The sky itself seemed to split open.
At first, it was just a sound—deep, primordial, a vibration that rattled bones and silenced even the clash of steel and the thunder of waves.
Then came the roars.
Not of men, not of beasts, but of something older, more ancient.
Dragons.
The cries of nine dragons rolled across the sky, so powerful that they didn't just echo—they pressed down on the world like a physical weight.
Each roar wasn't just noise; it carried a pressure that rippled through the air like shockwaves, each pulse laced with pure Conqueror's Haki.
The atmosphere itself trembled, and for a fleeting moment, it felt as though the sky might actually shatter.
Every eye—Marine, pirate, Admiral, even Whitebeard himself—snapped towards the sky.
The storm clouds that had blanketed the battlefield tore apart, shredded like paper before an unseen force.
From the rift spilled light, illuminating nine immense silhouettes descending from the sky.
Dragons.
They came in all forms, each more awe-inspiring than the last.
One was long and serpentine, scales glittering azure like a living ocean.
Another was a tank of muscle and armor, black as obsidian with streaks of crimson glowing between its scales like molten lava.
A third was feathered, its body gleaming gold, wings stretching wide like a god's banner unfurled.
Each twist of their colossal frames whipped up storms of wind, sending debris and broken stone flying across the ruined plaza.
Their scales caught what little sunlight pierced through, scattering it like prisms—nine living jewels, magnificent and terrifying.
Even among veterans, their sudden appearance sent a cold shiver down spines.
These weren't just beasts.
They were omens—heralds of something far greater.
And then came the voice.
"Sky-Slicing Sword!"
It cracked through the sky like thunder.
Whoever spoke hadn't even revealed themselves yet, but their words carried the weight of absolute authority.
A beat later, light followed—blinding and divine.
A sword emerged, not of steel but of pure energy.
Thousands of meters long, it gleamed with an edge that seemed to slice reality itself.
Its silver-white glow was so sharp, so radiant, that looking directly at it felt like staring into a frozen sun.
The blade grew.
In an instant, it expanded from thousands to tens of thousands of meters, spanning the sky like a celestial dragon of light.
Ten thousand meters of Sword energy stretched from horizon to horizon.
And then it fell.
The slash descended with silence more terrifying than sound.
The sky itself split apart.
Clouds and wind ripped away in its wake, leaving behind a gaping wound of clear, unnatural blue.
Beneath its path, Marineford—fortress of the World Government, symbol of unshakable order—suddenly looked fragile.
A helpless lamb awaiting slaughter.
"What… what the hell is that?!" a Vice Admiral screamed, voice cracking.
"Sword attack?! THAT'S Sword attack?!"
"No way! That's impossible!" another shouted, panic breaking through his voice.
"There's no blocking something like that! We're finished!"
The Sword energy blotted out the sun.
The island was drenched in its glow, and with it came despair.
"Fleet Admiral Sengoku, save us!"
Even seasoned veterans, men who'd survived decades of war, felt their knees weaken.
The sheer scale of the attack dwarfed them, made them feel like ants staring at a tidal wave.
A swordsman Vice Admiral gripped his blade tightly, but even his treasured weapon felt like a child's toy in his hand.
His jaw clenched, his eyes wide with awe.
"Even Mihawk… the world's greatest swordsman… couldn't summon something like this. This—this isn't human." His voice cracked, half fear, half reverence.
Another Marine, oddly calm in the face of death, exhaled slowly.
"Well… if I have to die, at least it'll be after seeing this. I can go without regrets."
But others weren't so resigned.
"Damn it! Who are they trying to kill?! Us? Whitebeard? Everyone?!" one officer roared, voice raw with confusion.
"This attack doesn't care who it hits—it'll wipe us all out!"
Despair crept across the plaza like poison.
That colossal blade of light wasn't just an attack.
It was judgment, indiscriminate and absolute.
Sengoku felt the same crushing dread as the rest, but for him, there was no room to give in.
His pupils shrank, heart pounding in his chest as he stared at the incoming slash.
For the first time in years, he felt small—like a man standing at the base of the Red Line, craning his neck toward infinity.
But unlike the others, his fear wasn't for himself.
Behind him stood thousands of soldiers, men who believed in him, who fought under his command.
He couldn't falter.
He clenched his fists, body trembling as he prepared to transform, to throw himself in front of the inevitable.
Even if it meant being split in two, he had no other choice.
But before he could move, the sound of heavy, confident footsteps cut through his thoughts.
Garp.
The old Marine had already leapt towards the sky, rising into the air with Geppo as casually as if he were stepping off his porch.
His face was split by his usual grin, wide and carefree.
But his eyes—they burned.
Fierce, wild, almost manic.
"HAHAHAHA!" His laugh thundered across the battlefield.
"Now THIS is what I've been waiting for! An attack worth testing these iron fists against!"
Sengoku's stomach dropped. He knew that tone, that recklessness.
"Garp! Don't be a fool! Get back here!" he shouted, desperation leaking into his voice.
"This isn't something you can joke about!"
But Garp didn't turn back.
His steps were steady, purposeful, each one landing with a boom of power.
Finally, he glanced over his shoulder, eyes meeting Sengoku's.
His voice was calm—serious in a way that froze Sengoku's breath.
"You're the Fleet Admiral. The Marines can't lose you. Me? I'm just an old relic. Whether I live or die doesn't matter. Let me take this one."
He didn't wait for a reply.
In the next moment, his figure blurred forward, charging directly beneath the ten-thousand-meter sword descending from the sky.
Haki surged from him.
A tidal wave of Armament wrapped around his fist, so thick it looked like molten iron flowing across his skin.
And then came the glow—a searing crimson light, burning hotter than fire, as if he'd stolen the core of a star and packed it into his knuckles.
Garp roared.
"GALAXY ULTRA IMPACT!"
The punch shot upward, meeting the slash head-on.
The collision was instant.
A deafening BOOM tore through Marineford, a blast so immense the entire island quaked.
Light and shadow warped, space itself seemed to scream, and the air split with a shriek that ripped at eardrums.
Everyone squeezed their eyes shut, unable to bear the sight of what was surely about to happen—their hero, Garp, cut down like nothing beneath a god's blade.
Compared to that colossal Sword energy, his body looked pitifully small, a speck before a storm.
Seconds stretched into eternities.
And then…
Silence.
A confused murmur rose from the crowd.
"This… this can't be right…"
Hesitantly, eyes began to crack open.
One by one, Marines, pirates, and even Admirals alike open their eyes.
What they saw left them speechless.
Garp stood mid-air, arm still raised, completely unharmed.
His iron fist glowed faintly, smoke curling off it like an extinguished forge.
Above him, the ten-thousand-meter sword—the unstoppable, world-ending slash—was no more.
It had shattered, reduced to a rain of glowing fragments that drifted down like harmless starlight.
The attack that had promised annihilation… undone by a single punch.
The plaza fell into silence so deep it was suffocating.
No one could speak.
No one could even process it.
The impossible had just happened.
The Hero of the Marines hadn't just survived—he had broken a god's strike with nothing but his fist.
And in that moment, the battlefield realized something terrifying.
'Vice Admiral Garp… hadn't grown weaker with age.'
'If anything, he was still getting stronger.'
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