"Aaaaargh…!!!"
Admiral Ginshimo roared, his voice strained with exertion as he poured every ounce of his Haki into his blade, struggling to counter the devastating cross-shaped crest slash that threatened to consume him whole.
The sheer force behind the attack sent violent tremors through his body, veins bulging under the pressure as his legs dug deep into the earth beneath him, carving trenches into the grassy terrain of the shattered grove.
For decades, he had been hailed as the world's strongest swordsman—a man whose blade had cut down legends and whose mastery over Observation Haki was feared across the seas. Yet here he stood, battered and bruised, his blade trembling under the relentless onslaught of a man barely in his twenties.
This was the next level. A realm of swordsmanship and power that Ginshimo had glimpsed only in myths and whispers. True Apex Combat. A level beyond logic, beyond mere skill—a realm where only monsters stood. And Donquixote Rosinante… was one of them.
Even with the combined strength of two Admirals and a God's Knight, the battlefield painted a grim reality. They were being overwhelmed. The young man before them had not only dominated the fight but had done so with an air of unshakable superiority.
Ginshimo's hands trembled slightly, not from weakness but from something far worse—doubt.
Could they even win this?
To make matters worse, there was that terrifying Haki. It wasn't just Conqueror's Haki—it was something beyond the norm, a supreme force that pressed down on them like an unrelenting storm. It didn't just suppress—it devoured.
Ginshimo's Observation Haki, honed for five decades, should have been absolute. His future sight had allowed him to dominate even the fastest of foes, but here, in this battle, it was being completely neutralized. No—countered.
His instincts screamed at him. This isn't normal. This isn't something a twenty-year-old should be capable of.
The weight of Rosinante's Haki was so unnatural, so overwhelming, that Ginshimo genuinely began to question whether the man before him was truly a young warrior—or an ancient monster in disguise.
Perhaps he wasn't a prodigy, nor a genius, nor a mere pirate. Perhaps he was something far worse. A being who had transcended mortality. A warrior who had lived for centuries, hiding within the world, growing stronger with each passing era.
It was absurd. Impossible.
And yet, as Ginshimo struggled to hold his ground against the monstrous attack bearing down on him, he believed it. Because Haki, after reaching a certain level, was notoriously difficult to improve. Even for him, after fifty years of training, his growth had slowed to an excruciating crawl. To reach a level where one's Haki could completely override another's Observation?
That shouldn't be possible. Yet Rosinante had done it.
Across the battlefield, Akainu and the God's Knight fared no better.
Akainu, the hotheaded monster of the Marines, the newest pillar, was being relentlessly pinned down by a flurry of merciless blade strikes, his molten fists swinging furiously but meeting nothing but steel. Each time he attempted to launch an attack, a blade found its way into his defense, forcing him back, keeping him at bay.
The God's Knight, however, had drawn the shortest straw.
His massive cerberus form, once a symbol of absolute dominance, was now riddled with deep, cursed wounds. The crimson blade in Rosinante's hands bit into his flesh again and again, and with each strike, the cursed energy seeped into his very being, corrupting his body and ravaging his stamina.
Each time he was struck, he was forced to sacrifice a part of himself—tearing away the infected flesh before the curse could spread deeper. His regenerative abilities were being pushed to their limits, and while his body still functioned, he knew the truth.
If he slipped up, even once, and allowed a strike to pierce too deep… He was done for.
His instinct screamed at him to revert to his hybrid form, where he could balance speed, power, and resilience, but he hesitated. His Zoan form was his strongest, and if that wasn't enough, what chance did his hybrid have? He needed to hold on, he needed to find an opening— But there were none.
And then there was Akainu. Sakazuki, the "unstoppable force" of the Marines, was now a man consumed by rage.
His movements were reckless, his attacks were wild, his usual calculated brutality now replaced with blind fury. Every attack he launched was met with devastating counters, and if not for Ginshimo's intervention, he would have lost a limb—if not worse—several times already.
Yet, the more infuriated he became, the more his Devil Fruit responded. The battlefield itself began to shift. The once-lush grove, already battered from the clash of monsters, began to melt into seething magma, Akainu's awakened abilities surging to match his emotions. The entire terrain warped under his influence, rivers of molten rock erupting from the ground, turning the battlefield into a hellscape of fire and destruction.
For the first time, it looked as if they could turn the tides— And then, a whisper came. A whisper like a death knell.
"Ittoryu Iai: Death's Sonata…"
The world froze. In an instant, a single slash tore through the battlefield—a devastating arc of pure, undiluted destruction. The attack carried with it an unstoppable force, infused with Conqueror's Haki so overwhelming that the very air howled in protest. The shockwave alone was so immense that it ripped through Akainu's magma domain, completely nullifying his awakening in a single, decisive instant.
The Admiral had barely dodged in time. But even with his enhanced reflexes, even with his logia defenses, he had not escaped unscathed.
His body jerked violently as the force of the slash sent him hurtling backward, crashing into the charred remains of a mangrove tree with enough force to splinter it apart. He let out a ragged gasp as he collapsed to one knee, his breath coming in short, pained bursts.
And then he saw it. Blood.
It poured freely from a gaping wound—a long, deep gash that ran from his temple, down his chest, all the way to his navel. The slash had been so precise, so devastatingly sharp, that it had even exposed his ribs through the molten flesh of his body.
For the first time in his entire career, Admiral Sakazuki, the embodiment of justice, felt fear.
He had always prided himself on his absolute strength—the belief that no pirate could ever stand against the might of his justice. Even against Whitebeard, he had thrown himself into battle, convinced that he could stand his ground against the World's Strongest Man.
But now?
Now he realized the truth. Whitebeard never even considered him a real opponent. The only reason he had survived those battles was because Whitebeard had held back. The old man, despite his wrath, had chosen to spare him, perhaps out of respect for Garp and Sengoku.
But Rosinante?
Rosinante had no such restraints. Sakazuki's vision blurred as blood trickled into his eye, his body screaming in pain. His pride demanded that he stand, that he fight, that he prove his strength—
But deep down, in the depths of his soul, a terrifying thought clawed at his mind. What if I'm not strong enough? For the first time in his life, Sakazuki began to doubt.
****
Marineford, Grand Line
BOOM!
The entire training ground trembled as an earth-shattering crater erupted at the point of impact. A massive white tiger, its form almost divine, was slammed mercilessly into the ground, its colossal body kicking up a shockwave that shattered the landscape.
Standing over it, his fist still smoking from the sheer force of his blow, was none other than Garp the Fist.
Despite her formidable strength as an Admiral, despite possessing a mythical Zoan Devil Fruit, Raylene was being utterly dominated. She had asked for this—demanded to be trained personally by Garp—but she had severely underestimated what that entailed.
The man was a monster. But the attack wasn't over.
Like a meteor, Garp dropped down from the sky, his form flickering with sheer speed as he vanished for a brief moment, appearing directly above the White Tiger's skull.
Raylene's feline eyes widened in horror—she was still reeling from the last attack, and now another one was already descending with brutal inevitability. The sheer pressure of his incoming strike suffocated her instincts, making her gut scream that she wouldn't survive it in her current form.
In a split second, she forced her body to revert to its hybrid form, just in time—
BOOOOM!
The punch landed with monstrous force, the impact obliterating the ground beneath them and expanding the already massive crater hundreds of meters wide. Raylene's hybrid form was sent flying, crashing through the air like a cannonball, her body still buzzing from the sheer terror of that last strike.
She barely managed to land on her feet, her balance shaky, her breath ragged.
"Bastard sensei… are you really trying to kill me?!" she screamed, looking at the crater in disbelief. It looked bottomless, a gaping maw of destruction, and all of it had been created with just one punch.
Her ears perked up at the sound of steady footsteps, and her heart sank. Emerging from the smoke and debris was Garp, casually dusting off his pants, his expression one of pure amusement. His mischievous grin only deepened as he locked eyes with her, cracking his knuckles in anticipation.
"Bwahaha! What's the matter, kitten?" he teased, his booming laughter shaking her core.
"You're the one who asked me to train you like I trained that brat! And guess what? He never complained—not even once!"
There was a hint of nostalgia in his voice, but it only made Raylene feel more regret.
What the hell had she been thinking?!
Asking Garp to train her with the same intensity as Rosinante was pure madness. Her golden eyes flickered toward him, still wary of his monstrous presence. He was more than a hundred meters away, but it didn't matter. Distance meant nothing when dealing with a man like him.
Only a monster could train a monster. Garp grinned wider, rolling his shoulders as he took a step forward.
"So, shall we continue?"
Raylene swallowed nervously, sweat trickling down her temple. But before she could even react—
The air shifted. A sudden, unseen force crashed through the atmosphere, sending a shiver down her spine. Her instincts screamed danger. And then—Garp vanished. Raylene's pupils contracted in shock—she hadn't even sensed his movement.
A gust of wind blasted past her, rustling her coat as she whipped her head around, watching in stunned disbelief as Garp launched himself into the sky, his inhuman speed breaking the sound barrier as he tore through the air.
She followed his trajectory, her sharp eyes piercing through the darkened horizon—and that's when she saw it. Sabaody.
Far in the distance, even through the thick veil of night, something was happening—something that sent a shudder through the very world.
Garp had sensed it. From hundreds of miles away, the old man had felt the disturbance—and he hadn't hesitated for even a second.
Raylene was still processing what had just happened when a Marine officer came sprinting toward her, panting heavily.
"Admiral! Emergency orders!" he gasped between breaths. **"The Fleet Admiral has ordered your immediate deployment to Sabaody—we've lost all contact with the Marines stationed there. We are completely in the dark. It appears Sabaody is under attack!"
Raylene's mind snapped into focus. She cast a final glance toward the horizon—toward the unfolding chaos—and then turned to the officer.
"Don't bother looking for Garp-san," she said, strapping her odachi to her back, her golden eyes now burning with focus. "He's already gone ahead."
The Marine hesitated, his breathing still ragged. "A battleship is prepped at Bay 3, ready for departure on your command!"
Before he could finish, Raylene moved. With a single leap, she soared into the air, wasting no time—if Garp had rushed in alone, without even waiting for orders, that meant that something terrifying was happening.
And she would not be left behind. Sabaody was in danger. And hell was about to be unleashed.
****
Figarland Estate, Holy Land
Within the grandest palace of the Figarland Estate, a place where golden chandeliers bathed the halls in an eternal glow, and marble floors reflected the grandeur of its occupants, stood Figarland Garling.
He stood alone on the balcony, his piercing gaze set upon the rebuilt Pangaea Castle. The structure, newly erected in all its supposed glory, was an imposing monument of power, a desperate attempt by the Elders to restore the shattered image of absolute dominion.
Garling smirked.
"Pangaea Castle," he mused internally. "Can it still be called that after what happened?"
Despite its lavish reconstruction, it was nothing more than a symbol of their humiliation. The once-mighty Celestial Dragons, rulers of the world, now scrambled to preserve their illusion of invincibility. Garling had long since stopped indulging in their delusions.
Behind him, two figures stood wordlessly, their postures rigid with respect. One of them, a God's Knight clad in pristine silver armor, had just finished his report. A sudden disruption in communication.
The God's Knight dispatched to Sabaody had gone dark. The Elders, ever-paranoid, had already issued a summons, demanding an immediate status update. A contingent of Tenryuubito had personally descended upon the lower world, and now, with no word from them, panic was beginning to stir.
The knight, however, was unshaken. He was not here to plead or show concern—only to await orders from his Commander.
"Commander, do we dispatch additional God's Knights for support?"
His voice was neutral, devoid of fear or anxiety. Like a soldier merely awaiting the will of his superior. Garling exhaled sharply through his nose, amusement flickering in his golden eyes.
"He bears the Abyss Mark," Garling said, finally turning to face him. His voice carried absolute authority, a tone that brooked no dissent. "If he requires assistance, he will summon one of you. And he is no weakling."
With a slight incline of his head, the God's Knight bowed and retreated without another word. But Garling's smirk deepened. He had tampered with the Abyss Mark branded onto this particular knight even without the knight's knowledge.
No one else knew—not the Elders, not the other God's Knights. If the marked knight attempted to call for reinforcements, his signal would never reach them. He had made sure of it.
Because if anyone ever discovered that he had altered the sacred mark—a brand that was supposed to be absolute—it would be a one-way ticket to hell. Even for someone of his prestige.
But Garling had long since accepted that power was not something you waited for—it was something you seized. His sharp gaze shifted toward the balcony door, where another figure stood, still as a statue, rigid as a blade awaiting its master's command.
Figarland Shamrock.
His son. A young man barely in his twenties, yet already molded into a weapon. Where others of his age indulged in decadence and waste, Shamrock had been forged in discipline and ambition, stripped of weakness, raised to serve Garling's grander vision.
For a long time, Garling had focused solely on Agana, grooming her to infiltrate the God's Knights, positioning her as a future Commander—a stepping stone for Garling's ultimate ascension to the ranks of the Elders and beyond.
But then, the Elders had gambled away his asset. Agana, once loyal and unquestioning, had begun to waver and had become a failure in his eyes. His control over her was no longer absolute. Garling did not tolerate uncertainty.
He discarded Agana without hesitation and turned his gaze toward the next piece on the board. Shamrock. His new pawn. His new sword.
But there was a problem. The roster of the God's Knights was full. Without a vacancy, Shamrock could only remain a prospective Knight, forced to wait in the shadows for a spot to open.
But Garling had never left things to chance. No, he had already set things into motion. His gamble had been risky—dangerous, even—but now, it seemed his boldness was about to pay off.
He turned his head slightly, his golden eyes locking onto Shamrock's unwavering form.
"Shamrock," he spoke, voice sharp as steel.
"It is almost time."
The young man did not flinch, did not falter. He simply lowered his head in understanding, his expression devoid of doubt. Garling smirked. The game was moving forward. And soon, the world would bow before him.
"Father…" Shamrock hesitated.
He was a grown man, a warrior in his own right, yet in this moment, he felt like a child again, standing in the overwhelming shadow of the man before him.
His entire life had been dictated by Garling's will, but the only reason he had ever known even a semblance of flexibility—a choice in his actions—was because of Agana.
His elder sister had been the shield that bore the weight of their father's expectations, the perfect heir, the one meant to carry their bloodline's legacy. It was because of her that Shamrock had been allowed to grow under less crushing pressure, though that did not mean he had been spared from his father's ruthless discipline.
And now… she was gone. A pawn sacrificed at the Elder's whim. A sister abandoned like a piece of trash. Shamrock clenched his fists.
He knew his father. He knew that speaking Agana's name would only provoke his fury, yet for old times' sake—for the lingering attachment he could not silence—he had to try.
At least once.
"Speak."
Garling's voice echoed through the grand chamber, unhurried, indifferent. He was seated comfortably upon his iron chair, a vision of casual authority, pouring himself a cup of steaming hot tea. His movements were slow, deliberate, as if he had all the time in the world.
Shamrock inhaled deeply.
"It's about Sister… Should we not rescue her?"
He saw it. That momentary pause in his father's movements, the way the steaming tea slightly overfilled the cup. But it was brief, almost imperceptible. Still, Shamrock pressed on.
"No matter what, she still has your blood flowing through her veins. Who knows what kind of hell she is enduring as Doflamingo's prisoner?"
The name Donquixote Doflamingo carried poison, and at its mention, a shadow passed over Garling's face. That filthy wretch had forced the Elders' hand, maneuvering them into a position of weakness where Agana had been discarded like a mere bargaining chip.
A Figarland, reduced to a pawn. A disgrace. For the first time, Garling's steady hand wavered.
The tea overflowed, spilling onto the table, yet he did not move to correct it. Instead, he took a slow breath, set the cup aside, and dropped a few sugar cubes into the already-overflowing liquid.
The tea spilled further, a silent, unstated message. Then, with practiced nonchalance, he lifted the cup to his lips, sipped—and then tossed it aside.
CRASH.
The porcelain shattered at Shamrock's feet, staining his boots with its remnants. But he did not flinch. Because he understood. His father was angry. Yet when Garling spoke, his voice remained unnervingly calm—a quiet, bone-chilling indifference.
"She is a failure." Shamrock's breath hitched.
"Despite all the attention, all the care, all the resources poured into her for over two decades—she ended up being worthless. A coward who ran back when she should have stood tall."
Garling lifted a fresh cup, poured himself another serving of tea, and resumed his motions as if nothing had happened. As if Agana had never mattered. As if she had been nothing more than a bad cup of tea—brewed with utmost care, only to be discarded when it failed to meet expectations.
Shamrock's stomach churned. Even now, after all these years, he still could not fully comprehend how cold his father truly was.
"Forget about her."
The finality in those words was absolute.
"You carry the name of Figarland— my name—and there is no room for failure in the Figarland Family."
There it was. The unspoken command. The warning. This was not merely a rejection of Agana. This was a decree—that her name was never to be spoken in Garling's presence again.
She was dead to him. And if Shamrock dared to defy that? Then perhaps, in Garling's eyes, he would become a failure too. His throat felt dry, his heart pounding like war drums in his ears. But still, even as he lowered his head in silent obedience, he could not let go.
His sister had always protected him. Even now, knowing the risks, he could not simply erase her from his heart. Garling turned his attention back to his tea, dismissing Shamrock with a simple gesture, already moving on as if the conversation had never even happened.
Because in his world—
Failures did not deserve remembrance.