While the fights raged, the districts of Alubarna stood isolated. Each corner of the city pulsed with its own rhythm and chaos. Every group fought with whatever they could muster. Each faced enemies just as formidable, no matter how much the crew had trained.
Training had not made their enemies weaker. It had only given the crew more to offer in a fight that was still brutally difficult.
---
Mr. 4 entered slow. The four-ton bat slung across his massive shoulder, his pace dictated by its weight. There was no urgency toward his target. His menace was not in speed or cunning, but in the cold certainty of what his bat did to anything in its way. Lasso fired ahead. Every shot brimmed with the eager purpose of an animal born for this. Explosive baseballs arced toward Usopp and Chopper, each one homing in with uncanny precision.
Miss Merry Christmas struck from below—silent and sudden. The ground betrayed its trust. Then came the jolt, and she vanished underground before the shock had even settled. Usopp could not brace for all three threats at once: the bat, the baseballs, and the shifting earth. He handled them one after another. He was driven by the sharp focus of someone who knows perfection is out of reach and is determined to make do with enough.
Chopper's Rumble Ball let him push his limits against Mr. 4. The transformations gave him real power against such a massive foe. But they were unnatural for him, and the effort showed in every movement between blows. He was a doctor—meant to heal, not to hurt and be hurt. Yet here he was, taking damage he would remember long after the fight ended.
A baseball clipped Usopp across the face. He had dodged—his training had made him quicker—but not quick enough. The explosion grazed him. It sent a shock through his senses and blurred his vision for several seconds. He dropped to one knee.
Miss Merry Christmas came up from below and held him there.
She had words ready, delivered with precision. She knew exactly where to strike. Coward. Fraud. A man who had built his self-image on lies, now forced to see himself without them. She was not wrong about the fear. It was real, and Usopp had never been able to hide it. Hiding would mean pretending to be someone he was not.
He kept his eye on Mr. 4's bat.
His thoughts were simple and absolute. Vivi's dream was in danger. He was here—there was no world where he would stop. Not because he was fearless. Not because the odds favored him. He kept going because he had chosen to, and that choice was unbreakable.
Miss Merry Christmas added something else. He was not fully listening.
He was still and only watching the bat.
---
After twelve more minutes of bruising, relentless combat, Chopper's Hit technique finally landed on Mr. 4's shoulder. For the first time, Mr. 4 felt it. His stance shifted. His path altered. He was not stopped, but he was changed.
Usopp watched for the spot Miss Merry Christmas needed to trap him with her underground attack. He stepped into it, letting her seize him.
"Chopper." His voice was ragged, raw with exhaustion and certainty all at once, as if it had reached a conclusion his battered body hadn't. "Now."
Chopper transformed. The launch was rough, not graceful. The Usopp Hammer was never meant to be pretty. It was meant to be right. Two hundred and eighty pounds of transformed reindeer crashed into Mr. 4's face at exactly the angle needed. Every ounce of force was behind it.
Mr. 4 went down.
Miss Merry Christmas fell right after, caught by Chopper's airborne arc.
The two combatants from Baroque Works were thoroughly finished.
Usopp collapsed. Chopper landed beside him. The ground was solid and close. Neither had anything left to give. They were finished, and so was the fight. Both facts settled in.
Victorious. Entirely unable to do anything about being victorious.
---
Meanwhile, Sanji's battle on the other side of the city was quicker and far stranger. The narrative now shifts to his perspective and experience.
Bon Clay's Clone-Clone Fruit was less a weapon than a disruption. His copies were flawless. Their real power was in how they made opponents hesitate. Bon Clay had studied Sanji's weaknesses. He found the lever he needed in their first clash.
He became Nami.
Sanji stopped.
This was not a choice in any ordinary sense. Sanji's refusal to strike women was so deeply rooted that it felt like a law of his own heart. The instant he saw Nami's face, something inside locked shut—he froze, paralyzed by his conviction and the pain of being so helpless.
Bon Clay was delighted. He declared his discovery with theatrical flair. He cycled through forms with the curiosity of a performer surprised by his own show. The fight lurched forward in the gaps. When he wore the faces of Sanji's male foes, the battle resumed. When he became Nami, Sanji froze. Bon Clay seized every opening with ruthless efficiency.
Sanji's frustration was raw. His jaw clenched. His legs poised. Every part of him—the cook, the fighter, the survivor—burned with anger at the trap he could not escape. But crossing that line was never an option.
He waited for the rhythm.
Bon Clay's transformations followed a rhythm. The Nami form was a psychological weapon. It was not where his true fighting strength lay. Sanji watched and learned the timing. He started moving into position during those moments, waiting for Bon Clay to switch back to his real self.
When the moment came, Sanji's kicks were not a comeback. They were the answer he had been building toward. The first shattered Bon Clay's stance. The second sent him flying. The third was unnecessary, but Sanji delivered it anyway. All his pent-up frustration poured out in the only language he had left.
Bon Clay lay on the stones of Alubarna.
He stared up at the sky. He wore the look of someone who had fought hard, lost hard, and was still unsure what to make of it. He thought about the crew—not as opponents, but as something that had changed him in ways he could not name. Their bond was real, obvious even from the outside. Bon Clay found himself marked by it.
---
Elsewhere, the focus shifted to Liam in a different district.
He had spent the entire time in another district. He weaved through the city's outskirts with the sense of someone watching a much bigger picture. He knew where the battles raged and what they demanded. Before the city split, he had decided his crew could handle what was coming. His role was to be ready for whatever they could not face alone.
The urge to rush to the fights had come and gone. He resisted easily. It was not a struggle. His trust in Usopp to find a path, in Chopper to endure, and in Sanji to seize his moment was absolute.
They had found the way. They had held. They had waited for the window.
All around him, the city still simmered with the tension the arc had promised. These battles were over. Others still raged.