, Admiral Sakazuki—Akainu—stared at the distant inferno that was once Water 7. The crimson glow of the burning island reflected faintly in his eyes, like a spark feeding his molten fury.
Around him, Marines rushed across the deck, their movements sharp but weary. The sea smelled of iron and ash. Sakazuki's coat billowed behind him, emblazoned with the kanji for "Justice."
Then—the shrill cry of the transponder snail. A signal reserved only for the highest levels of command. The snail's receiver opened with a click, and the metallic, detached voice of the World Government's High Command spoke—monotone, absolute, and divine in authority.
"Admiral Sakazuki. This is a direct directive from the Holy Land. Initiate Buster Call. Target: Water 7. Priority: Total annihilation. No exceptions."
There was no hesitation. No question. No room for emotion. Sakazuki didn't even blink. His jaw tightened; his molten gaze remained fixed on the burning island ahead.
"Understood," he said simply, snapping the receiver shut.
He turned to the officer at his side—his voice cold and unwavering.
"Relay the command to the fleet. All ships are to commence the Buster Call. Every cannon. Every salvo. Burn it all."
"But… but Admiral," the rear admiral stammered, voice tight with panic, "there are still Marines on the island. We can't—we cannot commence a full salvo while our own men are still engaged on the surface. They'll be—"
Sakazuki's jaw didn't twitch. He didn't look angry so much as coldly amused—as if the rear admiral's concern were a curiosity rather than an argument. The rain hissed around the superstructure, and the fires on the horizon painted the admiral's face in molten light.
"Broadcast it," Sakazuki said, his voice slow, precise, and absolutely void of compromise. "Open the Marine channels now. Tell every ship and every soldier to retreat immediately. Anyone who cannot fall back in time is unfit to serve justice. Leave them to the sea."
The words landed like iron. The rear admiral paled; a dozen other officers in the command ring exchanged horrified looks. This was not an order given in confusion or panic—it was a doctrinal verdict.
Sakazuki continued without flinching, each syllable a blade: "We preserve the will of the World Government. The mission is to enforce order, not sentiment. Those who cannot obey when the line of command demands withdrawal have failed the only law that matters: justice."
He turned his gaze back to the burning silhouette of Water 7 as if looking through it, not at it. The world around him blurred—smoke, salt, shattered timbers—but his resolve remained crystalline.
To Sakazuki, sacrifice had a currency: utility. Mercy was a weakness. A Marine left behind by indecision was a liability that corrupted the fleet's purpose. He saw the retreat not as cowardice but as a culling—a painful but necessary refinement of the force.
There was a flicker of disbelief in the officer's eyes, but one look from Sakazuki silenced any protest. Orders from the Celestials were not to be questioned. The admiral's hand clenched into a fist, magma crackling faintly between his fingers.
"This," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else, "is the justice that should've been dealt from the start."
And so the order spread like wildfire through the sea. Far across the battle lines, Vice Admiral Momonga nearly crushed his transponder snail in his palm when he heard the command.
"What…? Repeat the order, Marine!" he roared. The voice on the other side quivered but remained firm.
"Vice Admiral, sir—confirmation from Fleet Command. The Buster Call has been authorized… Water 7 is to be erased."
Momonga froze, his mind reeling. Erase Water 7? With Garp present? With Admirals already engaged? This couldn't be right. The pirates were already retreating, the tides of battle turning in the Marines' favor. There was no need for such madness.
But before he could demand verification, the sea itself answered him. From the direction of Marineford, five colossal battleships surged forward through the rain. The cannons along their hulls ignited all at once, thunder roaring across the skies.
A unified barrage of fire and metal screamed through the storm—and slammed into Water 7.
The earth-shattering explosions swallowed the skyline. Flames burst upward, joining the storm clouds in a pillar of black and red.
"They actually fired…" Momonga whispered, his voice hollow.
Before his words even faded, the other Marine ships began to turn—one after another, their cannons pivoting toward the island. Orders cascaded down the line—not through the Marine hierarchy, but directly from the World Government itself, bypassing even the Fleet Admiral's command.
And then the ocean trembled. Hundreds of Marine warships—their flags bearing the mark of justice—opened fire on the dying island. A rain of shells and fire poured down on Water 7, drowning the screams, drowning the sea.
On the fractured coastline, Garp froze mid-breath. The deep, roaring laugh that had filled the sky a heartbeat before died in his throat as the horizon became a furnace of falling fire and iron.
"What the hell are they doing…?" He growled, voice low and thunderous, the sound rolling like distant cannon fire.
Beside him, Vergo's steely composure cracked; the stern lines of his face fell away into something close to disbelief. "That's…that's Marine artillery," he whispered, voice flat and hollow as he watched shells bloom into explosions across the island.
Even Borsalino—forever the picture of languid nonchalance—stood uncharacteristically still. The light from his body fluttered, dim for once. He pushed his sunglasses up with a shaking hand. "Oi… now that's a bit much, isn't it? There are still thousands of Marines on the island…"
Where seconds earlier the battlefield had been a clash of wills—dragon against continent, pirate banners snapping in the storm—it was now drowned beneath a new, terrible symphony: the roar of Marine firepower unleashed not against an enemy fleet but upon the very land they had sworn to defend.
Garp's eyes narrowed. The old man's Observation Haki reached like a searching fist, combing the seas for the source. He picked out the pinprick silhouette of the World Government flagship, a distant dark mark against the burning seas. He was already moving when Borsalino's transponder snail trilled—an unfamiliar, sharp tone. For once the lazy vice admiral reached for it and answered on the first ring.
The voice on the other end was clipped and heavy.Then: "Connect me to Garp."
Borsalino swallowed and thumbed the line across. Moments later the Fleet Admiral's voice snapped through the receiver once more; Sengoku's tone was strained, helpless in a way that made Garp's chest ache.
"Garp," Sengoku said. "I'm sorry. The order came from one of the elders directly. They bypassed the entire marine command—even me. The Buster Call has been authorized from the Holy Land. I can't—"
Garp's grip on the snail tightened until the knuckles whitened. The old man turned so fast the rain lashed his face. He didn't bother with decorum. "Sengoku," he roared into the receiver, blood hot beneath his skin, "if you don't have those snakes retract that order this instant, I swear to every god that ever had mercy—I will tear that world government flagship down to its bones and drag whoever issued that order into the sea… Elder or not, I do not care!"
There was a silence on the line that felt like the pause before an earthquake. Sengoku's apology trembled; he had no leash strong enough to pull back orders sent from the throne of the world.
"Garp…listen to me…!" Sengoku pleaded over the line, trying to keep Garp reeled in. He knew something like this would happen the moment the Buster Call order was issued, so he had reached out to Borsalino, who had the best chance of intercepting Garp before everything spiraled out of control.
Garp's fury flared—a living thing. It rolled through him as heat and sound: raw, volcanic, and terrifying in its restraint. His whole frame shuddered with the effort of holding back the force that had always defined him: the desire to close the distance and rend the world to reach a single truth.
"Vergo! Borsalino!" he barked without turning. His voice cut through the storm. "Evacuate—every Marine, every civilian. Get them off that island now. Tell Bogard and the rest to do the same. If anyone won't move, carry them. Drag them. Break ranks if you must."
Neither vice admiral flinched at the order. They moved like shadows released from a held breath, vanishing into the chaos to do what their hearts had already known to be right.
Garp stayed where he was, rain plastering his coat to his back, the distant inferno reflected in the hard line of his jaw. His hands shook slightly—not from cold, but from the effort of not stepping over that final line. The man who had punched continents into dust was now holding himself back from punching the world's throat.
He put the receiver back to his ear, his voice lower now, raw with a grief that had nothing to do with rank.
"Sengoku," he said, barely controlled, "you tell those Elders… They just crossed a line. They shove a declaration of doom through the throat of the world, and when the smoke clears, I'll see whose face is left standing."
He did not threaten where he would strike first. He didn't have to. The tremor of his restraint—the knowledge that a single move from him could undo nations—hung over the burning island like a vow: he would not let the world die without making the gods pay for it.
Sengoku's voice snapped through the receiver like a bell of iron. "GARP… you imbecile—are you going to act before you have the full picture!?"
For a heartbeat the old man at the coast had already begun to move—a step, the wind tearing at his coat, fury coiled like a living thing under his skin—then the command in Sengoku's tone forced him to jerk mid-stride.
Sengoku did not waste breath on decorum; there was too much at stake. "Listen to me, Garp. Do not cross that line. You remember what happened the last time. If you lose control and strike at an Elder now, everything collapses. I paid dearly to keep you from being declared rogue once. I will not—I cannot—allow that to happen again, not when Mary Geoise is burning."
Garp's jaw tightened; the thunder seemed to pause around him. For one raw second he thought he'd misheard. "Say what…?" he rasped.
"The Holy Land is under attack… GARP," Sengoku repeated, voice hollow with urgency and dread. "Mary Geoise is burning. The Elders have completely bypassed my authority—they will not retract the Buster Call. Their only objective on Water 7 was the ancient weapon; they would sooner bury the island and everything on it than risk that blueprint falling into the wrong hands."
Silence thundered on the line. Garp's hands curled as if around something real he could crush. The thought of the Celestials choosing incineration over their own people drove a feral light into his eyes.
Sengoku's tone softened, not from mercy but from a soldier's pragmatism. "I know what your heart wants, old friend. I know what you want to do. But this is not the moment for retaliation. If you strike the Elders now, the World Government will declare you a traitor, the chain of command will rupture, and the chaos will consume more than the island. The Marines will lose the ability to remain as a united force. We will be wrecked."
He swallowed audibly, as if the words cost him. "Right now we need to forget about the world government and try to save our own. Push the Yonko back—especially Whitebeard. Protect the retreating marines and civilians. Cover their flank so they can evacuate safely. I have issued emergency orders for withdrawal and evacuation; men are being pulled out. Your task is to stabilize the battlefield, not to start an irredeemable war with the celestial dragons."
Sengoku's plea carried the weight of a man who had held the entire marines together with nothing but will. "Garp… don't do something you can't undo. Do not make this worse than it already is. If you are the Marine the world believes you to be, then act like it now—not as an unhinged soldier, but as the shield that keeps the Marines standing."
Garp stood, rain plastering his hair, the taste of iron in his mouth. The old fury burned in him like wildfire, but the memory of Sengoku's last desperate price—the chains he'd had to accept to save the Navy's soul—kept him from moving.