That predatory gaze made Kaido extremely uncomfortable.
"Kaido," Whitebeard's voice was calm and deep, yet it carried a faint trace of mockery that cut deeper than any blade.
"I didn't expect your wound to heal so quickly."
The words struck like an invisible hammer, slamming hard into Kaido's pride and instantly darkening his expression.
"Hmph!" he snorted, the sound cold and sharp.
He knew he had been wounded due to a momentary lapse, but that didn't mean he would ever acknowledge defeat.
"A momentary lapse, nothing more!" he growled through clenched teeth. "Fight me again for three hundred rounds!"
"Defeat is defeat," Whitebeard replied, his words concise yet absolute, piercing straight to Kaido's heart.
"No matter how many times we fight, the outcome will be the same."
"How can a single moment define anything?!" Kaido roared, his voice laced with an unyielding thirst for victory.
"A dead man's victory doesn't count!" As his words faded, he swung his kanabo, unleashing his Conqueror's Haki without restraint.
The air itself seemed to curdle, thickening with a palpable dread as streaks of crimson-black lightning tore through the already dark clouds, dyeing the world in an apocalyptic hue.
"If one wound isn't enough for you," Whitebeard's voice promised, "then I'll carve another."
His physical form seemed to dissolve into the very air.
In the next moment, a thousand points of lighting ignited all around Kaido.
Each point was a miniature blade of pure lightning, humming with a chilling killing intent, an extension of Whitebeard's own will.
"Cloud-Thunder Domain!" Whitebeard's voice echoed from all directions at once, imperious and absolute.
At his command, the countless thunderous blades surged toward Kaido like a school of ravenous sharks.
The overwhelming killing intent made Kaido's expression tighten, his Observation Haki pushed to its absolute limit as he tracked the impossible storm.
"DIEE!" At Whitebeard's command, the streaks of lightning erupted simultaneously, a downpour of blades that engulfed the battlefield in a blinding, roaring brilliance.
"Worororo! Now that's more like it, Whitebeard!" Kaido roared with laughter, seeming to forget the pain.
He grabbed the massive gourd of liquor at his waist, downed two large, burning gulps, and tossed the empty container aside.
The potent alcohol hit his system like a thunderclap, and a drunken, gleeful madness lit up his eyes.
He swung his kanabo, and the world seemed to spin with it as black-purple lightning, his own Drunken Dragon style, danced along the spiked club.
"Drunken Dragon's Thunder: Hell's Descent!"
With a furious roar, Kaido met the storm head-on.
The clashing of lightning on Haki-infused steel rang out repeatedly, each impact a deafening explosion.
The air crackled, thick with the smell of ozone and the suffocating pressure of their colliding wills.
The black lightning of their Conqueror's Haki intertwined high above, blotting out the sky in a colossal, churning vortex that threatened to devour everything.
Dozens of the lightning blades found their mark, biting deep into Kaido's flesh and searing his impossibly tough hide.
Unbearable, agonizing pain shot through him, but he knew he couldn't stop.
To falter for even a second would be to invite a thousand more cuts.
Blood, dark and steaming, began to gush from over a dozen wounds, quickly matting his scales and fur in a slick crimson coat.
But the pain, the blood—it only seemed to fuel the fire in his soul.
His battle spirit, far from being extinguished, roared into a frenzied inferno.
He realized this was no longer a contest of pure power, but a brutal, grinding war of attrition.
Ignoring the searing agony, he swung his kanabo again and again, fighting back with everything he had.
A grin split his bloody face.
In a battle of endurance, against a man burning through the stamina of three Devil Fruits at once, he was confident he would be the last one standing.
"Heh! Whitebeard, you won't last much longer either!" Kaido roared, smashing another wave of lightning blades to pieces.
"The moment you stop is the moment you die!"
Hidden within the storm of his own lightning, Whitebeard remained unmoved by Kaido's taunts, yet he could clearly feel the immense drain on his stamina.
The surrounding flashes of thunder had begun to dim, their intensity fading.
His energy truly wouldn't last much longer.
The next moment, as the last of the lightning blades dissipated, Whitebeard's physical form materialized just outside Kaido's reach.
A faint, knowing smile was in his eyes, as though everything was proceeding exactly as planned.
But Kaido, his vision still clouded with rage, failed to notice one crucial detail—the massive gourd he had discarded earlier had somehow ended up in Whitebeard's grasp.
"Whitebeard, you finally show yourself," Kaido growled, spotting him instantly.
He hefted his kanabo, ready to resume their brutal clash.
But the battle he expected never came.
Instead, he watched, confused, as Whitebeard lifted the gourd and gave it a gentle shake.
The distinct, heavy sloshing sound inside suggested it was almost nearly full.
Whitebeard nodded in satisfaction.
"Gurararara! Kaido, my thanks."
Kaido's expression darkened as his eyes caught the faint traces of crimson staining the gourd's mouth.
He already knew, with a sinking feeling of dread, what Whitebeard was about to say.
With a wicked grin, Whitebeard declared, "Using your own gourd to collect your own blood. Couldn't be more fitting."
For a moment, Kaido's mind went blank, unable to process the sheer, underhanded audacity of the act.
Then, a surge of pure, volcanic rage erupted from his core.
"Whitebeard! You are one of the Four Emperors! How can you fight like some common street thug?!"
Whitebeard had used his own liquor gourd to collect his blood like a farmer milking a cow.
It was an insult so profound, so utterly disrespectful, that it was worse than any physical blow.
And the worst part? He couldn't do a damn thing about it!
Whitebeard gave Kaido no time to recover.
He swiftly stashed the gourd away and charged forward.
The battle that followed was not a clash of titans, but a humiliating lesson in speed.
A flash of lightning, a bone-jarring punch to the side of his head that sent his vision swimming, and then Whitebeard was gone again, reappearing a hundred meters away.
Kaido roared in frustration, swinging his Hassaikai with enough force to level a mountain, only to cleave through empty air as Whitebeard dodged with nimble grace.
This style of combat drove him absolutely mad.
"Attacking over and over—your stamina must be nearly gone!" Kaido roared.
"Can't you fight fair and square instead of scurrying around like a rat?!"
"Gurararara! So what?" Whitebeard retorted bluntly, his voice echoing from a new position.
"Even with my stamina nearly gone, you still can't catch me."
Kaido was a bloody mess.
Despite his formidable regeneration, the sheer volume of blood he had lost had left his face pale and his breathing ragged.
Just as Whitebeard was preparing for another pass, a brilliant Cloud-Piercing Arrow, gleaming with golden light, shot high into the sky and exploded like a firework.
Success.
Seeing the signal from his sons, Whitebeard knew the mission was complete.
He turned his gaze back to the panting Kaido and taunted.
"Alright, Kaido, rest up and recover. I'll be back for more blood soon enough!"
With that, his body transformed into a final streak of lightning, vanishing into the distant horizon.
He actually left.
Kaido stood alone amidst the devastation, his face turning an ashen grey.
He trembled, not from injury, but from a humiliation so profound it felt like a physical poison.
The two words echoed relentlessly in the depths of his soul.
Disgrace. Humiliation.
"Whitebeard!" he growled through clenched teeth, his voice dripping with a hatred that promised a bloody reckoning.
"Next time we meet, you die!"
After Whitebeard's departure, the streaks of golden light causing chaos across Wano also vanished one by one.
But the damage was done.
The prisoners of udon, led by the newly freed Kawamatsu the Kappa, were running wild, and the legendary samurai himself had mysteriously disappeared into the shadows of the country he swore to protect.
Faced with an out-of-control prison break, a furious Queen made an extreme and horrific decision.
He unleashed his masterpieces, clouds of his most insidious viral plagues, into the prison yards.
The triumphant roars of the rioters turned into screams of agony, and then into a chilling silence.
The Flying Six, meanwhile, were on a fool's errand.
They would arrive at a looted warehouse or a burning watchtower only moments too late, met with nothing but the faint scent of ozone and the distant, mocking laughter of freed prisoners.
It was as if their targets knew their every move before they made it, leaving them perpetually one step behind and seething with impotent frustration.
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