The chilling promise of the God, the eternal torment of Griffith, and the bittersweet hope of a final resting place for his loved ones, faded into a distant echo.
Guts felt a sudden, violent wrench, a sensation of being torn from the timeless void and flung through a vortex of raw, unbridled force. The stillness was replaced by an deafening, apocalyptic roar.
He was born again.
Not from a mother's womb, but from the very heart of devastation.
Ash, thick and acrid, choked the air, swirling around him.
The metallic tang of fresh blood permeated every breath, hot and coppery.
And the rage, a boundless, unfettered fury, wasn't just his anymore; it was a screaming torrent that surged through him, an all-consuming fire.
Guts materialized in the absolute center of a maelstrom of destruction.
He was the epitome of carnage and destruction given form, his very being molded by the inferno around him.
His silhouette, stark against the flames, was unmistakable: clad in the black, demonic visage of the Berserker Armor, its eyes glowing with predatory malice, and the impossibly vast, jagged iron of the Dragonslayer already gripped in his gauntleted hand.
From the shattered earth beneath his boots, from the smoke-choked air around him, countless desperate, wailing souls rose. They were the victims of Ohara, their lives brutally extinguished in the cataclysm.
They streamed towards him, not as individual entities, but as a collective river of agony and despair, drawn by some unseen force.
They flowed into him, a torrent of desperate consciousness, merging with his very essence.
He felt their terror.
Their pain.
Their final regret.
Their futile rage.
Their lives, denied their full course, now fueled his denial of mortality, binding him to this new existence.
Their collective whispers, a symphony of suffering, became a part of the roaring in his ears.
He didn't know where he was, or why. He didn't care.
All he knew was the overwhelming surge of rage that was now his core, amplified by the absorbed souls.
The Brand of Sacrifice on his neck, which had been a dull, constant throb of torment for so long, now pulsed with a searing, living heat.
It began to bleed, thick, dark crimson oozing from the raw flesh, yet evaporating instantly, leaving behind a raw, tingling sensation, like a fresh wound perpetually opening.
It thrummed with a new purpose, a magnetic pull.
Around him, the ground was littered with the bodies of fallen scholars, but also with the scattered forms of Marines.
These were the low-ranking ones, common soldiers, caught in the wider net of the "Buster Call." Without thought, without a flicker of hesitation, Guts moved.
The Dragonslayer became a blur, a colossal swath of destruction.
He reaped them.
Hewed them.
Cleaved them.
Their startled screams were cut short as armor, flesh, and bone exploded into a fine mist of red.
He was an unstoppable force, a nightmare made real, born solely to destroy.
His mark burned hotter with every life he took, every act of violence, and as it bled, it intensified the maddening pull.
It guided him, relentlessly, through the carnage.
Past burning trees, crumbling buildings, and the bodies of the dead.
It guided him, not with a logical path, but with an insistent, primal urge, a magnetic north.
He pushed through a collapsing structure, the roar of the ocean and the screams of the dying filling his ears.
And then he saw her.
Amidst the dust and fire, a tiny figure, a child no older than seven or eight years, huddled on the ground.
Her dark hair was singed, her small body trembling violently. Her face was streaked with ash and tears, her eyes wide with inconsolable terror as she desperately clutched the still form of a woman, her mother, whose lifeblood was spreading crimson across the scorched earth.
The child's cries were raw, guttural, echoing the very screams that had formed Guts's rebirth. "Mama! Mama!" she wailed, a sound that pierced through the berserker's rage, a desperate plea for a life already gone.
And in that moment, as Guts stared at the terrified child, his Brand burned with an almost unbearable intensity, and a single, clear thought, implanted by the Tired God, echoed through his rage-filled mind:
This is her. My other daughter. Protect her.
The command, absolute and primal, instantly reoriented the maelstrom within Guts.
His internal rage, amplified by the absorbed souls of Ohara's victims, found a new, singular focus.
Without a word, without a moment's hesitation, he moved.
He took a single, monstrous stride towards the crying child. His towering form, encased in the demonic Berserker Armor, casts a long, grotesque shadow over her small, trembling body.
The Dragonslayer, still dripping with the vaporized remnants of common Marines, was a stark testament to the carnage he had just wrought.
The child, Nico Robin, barely seven or eight years old, looked up. Her tear-streaked eyes, already wide with the horror of her dying mother, snapped to Guts.
She had just witnessed him, a black behemoth, cleaving through the very soldiers who had brought this devastation.
Her small mind, precocious and sharp, registered the sheer, unbridled destruction he represented. The relief that he wasn't attacking her was instantly overshadowed by an even deeper, more primal fear.
She whimpered, a tiny, strangled sound, pressing herself tighter against her mother's still form, her gaze fixed on the glowing red eyes of his helmet, a living nightmare come to life.
Distrust, already a bitter seed in her young heart, blossomed into absolute terror.
The cacophony of the Buster Call continued to rage around them - the relentless boom of cannons, the splintering of ancient trees, the screams of the dying.
But even above this chaos, a new, far more potent presence asserted itself.
Several towering figures, radiating immense power, descended through the smoke and fire.
These were not just common soldiers, but high-ranking Marine officers, Vice Admirals among them, their faces grim, their orders absolute. This was the true, disciplined might of this world, overwhelming in its numbers and its unwavering purpose.
Among them, one stood out - a giant, his face etched with conflict, his massive frame already showing signs of a desperate struggle.
It was Jaguar D. Saul, his defection imminent, caught between duty and his own burgeoning sense of justice. He was closer to Robin than the others, his immense hand reaching out, not in aggression, but in a desperate, desperate attempt to shield.
The Brand on Guts's neck flared, a searing pain lancing through him, a stark warning. It wasn't just directing him to her anymore; it was screaming danger.
It was a direct reflection of the immense, immediate threat posed to the child from the incoming Marine forces.
His own blood began to flow more heavily from the mark, evaporating with a furious hiss, pushing the Berserker Armor's influence to its peak.
Guts ignored the pain, ignored the overwhelming power bearing down on him. His focus was absolute.
He wouldn't speak.
He was a creature of action, a blunt instrument of the God's will.
His eyes, glowing red behind the helm, remained fixed on the terrified child, then swept to the approaching Vice Admirals and the conflicted giant.
He was here to protect. And protecting her meant destroying anything that threatened her, no matter the impossible odds.
The true battle for the God's last hope had just begun, a clash not just of power, but of opposing destinies.
The Vice Admirals converged, their expressions hardening at the sight of the monstrous figure tearing through their ranks.
One, however, moved with an almost ethereal stillness, radiating an absolute, bone-chilling cold.
This was Kuzan, his hands already beginning to glow with an icy aura.
He was the first to attack, a sweeping wave of ice lashing out, not directly at Guts, but across the ground, seeking to entrap and disable.
But Guts, propelled by the Brand's burning urgency and the collective rage of the dead, was beyond mere ice.
He roared, a sound that was less human and more beast, a sound born from the ashes and blood he now embodied.
The Dragonslayer became a cyclone, a whirlwind of black iron and raw power.
He didn't just parry; he shattered the ice formations, sending lethal shards exploding outwards, cutting down more Marines who dared to get close.
He didn't avoid the Vice Admirals; he met them head-on, his every swing a promise of dismemberment.
The absorbed souls surged within him, lending him an impossible resilience, allowing him to push past attacks that would fell lesser men, his damaged flesh knitting itself back together with grotesque speed only to be rent again.
As Guts tore a bloody path towards Robin, his peripheral vision, sharpened by the Berserker Armor, caught a glimpse of movement.
Jaguar D. Saul, the giant, was moving with desperate speed.
He scooped up the whimpering child from beside her mother's body, his massive hands surprisingly gentle.
He had seen enough; the monstrous figure of Guts, though terrifying, was clearly fighting for the child.
Saul bellowed, his voice raw with urgency, pushing the girl towards the coastline, towards a small, surviving boat that had miraculously escaped the cannons.
"Go, Robin! Go!"
Kuzan, having observed Guts's terrifying resilience, adjusted his focus.
A massive wave of ice formed, aimed not at Guts directly, but at the escape route, seeking to cut off the giant and the child.
Saul, seeing the deadly intent, roared.
"I'll hold him off! Go!"
Looking at Saul's bloodied figure, Robin cry in desperation. She already lost too much.
"Nooooo! Saul nooooooo!"
With an act of selfless defiance, he turned, bringing his immense strength to bear against the advancing ice, creating a momentary, desperate opening.
"Don't cry robin Dreshishiahishi, everything will be alright, don't be afraid. He will be there to protect you."
As Saul launched Robin forward, his hand brushed against her small, trembling arm.
In that fleeting instant, a faint, ethereal shimmer, visible only to the keenest eye (and perhaps to the God themselves), passed from the dying essence of Ohara's knowledge, through Saul's sacrificial touch, and into the terrified child.
It was a silent, profound bestowal from the Tired God, a final, unacknowledged gift. This was the Blessing of the Whisperer of the World.
Robin felt nothing specific then, only the icy grip of terror.
But in the years to come, a subtle shift would begin.
At first, it would be a murmur at the edges of her perception - the faint, indistinct whispers of animals, and the silent communication of the very earth.
Slowly, as she grew older, the murmurs would coalesce, allowing her to understand their unspoken words, their instinctual needs, their hidden wisdom. And eventually, with deep contemplation and profound effort, she would gain the ability to make them understand her in return, bridging the silent chasm between humanity and the natural world.
It was a potent, latent power, a tool for the protection the God so desperately sought for her, a hidden voice in a world that would continue to deny her.
Robin, with her eyes brimming with tears, forces herself to laugh as she watches Saul turning into ice.
"Dreshishiahishi"
You need to laugh more robin!, like this! Dreshishiahishi!
Your laugh is so weird! Kyahahahaha!
Her memories filled with their times together.
Laughing together as she sit on his shoulder.
Guts, his Brand flaring with renewed intensity, instinctively pivoted.
He saw Saul's sacrifice, saw the child propelled towards the sea.
With a final, explosive surge of power, he cleaved through the remaining Vice Admirals who tried to intercept him, his Dragonslayer a terrifying blur.
"MOVE!"
He didn't stop to fight Kuzan directly; his mission was clear.
He burst through the last line of defense, a living storm of ash, blood, and rage, and leapt towards the churning ocean just as the final, colossal cannons roared, obliterating what remained of Ohara.
He plunged into the dark, chaotic waters, the Brand on his neck a burning beacon, pulling him towards the fleeing, solitary boat where the God's other daughter, the last fragile hope, now drifted into an uncertain future.
The sea, a boiling cauldron of smoke and shrapnel, offered no respite. Even as Ohara began its final, agonizing plunge beneath the waves, a searing heat began to radiate through the chaos.
A towering figure emerged from the inferno on the devastated shore, his form flickering with molten, burning rock.
This was the force behind the true destruction, a man whose rage matched the very magma he wielded.
He was faster than Guts anticipated, a living eruption.
A fist, glowing with incandescent heat and spewing molten rock, slammed into Guts's chest. The Berserker Armor, durable as it was, screamed as it melted and distorted, the black metal bubbling and running like tar.
Guts's flesh beneath it didn't just burn; it vaporized instantly, his entire torso exploding outwards in a cloud of crimson mist and screaming souls.
Nico Robin, already in the tiny boat, turned at the sound.
Her eyes, wide with fresh terror, saw the monstrous figure of Guts literally shatter into a thousand pieces of ash and blood, dissolving before her very eyes. She recoiled, a gasp caught in her throat.
But then, to her horror and growing, reluctant fascination, she watched.
The countless souls absorbed from Ohara, visible as swirling motes of light, screamed as they were consumed, fueling the impossible.
From the dispersed ash and blood, a grotesque regeneration began.
Guts's body, and the Berserker Armor with it, began to reform, knitting back together with sickening speed.
Limbs extended, flesh solidified, armor reshaped, but with each reconstitution, a faint, almost imperceptible number of the absorbed souls simply vanished, extinguished like dying embers.
He was losing himself, fragment by fragment, with every blow.
"Devil fruit user!?"
"Die, you monster!"
Sakazuki's voice boomed, devoid of emotion, a pure instrument of absolute justice.
He unleashed a relentless volley of magma fists, each strike capable of obliterating anything it touched.
Guts, still reforming, was hit again and again, his body breaking apart into chunks of burning flesh and screaming souls, only to desperately reknit, reforming through agony, each time a tiny bit weaker, a fraction of the absorbed souls sacrificed to his horrifying denial of death.
"Why don't you die!?"
The Berserker Armor, too, was constantly melting and reforming, a testament to its unholy bond with Guts, as long as a fragment of him persisted.
Robin watched, her brilliant young mind working furiously through her terror.
He was not human.
Or maybe he is a Devil fruit user like her.
He was destroying. But he was also taking this.
For her.
He wasn't running.
He was sacrificing himself, tearing his very being apart, so that she could escape.
More importantly, he is not leaving her behind.
The distrust remained, a deep, bitter taste, but it was now laced with a cold, clear purpose.
She had to believe, if only pragmatically, that his purpose was to protect her.
Sakazuki's next attack was a sweeping wave of molten rock, threatening to engulf both Guts and the small boat.
But Guts, driven by a fresh surge from his Brand-which was now bleeding profusely, marking him as truly distinct-let out another guttural roar.
He lunged forward, the Dragonslayer now blazing with a dark, ethereal light.
This was no ordinary blade. This was the weapon that had cut through true devils, beings of pure astral form, in his original world.
And now, against a foe who had turned his very body into an element, it would prove its worth.
With a devastating, downward cleave, the Dragonslayer met the molten wave.
There was no explosion, no splash of magma. Instead, with a horrifying, wet shrieking sound, the Dragonslayer cut through Sakazuki's magma body itself.
"Impossible!?"
Surrounding marines shout in disbelief as clean, dark line appeared in the molten arm, and the molten rock separated, revealing the solid, tangible flesh beneath, a momentary, impossible vulnerability.
Sakazuki's eyes widened in rare shock. This Monster can use Haki!?.
It was a momentary opening, but it was enough.
Guts, his body still smoking from the impacts, his movements ragged but powerful, unleashed a furious, wide swing that forced Sakazuki to recoil.
The immense force created a brief, turbulent wake in the water, sending the small boat rocking further away. With a final, desperate surge of his horrifying strength,
Guts propelled himself through the water, away from the burning island, away from the infuriated Sakazuki.
"I want to know who he is!"
He said to the surrounding marines.
"Yes Sir!" They saluted.
The bloody festering injuries in his hand will become a reminder of his failure, forever.
The colossal cannons of the Buster Call gave their final, thunderous roar, and Ohara, the island of knowledge and forgotten history, sank into the churning abyss, consumed by fire and waves.
Guts, a shattered, reforming guardian, was now truly adrift on the vast, indifferent ocean, his mission a desperate, solitary burden, with the terrified child, the God's last daughter, as his only focus.
Suddenly, the waters around the tiny boat began to churn violently, far beyond the residual chaos of the Buster Call.
A massive, grotesque shadow rose from the depths, an impossible scale of serpentine coils and gaping maw.
It was a sea monster, an ancient, titan of the deep, its eyes glowing with an ancient, knowing light.
Robin screamed, her small hands clutching the sides of the boat, certain this was the end. Guts, still struggling to maintain his form, braced himself, Dragonslayer ready for another impossible fight.
But the creature did not attack.
Instead, with a motion too precise for pure instinct, its immense head dipped, and its cavernous mouth enveloped the small boat entirely. There was no crushing, no tearing.
Just a sudden, swift engulfment, swallowing the boat whole, along with Guts and the screaming child.
Inside the beast's gullet, it was dark, but strangely calm.
The monster's flesh seemed to shimmer with a faint, warm light, and the rhythmic beat of a colossal heart echoed softly.
A subtle, comforting presence filled the space, a final, ethereal whisper from the Tired God.
My last help.
My blessings for your journey.
The monster began to move with incredible speed, pulling them away from the destroyed island, away from the enraged Marine forces, into the depths of the vast, unknown ocean.
Guts and Robin were safe for now, enclosed within a living sanctuary, transported by the very will of the God, a silent promise of aid in the treacherous world that now awaited them.