"Haa—"
Rayleigh took a deep, steady breath.
The air around him seemed to vibrate as he exhaled.
Conqueror's Haki, thick and viscous as dark lightning, began to coil wildly around the cold steel of his blade.
It crackled and hissed, sounding like a thousand angry vipers waking up at once.
Pure silver sparks danced off the metal as the sword's tip leveled out, pointing unerringly at the four panicked, distorted monstrosities in the distance.
The Dark King was back.
"Trascendent... Higan Crecent!"
With a low, guttural roar that sounded less like a man and more like a natural disaster, Rayleigh swung his sword.
VWEOOOM—!
The world seemed to tilt.
This technique... it was the stuff of legend.
It was the signature move that carry him trough battle, he even one shotted a God Knights member with this technique.
And now, decades later, it was being unleashed once again.
On the red soil of the Holy Land, the very symbol of the world's highest, most untouchable authority, the edge of the Dark King was being revealed anew!
A terrifying, horizontal slash—condensed to its absolute physical limits and imbued with an indomitable, crushing will—tore through the atmosphere.
It cleaved mercilessly through the air, ignoring distance, ignoring resistance, flying straight toward the last remaining Four Elders!
Where the slash passed, space itself screamed.
Minute, visible distortions rippled in its wake, as if reality was struggling to hold itself together against the sheer weight of Rayleigh's Haki.
This wasn't just an attack.
This overwhelmingly sharp, black-and-red strike marked Rayleigh's complete and total abandonment of his spectator role.
He was done watching.
He was throwing himself fully, body and soul, into this final battle!
'Seventy-eight years old?'
'Heh.'
'Just the right age to start a war!'
'These military merits... I, Silvers Rayleigh, will claim them!'
"Hm?!"
"Tch—!"
Garp and Whitebeard, who had been happily and wildly "demolishing" Mary Geoise like two toddlers in a sandbox made of gold, suddenly froze mid-action.
Garp stopped mid-punch. Whitebeard paused mid-quake.
Almost simultaneously, their heads snapped to the side.
They turned to look at the terrifying, familiar slash of Haki capable of threatening fighters of their caliber.
And its originator...
Rayleigh!
"Damn it!"
Garp's iron fist remained frozen in mid-air, inches away from smashing through a government archive building.
His face twisted into a mask of pure, childish displeasure.
His mustache twitched irritably.
"That bastard Rayleigh... is he serious?!" Garp bellowed, his voice cracking with indignation. "He's here to steal the kill?! We did all the prep work!"
"Gurarara..."
Whitebeard's iconic laugh rumbled out, but it carried an unmistakable edge of annoyance.
He narrowed his eyes at the silver streak cutting through the battlefield.
"He moves pretty fast for a retired bar owner!"
The two legends exchanged a single glance.
In that microsecond, a lifetime of rivalry and battlefield instinct allowed them to instantly understand each other's thoughts.
The Five Elders!
They weren't just enemies.
They were the highest-tier, five-star bounties in the New Marine's reward system!
They were the jackpot!
Taking down just one of those monsters would max out their military merits for the year.
It meant prestige.
It meant bragging rights!
And now that Rayleigh—the Dark King, a man who knew exactly how to hit hard and fast—had joined the fray, the math had changed.
Any further hesitation, any more time spent smashing buildings for fun, would leave them with nothing but scraps!
"One each!"
Garp roared, completely abandoning the crumbling structure before him.
He kicked off the air, the sonic boom shattering nearby windows as he launched himself toward the Five Elders like a human cannonball!
"I'm picking first, Garp!"
Whitebeard leveled his massive naginata, Murakumogiri, and followed with equal speed, refusing to be even a single step behind.
The once-feared supreme rulers of the world—the Five Elders, the warrior gods—had now become nothing more than coveted prizes.
They were loot drops in the eyes of three legendary, greedy old monsters.
"Yo—"
High in the air, a flash of blinding particles materialized into Kizaru.
He hung there, suspended by light, watching the scene below.
He saw Garp, Whitebeard, and now Rayleigh charging like starving tigers toward the remaining four distorted figures.
His trademark, lazy smirk stiffened slightly.
The corners of his mouth twitched.
"Good grief... what a troublesome situation..."
He drawled the words out slowly, but his brain was working at light speed.
His eyes darted rapidly behind his yellow-tinted sunglasses as he began his frantic "financial calculations."
'Okay, let's look at the board...'
'Of those four five-star bounties...'
'Saint Saturn...'
Kizaru glanced at the hulking, silent figure of Kuma marching relentlessly toward the Bull-Spider demon.
'Saturn is specifically reserved by Mike for Kuma's "exclusive achievement." No one else can touch him. Interfering with the boss's personally assigned "vengeance project" would just be asking for a pay cut. Or death. Do I want my year-end bonus or not? I do.'
'So, Saturn is out.'
'That leaves only Saint Topman (The Boar), Saint Peter (The Worm), and Saint Nusjuro (The Horse) as available targets.'
'Three targets.'
'But below?'
'Garp. Whitebeard. Rayleigh...'
'Plus... me.'
'That makes four top-tier combatants.'
'Three targets... divided by four hunters...'
"This..."
Kizaru's sweat-drop was visible even from a distance.
"There aren't enough to go around, damn it!!!"
The math didn't lie! Someone was going home empty-handed!
Kizaru suddenly raised his voice, cupping his hands around his mouth and shouting toward the chaotic battlefield below with theatrical, desperate "indignation."
"HEY! OLD-TIMERS! SLOW DOWN!"
"SAVE ONE FOR ME—!"
Before the words fully left his mouth, the lazy Admiral was gone.
He transformed into a blinding, straight-line golden laser, streaking toward the heart of the battle at speeds far exceeding anything he had shown before.
Greed, it turned out, was the ultimate motivator.
Below, Garp and Whitebeard glanced up at the approaching beam of golden light and inwardly cursed in unison.
'Shit!Another merit thief!'
....
Meanwhile, on the deck of the Nautilus.
"Ha—"
Mike leaned casually against the cool metal railing as a soft breeze ruffling his hair.
He watched the spectacle unfolding at the Holy Land with a look of pure, unadulterated amusement.
It was like watching a nature documentary where the apex predators were fighting over the last piece of meat.
Of the world's pinnacle Five Elders, only four remained.
Each of their heads was worth a cool five billion Belly in the new system.
Plus the prestige.
He analyzed his "employees" as they scrambled.
Kuma's goal was the purest and most resolute.
He didn't care about the money or the rank.
Saint Saturn was the vengeance he needed to personally settle.
It was closure.
Garp and Whitebeard... they were fighting over pride.
And, hilariously, over Ace's custody rights.
They needed the merits to prove who was the better mentor.
Rayleigh... the old Dark King sought to atone through merit.
But Mike knew the real reason.
Rayleigh was eyeing those [Senzu Beans].
After all... among his generation who'd joined the New Marine, Rayleigh alone remained truly old.
Garp had recovered. Whitebeard was in his prime. Zephyr had his asthma cured.
Even Tsuru looked younger.
Rayleigh was feeling the ache in his joints.
He wanted that second youth.
And then there was Old Man Kizaru. He was purely in it for the Belly.
Mike shook his head, smiling.
Who knew where that old coot blew all his New Marine salary and astronomical bonuses?
Gambling? Rare sunglasses? "Special" massages? It was a mystery.
Mike stretched leisurely, emitting a satisfied hum.
The tension of the war didn't seem to touch him here.
After decades of living, these old foxes all knew exactly what they were after.
After this battle, the landscape of the seas would be completely rewritten.
The old order and its symbols would be swept into the dustbin of history.
The chance to seize such staggering military achievements and claim such bountiful rewards would be nearly impossible to come by again.
This could be called the final feast—the last great raid boss.
Who wouldn't fight tooth and nail for the loot?
"Shh—"
A soft sound, barely a whisper of fabric.
Kuro's figure appeared soundlessly behind Mike like a shadow-melding cat.
The man moved with an elegance that betrayed his assassin roots.
He placed an extremely comfortable-looking beach lounger with perfect precision on the deck.
He calculated the wind direction, the angle of the sun, and the viewing capability.
It was placed right at the spot with the best view of the destruction.
Then, Kuro took exactly half a step back, clasped his hands respectfully in front of him, and stood quietly to the side like the most loyal, terrifying attendant in the world.
"Ha—"
Mike lazily glanced over, a trace of genuine approval flashing in his eyes.
Pulling Kuro out of that backwater village in the East Blue had truly been a wise decision.
The man knew how to serve.
Mike leisurely adjusted himself, sinking into the plush, expensive fabric of the lounger.
'Hmm, this angle... perfect!'
The "fireworks show" over Mary Geoise was crystal clear from here.
The flashes of golden light, the shockwaves of white quakes, the red lightning of Garp's fists... it was better than any cinema.
Just then, a faint, alluring fragrance drifted by. It smelled of expensive perfume and citrus.
Kalifa, dressed in a tailored, tight black office skirt that accentuated her curves flawlessly, approached with elegant, rhythmic steps in her high heels.
Click, click, click.
She carried a silver tray steadily in her hands.
Atop it sat a tall crystal glass, beaded with cold condensation.
Inside, ice cubes clinked softly against the glass, floating in fresh, golden juice that refracted enticingly under the sunlight.
She reached the lounger and gently set the chilled juice on the small side table within Mike's easy reach.
Then, naturally circling behind the lounger, she leaned forward slightly.
Her hair brushed Mike's shoulder.
Her impeccably maintained, delicate hands rested lightly on Mike's temples.
Her fingertips began kneading.
It was a soothing, hypnotic rhythm—just the right amount of pressure to melt away any lingering stress.
"Mmm—"
Mike closed his eyes contentedly, letting out an almost inaudible hum of satisfaction.
Kalifa's touch was perfect—not too light, not too heavy—easing every bit of tension around his temples with the precision of a CP9 agent turned perfect secretary.
Mike tilted his head slightly and picked up the chilled orange juice from the side table.
The glass was cool against his palm.
He opened his eyes and watched the multicolored "fireworks" bursting over the Holy Land.
Those weren't just explosions.
They were the aftermath of Devil Fruit abilities clashing with Haki.
They were the dust clouds from collapsing buildings that had stood for centuries.
They were the crumbling disgrace of the World Government's eight-century reign, burning down to the ground.
Mike took a long sip of the cold orange juice.
The sweetness hit his tongue, contrasting with the heat of the day.
He felt the warmth of the sun on his skin and the sea breeze brushing his cheeks.
Behind him, the faint scent of Kalifa's perfume mingled with the salt and sunlight, weaving into his senses.
He watched a castle tower crumble into dust in the distance.
"Now this..." Mike smirked, swirling the ice in his glass. "This is life!"
"Haaaa—!"