The vast, open field behind Saint Rosward's opulent home served as the scene of the duel between Guts and Rosward. A wider, wilder expanse of grass replaced the well-kept lawns, making it ideal for a conflict of this size. The earth turned dark as a fine drizzle started to fall from the sky, a gentle, persistent patter that slicked the green grass blades. However, neither of the two powerful fighters appeared to be affected by the bad weather; their eyes were fixed on each other, and their determination unwavering.
Robin and Saint Shalria sat off to the side, carefully tucked under a great, graceful parasol raised by the ever-watchful More.
A dark, stoic mass of living shadow, shaped like a huge hound or a wolf, and made from the very fabric of the Berserker Armor, settled at Robin's feet. The creature's head was down, but its red eyes were fixed on Guts with the intensity similar to two burning coals in the dark. The Berserker Armor was in animal form, standing guard instead of attaching to Guts's body. It was a silent, scary protector ready to unleash savage rage if its master was in real danger. It lay still like a loyal but dangerous dog, giving off a scary air of controlled rage.
Beside Robin, Saint Shalria watched. She was a young girl with striking features, her long, brown hair pulled up into an incredibly distinctive, towering bun that seemed to defy gravity, bangs framing a determined face. She wore an elegant, form-fitting black dress with a high collar and a graceful slit, adorned with subtle purple and white floral patterns along the collar and sleeves. Her gaze was sharp, unwavering, fixed solely on Rosward. She would not miss her papa's actions for anything.
More, silent and utterly loyal, stood a respectful distance behind Shalria, holding the parasol steady, his presence a picture of unwavering servitude.
Guts was in the middle of the field, and he was without his sword or armor this time. His only clothing was leather pants that fit tightly around his strong legs. His bare chest and arms showed off his hard, sculpted muscles, as if they had been forged in thousands of battles. Every curve of his biceps, triceps, and abs showed how strong he had gotten over time.
Saint Rosward stood tall standing in front of him. Guts looked small compared to him, given he was three meters tall. His upper body muscles, which were not covered by his suit, looked strong and dense, like the hull of a warship. They gave off an incredible aura of power.
"If I'm facing you, I don't need to hold back, do I?" Rosward asked, his voice deep and full of anticipation, as he spread his arms wide, inviting the confrontation.
Guts took a boxer's stance, his body slightly lowered, ready to strike. Only one word left his lips, cold and challenging: "Come."
"Then..." Rosward's massive hand turned into a fist, which was instantly covered in the shiny, black glow of advanced Armament Haki. He pulled his arm back like a living cannon and then, in a terrifying burst of speed, rushed toward Guts, striking him with the first, decisive blow.
Guts bent low, without flinching, lowering his center of gravity. He didn't block Rosward's haki-covered fist; instead, he hit it directly with his head, which was also hardened and shone with its own layer of advanced Armament Haki.
The two fighters crashed into each other with a deafening, cataclysmic roar that echoed across the open field like a cannon going off. The sound was so loud that it seemed to fit perfectly with a sudden, loud clap of thunder.
Guts moved right away, grabbing Rosward's wrist with his hand. He grunted violently and turned, using all of his strength to throw the massive Celestial Dragon toward the wet ground.
Rosward's massive body struck the ground with a sickening thud, creating a deep, crater where he landed. Guts didn't hesitate; he kicked Rosward in the head with a brutal axe kick.
Rosward, however, was already reacting.
He twisted, narrowly evading the descending heel, then unleashed a retaliatory swing of his enormous leg directly at Guts's head.
Guts blocked it with both hands above his head, crossing them defensively, but the sheer force of the blow made the ground beneath his feet buckle and sink with a loud crunch. In one fluid, seamless motion, Rosward spun, delivering a rapid, hard uppercut straight to Guts's chin.
Guts took the full force of Rosward's uppercut, his head snapping back. Yet, instead of pain, a wild grin appears on his face. He instantly retaliated with a sharp elbow strike to Rosward's jaw.
Rosward staggered back from the elbow strike, quickly crossing his arms defensively. Guts, relentless, followed with a brutal knee strike that slammed into Rosward's guard, forcing the massive man to recoil further.
Rosward then stood up and took a step back. His legs began to tremble—not from weakness, but from the preparatory stance of Soru. In a blink, he vanished from Guts's sight, only to reappear instantly behind him, unleashing a deadly strike to Guts's back—a blow capable of shattering the spine of a pirate with a bounty in the hundreds of millions.
Guts spun, ignoring the impact, and unleashed a savage backhand liver blow. Rosward met it with his elbow, bracing against the force.
He immediately countered, aiming for Guts's face—but Guts twisted, the punch only tearing across his cheek. Blood splattered into the drizzling rain, and Guts, without missing a beat, responded with a crushing blow to Rosward's solar plexus.
Rosward braced with Tekkai, hardening his core, but the sheer force of Guts's punch penetrated his defense, sending a vibrating shockwave through his internal organs.
Both combatants recoiled, creating a short distance between them to prepare for their next, devastating assaults. Guts spat out a mouthful of blood, which strangely seemed to evaporate into steam as it hit the air. The tear across his cheek visibly healed itself, knitting closed within seconds.
Rosward spat out a mouthful of blood, a grimace on his face. "It seems tricks won't work on you," he grunted, cracking his neck from side to side with a sharp snap.
Guts's grin widened, a feral, anticipatory display. "Enough warm-up."
Rosward chuckled, a deep, resonant sound. "Guts, I'll show you why the Tenryuubito stand above all." He took a long, deep breath, and the already immense muscles across his body hardened further, visibly swelling.
"Not because of our title," he continued, his voice gaining a chilling edge, "But because of the blood that flows in our veins."
He grinned, a predatory, self-assured expression. "Blood that puts us at the top of the food chain." As he finished speaking, Saint Rosward's Conqueror's Haki erupted, a tangible force of will. Black and crimson lightning crackled and danced around him, engulfing his colossal form in an aura of raw, untamed power.
Guts met Rosward's fierce Conqueror's Haki with his own. His Executioner Haki flared, a cold, dark, and utterly sinister aura that pushed back against Rosward's surging might, a silent testament to countless lives taken.
"Come!" Guts challenged, his voice cutting through the oppressive Haki storm.
As if nature itself blessed their duel, thunder rumbled ominously above the overcast sky. Accompanied by the deafening sound of thunder, both combatants vanished from sight.
The next instant, in the middle of the wet field, fists met fists, triggering a massive explosion that shook the air, making the ground tremble.
Robin's hands clenched tight, her knuckles white. Guts's words from when she was a child echoed clearly in her mind, an anchor amidst the chaos she witnessed: "You don't have to believe me, Kid. Just believe you're safe."
Beside her, Saint Shalria began to cheer for her papa, her voice high with immense pride. "Papa, fight!" Shalria knew intimately how hard her papa had strived, training day and night, and working tirelessly until sunrise. It was because of her papa that Shalria had begun to abandon her hobby of collecting pirates. Her papa had once told her that Celestial Dragons are not only status and title, and he would prove it. For Shalria, her father was the greatest person in the entire world.
Rosward continued to attack, even as he saw Guts beginning to blur before him—an effect of their incredible speed and the clash of their Haki.
Yet, he did not stop; he believed that Guts would take his blows, just as he took Guts's. Punches were thrown, kicks were launched with brutal force.
The sun slowly began to set on the western horizon, painting the sky with dark, orange hues, while the rain lashed down, growing heavier.
In the distance, at the counter of Shakky's Rip-Off Bar, Silver Rayleigh sensed two immense energies clashing, shattering the tranquility of Sabaody. One of those energies, Guts's cold and sinister Haki, was intimately familiar to him. A frown of concern appeared on his face. Rayleigh grabbed his coat and stepped out of the bar without hesitation, moving swiftly towards the surging source of power.
"Father, don't lose!"
The faint, almost inaudible cry from Robin, carried by the wind and the spiritual resonance between them, reached Guts. His fighting style, already savage, erupted into something even fiercer, a wild, unrestrained storm of blows.
As well Rosward, hearing his daughter's voice, felt a surge of pride, and his own determination intensified. He would make her proud.
Rosward took a direct punch from Guts, a blow that tore his lip open and sent blood streaming down his chin. "HAHAHAHAHA!" he roared, a guttural laugh that seemed to embrace the pain.
He immediately retaliated with a brutal punch to Guts's solar plexus.
Guts coughed, vomiting a spray of blood, but his grin only widened. He countered instantly with a powerful kick to Rosward's chin. They had both abandoned all pretense of defense, willingly receiving every punch and kick to deliver their own.
Rosward slammed a fist into Guts's face. Guts, still reeling, seized the opportunity to execute another shoulder throw, tossing Rosward's massive body to the ground for the second time in their brawl.
As Rosward hit the wet earth, he twisted, spinning his body and headbutting Guts's stomach with surprising force. Guts grunted, but swiftly countered by slamming his elbow into the back of Rosward's head. Rosward's brain shook violently within his skull; he was on the verge of losing consciousness.
Yet, with an indomitable surge of will, Rosward held on, pushing through the haze. He grabbed Guts's leg and, with a powerful heave, slammed him down onto the ground.
Guts' leg shot out, kicking Rosward squarely in the face and forcing the massive man to release his vice-like grip on Guts's leg. Guts quickly rolled back, absorbing the momentum.
Rosward too recover his stance. Rosward, though dazed, stood firm.
Guts, too, rose, both combatants now standing, battered and bruised, but utterly unyielding.
They prepared their final, decisive blows.
Both fighters moved with a singular, unspoken purpose, a shared, defiant will: fighting destiny.
Their eyes met across the rain-swept field, and a grim grin spread across both their faces—a testament to the respect forged in the brutal exchange.
Rosward, summoning every last ounce of his strength, focused all of his advanced Armament Haki into his right hand. The black lightning intensified, coiling around his fist as he launched his ultimate, desperate punch straight at Guts's face.
Guts met the impact head-on, taking the full force of Rosward's blow. His nose shattered with a sickening crunch, blood gushing instantly. But even as he absorbed the devastating hit, Guts delivered his own final, gut-wrenching punch to Rosward's solar plexus.
For a moment, they remained locked, bodies swaying, rain washing over their battered forms. Then, slowly, after a breathless pause, Rosward's right arm fell limp to his side. His eyes rolled back into his head, and he lost consciousness.
Yet, even in defeat, his sheer, indomitable will refused to let him fall; his massive body remained upright, swaying imperceptibly against the pelting rain.
"Rest," Guts said, his voice hoarse, turning his back as if the duel were already concluded. "You've done well enough."
"PAPA!" Shalria's voice suddenly echoed across the field, sharp with fear and desperation. She had broken free from under the parasol and was sprinting towards her father, her figure a small blur against the darkening sky.