One week later — the New World, Sphinx Island.
Waves rolled in with a gentle rhythm, brushing against the island's crude wooden pier. The sea breeze carried a briny scent, peaceful and unhurried.
Gern's ramshackle little vessel, the Wilderness, slipped into harbor without a sound. No fanfare. No escort. He stepped ashore alone.
Originally, this impulsive "let's-go-wherever-the-wind-takes-me" trip had been meant for BIG MOM's tea party. But halfway through the voyage, he'd glanced at the nautical charts.
Oh? It's on the way.
And so the helm turned.
He had briefly considered summoning Enel and Bartholomew Kuma—who were currently conducting patrol and deterrence operations along the sensitive border waters between BIG MOM's and Kaido's territories—to rendezvous with him here.
The thought had lasted all of a second.
The reason was simple: the Marines were not pirates.
Pirates could gather and disperse at whim, chasing freedom and chaos.
But Gern was no longer just a lone force of nature. He was the Marine Supreme Commander of the New World, the ruler of a vast sphere of influence unlike anything in recent history.
Every step he took tugged at countless unseen threads.
Especially now. His territory had expanded at breakneck speed. Reconstruction was still underway. Enemies loomed on all sides. Every core combatant under his direct command bore heavy responsibility.
Enel had to flex muscle in volatile waters, a living warning to BIG MOM and Kaido not to test the boundaries.
Kuma's abilities were irreplaceable in strategic reinforcement and regional control. He couldn't afford extended absence either.
The bigger the territory, the more enemies. And the few elites who could truly hold the line were like iron pillars anchoring a storm-tossed sea—each one occupying a position that could not be casually vacated.
For the time being, nearly every one of his "Calamity"-class commanders had a sector they couldn't abandon.
Ironically, the freest man was the commander-in-chief himself.
After all, Sengoku and Gild Tesoro were holding the administrative front like tireless workhorses.
So he had come alone. Truly alone.
Walking across the grasslands of Sphinx Island, Gern looked toward the modest village in the distance. The residents were poor—painfully so—but their eyes were clear, uncorrupted.
This island had birthed the man who had fought him with everything he had… and fallen in thunderous finality.
The "Strongest Man in the World."
Whitebeard had plundered countless treasures across his lifetime. Yet the overwhelming majority of that wealth had been funneled back here—to this tiny, unremarkable homeland—to safeguard its peace and quiet.
It was nothing like Gern's chosen path.
Gern conquered. Gern controlled. He intended to lay absolute order across the seas.
Whitebeard had been something else entirely—a guardian. A father who raised a sky over his family.
One wanted to be the father of the entire ocean.
The other only wanted to be a father to his own.
Standing atop a small hill overlooking the village, Gern fell silent.
The sea wind brushed through his short hair, sweeping away some of the stagnation that months of strategy and governance had left coiled inside his chest.
"Newgate… the land you protected."
He exhaled softly.
"It now rests beneath my protection as well."
He wasn't sure whether he spoke to his fallen rival… or to himself.
After a moment, Gern rose. He stretched his arms wide, preparing to take a deep breath—perhaps indulge in a dramatic "Wings of Freedom" pose just to unwind for once—
"WHOOOOOSH!!!"
A shrill scream split the sky.
Azure flames tore downward like a falling star.
"I told you—you are NOT Pops' son! Get out of his homeland!!!"
In full beast form, Marco dove from above, his compressed blue flames burning with the intensity of a miniature sun as he crashed toward Gern.
"Phoenix Brand!!!"
"BOOM!!!"
Blue fire blossomed like a lotus in violent bloom. A shockwave exploded outward in a perfect ring, flattening grass in every direction.
When the flames thinned and the wind settled—
Gern raised his eyes.
Through the wavering azure blaze, he looked at the taloned foot pressing against him.
Stopped.
By a single finger.
He smiled faintly.
"I'm not Whitebeard's son. You're absolutely right, Marco."
"Gern?!" Marco flipped backward midair, landing lightly as blue flames curled around him. "You're not Weevil?"
Gern stared at him.
"…Do you take me for an idiot? You really think a Yonko First Mate's Observation Haki can't tell one person from another?"
Marco grinned. "Got you."
"Oh?" Gern's eyes narrowed. "You want to play?"
He vanished before the last syllable left his mouth.
Crack!
A faint burst of air marked where he'd been. An afterimage lingered, dissolving slowly.
Marco's pupils shrank. His Observation Haki flared at full intensity—only to grasp at nothing.
Empty.
Without hesitation, blue flames erupted from his arms. Wings formed. He beat them once and shot skyward in a streak of azure.
At the exact instant his feet left the ground—
Hummmm.
A knuckle—wrapped in pale, vibrating particles—appeared at his forehead.
And flicked.
It didn't even make contact.
But the compressed vibration alone made the air shriek under unbearable strain.
Too fast! Is this the power that matched Pops in his prime?!
Marco's heart tightened. Gern hadn't even drawn Bahuang from his waist. This was a barehanded flick—and it carried this much destructive force.
"Not bad," Gern's voice drifted lazily from the side.
Marco snapped his head toward it.
Gern was already hovering at his altitude. Then—
Acceleration.
His right leg rose like a battle axe, sheathed in high-frequency oscillations, and cleaved downward.
The air twisted around the descending limb like wrung rope, emitting a low, bone-deep hum.
No time to dodge!
Marco gritted his teeth. He crossed both arms and poured everything into them—blue flames roaring, Armament Haki flaring to maximum output—compressing it into a blazing azure shield.
"BOOM!!!"
Leg met shield in an explosive collision.
The vibrational force punched straight through the defense, crashing into Marco's body. His organs lurched violently; a metallic taste surged up his throat.
He was swatted from the sky like a fly—reduced to a streak of blue light hurtling downward.
Bang!
The earth welcomed him with a fresh human-shaped crater. Dust exploded upward.
Before Marco could fully catch his breath—
Gern descended from above.
Right foot raised.
Dropping.
In Marco's dilated pupils, the sole grew larger and larger.
No escape—!
At the final instant—
Gern stopped.
His foot hovered exactly 0.01 centimeters from Marco's face.
Then withdrew.
He tilted his head and smiled.
"What's wrong? You only brave enough to vent your anger at 'Weevil'? But when you face the real thing, you hesitate?"
"Is this what remains of the Whitebeard Pirates' pride? Ambushes and empty words?"
"Or are you afraid… of the man who personally ended Whitebeard's era?"
"SHUT UP!!!"
Marco's eyes burned.
Blue flames erupted skyward. His Phoenix form shifted—elongating, sharpening. Avian and human features fused seamlessly as he entered his stronger hybrid state.
"Pops' era…"
"…will be inherited by us!"
"It will NOT end in your hands!!"
A storm of azure fire exploded outward from him, sweeping the battlefield in a spiraling inferno.