Jinbe sees the opening.
He's wounded. He's bleeding. He's exhausted. But he's also a warrior—a master of Fishman Karate, a man who has spent his entire life learning to fight in the one environment where his people reign supreme.
The sea is his domain.
And Galit has forgotten that.
Jinbe moves.
Not with a punch, not with a kick, not with any of the techniques that have made him famous across the seas. He just... grips the water. His hands close around the currents themselves, his Haki-infused fingers finding purchase on the invisible threads that connect every drop of the ocean.
And then he pulls.
The water screams.
A current forms—not a natural current, not anything that should exist in the chaotic churn of the battlefield. This is something else. Something primal. A vortex of pure force that wraps around Galit's body, lifting him from the seabed, spinning him through the water like a leaf in a hurricane.
Galit roars.
His claws slash at the current, trying to break free, trying to find purchase. But Jinbe's grip is absolute—the grip of a master who has spent decades perfecting his art.
"Ocean Current..."
Jinbe's voice is quiet. Almost gentle. The voice of a man who has already won.
"...Shoulder Throw."
He twists.
The vortex explodes.
Galit is launched—not swimming, not falling, but thrown—through the water at impossible speed. The pressure of the current strips scales from his body. The force of the throw drives the air from his lungs. He tumbles end over end, his massive form spinning through the depths like a comet, until—
He breaches.
The surface of the sea erupts as Galit is hurled into the air—a massive crocodilian form silhouetted against the gray sky, trailing water and blood and the particular violence of defeat. He arcs through the air, spinning, tumbling, flying—
And then he changes.
The crocodile form dissolves. The scales recede. The jaws shrink. The tail retracts. And by the time he reaches the apex of his arc, he's human again—or as human as an 8'2" warrior with a neck like a serpent can be.
He lands on the railing of the Thousand Sunny.
His boots slam into the wood—already splintered, already broken, already struggling to hold together. The railing creaks under his weight. The ship shudders. But Galit stands.
He stands.
His emerald eyes sweep across the deck—the burning debris, the shattered masts, the crew members scattered across the chaos. He sees Zoro clashing with Kaburo, their blades singing against each other. He sees Nami struggling with Sanza, her Clima-Tact sparking. He sees Chopper and Bepo frozen mid-fight, their fists still raised. He sees Franky and Jean Bart locked in combat, their weapons grinding against each other.
And he sees Jinbe.
The fish-man has surfaced—barely. His head breaks the water, his gills fluttering weakly, his blood turning the sea around him into a crimson stain. He's alive. But he's finished—too wounded, too exhausted, too broken to continue.
Galit smiles.
Not a warm expression. Not even close. Just a thin, cold curve of satisfaction.
"Withdrawal."
His voice carries across the chaos—sharp, commanding, final. The word cuts through the sounds of battle like a blade through silk.
The Heart Pirates react.
Bepo disengages from Chopper—not running, but retreating, his massive form moving with surprising speed toward the railing. Penguin and Shachi emerge from the lower decks, their arms full of whatever they've managed to scavenge or sabotage. Jean Bart shoves Franky back with a swing of his massive wrench, then turns and runs.
And on the decks of the Pluton and the Dreadnought Thalassa—the crews of the impossible vessels prepare to receive them.
Galit leaps.
His body arcs through the air—not with the power of his Devil Fruit, but with the simple, brutal grace of a warrior who has spent his life learning to move. He lands on the deck of the Dreadnought Thalassa with a thud that echoes across the water.
-----
The sea closes over Jinbe
The churning water stills.
And the Thousand Sunny—burning, broken, bleeding—floats alone in the gray.
Jinbe surfaces fully.
His head breaks the water with a gasp—not of relief, but of pain. His body is a ruin of wounds and bruises and the particular exhaustion of a fight that has pushed him to his limits. He floats there, his gills working overtime, his blood turning the sea around him crimson.
He looks up.
The Sunny looms above him—not the proud ship he knows, but a wounded animal, its masts shattered, its deck scorched, its crew scattered. He can hear them—Zoro shouting, Nami screaming, Chopper crying. He can smell the smoke, the blood, the particular stench of defeat.
He should feel angry.
He should feel furious.
But all he feels is... tired.
He closes his eyes.
The sea rocks him gently.
And for a moment—just a moment—he allows himself to rest.
---
Above him, on the deck of the burning Sunny, the battle continues.
Zoro and Kaburo still clash—their blades singing, their Haki flaring, their wills locked in a contest that neither can afford to lose.
Nami still fights—her Clima-Tact sparking, her voice raised in frustration, her eyes fixed on the small tiger-boy who has somehow become her responsibility.
Chopper still cries—his fists raised, his heart breaking, his friend Bepo retreating into the fog.
And somewhere in the distance—lost, captured, taken—Monkey D. Luffy sleeps.
The world breaks around them.
The crew fights on.
And the sea—the endless, patient, hungry sea—waits.