The world itself held its breath. Then—
BOOOOOOOM!
Sabaody quaked beneath the weight of my blade. The very air cracked, the heavens split asunder, and the seas surrounding the archipelago swelled in terror at what was to come.
The crimson blade Akatsuki roared, its edge singing a requiem of annihilation, and the souls forever bound within its cursed steel howled in unison—their collective wails forming an ethereal, colossal specter, a divine executioner whose sheer size far dwarfed even the monstrous Cerberus that stood before me.
Ginshimo and Akainu? They could do nothing.
The Admiral of Magma was barely standing, a ghastly wound running down his temple to his navel, his ribs exposed as blood poured from him like a river. His body trembled—not in rage, but in undeniable, helpless terror. His boastful arrogance, his belief that he could stand against the world's greatest, had been shattered in this battle.
Ginshimo, a man who had held the title of the world's strongest swordsman for over two decades, stood silent, his grip tight around his blade, yet his eyes spoke volumes—this was a level beyond his reach.
And the God's Knight? His mighty Cerberus form, already crippled, with two of its three heads severed, stood at the precipice of absolute ruin. He was supposed to be the ultimate warrior, a chosen executioner of the Gods, yet now, he was nothing more than a desperate beast fighting against fate itself.
The ritual circle beneath his feet, a divine mark meant to summon reinforcements, was flickering, its magic failing him—tampered with, perhaps? It didn't matter.
There would be no salvation. Because I had already delivered judgment.
"ITTOU-RYU IAI: WRATH OF THE FALLEN GODS!"
The instant the attack was released, reality itself seemed to halt. Then— It came.
The ethereal blade descended from the heavens like a divine guillotine, its sheer presence warping the very fabric of the world. The atmosphere detonated as an unstoppable force met an immovable world, and Sabaody screamed.
The natural barriers surrounding the archipelago—those towering rock formations formed over millennia, meant to withstand even the wrath of nature itself—
SHATTERED.
Not just broken—they disintegrated into dust. The ocean roared as shockwaves exploded outward, sending torrential waves crashing into distant shores. If not for the mangrove roots that supported these floating islands, Sabaody would have been swallowed by the sea entirely.
And at the center of it all— The Cerberus fought.
The remaining head of the beast snarled, its golden eyes burning with defiance as it lunged to counter the unstoppable force. Its jaws, once capable of rending steel like paper, opened wide, attempting to consume the oncoming judgment, its fangs dripping with divine fury—
But it was not enough.
The ethereal blade of Akatsuki engulfed the creature in its blazing crimson arc, the sheer force ripping through its fur, its flesh, its bones, and even the soul of the beast itself.
No cry of agony escaped. There was only silence— Before the world was painted in red.
The final head of the Cerberus was cleaved clean off, its titanic form splitting down the middle, and the body that once housed a warrior of legend was no more—engulfed in the maelstrom of destruction.
A chasm split through the heart of Sabaody, cleaving it in two, stretching miles upon miles, reaching into the very depths of the island's foundation. The sky—once dotted with the warm glow of the pale moonlight—was now dark, swallowed by the rising clouds of dust and smoke.
And when the last echoes of the attack faded, when the final remnants of the Cerberus were scattered to the winds, all that remained was ruin.
A low, ominous hum reverberated from my blade as I casually flicked Akatsuki, releasing the dense imbuement of Haki that still clung to its crimson edge. The air itself shivered, thick with the scent of blood and ruin.
My gaze slowly shifted, settling upon the two remaining opponents. They were spent. Akainu was barely standing, his breath ragged, his wounds deep and severe—yet the embers of rage in his eyes refused to die.
Ginshimo, on the other hand, was different. His grip on his blade was still ironclad, his body battered but his stance resolute. A warrior to the very end. Akatsuki hummed again, almost… restless.
It still yearned for blood. But before I could move, Ginshimo suddenly stepped forward, his weathered yet unyielding voice cutting through the tension.
"Sakazuki, retreat to HQ! I will hold him back for as long as I possibly can!"
His roar was thunderous, filled with unshakable resolve, as he imbued his blade once more with the full might of his Armament Haki. His blade darkened, almost becoming an abyss in itself, the very air around it crackling from the sheer intensity.
But beyond the battle fury in his stance, something else flickered in Ginshimo's aged, yet sharpened gaze— Understanding.
He had gained more in this single battle against Rosinante than he had in decades.
Now, he understood. He understood why even Dracule Mihawk himself had not been confident in facing this young monster. He understood that Rosinante's swordplay was beyond just strength or technique—it was something transcendent, something that few swordsmen in history could ever hope to reach.
And he admired it. A part of him wished… if only he had more time. If only he could digest everything he had learned today, perhaps he could break through his limits, reach that next stage of swordsmanship he had been chasing for decades.
But time was not on his side. He would not walk out of this alive. That was a reality he had already accepted.But if he could stake his life to ensure Sakazuki's survival, then at least—at least, he would die with honor.
Because despite his reckless, ruthless nature, Akainu was still young. He still had years ahead of him. Ginshimo saw something in him—a man who, though flawed, had a conviction so absolute that it could shape the very future of the Marines.
And so, if his death could pave the way for that future, he would gladly pay the price. Akainu, however, did not see it that way. His blood boiled, not from his Devil Fruit—but from raw, seething humiliation.
They were both Admirals, and yet here was Ginshimo, telling him to run while he stayed behind to cover his retreat?! Unacceptable.
Sakazuki clenched his fists so tight that his magma-drenched knuckles cracked, his pride screaming in protest. But Ginshimo did not falter.
He merely raised his blade, his eyes locked onto mine with the fierce determination of a man who had already made his choice. This was no longer about victory.
Ginshimo poured every ounce of his will, every shred of his Haki into his blade, knowing that this would be his final attack. Since the very beginning, despite fighting against three Admirals at once, Rosinante had never once been on the backfoot—not even for a moment.
But Ginshimo wanted to change that. Even if it was just once. Even if it was only for an instant. Even if it cost him his life. His Meito hummed as if resonating with his resolve, the sword vibrating with an energy it had never known before. Then—the heavens themselves trembled.
A storm of plum blossoms erupted from Ginshimo's blade, glowing with an ethereal radiance as they rained down over all of Sabaody, bathing the battlefield in a sea of petals and moonlight.
It was beautiful, yet unmistakably deadly. I watched the scene unfold, and despite knowing the battle was already decided, I couldn't help but admire the old man.
"So, you finally took that step…"
Ginshimo, in the face of certain death, had done what most swordsmen never could. He had broken his shackles. He had transcended his limits. He had glimpsed the next realm of swordsmanship.
A realm that only a handful throughout history had ever reached. The plum blossom petals swirled like an unending tornado, each one infused with a will so sharp that they could cut through steel like paper. Ginshimo's aged yet piercing gaze locked onto mine, his weathered face displaying neither fear nor regret.
Only determination.
"I would like to die as a swordsman, and there would be no higher honor than to fall to a blade like yours, young man."
The petals began to hum—a sharp, grating noise that cut through the battlefield as they accelerated, each petal now a razor-edged death sentence, millions of them forming an unstoppable storm.
I smiled. It was rare to face a warrior of such caliber, even rarer to have one's mettle measured against them in their final moments. Slowly, I sheathed Akatsuki and instead drew Shusui—because this man deserved an untainted blade.
Akatsuki was a cursed blade, hungry and malicious—I would not use it against a warrior who sought an honorable end. As soon as my fingers wrapped around Shusui's hilt, the sword growled in hunger, eager to be tested against Ginshimo's final stand.
Black lightning rippled across my body, a pure manifestation of my Haki, as Shusui devoured it greedily. The blade became heavier, drinking in my power until it reached its very limit.
Akainu, watching from the side, gritted his teeth and tried to assist— But his body betrayed him. The moment he attempted to summon his Magma Devil Fruit, the massive gash across his body, left by Akatsuki's curse, pulsed violently. His Haki was devoured. His legs buckled, and before he could take another step, he collapsed to his knees.
His eyes widened in horror. Even seastone wouldn't have weakened him this much. That sword... was downright sinister.
But there was no time to dwell on it—because Ginshimo had already unleashed his final attack.
"Senbonzakura Kageyoshi – Heaven's Song!"
The heavens roared as Ginshimo swung his blade down, a flying slash so immense that it severed the sky itself. From the heart of the storm, a colossal dragon of petal steel emerged, its form more radiant than the full moon, its presence divine, its maw open wide to consume everything in its path.
And in response— My Haki pulsed. A single ripple surged outward—then another. The air cracked as my will expanded, growing stronger with every heartbeat, until the world itself seemed to bend beneath its weight.
Then— I swung.
"Journey to the afterlife….!"
From the edge of Shusui, a pitch-black dragon, massive as a mountain, tore into existence. It was not elegant. It was not radiant. It was the void. The abyss given form.
A dragon as dark as ink, its scales glistening with the sheer weight of destruction, its growl deep and primal, as if roaring from the depths of the world itself.
Two immense, ethereal entities— One, a dragon of pale moonlight, divine and noble. The other, a beast of pure shadow, consuming all in its path.
Under the silver glow of the moon, they clashed. The seas screamed. The earth trembled. The very air was shredded apart, as an explosion of raw force tore through Sabaody, sending shockwaves across the Grand Line.
But there was no suspense in the outcome. My blade devoured Ginshimo's. Even the old man knew it. His petal dragon, magnificent as it was, stood no chance. It was consumed, erased—and with its final breath, the pitch-black dragon descended upon him, maw wide open, about to end it all.
Ginshimo sighed. He slowly sheathed his sword. And then— He spread his arms, his back straight, his expression serene. He had no regrets. A swordsman dies with his chest facing his opponent. To bear a scar on one's back was the greatest shame.
A deep, ominous hum filled the air as the pitch-black dragon descended, its abyssal form writhing like a manifestation of the void itself. It did not simply fall—it dragged the very world down with it, pulling everything in its wake into an unstoppable spiral of destruction.
The battlefield trembled beneath its overwhelming presence. The ocean split apart, waves surging violently away from Sabaody as if the very sea itself sought to flee from the impending catastrophe.
The sky above, already darkened by the storm of clashing wills, twisted and fractured, storm clouds spiraling into a vortex as lightning flickered violently, illuminating the battlefield with an almost apocalyptic glow.
The very foundation of Sabaody—the great mangrove trees that had upheld the archipelago for centuries—began to groan under the sheer force of the attack. Massive roots, each the size of ships, snapped apart like fragile twigs, entire sections of the island trembling as if on the verge of collapsing into the abyss.
The entire world seemed to hold its breath, the heavens above and the sea below bearing witness to a power so absolute that it threatened to erase everything in its path.
Yet despite the sheer inevitability of its descent, despite the inescapable doom it promised, there was no sound. No monstrous roar, no triumphant howl—only an oppressive silence, as if the attack itself was beyond such mortal expressions. It was not a mere technique.
It was a force of nature, an entity of annihilation itself.
Ginshimo, standing directly beneath its maw, let out a slow breath, his arms stretching out as if welcoming fate itself. He had made peace with this moment. There was no regret, no hesitation—only the acceptance of a swordsman who had reached his limit. His final moment had come.
And then—the world shattered. It was not the dragon's impact that tore the battlefield apart. It was something greater. A single step. One single, monstrous step—and the very heavens trembled.
The very air and ground beneath them ruptured, not from the dragon's descent, but from the arrival of a force so unfathomable that the very laws of nature seemed to recoil in its presence. The shockwave from that mere movement rippled across the battlefield, sending hurricane-force winds surging through the wreckage of Sabaody, tearing apart what little remained of the island's once-proud landscape.
The force of the step alone was enough to freeze the black dragon mid-descent. A creature born from pure devastation, an attack that had swallowed entire islands whole and left only ruin in its wake—it faltered.
And then, as if the world itself refused to acknowledge what was happening, a single hand reached forward. Calloused fingers, thick with muscle forged through decades of battle, veins bulging with raw, unfiltered power—a warrior's hand, one that had shattered mountains and crushed entire fleets with nothing but its own force.
It closed around the dragon's ethereal snout. Not a blade, not an energy wave, not even a technique. A bare hand. One single, mortal hand—yet it brought the unstoppable force of the black dragon to a complete halt.
And standing there, defying logic, defying reason, standing against the very concept of destruction itself, was none other than—
Monkey D. Garp.
The battlefield, which moments ago had been nothing but an inferno of chaos and devastation, fell into an unnatural silence. For the first time since the clash had begun, Rosinante's attack did not continue forward. It did not consume. It did not destroy. It did not advance. Because it couldn't.
Garp's grip, though seemingly strained, was absolute. The air around his fingers distorted and cracked, as though even space itself struggled to endure the sheer physical force he exerted. The ground beneath his feet, which had already suffered untold destruction, collapsed entirely, sending deep fissures rippling outward, splitting Sabaody apart even further.
And yet, the black dragon—the same attack that had threatened to split the entire island in two—remained trapped in that monstrous grip, writhing, struggling, trying to consume, but finding itself utterly powerless.
Then, as if to deliver the final blow to the laws of reality, Garp tightened his grip. The dragon screeched—not as a beast that roared in defiance, but as something that realized it was prey.
The moment Garp's fingers flexed, the air itself detonated outward, sending a shockwave so powerful that it rippled across the ocean for miles, creating towering tsunamis that threatened to engulf distant islands. The remaining mangroves that had somehow endured up to this point were obliterated instantly, their massive trunks splintering into nothing more than dust in the wind.
Reality itself seemed to be on the verge of collapse. And then—Garp pulled back his fist. For a single moment, there was stillness. Then, the world exploded.
The force of his punch did not just disperse the sword attack—it erased it from existence. The entity that had threatened to consume all was reduced to mere wisps of black mist, obliterated beyond recognition. The very space where the attack had once been distorted violently, as though the impact had not only shattered the attack itself but left a scar upon the world.
The sky above, once twisted into a chaotic vortex of storm clouds, was ripped apart, exposing the vast emptiness of space beyond. The ocean, which had been retreating and surging with the force of previous attacks, was now rushing away entirely, leaving the battlefield momentarily staring into a dry abyss before the waves came crashing back with a force akin to an apocalyptic flood.
And amidst all of this—Garp stood unmoving. His pitch black fist still extended, his knuckles steaming, his expression calm as though he had done nothing more than swat away an insect.
Ginshimo, who had been prepared to accept his own death, could only stare in mute disbelief.
The attack that was meant to end him, to consume everything in its wake, was simply gone.
Erased by the strength of a single man. And as the dust settled, as the battlefield lay in ruins and the heavens bore witness to what had just transpired, Garp exhaled through his nose, rolling his shoulder with the casual ease of a man who had seen far worse battles in his lifetime.
Then, with a grin that sent a chill down the spines of even the strongest warriors present, he cracked his knuckles and chuckled. His voice carried through the battlefield, unfazed, unshaken, and utterly unchallenged.
"You've crossed a line you should never have, you little bastard..."
Garp's voice was deep, unwavering—yet beneath it, there was something more.
Disappointment. Wrath. A warning. His gaze flickered down to his palm, where the remnants of my last attack remained. A deep gash ran through the calloused flesh, blood dripping down his fingers like crimson ink staining the very history of his undefeated fists. Even with his Haki hardened to its absolute limit, my blade had cut through it.
When was the last time anyone had managed to even scratch Monkey D. Garp's fists? And yet, rather than pride, a chill ran down my spine. The temperature in the air hadn't dropped, but my instincts screamed at me with unparalleled intensity. I could feel it—a killing intent unlike anything I had ever faced before.
This was not the usual Garp. Not the man who laughed heartily over bowls of rice crackers. Not the man who had trained me until my body broke, only to force me back onto my feet with a smirk and a challenge. No, this was the Marine Hero.
And for the first time, that title felt like an absolute truth. But even with that pressure bearing down on me, I couldn't help but chuckle.
"It's good to see you too, Sensei…"
Yet there was no humor in my voice. My muscles tensed, my grip on my blade tightening as every fiber of my being screamed, Prepare yourself. Garp, however, remained unmoved, his expression carved from stone. "No matter what the reason," he said, his voice carrying the weight of judgment itself, "you shouldn't have tried to kill him."
His words were final. An undeniable truth. He had no doubt that the last attack was meant to end Ginshimo's life. And if there was one thing Garp would never overlook, it was someone—anyone—striking down a Marine in his presence.
My eyes narrowed. "So you expect me to roll over and die, Sensei?" My voice was calm, yet underneath, a storm raged. "Or have you forgotten? For the past year, the Marines have been hunting my family across the world."
There was no changing this. No avoiding it. Fate had decided that our battle would happen today. I had once vowed to challenge him in five years' time, when I had reached my peak. But it seemed destiny had no patience for my plans. And neither did Garp.
With a heavy exhale, he reached for his justice coat and shrugged it off, the fabric billowing like a battle flag before he tossed it toward Ginshimo. His stance shifted, and everything changed.
"Evacuate the islands," he commanded. It was not a suggestion. It was an absolute order.
Ginshimo didn't hesitate. He didn't even think. His body simply moved, compelled by a force beyond his understanding. He turned toward Akainu, his instincts screaming at him to obey. Because when Monkey D. Garp gave an order, you followed.
Even if you didn't know why. Because the moment he took his first step—the world began to break. With each stride, red lightning crackled through the air, its glow illuminating the battlefield like the herald of an impending apocalypse. The ground beneath him—land that had withstood centuries of battles, pirates, and invasions—splintered apart as if it were nothing more than fragile glass.
His Conqueror's Haki surged, roaring with absolute intensity, an invisible force that dominated everything it touched. The very atmosphere shifted, the pressure so suffocating that even the clouds in the sky began to spiral outward, unable to resist the sheer magnitude of his presence.
This was not just a fight. This was a declaration of supremacy. I exhaled, closing my eyes for the briefest moment. My fighting intent soared as my own will seemed to resonate.
Then, as if responding to his challenge, my own Conqueror's Haki erupted outward, colliding against his in an explosion of power that sent shockwaves tearing through Sabaody.
The very air between us distorted, bending and twisting, as if space itself struggled to contain the sheer force of our clashing wills. The ocean itself recoiled, the waves splitting apart before surging back with cataclysmic force.
The sky, once littered with stars, began to darken, as if the heavens themselves were trembling, afraid to bear witness to what was about to unfold. And in that instant, there were no words left to speak. No more arguments. No more explanations. No more teacher and student.
Only two conquerors. Only two forces of nature, destined to collide. The night was about to descend into absolute hell.