"Destiny Cleaver!" The cry tore through the sky like thunder.
From above, Gaban descended like a falling star—no, like a wrathful god made flesh. Though his figure appeared small in the vastness of the sky, his presence alone eclipsed the sun. The air itself trembled with anticipation, the heavens growing dim as if nature dared not look upon what was to come.
Beneath him stood a titan, a construct of unimaginable power—Douglas Bullet, the Demon Heir of the Pirate King, clad in a war machine forged from the wreckage of fallen ships, islands, and nightmares. His massive form towered like a steel colossus, his mechanical limbs groaning with raw might. Bullet, a man who had once stood beside the pirates who had conquered the world itself, now roared in defiance, his pride a flame that refused to flicker out.
"COME THEN, GABAN!" he howled, voice like a thousand cannons firing at once.
His fist, the size of a mountain, drew back—an avalanche of power behind it. Armament Haki, black as night and pulsing with malicious will, coated every inch of the colossal arm. With a roar that made the clouds recoil, Bullet unleashed it.
The punch hurtled toward Gaban, a meteor of its own. But Gaban did not waver. His twin axes—one of ironwood and seastone, the other forged from an ancient metal said to be able to cleave fate itself—were crossed behind his back as he channeled his Will.
His Haki exploded from him in tidal waves, crashing down upon the mountain-sized fist hurtling his way. The sky turned blood-red. The Reverse Mountain, ancient and immovable, groaned as if the world itself were shattering.
Then it came.
BOOOOOOM!
The collision was apocalyptic. The very heavens split apart as Gaban's Destiny Cleaver met Bullet's titan punch. A shockwave of pure force erupted, shattering the atmosphere. Reverse Mountain trembled to its core, cracks webbing across its stone heart as avalanches fell in every direction. The Twin Capes were erased in an instant—turned into nothing more than swirling dust lost to the winds of history.
Even the Red Line itself groaned in the distance, reacting to the sheer might that had just been unleashed. The sea parted. Massive tsunamis, kilometers high, surged outward in all directions, threatening to swallow entire fleets in the Grand Line and beyond. The very laws of nature bent under the weight of the clash between two titans—one forged by destiny, the other by wrath.
Then, through the deafening silence that followed, came the sound that echoed across the four seas: "AAAAAARRRGHHHH!"
A scream—raw, primal, and soaked in agony. Blood, thick and dark, poured down the side of the mountain. From above, a gaping cleave could be seen in the titan's form. Gaban's axes had split through Bullet's punch, through the arm, the shoulder, and halfway through his massive chest.
The Demon Heir was severed—his right arm gone, and part of his torso carved open, exposing shattered armor, torn flesh, and broken pride. His towering form wavered. The monster who once challenged Gol D. Roger, who had declared war on the world itself, staggered for the first time.
Then, he collapsed, crashing into the sea, creating a whirlpool so vast that nearby islands were pulled toward it like dust into a black hole. Gaban, bruised and bleeding but still standing unyielding midair, hovered like a ghost of the old era—his expression calm, but his eyes burning like twin suns.
He had not come to show mercy; no, he had come to hunt down the scourge that had dared to bare its fangs at the crew that Roger called family. He had come to remind the world that the legacy of the Pirate King was not yet buried.
The massive titan that was Douglas Bullet began to crumble. His monstrous construct—an amalgamation of lava, steel, haki, and wrath—groaned as cracks spidered through its surface. With his arm severed and Haki drained, the behemoth could no longer support its own impossible weight.
Piece by piece, the towering form began to collapse, disintegrating into jagged metal and shattered remnants of ambition. The sea welcomed him like a hungry beast, swallowing the Demon Heir whole. Steam hissed where his burning body met water, and the massive crater where Twin Cape once stood was now nothing but a churning abyss.
But Gaban was not done. His blood-red eyes, glowing with a mix of fury and purpose, scanned the wreckage. His Observation Haki flared violently, piercing through the black waters, searching. He would not leave it to fate—not with someone like Bullet. This was no ordinary pirate.
This was a man who had slaughtered comrades, leveled cities, and stood toe-to-toe with the overlords of the sea. A monster like that couldn't be left to fate. He needed to be erased. Here. Now. Raising his twin axes, Gaban prepared the finishing blow—his body tense, his will sharpened to a lethal point as haki poured through his weapons.
And then—a flash. A blur. A shift in the air.
Suddenly, Gaban's instincts screamed. His Kenbunshoku Haki erupted in alarm. Without hesitation, he vanished in a burst of Soru, moving hundreds of meters away in the blink of an eye.
Boom.
Where he had hovered just a moment before, the sky cracked open, and two figures stood suspended in midair, cloaked in power and history. Both wore the unmistakable white Marine coat, its justice kanji fluttering behind them like a battle flag. The man in the lead, his black hair streaked with silver in between, gleamed beneath the sunlight, and a fist the size of a cannonball was clenched tightly at his side.
The other stood calm and composed—Bogard, the silent swordsman of legend, hand resting lightly on the hilt of his blade, eyes sharp as hawk talons. The air grew heavy, gravity itself seemingly bowing before the arrival of Vice Admiral Monkey D. Garp—the Hero of the Marines.
"That's enough, Gaban..." Garp's voice was low, but it rumbled like thunder across the battlefield. There was no scream, no grand gesture—just a simple, terrifying statement, laced with enough pressure to silence a sea of pirates.
Down below, Crocus, battered but conscious, cursed under his breath. "Of all times... why now, you damn bastard..." he muttered, staring up at the man who once traded blows with the Pirate King.
Gaban didn't move. His knuckles whitened around his axes. Rage flared in his veins, but so too did caution. He knew better than anyone the strength of the man in front of him. Garp the Fist—the Marine who cornered Gol D. Roger time and again. The only man Roger ever called an equal.
"This isn't your fight, Garp," Gaban snarled, his voice cracking like lightning. "He killed our crewmates—good men. I'm not letting him live."
Garp's eyes didn't flinch. He surveyed the battlefield—what had once been the gateway to the Grand Line was now a desolate warzone, the scars of their battle etched into the Reverse Mountain itself.
"I don't care what grudge you hold. You want justice? Fine. But this isn't it. The world can't survive another war between monsters of the old era."
Gaban's Haki surged, the very clouds trembling above him. His rage had not subsided.
"I'm warning you, Garp. Move aside. He needs to die." There was silence. And then, Garp spoke again. This time, his voice was firmer—an unmovable wall.
"He will be sealed in Impel Down. Buried in the deepest levels. You have my word." He stepped forward, aura flaring. "But if you take another step... I'll consider it a declaration of war. Remember, you and the rest of Roger's crew have already retired."
For a moment, the world held its breath. Gaban stared at Garp—not just the marine, but the man who had once bled beside him in the era of legends. But the resolve in Garp's eyes was immovable. This wasn't just about Bullet anymore—it was about balance, about the authority of marines, about keeping the old era from devouring the new.
"Retired...?" Gaban scoffed bitterly. "You Marines never retracted our bounties. You never called off the hunt. You're not giving us a way out as you say—you're calculating risk. If any of us showed weakness, you'd take our heads without hesitation."
He took a breath. "Tell me, Garp... do your words speak for the entire Marines? Or just for yourself?" The two titans stared each other down.
Steel clashed not in blows, but in willpower—two living relics of a dead era standing atop the corpse of a battlefield, each unwilling to blink first. And somewhere, far beneath the waves, Douglas Bullet's broken body sank deeper... still alive... but unconscious.
"As for Impel Down, we both know how that ended last time…" Gaban sneered, his voice laced with bitter irony. "You captured him once, imprisoned him in the bowels of that fortress—and yet, what happened? It was breached. The world's so-called strongest prison was broken into. Who's to say it won't happen again?"
His eyes narrowed, his Observation Haki pulsating like a sixth sense, alert and sharp. He knew better than to let his guard down around Garp the Fist—a man who didn't need a Devil Fruit to flatten mountains. Garp didn't even look at him.
"Bogard... fish him out of the sea. We'll make a detour—Impel Down first. Then Marineford," Garp ordered, his tone calm and unshaken. It wasn't a suggestion. It was law.
Without a word, the silent swordsman at his side—Bogard, the phantom blade of the Marines—nodded once before diving headfirst into the churning black waters, his long coat fluttering like a falling banner.
Originally, Garp had been en route to Marineford, following orders from Sengoku to investigate the escalating unrest across Alabasta and its surrounding seas. There were whispers of chaos, rogue agents, and movements too coordinated to be random.
Garp, ever the storm-hardened veteran, had decided to pass through Reverse Mountain—an old habit, to visit an old acquaintance, Crocus. He hadn't expected to walk into the remnants of war—or to find Scopper Gaban mid-rampage.
Just then, Gaban moved. With a roar that split the heavens, he swung his twin axes, muscles straining with primal fury.
"Yasotakeru...!" The sky itself seemed to shudder as his blades carved through the air, launching a crescent-shaped shockwave of pure Busoshoku Haki, aimed directly at the ocean where Bullet's broken body sank.
But before the devastating slash could even kiss the surface, Garp moved.
In a blur of motion, he disappeared from sight. In the next heartbeat, he stood in the path of the descending strike, his right fist cocked back, coated in thick, pitch-black Armament Haki, crackling with energy. His entire arm gleamed like polished obsidian, a monument to power honed through decades of battle.
"RAAAGHHH!" Garp unleashed a punch that tore through the air like a cannon blast.
BOOOOOOOM!
The two attacks collided midair—and the very world screamed. A shockwave erupted from the point of impact, so powerful that the sea split in all directions, sending colossal tidal waves racing outward. The remnants of Twin Cape disintegrated into gravel, while the Reverse Mountain groaned under the weight of the aftershock, loose rock plummeting into the sea.
The wind howled. The clouds spiraled outward, parting like curtains as the heavens themselves bore witness to the clash of titans.
Crocus, still perched on a jagged outcrop, shielded his eyes from the flying debris, muttering curses. "Damn it all… it's like watching gods quarrel...". He had seen such clashes many times that he had lost count, especially back in the days when Garp used to relentlessly chase after Roger.
As the smoke began to clear, Garp stood unwavering in midair, steam rising from his fist. Gaban had recoiled slightly, not in fear—but in recognition. Their powers were still matched. And then, Garp smirked.
"If you really want a fight, Gaban..." he said, lowering his fist, "why don't we wait until your friend gets here?"
Gaban's eyes flared as he extended his Haki outward—as he had already felt it. A powerful, familiar aura tearing through the sky at blistering speed. A presence he knew well—one that could rival even his own monstrous might.
"So he's coming too, huh…?" Gaban murmured. Even so, he hadn't hesitated to strike. He had gambled—trusted that if the three of them clashed, they might just be able to bring down Garp.
Garp chuckled, the sound low and thunderous. "Don't get cocky, Gaban. Two of you, three of you—it doesn't matter. If I have to throw hands with the ghosts of the Pirate King's crew, I'll do it."
Above them, the skies darkened. The waves calmed for a moment. And far in the distance, a new storm was coming.
It took only moments for the air to shift. The storm clouds parted slightly as a new pressure descended on the battlefield—a quiet, controlled presence that still radiated undeniable power. From the sky above the shattered remains of Twin Cape, a man landed softly, his black cloak fluttering behind him, his golden blonde hair with streaks of silver glinting against the fading sunlight.
Silvers Rayleigh, the man once hailed as the Dark King, had arrived. His eyes, sharp and unwavering, swept across the devastated landscape. He ignored the ruined cliffs, the shattered ground, and even the massive crater where Gaban's final attack had clashed with Garp's mighty fist. His gaze honed in on one figure.
Crocus.
The old doctor stood wind-battered but alive. Rayleigh exhaled a soft breath of relief. Among the Roger Pirates, Crocus had always held a unique place. He wasn't a warrior, nor a pirate by heart. He had joined them for one reason only—to help Gol D. Roger complete his journey before the disease claimed him. A healer among monsters, Crocus had kept the King of the Pirates alive long enough to fulfill his destiny.
Rayleigh smiled faintly. "So… I was worried for nothing."
His attention finally shifted to the others. "Where is he, Gaban?" he asked, casually—too casually—but his eyes never left Garp. The air between them thickened. As a master of Observation Haki, Rayleigh could already feel the tension crackling between Garp and Gaban like a brewing thunderstorm. He didn't need to ask to understand.
Garp was refusing to let Douglas Bullet die. And that meant they were seconds from an all-out war. Gaban didn't answer with words. He simply jerked his chin toward the churning sea below. Rayleigh followed his gaze, and with a pulse of his Haki, scanned the depths.
There, being pulled from the depths of the abyss by Bogard, was the broken form of Douglas Bullet—the Demon Heir. Battered, torn, but still alive. The man who had betrayed their crew and murdered comrades now clung to the final threads of life, refusing to sink into the dark.
Rayleigh's expression darkened. His voice dropped an octave, laced with a steel-edged calm. "So… he's still breathing." It wasn't a question. It was a condemnation. "Don't tell me you're here to protect him, Garp."
The Marine Hero didn't flinch. Standing tall, arms folded behind his back, his coat flapping in the sea wind, Garp met the Dark King's glare with a neutral expression that barely masked the storm within.
"Are you here to fight me too, Rayleigh?" Garp said, his tone low, yet it rang with undeniable command. "You and Gaban both? You're really going to put your lives on the line… for a defeated man?"
He clenched his fist slowly, and the movement alone sent ripples of Haki radiating into the air.
"You should know," he continued, a grin creeping onto his face, "my fists have been itching lately. That little hellraiser that I raised , Rosinante, has showed me something in our recent clashes. Got me thinking…"
His voice dropped, raw and thunderous.
"I'm not done growing, not by a long shot." That declaration shook even the sea.
"I'm not at my peak yet. No, not even close to it. That little brat's haki has already shown signs of surpassing my own. Not even your supreme color might be a match for that troublemaker now. It made me realize I still have room to grow—room to crush islands, split seas, and defy fate. If the two of you want to test whether I've surpassed my previous level…"
His knuckles cracked like cannons as his Busoshoku Haki surged again, coating his arms in pitch-black obsidian. Lightning-like cracks ran through the air from the sheer pressure of it.
"Come, let's find out firsthand. Let's finish what started decades ago."
The wind howled. The sea churned. And in the skies above, the very clouds trembled at the imminent clash of the titans—the Fist of the Marines versus the Right and Left Hands of the Pirate King.
Just when the storm was about to break—when the three titans of the old era were moments away from clashing in a battle that would echo across the Grand Line—a voice cut through the air like a lightning strike.
"Stop it!"
It wasn't coated in Haki. It wasn't laced with power. But it rang louder than thunder in that moment. "Stop it… all of you!"
The shout came from Crocus, and it trembled—not with fear, but with restrained fury and desperation. The air stilled. Garp, Rayleigh, and Gaban all turned in unison, the pressure between them dissipating like mist. All three could see it now—the toll this moment had taken on the old doctor. His frame hunched, his breath ragged. His hands clenched at his sides, trembling. But his eyes—his eyes blazed with the conviction of a man who had endured far too much.
"Enough…" Crocus rasped, but there was no weakness in his tone—only heartache.
"Enough of this meaningless fight. Rayleigh. Gaban. I won't let you stain your hands with the blood of Roger's apprentice. Not here. Not today."
Rayleigh's brows furrowed. Gaban's jaw clenched. Neither interrupted, sensing what was coming next.
"Yes, he's fallen," Crocus continued. "He's no longer the boy who once stood on our deck with fire in his heart. He's a monster now, one who slaughtered his own crewmates and betrayed the very man who believed in him."
A flicker of pain crossed his features as he looked down at the rising form of Bullet, hauled from the sea like a broken specter.
"But…" Crocus's voice cracked, and his hand trembled as it touched the faded white cross on his cloak. "But once—once—he was part of our family. Roger's family. I watched him grow beside Shanks and Buggy. I tended to his wounds. I scolded him when he acted out. I believed, as Roger did, that there was something in him worth saving."
Silence fell, heavy and suffocating.
"I know it's naïve," Crocus admitted bitterly, turning his gaze to Garp now. "I know men like him—broken men—are rarely redeemed. But that doesn't mean I'll stand by and watch you two destroy yourselves by carrying out an execution."
He faced Rayleigh and Gaban fully now, his voice lowering but tightening with restrained steel.
"Roger's hands were never stained with the blood of his own crewmates. And I'll be damned if I let yours be." Gaban looked away, jaw locked tight. His axes trembled at his sides—not from fear, but from fury.
"Crocus… you don't understand. He'll come back. He always comes back. He's not finished, and if we let him live—"
"I do understand, Gaban!" Crocus roared, eyes gleaming with unshed tears. "More than you know. But if we kill him, then we lose a part of ourselves too."
Rayleigh stepped forward, his Haki settling like a tidal wave held just at bay. His expression, once cold, had softened slightly. "And if he breaks free again? And goes after you once again, what then…?"
"Then let that burden fall on them," Crocus said, gesturing to Garp. "Let the Marines carry the weight of their justice. Because if he escapes again, the world will know it was their failure."
He turned to Garp now, voice low and resolute. "Take him. Lock him away like you said. And I pray to whatever gods still listen to you… that this time, it holds."
Garp gave a rare nod, not as a Marine, but as a man who understood the cost of mercy. "You have my word, Crocus. I'll see to it myself. No more second chances."
Crocus took a shuddering breath and turned back to Gaban and Rayleigh, who were still bristling with conflict.
"I'm not asking you to forgive him," Crocus murmured, voice barely above the crashing waves. "I'm just asking you not to become something worse… in order to stop him."
There it was again—that plea from a man who had healed kings and killers alike, who had watched the Pirate King walk to his death with pride in his heart, and now stood before the ghosts of the past trying to keep their legacy from falling into darkness.
And slowly… ever so slowly… Gaban lowered his axes. Rayleigh sighed, releasing the tension from his shoulders.
****
The evening sun dipped low over the horizon, painting the sky in strokes of crimson and gold. The sea shimmered in the waning light, calm for the first time in hours. Upon the massive, weathered head of Laboon, the island whale, three legendary figures sat in silence—Crocus, Scopper Gaban, and Silvers Rayleigh.
The battle was over, but the tension hadn't vanished. Garp had already taken the unconscious Douglas Bullet, his condition critical but alive, locked in specialized seastone restraints. Crocus, though conflicted, had chosen mercy. Yet Gaban's fury still simmered, a wildfire that refused to die out.
With his axe resting across his lap, Gaban grunted, his tone sharp and restless.
"Why did you back down, Rayleigh?" he demanded, turning toward the man known across the world as the Dark King. "We could've taken him! So what if he's stronger now? Since when has that stopped us? It's not like we haven't clashed with Garp before!"
Rayleigh remained still, eyes fixed on the endless sea. The golden light danced across his features, aging him more than battle ever could.
Gaban's voice rose. "You're not scared of him, are you? Don't tell me the mighty Silvers Rayleigh has grown soft."
Rayleigh didn't flinch. He didn't argue. He simply closed his eyes and sighed—a long, heavy breath that carried decades of memories with it.
"We owed him that much," he said quietly.
Gaban frowned. "Owed him? For what? We were enemies, Rayleigh. Enemies. You really think he wouldn't have taken our heads if he had the chance back then?"
Rayleigh's lips curved into a sad smile, one that didn't quite reach his eyes.
"That's where you're wrong, Gaban. He had the chance. He had every chance."
Crocus looked up now, brows furrowed, sensing the shift in Rayleigh's tone—one steeped in something far deeper than respect. It was gratitude.
"Roger trusted Garp," Rayleigh said, his voice firmer now. "More than anyone outside our crew. When the end was near, when Roger knew his time was up... he didn't turn to us. Not to me, not to you, not even to Shanks. He turned to Garp."
Gaban blinked, momentarily silenced. "What are you talking about?" Rayleigh's gaze turned serious, the air around them growing heavier with each word.
"Roger has a son."
The words hit like a thunderclap. Crocus's eyes widened. Gaban straightened, the weight of the revelation slamming into him like a tidal wave. They both stared at Rayleigh in disbelief.
"A son...?" Crocus whispered. "He never told us..."
Rayleigh nodded slowly. "He kept it hidden from the world. Even from us. Only a handful know—the ones he trusted most. And when it was time, when he was ready to die, he asked Garp to protect his son from the world... from the wrath of the World Government. And Garp... that man, who spent his life chasing pirates, who fought Roger tooth and nail across the seas... he agreed."
Gaban's jaw clenched, eyes flickering between disbelief and something deeper—respect, grudging though it was.
"He is raising him?" Crocus asked, voice hoarse.
Rayleigh nodded. "He is. Like his own. Raising the son of his greatest rival with his own two hands. That's the kind of man Garp is. That's the kind of trust Roger placed in him. So no… I couldn't raise my blade against him today least not for someone like Bullet. Because no matter what side he fights for, that man... has always upheld the promises he made. Even the impossible ones."
A long silence followed. Gaban looked down, fists tightening as the rage within him warred with a dawning understanding. He'd always viewed Garp as a stubborn wall, an unwavering symbol of the Marines. But this? This was something else.
Crocus exhaled slowly, heart heavy. "Roger... you really did believe in him till the very end."
Rayleigh rose to his feet, the wind catching his coat as he looked toward the horizon where Garp's ship had vanished.
"His name's Ace," he said softly. "Portgas D. Ace. And someday... the world will know who his father was."
The sky had darkened now, the stars beginning to pierce through the dusk. But even under the shroud of night, the fire that Roger had sparked, and Garp had protected, burned on.