At this time, Morgan had not yet suffered the humiliating defeat at the hands of Kuro of a Hundred Plans. His chin was still flesh, and his arms had yet to be replaced with axe-shaped prosthetics—but his aura was more imposing than ever.
That was because his mindset, will, and conviction were all at their peak. The power born from unshakable belief burned brighter than any weapon.
Morgan stared into the distance.
Flames soared into the sky above the desolate island. A Marine scout rushed to his side, saluted crisply, and reported:
"A pirate ship has been spotted in a bay on the island. Based on the flag, it's unmistakably the Gawain Pirates."
"But there's something odd—the ship has been split cleanly in half. The break is smooth, too precise to be caused by nature. It appears to be man-made."
Morgan's expression twitched slightly. He lifted the telescope and scanned the distant shore.
Just as the scout had said, a pirate ship lay marooned on the beach, severed neatly at the center.
He had seen such a wound before.
It was a few years back—when Garp had returned to the East Blue to purge the local pirate threat.
There had been a man who followed Garp everywhere. Quiet, unassuming—Bogart. Most assumed he was just Garp's aide.
Until he unsheathed his sword.
With a single stroke, Bogart had cleaved an enemy ship in two. The wave of sword energy had nearly split the sea itself. No one dared to underestimate him again.
Anyone who could follow Garp for decades was no ordinary man.
The scar left by Bogart back then looked almost identical to the one Morgan saw now.
From that alone, Morgan could tell—it had been the work of a swordsman. And a damn good one.
"Could it have been Knight Gawain?"
He dismissed the thought with a scoff.
"No… A swordsman capable of this would rank among the elites of the Grand Line. Gawain doesn't have that kind of strength. He must have run into another pirate."
Morgan's brow furrowed. The presence of such a powerful unknown unsettled him. A warrior who could slice a ship in two should not be roaming unnoticed in the East Blue.
In his mind, only a handful of officers at Marine Headquarters had that level of ability.
"Still... it looks like this swordsman clashed with Gawain's crew. Ha! What an unlucky bastard."
With that, Morgan's confidence swelled.
Gawain had never been a real threat in his eyes.
Now, if he'd also taken a beating from some mysterious powerhouse? Then he was surely on his last legs. The shattered ship was proof enough.
Round after round of cannon fire rained from the warship, red-hot shells streaking through the night sky like meteors. The island was engulfed in flame; the once-dark forest now burned like a bonfire.
The crackle of fire replaced all sound. The jungle was silent—eerily so.
Morgan, seeing that over half the ship's ammunition had been spent, raised a hand to halt the barrage.
He was ready to claim Gawain's head personally.
Behind him, the marines buzzed with anticipation. Morgan turned to them and grinned:
"Brothers! Tonight, we make history!"
"For justice!"
His voice rang out, resolute and firm. The marines' eyes lit up with fire. Some trembled—not in fear, but in excitement.
This wasn't their first encounter with the Gawain Pirates. Every time before, they had driven the pirates into retreat, suffering only light injuries in return.
Now, Gawain was trapped on the island.
He was no longer just a fugitive—he was a bounty worth 50 million berries, walking and breathing.
"It's not just the Marines," someone whispered. "The royal family of the Goa Kingdom is offering a bounty of 50 million in the underground market!"
"Capture him, and the reward is ours. Besides, we're enforcing justice!"
"Absolute justice!"
The chant spread like wildfire, sweeping away any lingering hesitation. Their belief in justice, now fused with greed, gave them courage. Their weapons gleamed in the firelight. They were no longer soldiers—they were executioners.
Each man could already see it: glory, rank, riches. Promotion. Recognition.
"Kill!!"
Morgan bellowed and leapt off the warship, charging toward the burning island.
Behind him, an entire unit of marines followed, eyes wild, faces alight with fanaticism.
Their footsteps were swift, and Morgan led the charge. In just a few minutes, the marines had closed a distance of nearly a thousand meters.
Soon, Gawain appeared in Morgan's line of sight.
He stood at the head of a ragged group of pirates, a long sword in hand, his face calm and unreadable. Behind him were dozens of his crew—bloodied, battered, but still standing.
Gawain regarded the fanatical marines with cold indifference.
To him, their eyes were no different from those who had come before—and died. The same fanaticism. The same greed.
Then, chaos erupted.
Gunfire burst through the silence of the scorched island. In the span of a few breaths, bodies from both sides crumpled to the blood-stained earth.
Even those who had cowered in fear aboard Gawain's ship now found themselves swept up in the adrenaline. Their fear forgotten, they picked up swords and rifles, diving back into the fray with feral resolve.
It was a brutal, hideous fight.
For the navy, it was about glory, rank, and a handsome reward.
For the pirates—it was survival. Nothing more.
Bang!
Bang!
Bang!
Amid the hail of bullets, Gawain moved.
With a fluid sweep of his sword, he deflected several bullets aimed for his chest. Then he looked up at Morgan—still standing motionless across the battlefield—and allowed a faint, mocking smile to tug at his lips.
"Rather than a marine, you look more like my colleague."
"Sharp-tongued brat," Morgan growled.
He sneered, clearly done with words.
With a thunderous step that cracked the ground beneath him, Morgan launched forward like an arrow loosed from a bow.
The massive axe in his hands whistled through the air, trailing explosive force behind it. A single blow like this could reduce solid rock to powder.
He had overwhelmed Gawain with brute strength before. He saw no reason this time would be any different.
Yes, there were ways to transform one's strength in weeks—Devil Fruits, cybernetic upgrades, the awakening of Haki. This sea had seen many such miracles.
But Gawain?
He wasn't one of them.
Boom!
Morgan's axe smashed into the earth, shattering stone and soil alike.
But something was wrong.
He frowned.
"Missed?"
"No," came a voice behind him, smooth and taunting.
"You were just too slow."
A chill ran down Morgan's spine. Sweat broke across his back as the voice reached his ears.
Suddenly, the image of the ship split in two on the beach flashed through his mind.
No. It can't be.
Then it came—an overwhelming killing intent, crashing over him like a wave of ice. The very air around him felt frozen. Terror gripped his chest like a vice.
A thought he had forcibly suppressed clawed its way back into his mind.
His pupils shrank.
"That ship… You cut it? That's impossible!"
"Only the mediocre talk of impossibility," Gawain's voice said coldly.
"The strong find a way. That's the gap between you and me."
Gawain stared at Morgan with mild disinterest. The man who had once crushed him with sheer power no longer stirred even the will to fight in him.
His tone was flat. Final.
"I'll kill you with one sword—and cut ties with the past."
"I—!"
Morgan's words died in his throat.
He felt an icy touch at his neck. In the same instant, Gawain vanished from his sight.
Then the world began to spin.
A headless body dropped to the ground before him.
Was that me?
The thought flickered in his mind—brief, surreal—before everything faded into darkness.