Sengoku's golden Buddha form shimmered like a beacon amidst the chaos.
His massive fists smashed through one lightning phantom after another, each blow echoing like a cannon blast.
Every strike created a vacuum in the storm, yet another phantom immediately lunged forward to fill it.
His sharp eyes flicked across the battlefield, scanning, calculating, analyzing the rhythm of the storm.
The lightning illusions were wild, but not without limits.
'Each of these clones hits like half of Whitebeard's full-force strike', Sengoku realized, teeth clenched as he deflected another deadly arc of lightning.
'But sustaining them… even for him… this can't come free. That kind of stamina drain would break any man.'
And then, like a crack in the clouds, he noticed it.
The destroyed phantoms returned, yes—but slower.
And as he and Garp ramped up their counterattacks, the overall count was dwindling.
The storm was thinning, little by little.
Whitebeard is getting tired.
"Hmph!" Sengoku let out a roar, the sound rumbling through his massive golden form.
"Even the strongest man in the world has his limits!" He unleashed a thunderous shockwave with his fists, vaporizing another cluster of phantoms.
His eyes gleamed with renewed confidence. "Let's see how much longer you can keep this up, Whitebeard!"
But Sengoku wasn't unscathed either.
Even at half power, every phantom's slash carried terrifying weight.
Hundreds of strikes battered him from every direction, his golden skin flashing under the onslaught.
His scalp prickled from the sheer intensity of the barrage, his chest heaving from the effort of holding the line.
Then the storm answered back.
"Gurararara!" Whitebeard's voice thundered from the heavens, rattling bones.
"Then let's see how long this old man can last!"
The sky itself seemed to split open.
New lightning phantoms surged into existence, filling the air so densely that the storm swallowed every horizon.
Thunder rolled so loudly it shook the world's foundations.
The battlefield turned into a cage of storms.
From afar, Kizaru, who had escaped the Thunder Domain, could only stare in disbelief.
His usually lazy eyes widened, a shiver running down his spine.
"Ooh…" he muttered weakly, voice trembling between awe and horror.
"Since when did all these old-timers get so… energetic?"
The words slipped out before he could stop them.
He clapped a hand over his mouth instantly, terrified the storm would somehow hear him.
The mere thought of Whitebeard's gaze turning on him again was enough to make his stomach twist.
Cough!
He swallowed hard, suppressing the blood threatening to rise in his throat.
'No, no, no—spit blood now and that monster might hunt me down again.'
'He'd appear out of nowhere, lightning blade in hand, just to finish the job.'
The mere image of it made Kizaru tremble like a cornered rabbit.
Meanwhile, Garp was a juggernaut inside the storm.
Each punch split the air like a meteor impact, shockwaves rippling outward with terrifying might.
"Galaxy of Impact!" he roared, his voice booming like an earthquake.
His Haki-coated knuckles smashed into a wall of phantoms, obliterating a dozen in one blow.
But he wasn't done.
His hands gripped the frozen plaza beneath his feet, tearing out a colossal chunk of ice-laden stone.
Muscles bulging, he infused it with Armament Haki and hurled it with the fury of a titan.
"Meteor Crash!"
The boulder streaked across the sky, tearing through clusters of lightning clones like a falling star.
Explosions lit up the storm, scattering sparks and phantoms alike.
"Whitebeard!" Garp bellowed. "Quit hiding behind these parlor tricks and face me head-on!"
The meteors tore through dozens more phantoms, yet many simply slashed them apart, cutting stone as if it were butter.
The storm was relentless, refusing to break.
Sengoku, catching his breath while grit his teeth.
His chest rose and fell heavily as the battlefield once again flooded with endless lightning clones.
He gathered his power, thrusting out both arms.
A colossal shockwave detonated outward, erasing a swath of phantoms in an instant.
His gaze swept the storm with cold precision.
"Whitebeard, you're at your limit."
But the storm only laughed at him.
The next moment, the lightning phantoms surged again, faster, fiercer, like a hurricane descending from every direction.
Sengoku's arms blurred as he tried to hold them back, but there were too many.
And then, it happened.
A single blade slipped through.
"Gh—!" Sengoku gasped as the phantom slash carved across his back.
A spray of blood arced through the air, crimson against the storm's silver light.
Even at half-strength, the blow could have felled any Vice Admiral instantly.
But Sengoku wasn't ordinary.
He endured.
And… he smiled.
The storm rippled.
A massive lightning hand appeared overhead, fingers stretched wide as it reached greedily toward the droplets of blood.
Whitebeard was trying to seize his blood.
But Sengoku had been waiting for this.
He had baited it.
His back straightened, golden aura flaring, and his lips curled into a grim smirk.
"Got you."
With a swift pivot, his right hand transformed from a fist to a flat blade.
Armament Haki surged thick and heavy around his form, compressing into a devastating strike.
He swung.
A golden shockwave erupted like a blade of divine judgment, slamming into the lightning arm.
"You old fox!" Whitebeard's voice cursed from everywhere at once.
He realized the trap too late.
"Even if it's a trade of wounds, I'll take it!" Sengoku roared, pouring everything into the blow.
CRACK!
The shockwave met flesh.
A sickening snap rang through the storm.
Whitebeard's pupils shrank in agony as searing pain tore through his arm.
His forearm, the hand that had reached for Sengoku's blood, was broken.
The pain was unbearable, even for him.
He gritted his teeth, his grip on Murakumogiri faltering for the briefest second.
His could regenerate his injuries easily yes, but pain was pain.
Sengoku pressed forward, another shockwave surging, this time smashing against the flat of Whitebeard's blade to force distance.
The counterattack worked—the Emperor was pushed back, his storm finally wavering.
The Cloud-Thunder Domain flickered, cracks of light breaking through as Whitebeard's concentration faltered.
The phantoms dissolved one by one until only silence and smoke remained.
For the first time since the battle began, the storm had ended.
Sengoku straightened, chest heaving, his golden form shimmering faintly.
His eyes locked on Whitebeard, who stood battered but unbowed.
"Whitebeard," he declared, voice cold and resolute, "your domain drained you heavily. Now your arm is broken. You're already at your limit. This battle is over. There's no way you're leaving alive today."
Whitebeard tilted his head, rolling his injured arm with a grunt.
His breathing was ragged, his body battered, yet his grin never wavered.
"Oh?" His tone carried mocking amusement, even as sweat beaded his brow.
"It does hurt a bit. Didn't think a few drops of your blood would cost me a bone."
Then came laughter—deep, rolling, unshakable.
"Gurararara!"
Garp stepped forward beside Sengoku, his knuckles popping as he flexed his fists.
His earlier grin faded into grim determination.
"Newgate, you've really surprised me. Just the other day, you were a sick old man on an IV. Now you've lasted this long against all of us?"
His fists clenched tighter, his tone growing serious.
"So what's it going to be? Will you come quietly to Impel Down… or do we have to drag you there by force?"
The battlefield fell silent, tension crackling in the air.
Whitebeard, battered but unbroken, stared them down.
His grin only widened.
The war was far from over.
(Those bums didnt know his phoenix power)
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