"Galaxy Impact…!!!"
The sky itself ignited. Garp's fist, burning like a roaring star, radiated an unbearable brilliance, its golden glow stretching across the heavens and swallowing the night. The sheer force of the impending strike twisted the air itself, warping the very fabric of the battlefield. The seas beyond the archipelago recoiled as waves surged outward, fleeing from the immense pressure building above Sabaody.
The force of his will alone crushed the very island beneath me. Every pulse of energy from his raised fist sent devastating shockwaves through the earth, each one hammering my body with an invisible weight. My knees threatened to buckle as the ground cracked apart beneath me, forming a crater that deepened with each pulse, dragging me downward like an abyss opening to swallow me whole.
I grit my teeth, forcing myself upright. The taste of blood was thick in my mouth, my entire body screaming in agony. Three days. We had fought for over three days, trading blows that would have shattered mountains, cutting down any hesitation, any weakness that dared linger in our souls. I had lost count of how many times I had been struck down, how many times my blade had carved into my mentor's flesh.
But neither of us yielded. And now, the final clash was upon us. Above, Garp's fist reached its peak, and with the force of a wrathful god, he brought it down. The world screamed.
I could see it before it even struck—the sheer force of his attack obliterating the very concept of reality, an undeniable force of destruction that sought to erase everything in its path. The sky burned with his will, splitting open as if the heavens themselves had been torn apart.
There was no time to hesitate. No time to falter.
My haki roared in defiance. It wasn't a mere aura anymore—it was a living thing, a primordial entity that surged forth, wrapping around me like a storm made flesh. My entire body crackled with the fury of black lightning, tendrils of darkness lashing out in wild arcs as my form began to shift.
I could feel it—the culmination of everything I had fought for. My body expanded, surging beyond mortal limitations, swelling into a monstrous ten-meter colossus of pure blackened menace. My very presence distorted reality, the sheer force of my haki blackening the space around me as if I were a singularity of absolute will. My twin blades trembled in my grasp, absorbing the boundless power coursing through me, reshaping themselves to fit my new form.
Shusui, my black blade, pulsed with a deep, electrifying energy, its steel now a twisted reflection of the burning sun above. And my other sword, Akatsuki… it had become something else entirely. It was no longer a weapon of mere steel. No, it had become something far worse. A blade of living darkness, swallowing the very light around it—a sword that promised oblivion.
A weapon of the world's end. I raised both blades, crossing them before me as my stance solidified, the weight of my haki bending the air itself. My breath steadied, my focus narrowing to a singular point. I had already named this technique in my heart long ago. This was my answer.
"Niten Ichi-Ryū: Sekai Saigo."
(Two Heavens as One: World's End.)
And then—I moved. In an instant, my body became nothing but a streak of void and crimson, launching upward with a force that shattered the ground beneath me. The air itself fractured as I ascended, meeting the incoming cataclysm with my own.
Sword met fist. And the world broke. The very moment they collided, the skies above Sabaody detonated.
A shockwave unlike anything the world had ever witnessed erupted outward, consuming everything in its wake. The sheer force of our clash ripped apart the atmosphere, the collision sending a storm of haki-infused destruction tearing through the heavens. The clouds above disintegrated in an instant, the very air igniting in a golden-black inferno as the impact reshaped the battlefield.
The seas split. Tsunamis hundreds of meters high surged outward, racing toward the horizon like divine retribution. The Red Line, the very boundary that divided the seas, trembled beneath the force of our wills. The island of Sabaody itself fractured, great chunks of earth and mangled trees sent spiraling into the sky as the landmass struggled to endure the forces colliding above it.
For a single, eternal moment, it felt as if time itself had stopped. And then—the explosion came. A dome of pure destruction expanded outward, swallowing the battlefield whole. Black lightning and golden fire spiraled within the core of the blast, an unholy maelstrom of opposing wills vying for dominance. The heavens roared, the very sun dimming against the sheer brilliance of our clashing energies.
I could feel it—Garp's power, his absolute determination, his boundless, unshakable will. It was like trying to cut through the foundation of the world itself. But I would not yield. I could not yield.
My haki surged in response, pouring everything I had left into the clash. My blades screamed as they fought against the overwhelming force bearing down upon them, my entire being pushed to its absolute limits. Every fiber of my soul burned with the singular desire to cut through fate itself.
I let out a roar, my blackened form surging forward, my swords pressing harder—pushing back against the coming apocalypse. The air cracked. The world groaned.
And then, with a final, deafening explosion—The attack broke.
A fissure of energy ripped apart the sky itself, dividing the heavens like a celestial wound. The very fabric of reality trembled as the force of our clash reached its peak, splitting outward in twin arcs of destruction. One, a blinding surge of golden power, carving a path deep into the sea. The other, a streak of absolute darkness, cleaving through the land itself.
Garp's fist, steaming with the remnants of his attack, trembled slightly—though his grin remained as fierce as ever. His eyes, sharp and knowing, met mine through the fading storm of haki.
I was still standing.
Blood dripped from my arms, my body screaming in protest, but I did not fall. My twin blades, still seething with power, remained steady in my grasp.
And then, for the first time in this battle—Garp laughed.
"Bwahahaha! You crazy brat…" His grin widened, wild and proud. "You really might be able to take my head someday."
The words echoed through the shattered battlefield, the sky above still burning from the force of our wills.
"Give up, kid… You're running on fumes. Are you really planning to fight me to the death here?" Garp's voice carried a rare edge of concern, his breath heavy, each exhale labored from exhaustion. For three relentless days, they had clashed, neither yielding, neither breaking. It had been years—decades, even—since Garp had been forced to fight at his absolute peak for this long.
Rosinante had become exactly what Garp had once envisioned him to be—a true monster, a warrior who had shattered every limit placed before him. But he was on the wrong side. And that was what gnawed at Garp more than anything else. He knew the consequences of this battle.
If Rosinante truly fell here, the Marines and the World Government would never let him slip away again. And Garp… Garp would have no excuse for letting him escape. The best he could do was try, one last time, to convince his former student to walk away—to live to fight another day.
But Rosinante only grinned, the crimson streaks on his face making his smirk seem almost devilish.
"I can still fight, Garp-san… Don't tell me you're already tired and need a rest?" His voice was hoarse, rasping like a blade drawn across stone. His body screamed in agony with every breath. His mythical Zoan fruit, which had once granted him boundless stamina and regeneration, was finally failing him—his reserves bled dry, his body barely clinging to life. Now, he fought on sheer instinct, fueled only by willpower. Every ounce of strength left in him was borrowed time.
Yet, even so… he refused to kneel. Garp frowned deeply, his sharp eyes scanning his former student's ruined form. Rosinante was holding on by a thread. His clothes were nothing more than bloodied rags barely clinging to his frame. Deep wounds marred his body, some still trickling blood despite his healing factor.
His dominant arm trembled from overexertion, yet his grip on his sword remained unshaken. The only thing keeping him standing was sheer, unyielding will. And yet, Garp wasn't faring much better. Though he carried himself steadily, his body bore the undeniable marks of war.
His fists—normally invincible weapons of destruction—were bruised and raw, laced with cuts from Rosinante's blades. His broad chest heaved as fatigue weighed down on his massive frame, each breath slower than the last. No matter how unbreakable he seemed, even the legendary Marine Hero had limits.
"Cough—!"
A wet, rattling sound broke the tense silence as Rosinante suddenly lurched forward, blood splattering from his lips onto the shattered ground below. His legs buckled, and for a moment, it seemed as if he would finally collapse—but at the last second, his sword plunged into the earth, holding him upright.
Garp instinctively took a step forward, concern flashing in his eyes. But before he could move closer, Rosinante's second blade snapped up—raised defensively between them, barring Garp from advancing. The unspoken message was clear: Don't take another step. This fight isn't over.
Rosinante let out a slow, shaky breath, then spit another mouthful of blood onto the ground. Through the swelling, through the pain, he lifted his one good eye—the other completely swollen shut—and met Garp's gaze.
There was no fear. No hesitation. Only sheer bloody will.
"Like I said earlier, old man…" He straightened, despite the unbearable strain, despite the screaming protests of his body. His aura flared—tattered but unwavering. "I'm not going to settle for anything less than a win."
For the first time in a long while, Garp felt something beyond worry—something deeper than concern. Respect. Even as battered as he was, even with death staring him in the face, Rosinante still refused to yield. He still stood tall, blade in hand, daring to challenge the man known as the Marine Hero.
Garp clenched his fists, his expression hardening.
"Then so be it."
*****
Oykot Kingdom, East Blue
Bellemere struggled, her body writhing beneath the crushing weight of the pirate who had her pinned to the cold, blood-slicked floor. Her tattered Marine coat, once a symbol of justice, now clung to her dirtied, battered form like a cruel mockery of what she once stood for. She had fought—fought until her knuckles bled, until her strength was drained, until her body no longer obeyed her will. But it hadn't been enough.
Her assailant—a hulking brute of a man, his flesh riddled with scars, his breath reeking of rum and rot—pressed down harder, his weight suffocating, his laughter a guttural growl of depravity. He had no regard for the dozen corpses strewn around them, the lifeless remains of Bellemere's fallen comrades who had fought beside her. No, his bloodshot eyes saw only her—a prize to be claimed, a body to be defiled.
Bellemere thrashed, her knees jerking upward, her fists pounding against his chest, but he didn't even flinch. She had spent everything in the battle before this. There was nothing left. The pirate sneered, one massive hand forcing her wrists down, his other fumbling to tear away the last of her dignity.
No… Not like this.
Her fingers clawed desperately at the grime-covered floor, searching, grasping for anything. And then—cold iron met her touch. A broken rod, its jagged edge rusted but sharp enough to pierce flesh. Her body moved before thought could catch up.
With a scream of raw fury, Bellemere twisted her wrist and drove the iron rod straight into the pirate's throat.
The brute's eyes widened, a choked gurgle escaping his lips as blood erupted from the wound in violent spurts, painting her face, her hands, her uniform. He twitched, his grip slackening, but Bellemere wasn't done. With a strength she didn't know she still had, she twisted the rod deeper, severing veins and cartilage.
He made a wet, gurgling sound, hands grasping weakly at his own throat, but Bellemere didn't stop. She pulled back and rammed it in again. And again. And again. Each thrust sending more blood cascading down his chest, splattering across the corpses littering the warehouse floor.
By the time she stopped, her breathing ragged, her arms trembling, the pirate's head lolled to the side, nearly severed from his body. A grotesque, slack-jawed expression frozen in his final moments of shock and agony.
Bellemere shoved him off with what little strength she had left, his massive frame toppling to the floor with a dull, lifeless thud. She was free. But at what cost?
She pushed herself towards a crate and sat there for a moment, her back pressed against a shattered wooden crate, her entire body slick with blood—some hers, some his. The warehouse around her was a slaughterhouse. The remains of her fallen comrades—good men, brave men—were strewn across the floor, their bodies twisted in unnatural angles, their weapons still clutched in cold, dead fingers.
A choked sob clawed its way up her throat, but she swallowed it down. They had won… but there was no one left to celebrate.
A sudden, searing pain tore through her senses, and she gasped, only now registering the deep wound across her torso. The gash stretched from her side to her stomach, flesh torn open, her insides dangerously close to spilling out. Blood oozed from the wound, pooling beneath her. The adrenaline was fading now, and the pain crashed over her like a tidal wave.
"Aaaaaah…!"
The scream tore from her throat before she could stop it, raw and guttural, but no one was left to hear it. Her vision blurred. Her body trembled. So this is it, huh?
For over a year, she had fought—fought for this forsaken island the World Government had abandoned, for the people left to fend for themselves, for a justice the Marines had turned their backs on. And for what? The Oykot Kingdom had long since become a haven for monsters. Pirates and slavers ran unchecked, preying on the weak, multiplying like a disease with no cure. And the Marines? The kingdoms nearby? They had done nothing.
The people had resisted, once. A handful of Marines, civilians, fighters—those brave enough to believe they could take their home back. And one by one, they had been slaughtered, until now… until she was the last one left.
She let her head fall back against the crate, her ragged breath turning shallow. For the first time in years, she felt tired. Not just from battle. From everything. She had tried. She had tried so damn hard. Sleep tugged at her, a gentle, beckoning force. Maybe this was for the best. Maybe she could finally rest.
Her blood continued to spill, her body growing colder by the second. The sounds of distant gunfire and screams echoed faintly from beyond the warehouse walls—proof that the nightmare wasn't over. But for Bellemere… maybe it was.
Darkness closed in around Bellemere, her body growing numb, her consciousness slipping like grains of sand through her fingers. The battle was over. She had nothing left. Perhaps it was time to let go. But then—a cry.
Faint, but distinct. A sound too pure, too fragile to exist in a place as cursed as this.
Bellemere's breath hitched. Was that… a child?
Her mind, sluggish from blood loss, screamed at her that it had to be a hallucination, a cruel trick of her fading senses. But then she heard it again. A weak, desperate wail from somewhere deep within the shadows of the ruined warehouse.
Her eyes snapped open. Her body, no longer willing to fight for its own survival, suddenly found a reason to move. There was a child here. Alone. Helpless. And in this forsaken kingdom, that meant certain death.
Memories she had buried deep clawed their way to the surface. The twisted remains of a tiny corpse she had once found in an alley, scavenged by starved dogs. The sight had haunted her ever since, a brutal reminder of the world's cruelty. She refused to let that happen again.
Pain flared through her body as she tried to move, but she gritted her teeth, forcing herself onto her side. I have to live. She had just given up moments ago, but now? Now she had something left to fight for.
Her trembling hands reached for what remained of her tattered Marine coat. With sheer determination, she tore at the fabric, binding it tightly around her gaping wound, biting back a scream as fire coursed through her veins. It wasn't enough—not nearly enough. She forced her fingers to keep moving, stripping the shirt from a nearby corpse and wrapping it around her midsection, layering it over the makeshift tourniquet. The smell of death was thick in the air, but she didn't care.
Survival mattered now. Not for her—but for that child. Her gaze darted around the battlefield of bodies, searching for a weapon. She wouldn't go in defenseless. Pirates in Oykot were notorious for setting traps using children as bait. If this was one of those tricks, she needed to be ready.
Her fingers closed around the cold steel of a discarded rifle. A few scattered rounds lay nearby, and with practiced hands—despite her blood-soaked, shaking fingers—she loaded them into the chamber.
With a deep, shuddering breath, Bellemere braced herself. And then she moved. Pain ripped through her like a thousand knives, but she refused to fall. She planted the butt of the rifle against the ground, using it as a crutch, forcing her battered body upward. Her legs wobbled, her muscles spasmed, but she pushed through it.
The first step sent her crashing into a stack of broken crates. The impact sent a fresh wave of agony through her, but she gritted her teeth and pushed off the splintered wood.
Another step. Move. Another. Keep going.
Dragging herself forward, Bellemere staggered toward the warehouse interior, toward the sound of the crying child, toward whatever fate awaited her in the darkness. She wasn't ready to die just yet. Not until she saved them.
Bellemere staggered forward, each step a war against the pain threatening to consume her. The thick scent of blood, sweat, and decay filled the abandoned warehouse, but all she focused on was the faint, trembling cry echoing from the darkness ahead.
Her vision blurred from exhaustion and blood loss, but she pressed on, the rifle clutched tightly in her shaking hands. If this was a trap, she would fight to her last breath. If it wasn't… then she couldn't let a child die alone in this forsaken place.
As she moved deeper into the warehouse, past broken crates and the bodies of her fallen comrades, she finally saw them. Huddled in the corner, barely visible in the dim light filtering through a shattered window, was a young girl.
She couldn't have been older than two maybe three—small, frail, and shivering in fear. Her dark skin was streaked with dirt and dried tears, and her short blue hair clung to her damp cheeks. But what gripped Bellemere's heart most was the way the little girl clutched a tiny infant to her chest, shielding the baby with her own body as if her small frame could protect them from the horrors of the world.
The baby—a girl, no older than a few months—was wrapped in a tattered blanket, her tiny face flushed from crying. Tufts of soft orange hair peeked out, and her delicate fingers clung weakly to her sister's ragged shirt. She was too young to understand the nightmare surrounding them, too fragile to survive without someone to shield her.
Bellemere's breath caught in her throat. They were alone. Abandoned. Left to die in this lawless hell. She tried to speak, but her throat was too dry. Instead, she forced herself forward, her bloodied boots scraping against the ground. The noise startled the older girl, who gasped and recoiled, holding the baby even tighter.
Bellemere raised her free hand, forcing what little gentleness she had left into her voice.
"Hey… it's okay. I'm not gonna hurt you."
The girl didn't respond. Her wide, terrified eyes darted around, searching for an escape. Bellemere knew that look—it was the look of a child who had already seen too much, who had learned that trusting the wrong person meant death.
The baby whimpered, and the girl immediately turned her attention back to her, gently rocking her as best she could. Even with her tiny hands trembling, she still held onto the infant with fierce determination, whispering soft words of comfort.
Bellemere felt something tighten in her chest. Even after everything, this little girl refused to let go of her baby sister. She knelt, ignoring the searing pain in her gut, and set her rifle aside. "I know you're scared," she said, her voice softer now. "But you don't have to be anymore."
The girl hesitated, biting her lip. Her grip didn't loosen, but her eyes—filled with suspicion and hope in equal measure—lingered on Bellemere's battered Marine coat.
"You're… a Marine?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
Bellemere almost laughed. She wasn't sure what she was anymore.
"I was," she admitted. "A long time ago."
Silence stretched between them. The baby fussed, her tiny hands reaching aimlessly. The older girl shifted, uncertain—but not running.
"What's your name?" Bellemere asked.
"…Nojiko," the girl mumbled. She glanced down at the baby in her arms. "And this is… my little sister. Nami."
Nami. Bellemere exhaled shakily. They had names. They weren't just two more forgotten lives in this wasteland. She reached out carefully, her fingers brushing against Nami's tiny hand. The baby curled her fingers around one of Bellemere's, gripping with surprising strength.
Something inside her shattered. In that moment, the weight of everything she had lost, everything she had fought for, all the pain and suffering of this island—it all faded away. All that mattered was them.
Bellemere had been prepared to die today. She had accepted it. But now? Now, she had a reason to live. She wouldn't abandon them. She wouldn't let them be swallowed by the same cruel world that had taken so much from her.
Slowly, with immense effort, Bellemere lifted her arms. "Come on, kid… let me carry her. You must be tired."
Nojiko hesitated. But then, her tiny shoulders sagged. She was exhausted—too exhausted to keep fighting alone. She shifted forward, allowing Bellemere to take Nami into her arms. The baby whimpered once before settling against her bloodstained chest, her tiny body warm and impossibly light. Nojiko, without a word, clung to Bellemere's side, burying her face against her.
Bellemere closed her eyes.
This wasn't the future she had ever imagined for herself. But it was the one she chose. She would live. She would fight. And from this moment on—Nojiko and Nami were her daughters.
With newfound determination burning in her veins, Bellemere tightened her grip on them both, stood tall despite the pain, and stepped forward. It was time to go home.