At the top of the cliff—
The eyes of Peak Whitebeard, sharp as an eagle's, suddenly narrowed to the extreme.
Something was wrong!
This sensation… it's off!
The faint wave drifting up from below the cliff was undeniably the power of the Tremor-Tremor Fruit—pure and unadulterated, soul-deep and impossible to fake.
But there was something else in that power.
Something he detested—something that could never be part of him.
A scent of… decay.
Impossible!
He, Edward Newgate, was the King who reigned over these seas! The Strongest Man in the World!
His power was about destruction—domination—absolute force!
When did it start to feel so… old and withered?!
"You bastard…"
A low growl rose from Peak Whitebeard's throat. His face, etched with displeasure and frustration, was instantly overtaken by sheer, explosive fury.
He felt insulted—humiliated like never before!
Even more than when that bastard Roger stole Oden away right in front of him—this was ten thousand times worse!
Who?
Who the hell dares to profane my power like this?!
BOOM—!
He didn't even bend his knees.
That massive, mountain-like body launched itself straight off the hundred-meter cliff.
The air beneath his feet compressed like solid ground, thundering with a heavy crack!
He turned into a golden afterimage, blazing with uncontainable rage and momentum, crossing the distance in an instant.
"Pops!"
Marco barely caught a blur before an overwhelming pressure, enough to freeze even his soul, surged over him like a tsunami.
He screamed instinctively, trying to stand between the old Whitebeard and danger.
But before the Supreme Conqueror's Intimidation, his body locked up like a statue—he couldn't even move a finger.
Too fast!
Too strong!
This is the man I remember—unrivaled!
His very presence dimmed everything around him.
As the dust settled—
Peak Whitebeard stood before them like an unshakable mountain.
Golden hair flowing wildly, his upper body bare, muscles bulging with explosive strength.
His gaze, sharp like an unsheathed blade, swept over Marco, whose face had gone pale from fear.
Whitebeard's brow furrowed deeper.
That look in Marco's eyes… something's off.
Why would my son look at me like he's seen a ghost? And… he looks a bit older?
Then, his gaze shifted to Lucian Thorn.
A stranger—young and strong—but that overly calm expression on his face annoyed Whitebeard to no end.
Finally—
His eyes landed on the source of the revolting aura that had enraged him.
The moment he saw it, the last string of reason in his mind snapped completely.
It was a man who looked exactly like him.
No.
It wasn't him at all.
It was a decrepit monster wearing his face like a mask!
A face wrinkled with age, a body scarred by countless wounds, so frail he needed a supreme-grade greatsword as a cane just to stand.
That sickly, dying figure—it was like a mirror reflecting the one future he most feared and could never accept.
Disgrace!
An unprecedented shame!
Peak Whitebeard's chest heaved violently, two blasts of hot air snorting from his nostrils.
Then he realized—
This sea held many strange Devil Fruit abilities.
Shapeshifting ones were not rare.
He even remembered one that could mimic appearances perfectly.
This thing had to be the result of some idiot ability user trying to provoke him.
Trying to shake his will by using this feeble image of himself?
Disgusting!
Absolutely laughable!
"Gurararara…"
A low, restrained chuckle rolled from Peak Whitebeard's throat—packed with fury strong enough to annihilate worlds.
"You bastard!"
A thunderous roar exploded across the entire coastline!
The nearby rocks shattered with spiderweb cracks under the force of his voice alone.
"I've seen plenty of Devil Fruit users trying to imitate me!"
He clenched his iron-hard fist.
Buzz—!
A pure white aura, like cracked glass, enveloped his fist instantly.
Even the air cried out under the pressure—squeezing, ripping apart under his overwhelming might!
"But to have the guts to use that pathetic, half-dead version of me to disgust me…"
His eyes burned with towering flames of rage, locked on the elderly Whitebeard.
"You're the first, you son of a bitch!"
The moment his words fell—he moved!
No warning.
No probing.
Just a king unleashing his wrath in the most direct, brutal way possible!
His tremor-wrapped fist shot forth like a white comet tearing through the sky—carrying the might to cleave an entire island in two—aimed squarely at the old Whitebeard's face!
He held nothing back.
He would erase this pretender—and that revolting, decaying skin—from the face of the world!
"NO—! Pops!!"
Marco's pupils shrank to pinpricks as he let out a bloodcurdling scream.
Blue flames erupted around him as he dashed forward, desperate to stop the blow.
But he failed.
Compared to Peak Whitebeard's enraged full-force strike, Marco's speed was like a crawling snail.
And yet—
Against all expectations—
The aged Whitebeard facing that world-ending punch—
Showed not even a hint of fear.
He didn't even look at the fist.
Instead, his gaze went beyond it—to the furious young face that mirrored his own youth.
And then—
He smiled.
A faint, nostalgic, and oddly satisfied smile curled at his lips.
"Gurararara…"
"Still the same, aren't you—my old self."
"Just as hot-headed."
You stubborn brat.
He chuckled softly, like a father scolding a reckless child.
Then—
Under Marco's horrified eyes—
Under Lucian's calm stare—
The old Whitebeard slowly raised his right hand, mottled with age spots.
He too clenched his fist.
No Armament Haki.
No black coating.
Just the same white, cracked-glass glow—faint and far dimmer than his opponent's.
And then—
As that world-destroying "white comet" closed in—
He didn't flinch.
He didn't dodge.
He met it head-on.