Jinbe vs Galit
The jaws close around Jinbe like a steel trap lined with daggers.
One moment he stands at the helm, hands wrapped around the wheel, eyes scanning the fog for threats. The next, the deck beneath his feet betrays him—wood splintering, planks peeling back like the skin of a fruit—and massive teeth erupt from below. They clamp down on his legs, his hips, his torso. The pressure steals his breath. The world tilts. And then he's falling, pulled through the hull of the Thousand Sunny like a hooked fish dragged beneath the surface.
Darkness swallows him.
The ship's bones close around him—timbers groaning, nails screeching, the entire structure shuddering as something wrong forces its way through spaces that should never accommodate it. Jinbe twists, his massive frame scraping against crossbeams, his shoulders slamming into bulkheads. Splinters rake across his skin. The taste of old varnish and brine floods his mouth.
He can't see. He can't breathe. He can only feel—the jaws clamped around his midsection, the serpentine body coiling through the ship's innards, the relentless pull dragging him deeper, deeper, deeper.
They pass through the crew's quarters. Jinbe catches a glimpse of Chopper's bunk, the little reindeer's medical texts scattered across the floor. They pass through the galley—Sanji's pristine kitchen now a blur of flying copper pots and shattered spice jars. They pass through the aquarium, and for one surreal moment, Jinbe locks eyes with a startled fish before the jaws yank him onward.
The hull splits open.
Cold.
The sea rushes in like a fist closing around his heart. Salt stings his eyes, his wounds, the raw places where the jaws have torn through skin and muscle. The pressure changes—that peculiar heaviness that non-fishfolk never understand, the weight of an entire ocean pressing down on every inch of your body.
Jinbe has spent his whole life in this element. He knows its moods, its currents, its secrets. But right now, in the grip of something that moves through water like a nightmare given form, he feels like a stranger in his own home.
The jaws release him.
Jinbe spins, disoriented, bubbles streaming from his gills as he tries to orient himself. The water around him has changed. It's darker than it should be—not the deep indigo of the open sea, but something wrong. Something thick and shadowy, like ink spilled into a clear pool.
And then he sees them.
Crocodiles.
They materialize from the darkness—not swimming into view, but appearing, as if they've always been there and he simply couldn't perceive them until now. Dozens of them. Massive, spectral, their scales shimmering with star patterns that have no business existing beneath the waves. Their eyes glow like drowned stars.
Jinbe's training takes over. His hands move before his mind catches up—a defensive stance, Whale Shark Tai, the karate forms that have protected him through decades of battle.
The first crocodile lunges.
He meets it with a palm strike, the water around his hand compressing into a blade of force. The phantom dissolves, scattering into motes of shadow that drift away on invisible currents.
Two more replace it.
Jinbe spins, currents form around him, a whirlpool, sweeping through the water in a wide arc. The crocodiles scatter, reform, multiply.
Three become six. Six become twelve. Twelve become a swarm.
They come from every direction—above, below, behind, beside. Teeth snap at his arms. Claws rake across his back. He blocks, dodges, counters. His fists shatter jaws. His kicks disperse bodies. But for every one he destroys, two more take its place.
The water churns with shadow and violence. Blood—his blood—clouds the darkness, adding to the chaos. Jinbe's breath comes in ragged gasps, his gills working overtime to pull oxygen from water that feels thicker with every passing second.
There are too many.
The thought intrudes, unwelcome but undeniable. He's been fighting for minutes that feel like hours. His arms ache. His legs tremble. The wounds from the initial attack still weep blood into the current.
He needs space.
Jinbe plants his feet—metaphorically, since he's floating in open water—and reaches deep. The ocean answers. It always does. This is his domain, his birthright, the element that has cradled him since before he could walk.
"Fishman Karate..."
He rotates his hips, his shoulders, his entire body, channeling every ounce of strength into a single, perfect motion. The water around him twists, forming a spiral current that grows tighter, faster, more violent with each passing second.
"OCEAN CURRENT SHOULDER THROW!"
The spiral explodes outward.
The crocodiles don't stand a chance. They're caught in the vortex, their spectral bodies shredding, dissolving, screaming in frequencies that Jinbe feels in his bones rather than hears with his ears. The current carries them away—up, down, outward—scattering them across the sea like leaves in a hurricane.
Silence.
Jinbe floats in the aftermath, his chest heaving, his limbs trembling. Blood drifts from a dozen wounds, trailing upward toward the surface like crimson smoke. His vision wavers. His gills flutter with the effort of simply breathing.
He's been hurt worse. He's survived worse. But something about this fight feels different. Wrong. The darkness around him hasn't lifted. If anything, it's grown deeper, more oppressive, as if the ocean itself has turned against him.
A shadow falls over him.
Jinbe looks up.
Galit Varuna floats in the water before him, his crocodile eyes burn with a cold, calculating fire.
But it's his size that steals Jinbe's breath.
Galit has become massive! His size matches the size of a whale shark. His crocodilian form ripples with power, scales shimmering with patterns that shift like constellations. The Dreamtime Water dripping from his jaws glows faintly, illuminating the darkness between them.
They lock eyes.
The moment stretches, elastic and strange. Two warriors suspended in the deep, measuring each other, weighing the cost of the next exchange. Jinbe's wounds throb. His muscles scream. But he forces his voice to remain steady, his posture to remain strong.
"You are a formidable foe."
Galit's jaws part—not in a threat display, but in something that might be a smile if it weren't so full of teeth.
"I know."
Jinbe swallows hard. The motion hurts. Everything hurts. But he needs answers, needs context, needs something to make sense of this nightmare.
"Why—"
Galit doesn't let him finish.
The crocodile lunges, jaws gaping wide enough to swallow a ship's wheel whole. Jinbe throws himself sideways, the water around him compressing as he dodges. Those teeth snap shut on empty space, but the shockwave alone sends him tumbling end over end.
He recovers. Barely.
Galit circles, those emerald eyes tracking him with unnerving focus. The Dreamtime Water drips from his jaws, each drop dissolving into the darkness like ink into water.
"You are with her," Jinbe calls out, buying time, "what is she after."
Galit's laugh is a rumble that shakes the water between them. "It is not for me to say."
He attacks again—not a lunge this time, but a sweeping tail strike that catches Jinbe across the ribs. The impact drives the air from his lungs, sends him spinning through the dark. He tastes copper. He tastes blood.
But he doesn't stop moving.
Jinbe rights himself, channels his Haki into his fists, and punches the water in Galit's direction. The shockwave travels faster than sound, a compressed blade of force that should shatter bone and shred scale.
Galit swims through it.
Not around. Not over. Through. His body phases into the darkness, becoming shadow, becoming nothing, and then he's there, behind Jinbe, his jaws closing.
Jinbe screams.
The sound doesn't travel far underwater—just a muffled, gurgling cry that bubbles up toward the surface. But the pain is real. The pain is everything. Teeth grind against his scales, his flesh, the vulnerable places.
He twists, slams an elbow into Galit's eye, feels the satisfying give of soft tissue. The jaws release. Galit recoils, one eye squeezed shut, a thin line of blood trailing from the socket.
They separate.
Jinbe's drifts limp, useless. Galit's eye weeps crimson into the dark. The water between them churns with the aftermath of violence.
"You're stronger than I expected," Galit admits, his voice carrying that same mocking edge. "Law said the Straw Hats were formidable. I thought he was exaggerating."
Jinbe doesn't respond. He's too busy trying to stay conscious, to stay alive. The darkness presses in. The wounds scream. And somewhere above, the Sunny is still burning, still fighting, still needing him.
Galit sees the weakness. His remaining eye narrows.
"Let's finish this."
He charges.
Jinbe braces.
The sea rocks.
---
Above the waves, on the deck of the Thousand Sunny, the battle rages on. Zoro's blades clash against Kalamaru's serpentine heads. Nami wrestles with a jellyfish attached to her weapon. Sanji kneels before Aurélie like a man who has found religion. Chopper trades blows with Bepo, tears streaming down both their faces.
And deep below, in the shadowy waters that have become their battlefield, two warriors fight for their lives.
The world continues to break.
And the worst is yet to come.
---
The current tears at Jinbe's body like claws. He spins through the dark, disoriented, his wounds trailing blood that billows upward in crimson clouds. Every direction looks the same—shadow on shadow, the faint glow of Galit's scales flickering at the edge of perception.
Where is he?
The question repeats, a mantra against the panic clawing at his chest. Jinbe has fought in the depths before. He's navigated currents that would crush lesser men, surfaced from trenches that swallow ships whole. But this darkness is different. It moves. It breathes. It watches.
A shape lunges from his left.
Jinbe pivots, fist already moving, Haki coating his knuckles like armor. The strike connects with nothing—empty water, empty shadow, empty lie. He spins, searching, but the shape has already dissolved.
Another attack from behind.
He catches it—barely—his palm slamming into scales that feel like frozen starlight. The crocodile dissolves, but its teeth have already found his shoulder. Pain flares. Blood flows. Jinbe grits his teeth and endures.
Galit's voice drifts through the water, directionless and mocking.
"You're slowing down, Whale Shark. The ocean doesn't love you anymore."
Jinbe doesn't waste breath on a reply. He's too busy counting—the shadows circling him, the eyes gleaming in the dark, the number of enemies he's facing.
Too many. There are too many.
But he's Jinbe. He's the Knight of the Sea. He's faced Admirals and Emperors, stood his ground against monsters that would make these phantoms look like minnows.
He will not fall here.
Jinbe plants his feet on nothing—water has no floor, but will and Haki can create the illusion of one—and reaches deep. The ocean answers. It always answers. This is his birthright, his heritage, the element that has cradled him since before memory.
"Fishman Karate..."
He draws his arms back, gathering the water between his palms, compressing it into something denser than steel.
"Secret Technique..."
The crocodiles sense the shift. They surge forward, teeth and claws and spectral fury.
"...OCEAN'S WRATH!"
He releases.
The water explodes outward—not a current this time, but a bomb. A sphere of compressed pressure that detonates with the force of a volcanic eruption. The crocodiles don't stand a chance. They're pulverized, scattered, annihilated. The shockwave ripples outward in all directions, churning the sea for a mile in every direction.
Above, the Thousand Sunny bucks like a wounded animal.
Below, Jinbe floats in the aftermath, his body screaming, his vision swimming. That technique took everything he had—and more. The darkness remains. The cold remains. And somewhere in the shadows, Galit remains.
A shape materializes before him.
Not a crocodile this time. The crocodile. Galit's massive form swims into view, his wounded eye now sealed shut, his remaining eye burning with something that might be respect.
They face each other across the churning water.
Jinbe's chest heaves. Blood streams from his wounds. But his eyes—his eyes remain steady, defiant, unbroken.
"You are formidable," he says, the words coming out in a rasp. "Why..."
Galit doesn't let him finish.
His jaws open wide—wider than before, impossibly wide, revealing rows of teeth that could shred a Sea King. The Dreamtime Water pools in his gullet, glowing with an eerie, hypnotic luminescence.
And then he charges.
The water screams around him. Jinbe braces for impact, gathering what little strength remains, knowing it won't be enough—
The collision rocks the sea.
And the battle continues.