Whitebeard slowly raised his arm, his weathered palm open wide as if he were about to crush the very sky itself.
That simple motion carried an unspeakable weight, an aura that screamed of unstoppable power.
The air shifted.
It grew heavy, suffocating even, the kind of pressure that made soldiers drop their weapons without even realizing it.
Every man on the battlefield felt the same thing—their hearts beating out of rhythm, goosebumps running across their skin, a primal instinct warning them: Run. Don't fight this monster.
Then, it happened.
His supreme weapon, the legendary Murakumogiri, was suddenly swallowed in lightning.
Not just sparks, but a storm's worth of raging thunderbolts wrapped around the blade, twisting and coiling like furious dragons.
Each bolt cracked loud enough to rattle the ground, each flash bright enough to blind those who dared stare too long.
The massive weapon floated, trembling with power, before it lifted off the ground as though being guided by invisible hands.
Whitebeard himself turned into light—no, into lightning itself.
His body dissolved into a streak of raw energy that fused with the storm he had called down.
The battlefield fell silent in disbelief.
And then, the storm gave birth to something far beyond anyone's imagination.
One Whitebeard became ten.
Ten became a hundred.
A hundred became countless.
His towering figure appeared again and again across the thunder-wracked sky, each phantom glaring down with glowing, storm-filled eyes.
Every clone carried a Murakumogiri wreathed in lightning, each stance unique yet equally terrifying.
Some raised their blades high as if to split the heavens; others held them sideways, ready to cleave an army in two, their killing intent piercing through space itself.
These weren't just illusions.
They moved.
Their muscles tensed, their steps carried weight, their swings howled with ferocity.
It was as if Whitebeard had shattered reality and made his presence infinite.
Then his voice boomed, carried on thunder:
"Thunder's Realm, Everlasting: Cloud-Thunder Domain!"
The sky obeyed.
All the phantoms swung their weapons at once.
A world-shaking storm of lightning blades poured down in every direction, swallowing the people below in a tide of destruction.
The battlefield ceased to exist.
There was only thunder, lightning, and death.
"WHAT THE HELL IS THIS?!" Garp roared, smashing one phantom apart with a Haki-imbued fist.
The clone exploded into shards of lightning, but even destroyed, its blade left a scar of electricity that burned through his arm.
Pain shot up his muscles like a thousand needles stabbing his nerves.
"These aren't just sparks!" Sengoku's face hardened, golden energy flaring as he blocked another slash with his Buddha's shockwave.
"Every bolt is infused with his blade's essence… with his sword intent!" His eyes widened as the truth hit him.
"This means… every single strike is Whitebeard himself attacking us!"
The realization sent chills through even the strongest marines.
Whitebeard hadn't just fused his Devil Fruit with his weapon—he had merged his Haki, his blade, and his storm into one seamless whole.
Every phantom was not an illusion, but an extension of his own will.
It was as if they weren't fighting one Emperor.
They were fighting an army of him.
Aokiji gritted his teeth and raised his arms.
Jagged walls of ice shot up around him, forming a desperate shield.
But the lightning tore through them like paper, each strike shattering ice into mist before hammering into his body.
He staggered backward, his Observation Haki barely giving him a split-second warning before each slash.
His reflexes weren't fast enough.
No matter what, he was always one step behind.
But compared to him, Kizaru was suffering even more.
The storm hunted him mercilessly.
Bolts of lightning rained down thicker around his position, like the storm had personally marked him for death.
Already injured, his speed was nothing like before.
Every dodge was sloppy, desperate.
Strike after strike carved new wounds across his arms and legs, blood sizzling into steam as the storm seared it from his skin.
"Newgate! Do you really have to keep focusing on me?!" Kizaru shouted, half in anger, half in terror.
A cold laugh rolled across the storm.
"You dirty bastards wanted to play tricks on me… then pay the price. If you like coughing blood so much, I'll make sure you drown in it!"
The disembodied voice pierced Kizaru's chest like ice.
Lightning surged.
Phantoms weaved their blades into a massive net, closing in from all directions.
The air itself became an inescapable prison of thunder.
"Shit—!"
Kizaru tried to move, but the blades came faster.
Each strike seared his nerves raw, each cut sending waves of agony through his already fragile body.
"AHHH—it hurts, it hurts! This damn government paycheck isn't worth this!" His scream sounded more like a pitiful man than a Marine admiral.
And then, finally—hope.
A gap.
A single hole in the storm's relentless rhythm.
Kizaru's eyes widened, and without hesitation, his body burst into light.
He transformed into a golden comet and shot through the opening, fleeing at breakneck speed.
A single streak of gold against the black sky.
A desperate escape.
The storm didn't chase him.
For now, Whitebeard had other prey.
With Kizaru gone, only Garp, Sengoku, and Aokiji remained.
None of them wasted a thought on the fleeing admiral.
He had earned his retreat.
"NEWGATE!" Garp roared, smashing another phantom with a punch so strong the earth itself shook.
"Since when did you start relying on flashy crap like this?! Where's the fun in fighting like a real man?!"
Thunder answered him—laughter, deep and mocking.
"Gurararara! Funny… I'm standing against all of you at once, and you call me unfair?"
His presence pressed down harder, suffocating, yet no real body could be found among the storm.
Garp's blood boiled.
His pride couldn't stand it.
"If you won't show yourself… I'll punch until you have no choice but to come out!"
He stopped defending.
Instead, he charged forward, fists blazing with Haki.
BOOM!
One phantom shattered into sparks.
The lightning stabbed at his fists, numbing them instantly.
"One!" he shouted, teeth clenched.
BOOM!
Another phantom destroyed.
"Two!"
BOOM!
Another.
"Three!"
On and on he went.
Each strike tore phantoms apart, but each one punished his body with waves of electricity that threatened to fry his muscles from the inside.
By the tenth, his fists were nearly dead to sensation.
But Garp didn't falter.
"Ten!"
He roared, his voice like a war drum.
Sparks flew from his knuckles as his Armament Haki thickened, black and shining like molten iron.
It wrapped his fists like armor forged for gods.
"I don't care if you're a phantom, a storm, or a damn god—if I have to smash every last one of these illusions, then I'll do it! And when there are none left, you'll have nowhere to hide, Whitebeard!"
With that, Garp hurled himself into the storm once more.
Each punch wasn't just strength.
It was fury, will, and the spirit of a man who refused to bow—even to a legend.
And when his fist connected with the next phantom, it wasn't the storm that roared.
It was Garp himself.
A punch that could shatter stars.
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