"Damn it!!!"
Shanks' eyes turned ice-cold.
BOOM!
His Conqueror's Haki surged out like a tidal wave, distorting the very air around him. In that instant, his overwhelming kingly aura shattered the restraints of the Sky Eye—a feat not even Admiral Aokiji had managed.
But—
PFFT!
Multiple lasers tore through his body, erupting in bursts of blood.
"Ragnar!!!"
Shanks roared, pained but furious. The Sky Eye had injured him—badly—but he gritted his teeth, silently relieved.
Luckily... it only restricted my body movement.
My Haki... I could still call upon it.
By surging his Conqueror's Haki, he had momentarily regained bodily control—just enough to avoid vital organs and reinforce his body with Armament Haki.
If not for that, he would have fallen then and there.
Still, the cost was heavy. Blood flowed freely from his wounds.
But he was Shanks, one of the Four Emperors. The world called him "emperor" for a reason. His will, swordsmanship, and physical endurance made him a titan.
As long as the blood bar wasn't empty—he could still fight!
"Shanks!"
Just as he steadied himself, a panicked voice echoed behind him—Ben Beckman.
Before Shanks could react—
PFFT!
A three-pointed, two-edged spear, blackened by Haki, pierced clean through his back and jutted out of his chest.
His eyes widened.
"...You...!"
His pupils shrank as he turned, and what he saw was a nightmare—
A second Ragnar stood behind him, gripping the same obsidian weapon, buried in his flesh.
"Two... Ragnars?!"
Shock washed over Shanks' face.
"Tch. Still a step too late..."
Ben Beckman appeared just behind the second Ragnar, his blade jammed between the attacker's arms, deflecting the strike mid-thrust.
It was Beckman's intervention that altered the fatal angle of the spear.
If he had been even a second slower—
If the full three-pronged weapon had pierced Shanks' chest—
Even one of the Four Emperors wouldn't have survived.
Only one prong pierced his body.
Even so, it had come perilously close to the heart.
"Go."
Despite the blood dripping from his mouth, Shanks looked at Beckman, his fury instantly replaced by clarity.
In that single glance, years of mutual understanding passed between them.
They moved in unison.
The blade withdrew.
"Guh...!"
Shanks grunted, blood spattering from his mouth—but he didn't look back.
"Red Hair Pirates! Fall back—NOW!"
Beckman's voice rang across the battlefield, rallying the crew. He caught Shanks as the two began to retreat together.
Despite the chaos, Beckman never wavered—his blade ready, his eyes sharp.
The retreat had begun.
At this moment—
If it had been any other Four Emperors' crew, a clean retreat would have been impossible.
But the Red-Haired Pirates, famed as an Iron Wall force, managed it with swift precision and minimal numbers.
Though every cadre and crew member burned with fury, not a single one hesitated when Vice-Captain Ben Beckman gave the order.
Without complaint, they accepted injury if needed and chose retreat without a second thought.
In just two or three seconds, the entire Red-Haired crew had landed on the severed section of the Red Force—the one cleaved away by Ragnar's sword.
No one needed orders.
Every surviving crew member instinctively gathered around their fallen captain, Red-Haired Shanks, forming a protective circle.
And then—
A scene both strange and sacred unfolded before all eyes.
The Red Force, which had been cleaved in half by Ragnar's strike, had not yet sunk.
Instead, the half carrying Shanks and his crew began to rise—
Like a wounded warrior refusing to fall.
It lifted itself from the sea in a slow, shaking motion—like a dying man pushing himself to his feet—and began to sail away at high speed.
Yet no one was at the helm.
"Red Force...!"
Seeing this, even Shanks—bleeding and barely conscious—along with Beckman and the others, could only stare in silent grief.
There was no surprise in their eyes.
Only sorrow.
Only pain.
"Why...?"
Yamato stood frozen, her heart shaken to its core.
She couldn't believe what she was seeing.
A half-destroyed ship—no longer whole, with no one steering it—was moving on its own.
Her vision blurred.
In that broken vessel, she saw the silhouette of a blood-soaked young warrior, dragging himself through the burning dusk, refusing to fall, still carrying his comrades forward.
"Ship spirit...!"
Ragnar's voice broke the silence.
His eyes remained cold, but a rare flicker of respect stirred within them.
When he had cleaved the Red Force in two, he had sensed something—an invisible resistance.
Now, this moment confirmed what he had suspected.
—The Red Force had given birth to a ship spirit.
It was this spirit that kept the shattered ship from sinking.
It was this spirit that had carried the Red-Haired Pirates across countless seas and countless battles.
It was this spirit that, now, in its dying breath, carried them one final time... toward life.
But Ragnar knew—
This time would be the last.
The ship spirit of the Red Force...
was burning out its final flame.
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