The plaza was a wreck—shattered stone, blood splattered everywhere, bodies strewn about like broken dolls.
And yet, through the smoke and rubble, the air still felt heavy, as if the battle itself refused to end.
Garp's voice cut through that suffocating silence.
It wasn't just a taunt, nor was it simply the words of a Marine.
It was both—a challenge from an old rival and a grim ultimatum from the embodiment of justice itself.
His words pressed down on everyone like a weight too heavy to ignore.
The fight had hit a stalemate.
Both sides were bleeding, but neither would take a step back.
Aokiji, uniform torn and stained crimson, finally staggered over to stand with Sengoku and Garp.
He looked like he's been going through hell—his lazy, half-lidded eyes were duller than usual, his breath ragged, frost still clinging to his body.
Yet he still had that same damn casual drawl, like he wasn't standing in the middle of the bloodiest battlefield of his career.
"Well," he muttered, steam curling from his lips as if he'd just exhaled winter itself, "that last attack of yours almost did me in for real."
The few officers still conscious—Rear Admirals, Vice Admirals, men who weren't already lying broken on the ground—scrambled behind their leaders, forming a desperate wall of flesh and uniforms.
They held their blades and rifles tightly, but their eyes betrayed them.
They couldn't hide their fear.
Their gazes were locked on Whitebeard as if the old man might explode at any second and drag them all into the abyss with him.
And yet… Whitebeard didn't falter.
He didn't tremble.
He didn't even frown.
Instead, the Emperor of the Seas threw his massive head back and laugh.
"Gurararara! Now this… this is what a real fight feels like!"
The laugh echoed across Marineford like rolling thunder, shaking the very bones of the men who dared oppose him.
He fixed his sharp gaze on Sengoku, eyes glowing with that same ferocity that had earned him the title of strongest man alive.
"It's been too damn long since I felt this alive. Sengoku, you haven't changed—you still strike like a demon."
And then, almost casually, he lifted his ruined right arm.
The forearm was grotesque—twisted, mangled, torn apart in a way that should've crippled even a monster like him.
But then something strange happened.
A soft flame flickered to life.
White, pure, almost ethereal.
It wasn't fire that burned, but fire that soothed.
It clung to his arm, glowing warmly, like some divine light descending from the heavens themselves.
Before the Marines' stunned eyes, the impossible happened.
The sounds of bone grinding, snapping, knitting themselves back together echoed out, followed by the grotesque squelch of torn flesh sealing, muscle reforming.
Within moments, that broken arm was whole again.
Whitebeard flexed his newly healed hand, letting out a low chuckle.
"Just a broken arm. Hah. I've had worse hangovers."
For a heartbeat, the battlefield froze.
Then the realization hit.
Every Marine, from the lowest ensign to Sengoku himself, felt their hearts seize.
The flame… that aura… there was no mistaking it.
They had all seen it before.
"The Phoenix…" someone whispered, their voice trembling.
The Tori Tori no Mi, Model: Phoenix. A Mythical Zoan.
The same one Marco wielded.
And now… Whitebeard had it too.
Sengoku's face darkened, like a storm breaking over his face.
His body shook, his mind roaring with disbelief.
He had sacrificed his own blood to cripple that arm, to force an opening in this impossible monster.
And yet, in seconds, the advantage was gone.
He wasn't fighting just the man with the power to destroy the world.
He was fighting a man who could rise again and again, no matter what injury they inflicted.
"Whitebeard! Damn you!" Sengoku roared, his voice carrying across the ruined plaza.
"Even a Mythical Zoan—?! How many cursed powers have you gained, Newgate?!"
Beside him, Aokiji pressed a palm to his temple, grimacing.
"Tch. Yeah… this just turned into a real pain in the ass."
Garp, however, didn't even flinch.
His expression remained hard, his jaw clenched.
"So what?" His voice was steady, like a boulder unshaken by the storm.
"He can heal? Then we'll just break it again."
The bluntness of the statement shocked even Sengoku out of his panic.
He took a sharp breath, forcing himself to steady his thoughts.
Garp was right.
Devil Fruit powers weren't limitless.
The more you used them, the more they drained your body.
Sengoku's eyes narrowed on Whitebeard, scrutinizing every twitch of muscle, every flicker in those piercing eyes.
"You can't fool me, Newgate. You've burned your stamina too much. Even with that regeneration, your body is at its limit. You can't keep this up forever."
Whitebeard's grin slowly faded.
His arm was healed, yes, but the restoration was slower now, sluggish.
Sengoku had noticed.
The constant barrage from the three of them had taken its toll.
But even as exhaustion weighed on him, Whitebeard's eyes only grew sharper.
'What's fear, to a man with eight lives left?' he thought.
His body began to shift, to swell with that terrifying energy once more.
The ground trembled beneath his boots as an aura like a waking volcano radiated from him.
Sengoku felt it immediately.
His gut clenched.
His instincts screamed. "No…" he muttered under his breath.
"He's really going to do it. He's ready to die here."
And worst of all—Akainu wasn't even here.
If Whitebeard chose to unleash everything, the battlefield could descend into chaos beyond control.
The younger officers, though, saw none of this.
Their inexperience blinded them.
To them, Whitebeard looked tired and faltering.
Their fear began to fade, replaced by arrogant bravado.
"Whitebeard! Surrender now!" one Rear Admiral shouted, puffing up his chest.
"You're finished! Impel Down is waiting for you!"
Another sneered, his voice dripping with contempt.
"You pirates are nothing but filth! Parasites! This world won't know peace until every last one of you is wiped out!"
A third added, almost smugly, "Your time is over! The new era has no place for you!"
Their words echoed through the broken plaza, puffed up with self-righteous confidence.
Whitebeard listened, and for a moment… he almost laughed.
He shook his head slowly, eyes filled not with anger, but with weary mockery.
"The fate of the seas was sealed long before any of you were born," he said, his voice carrying with quiet finality.
"You think throwing me in chains will change anything? Kill me, and another Emperor rises. Tear one flag down, another is hoisted. Conflict is eternal. War is eternal. It flows like the tides. No matter how much you shout about justice or peace… the sea doesn't bend to your will."
He paused.
A rare tenderness flickered across his scarred face.
'Not everyone is like Otohime… that woman's heart was too pure for this world. Her ideals, her kindness… they'll never appear again in seas like these.'
Because he knew the truth—real peace was a fantasy.
A dream for fools and saints.
Sengoku clenched his fists.
He couldn't allow this madness to spiral further.
Raising his arm high, he barked the order, his voice hard and unyielding.
"All units! Prepare to engage! Target Whitebeard—dead or alive! Stop him here, at any cost! Do not give him a chance to—"
But before the last word left his lips, the heavens themselves tore open.
A roar—vast, primal, like the fury of a god—thundered from above, shaking Marineford to its very foundations.
The ground quaked, buildings groaned and collapsed, and every head—Marine, pirate, Admiral, Emperor alike—snapped towards the sky in shock.
The battlefield froze instantly.
And then, they all looked up.
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