The world lay broken.
The sea for a hundred miles had been reduced to a shattered ruin, as if the gods themselves had waged war and left only dust in their wake. Mountains had been cleaved in half, their peaks floating unnaturally in the air, suspended by the residual tremors of distorted gravity.
The sea that once bordered the horizon had evaporated into a boiling mist, leaving behind scorched, splintered earth. Reality itself had fractured here — the very air shimmered with tears in space, like glass spiderwebbed by an unseen force.
Amid this apocalyptic ruin, Rocks D. Xebec sat alone on a jagged, half-destroyed landmass — the only semblance of structure left in this desolate, annihilated battlefield.
His body was a wreck of blood, bruises, and lacerations. A long, gaping gash ran diagonally from his left shoulder down to his navel — a wound that should have killed any man ten times over. The strike had come from none other than Edward Newgate, the man the world hailed as the Strongest.
And yet, Rocks lived.
Dark shadows coiled and pulsed around the torn flesh, threads of inky-black energy sewing the gash together with unnatural precision. Tendrils of his will — something darker than Armament Haki, older than any Devil Fruit — slithered through his veins, stitching bone, sealing muscle, knitting skin. It was regeneration born not from biology, but from something more ancient and terrible. Even Whitebeard's overwhelming Conqueror's Haki, which had tried to crush Rocks at a spiritual level, had ultimately failed to stop this grotesque recovery.
Each breath Rocks took came ragged and heavy, but his eyes—those merciless eyes—still burned with the same fire that once shattered empires.
He gazed out at the broken horizon, where the sky itself was still split from their last clash. Thunder rolled without clouds. The very world had remembered their battle.
"…You've grown strong, Edward," he murmured, voice hoarse but laced with a grudging, bitter respect. "As expected of the only man who could ever walk beside me… from the beginning."
His fingers curled into a fist, blood dripping from his knuckles as he clenched hard enough to grind steel beneath his palm. Despite everything—the betrayal, the pain, the ten-day war that had shaken even the heavens—there was no hatred in his tone. Only recognition.
"A pity you chose betrayal, brother."
Their battle had ended not with death, but with withdrawal. Shiki, ever the tactician beneath his arrogance, had recognized the signs. Whitebeard was faltering. His stamina fading. His defenses thinning. But even with victory so near, Rocks hadn't landed the final blow—because Shiki had stolen it from him. He had dragged Whitebeard away using his floating abilities, sacrificing pride for survival.
Rocks had let him go. He hadn't chased them. Even in his fury, he had known that chasing a half-dead opponent into the skies, while his own body teetered at the edge of collapse, would be suicidal. But he'd tasted it—the edge of supremacy. And Whitebeard… Whitebeard had pushed him there.
"He forced me to draw deep," Rocks muttered, voice nearly reverent. "To the very roots of my power. I haven't had to fight like that since… him."
He tilted his head back, the wind catching his wild black hair, his golden eyes reflecting the shattered skies above. The ground still trembled beneath his feet, long after the battle had ended. It was a reminder. Not of failure—but of potential.
"I need to get stronger…" The words came from deep within, a vow torn from the pit of his soul.
"...The current me is still not enough. Not yet. Not for the war I intend to bring."
His breathing steadied, the last of his wounds sealing shut with that eerie, living darkness. His body was returning to its terrifying prime, but Rocks knew this wasn't his peak. Not yet. The power he had tapped into during the battle—it was only a fragment. A glimpse of something far more vast.
Something waiting to be fully awakened.
"Wait for me… Imu." he growled, voice low and full of venom, a promise whispered across the broken world. "Sooner or later… I'm coming for you. And I'll burn your world to ash."
The wind screamed across the ruined landscape, carrying his words like a curse etched into the bones of the earth. Somewhere far away, the world's rulers stirred uneasily, unaware of what was awakening in the shadows of the abyss.
And Rocks D. Xebec — half monster, half man, all ambition — stared at the horizon, a storm behind his eyes.
"RAITE…I!"
The heavens themselves seemed to scream in protest as Charlotte Linlin erupted from beneath a mountain of pulverized rubble. Her roar cracked the broken skies like thunder, shaking the fragmented remains of the battlefield. Debris spiraled outward in concentric waves as she launched herself with monstrous strength, her powerful form arcing through the air like a crimson comet of fury.
Her halberd — a weapon forged to tear through warships and giants alike — crackled with apocalyptic lightning, a god-slaying strike fueled by every ounce of her unspent rage. Unlike Izumi and Dorian, who now lay unconscious and bloodied beneath the collapsed remains of the battlefield, Linlin had conserved her strength, cunningly avoiding direct engagement with Shiki, waiting for the perfect moment. And now, at last, it had come.
Rocks was vulnerable. Exhausted. Kneeling. Breathing heavily. This was her moment, her chance to break free from the shackles.
The halberd descended with divine violence — a pillar of lightning carved from her soul, aimed squarely at Rocks' exposed back. The impact would cleave mountains, obliterate islands, and sever the very spine of the man once thought untouchable.
But just as the weapon was about to land — the world changed. Light vanished. Not dimmed. Not dulled. Erased.
The sky, the earth, the wind — all consumed by an ancient, suffocating void. The battlefield was plunged into a silence so absolute, even the sound of Linlin's own heartbeat disappeared. Space itself seemed to slow, the colors bleeding from reality. And from within that abyss… a gaze emerged.
Rocks turned his head ever so slightly. Just a glance. Just an eye.
But in that single moment, Charlotte Linlin — the monstrous soul known as Big Mom, a woman who had terrorized the seas for decades, devoured giants, and faced death with a grin — felt terror.
True, primal, soul-scouring terror.
His bloodshot eyes burned like collapsing stars, laced with raw Conqueror's Haki so dense, so ancient, it crushed through her spiritual defenses like they were made of paper. This was not intimidation — this was dominion. This was an alpha of alphas, staring down a creature that dared bare its fangs at the king.
Her mad grin vanished. Her aura collapsed.
Her lightning — which had moments ago seemed capable of splitting heaven — fizzled and dissipated like candlelight swallowed by a hurricane. Linlin's breath caught in her throat. Her body seized. Her halberd slipped from her fingers as if the weight of Rocks' will alone had turned her bones to dust.
"I-Impossible…" she whispered, though her lips never moved.
It wasn't just fear. It was regression. She felt it again — the helplessness of a lost child abandoned in a foreign world. She wasn't Big Mom, the empress. She was Linlin, forgotten, forsaken, beneath something she couldn't comprehend.
"Did you think I didn't feel your malice…?" Rocks' voice echoed, but not through air. It thundered inside her skull, vibrating through the marrow of her bones. "Did you think I didn't remember your cowardice? You aren't Edward; you will never reach his level no matter how much you try… Linlin."
And then — he moved. Not with speed. Not with haste. But with inevitability.
Rocks rose to his full height, each motion deliberate, sovereign — as if the very act of standing was a declaration of cosmic dominance. His Conqueror's Haki surged with every heartbeat, not flaring but deepening, becoming heavier, more suffocating — a gravitational force that warped the very fabric of reality.
The ground beneath him cracked, unable to bear the pressure of his awakening will. Jagged fissures rippled outward, forming a crater beneath his feet as though the world itself was breaking under his presence.
With a single step, the earth shattered. Each footfall thundered like judgment. Streaks of pitch-black lightning, thick and serpentine, slithered around his body — not as energy, but as living things, dragons of will and hatred that crackled through the air and tore at the sky.
Even the shadows recoiled, crawling away from him as if they too feared the darkness that he embodied. The wind died. The silence grew louder. Every inch of existence bent to his advance — not as a warrior, but as a force of nature made flesh.
Charlotte Linlin — once a Yonko, once feared by empires — was now kneeling, her massive frame crushed under an invisible pressure. Her shoulders were bowed as if held down by a celestial weight, her legs unable to lift her from the ground. The earth beneath her buckled and groaned, fracturing into spiderwebs beneath her knees.
Rocks stood tall. Uncaring. Cold. Invincible. He reached out slowly and placed his palm atop Linlin's trembling head — not with force, but with finality, as though he were delivering judgment.
"Know your place."
BOOM.
The moment his hand pressed down, the continent cracked. The very landmass beneath them shattered like glass, sending shockwaves in every direction. Mountains split. Craters opened. Time itself seemed to stagger. The air ignited from the sheer impact of dominance.
Charlotte Linlin's face slammed into the earth, buried deep into the fractured soil as her consciousness flickered at the edge of oblivion. She didn't scream. She couldn't. There was no pain — only powerlessness.
Rocks stood over her unmoving form, his eyes still burning as he exhaled a single, dismissive breath. Even the storm clouds recoiled.
"Let this be a reminder," he muttered, his voice like the tolling of a funeral bell. "To all who once followed me… or dared betray me. You are not my equals."
****
Thousands of miles away from the hellscape where Rocks D. Xebec was teaching Linlin a lesson she would never forget, a vast fleet of ships sliced through the seas like sharpened spears.
Their sails bore the unmistakable mark of the Whitebeard Pirates, flapping violently under the pressure of wind and urgency. The sea churned beneath them as if aware of the dread that loomed.
At the helm of the flagship Moby Dick, Marco stood firm, his jaw clenched, blue flames of his phoenix form flickering faintly around his shoulders, betraying the storm within. His voice cracked like thunder.
"Faster... We need to move faster!"
The fleet responded instantly — no one questioned him now. Not after what they had seen in his eyes.
But what they hadn't seen was clenched in Marco's fist — a piece of Whitebeard's Vivre Card, once pristine, now scorched nearly beyond recognition. At first, it had only curled slightly at the edges — a whisper of danger. Now, more than half of it was gone, the blackened embers slowly devouring the rest. A creeping death. A silent scream.
It was all Marco needed to know.
"Pops... is in mortal danger."
He hadn't told the others. He couldn't. If the truth escaped his lips, it would shatter the crew before the battle even began. He had to carry this burden alone. But the tension was suffocating.
Even the normally unshakeable Jozu had confronted him — demanding answers. Marco had nearly attacked his own brother, his fury unchecked, his soul burning with helplessness. The rage passed, but the message was clear: don't ask. Just follow.
Now, silence reigned across the decks. Suddenly—
The Vivre Card in Marco's hand twitched. Then it froze. And then, as if pulled by an unseen force, it pointed straight up. Marco's eyes widened—his Observation Haki flared like a tidal wave.
Above them— A terrifying roar of wind tore through the skies. And then— impact.
A blazing comet of power descended from the heavens and crashed into the Moby Dick, splitting the legendary ship nearly in two. Wood shattered. Steel screamed. The main mast cracked down the middle like a matchstick, sending splinters and debris raining over the fleet.
Crew members stumbled back, weapons drawn, hearts racing. Dust and smoke engulfed the deck like a battlefield fog. A presence — massive and unknown — had fallen upon them. Then came the sound that turned blood cold.
"Cough...! Cough…!"
A deep, rattling groan. Marco's eyes locked onto the chaos. And then—he felt it. The Vivre Card in his palm was pointing right here.
"Pops…?"
His voice cracked. And then he burst forward, shoving aside his stunned crewmates with panic and fury. He leapt through the settling haze — and the sight that greeted him turned the blood in his veins to ice.
Just as Marco took his final stride toward their shattered father — the air screamed.
A flying slash tore through the deck, rending steel and wood alike in a diagonal eruption of force. The impact exploded beside Whitebeard's broken body, throwing up dust and debris in a violent spray. Marco instinctively froze, inches from being cleaved in two.
And then they saw him.
Shiki — the Golden Lion, once proud and invincible — now a tattered shadow of the legend he once was. His golden mane was matted with blood, his attire torn and soaked, one of his legs missing entirely, ripped off at the thigh and replaced by a jagged slab of metal tied on with rope. He stood hunched and swaying like a puppet held up by threads, both swords trembling in his grip.
He hadn't attacked out of malice. He had moved out of pure instinct — the reflexes of a warrior who had spent ten days in hell, locked in battle with the monster named Rocks.
His eyes were wild, unseeing, locked in survival mode. In his broken mind, the war wasn't over.
He was still there — amidst shattered islands, torn skies, and the weight of Conqueror's Haki so dense it bent reality itself.
"Move, Marco!" came a roar.
Jozu — his body already infused with a thich layer of armament haki— leapt in front of Marco, his skin shimmering into hardened diamond just in time to meet the incoming slash.
CLAAAANG!
The blade tore across his chest with a metallic shriek, biting through even his defense. Blood erupted from the wound as Jozu was blasted backward, crashing into a mast with enough force to splinter it down the middle.
"JOZU!" Marco shouted, his face stricken with horror.
And then— A voice thundered from the ruin.
"SHIKI…..!!"
The voice tore across the ship, rippling through sea and sky like an ancient god had stirred. It was hoarse. Bloody. Raw. But unmistakable.
Whitebeard.
Even broken and near death, his roar cracked the heavens. Shiki's swords stopped midair. His shaking arms stilled. The haze in his eyes began to fade — recognition bleeding back into his expression. His lips trembled.
"…M…Marco…?" he rasped, barely above a whisper.
And then, his body gave out. Like a marionette whose strings had finally been cut, Shiki collapsed, his mangled form falling face-first onto the shattered deck. He didn't move. He didn't groan. Blood spread beneath him like ink across parchment
.
The entire crew stood frozen for a breath. Then— chaos returned.
Marco rushed to Whitebeard's side, discarding every thought of threat or danger. "Pops! Pops, stay with me!" he cried, grasping his father's massive, bloodied hand.
Jozu, despite the deep gash carved into his diamond chest, dragged himself across the deck, stumbling but relentless. He fell to his knees beside them, panting, glaring at Shiki's crumpled form. But he didn't strike. He saw it now — what Shiki had endured. The man had carried Whitebeard on his back through hell itself. His wounds told the tale.
The other commanders gathered, stunned into silence. No one dared speak. No one could process what they were seeing.
The Strongest Man in the World was barely recognizable. His once-immense frame was soaked in blood, his chest heaving shallowly. A gaping hole tore through his right side — as if a cannon had punched through flesh and bone, leaving behind only void and ruin. His arms were limp, his bisento handle shattered in half, lying useless beside him. His skin was torn and scorched, lacerations covering every inch, and yet... he still breathed.
Just barely.
"Pops…?! POPS!!" Marco screamed, falling to his knees beside him.
The rest of the crew surged forward. Jozu. Vista. Izo. Thatch. The veterans. The new blood. All of them. And they froze. A horrible silence fell. Dozens of the most hardened pirates the world had ever known — warriors who had faced admirals, sea monsters, and the worst the Grand Line had to offer — now stood frozen in horror, unable to comprehend what they were seeing.
Their father. Their god. Broken. He had never fallen before. Never bled like this. Never looked... Mortal. Thatch stumbled back, dropping his weapon.
Vista whispered, "This... this can't be real…"
Jozu's fists trembled, his diamond form cracking. "Who… who did this?"
All eyes were locked on the man who had carried them through hell and high seas — the one who had weathered every storm of the New World with a grin, the man they called Father.
Now, that mountain of strength lay broken, barely upright amidst the wreckage of the Moby Dick's shattered deck. The blood didn't stop. The wind carried its scent like the whisper of death itself. His lips moved. A name. A plea. "…Marco…"
Marco's hands trembled as he gripped Whitebeard's massive, bloodied fingers — still warm. Still alive. "Hold on, Pops. I'm here," he said, voice cracking.
But Whitebeard, despite the gaping wound that tore clean through his chest — a hole so massive it looked like a cannon had been fired through him — sat up.
The crew gasped.
Muscles tensed. Blood flowed freely from reopened wounds. And still, the man who had once shattered islands with a swing of his naginata refused to bow to death. His breathing was ragged, every motion agony, but his eyes burned with will.
Then, he turned his gaze — not to his wounds, not to Marco, but to the blood-soaked figure lying just yards away. Shiki. Rival. Comrade. Someone to whom he now owed a life debt. A man who had thrown everything into a losing war just to drag Whitebeard back from the edge of death.
"Marco…" Whitebeard rasped again, voice a gravelly thunder, "Save him first. Don't let him die."
Marco's eyes widened. "Pops, no—your wounds—!"
But Whitebeard's massive hand shoved his son aside, refusing the golden-blue flames that were already licking at his broken frame.
"I owe him." Whitebeard growled. "I live because of him. His blood's on my hands if he dies. That's an order."
Marco stood frozen, torn between duty and devotion. Then he made the only choice a son could.
"Damn it…!"
In a heartbeat, his body erupted in radiant, ethereal flames — a phoenix of pure healing energy unfurled its wings, feathers trailing like streaks of the sun itself. Marco's form expanded, enveloping both Whitebeard and Shiki in a blazing cocoon of rejuvenation, spreading his regeneration to the absolute limit.
"Hold on, old man. Just hold on…" Marco muttered.
Then his voice rose like a war cry.
"Vista! Medical supplies — everything you can get your hands on! Jozu, redirect the fleet. Full speed to Sphinx — I want all hands on deck and every last division recalled. We're going home!"
The crew blinked, stunned — not by the urgency, but by what came next.
"Put a gag order on this entire incident. If even a whisper of what happened today leaks—" Marco's eyes flared, voice iron, "—execute the traitor. I don't care if it's a brother, a commander, or my own blood. I'll handle the consequences."
Gasps rippled across the crew. Even Vista faltered for a breath. But no one defied him. Not after seeing Whitebeard fall. Not now.
"Thatch!" Marco bellowed. "Snap out of it! This isn't the time to despair — I need you here! Help me patch him up!"
Thatch, who had collapsed to his rear moments earlier, still frozen in disbelief, flinched at the command. His eyes welled with tears — not just of grief, but shame. He scrambled forward without another word, hands moving in tandem with Marco's phoenix flames, applying pressure, gauze, salves, anything he could grab.
Around them, the deck swirled with motion — Vista rallying medics, Jozu barking orders, the fleet shifting like a leviathan in motion. But for Marco… Everything else was a blur.
Only the flames mattered. Only the life of the man he had come to truly accept as his father. His voice cracked like glass as he whispered again,
"Don't you dare die on me… not like this old man…"
But in that moment — with trembling hands, blazing wings, and his father's blood on his own palms — even Marco didn't know if he was speaking to Whitebeard… Or to the gods.