Jinbe vs Galit
Black swells convulse and tear against their own marrow, a frantic heave of brine and muscle gouging the deep.
Beneath the Thousand Sunny—beneath the burning deck, beneath the screaming crew, beneath the chaos of battle—the water has become a tomb. Not the cold, silent tomb of the deep ocean, but something worse. Something violent. The currents twist and surge, whipped into frenzy by forces that have no business existing in the natural world.
And in the center of it all—two figures.
Jinbe floats in the churning water, his massive frame battered and bleeding, his gills working overtime to pull oxygen from the brine. His blue skin is crisscrossed with wounds—some shallow, some deep, some still weeping crimson into the surrounding sea. His left arm hangs limp at his side, the muscles torn, the bones cracked. His ribs ache with every breath. His vision swims with exhaustion and pain.
But he's still fighting.
He has to be.
Because across from him—circling, hunting—is Galit Varuna.
The Lieutenant of Sankhara Deep has fully transformed. His body has elongated, his limbs thickened with muscle and scale, his neck stretched into that impossible S-curve that marks his hybrid form. But he hasn't stopped there. The Wani Wani no Mi, Model: Ginga has taken him further—into something that is no longer quite human and no longer quite crocodile.
His skin has become armor—overlapping plates of scale that shimmer with iridescent patterns, reflecting the dim light filtering down from the surface. His jaws have elongated, filled with teeth that gleam like daggers. His tail—massive, powerful, prehensile—sweeps through the water behind him, leaving trails of disturbance that ripple outward like shockwaves.
And his eyes—those emerald-green eyes—burn with cold calculation.
He's winning.
He knows it. Jinbe knows it. The sea itself seems to know it, churning with the particular violence of a battle that has already been decided.
Galit lunges.
His jaws snap shut inches from Jinbe's throat—close enough that the fish-man feels the pressure of displaced water, the heat of the crocodile's breath. Jinbe twists, his massive frame moving with the particular grace of a creature born to the sea, and counters with a palm strike aimed at Galit's ribs.
The blow connects.
Galit grunts—not in pain, but in surprise. The force of the strike sends him tumbling backward, his tail whipping through the water to stabilize him, his claws scraping against the sandy bottom. He recovers quickly—faster than anything that size should be able to—and charges again.
Jinbe braces.
The impact is brutal.
Galit's shoulder slams into Jinbe's chest, driving the air from his lungs, sending him spinning through the water. The crocodile's claws find his side, raking across his ribs, drawing fresh blood that clouds the water in crimson streams. Jinbe grits his teeth against the pain and punches—a Haki-infused strike aimed at Galit's snout.
The blow lands.
Galit's head snaps sideways. His jaw cracks—not broken, but hurt. He pulls back, his emerald eyes narrowing, his tail lashing through the water in frustration.
"You're stubborn," he says. His voice carries through the water—not muffled, not distorted, but clear, as if the sea itself is carrying his words. "I'll give you that."
Jinbe doesn't respond.
He's too busy trying to breathe.
His gills flutter, pulling oxygen from water that tastes of blood and salt and something else—something wrong. The Dreamtime Water that drips from Galit's jaws has contaminated the surrounding sea, turning it thick and heavy, making every movement a struggle.
Galit circles.
His tail sweeps through the water, creating currents that push and pull at Jinbe's battered body. His claws flex. His jaws open—just slightly, just enough to reveal the rows of teeth that line his mouth.
"You fought well," he says. "But this is over."
Jinbe's eyes narrow.
"Over?"
His voice comes out rough—damaged, but defiant. He straightens, ignoring the screaming protest of his wounds, ignoring the blood that continues to seep from a dozen different cuts.
"I've been fighting since before you were born, boy."
Galit's jaws snap—a threat, a promise, a challenge.
"Then you should know when to quit."
He charges.
The water screams around him—a pressure wave that precedes his body, slamming into Jinbe like a physical blow. Jinbe braces, his Haki flaring, his muscles coiling—
And then he sees it.
Not Galit. Not the teeth. Not the claws.
Something else.
---
The Pluton rises from the depths like a god emerging from slumber.
A severed landmass forged in iron, the vessel spans the swell like an artificial tectonic shelf, its sheer, soot-dull flank starving the overcast horizon of every stray gleam. The crescent-moon prow cuts through the water like a blade, leaving a wake that could swamp a fleet. Its surface is smooth, featureless, wrong—a darkness that swallows everything it touches.
On the other side—the Dreadnought Thalassa.
Its hull gleams, its fin-sail folding against its spine as it breaches the surface. The Aetherium Terrace unfolds. The deck blooms open like a mechanical flower, panels sliding and locking into place, trusses extending, railings rising. The integration platforms glow with faint blue light.
The sea changes.
The churning currents that have defined the underwater battle suddenly shift—pulled by the arrival of two vessels that have no business existing in this era. The Pluton's resonance drives hum with power, manipulating water pressure and spatial density. The Thalassa's gravity wave systems pulse, creating localized distortions in the sea itself.
Galit feels it.
He's mid-charge—his jaws open, his claws extended, his body a missile aimed at Jinbe's throat. But the sudden shift in the water—the wrongness of it—makes him pause. His emerald eyes flick upward, toward the surface, toward the shadows that have appeared on either side of the burning Sunny.
He sees them.
The Pluton. The Thalassa. Abyssal ironclad anomalies breach the swell, petrified fevers of the seabed dragged upward to violate the sky.
And for one moment—just one—he hesitates.