The battle raged on, turning the once-peaceful beach into a storm-tossed wasteland. The sounds of the fight were a constant, thunderous symphony—the sharp crack of Haki-infused bone on bone, the violent hiss of water vaporizing against flame, and the guttural roars of two men pushing their bodies far beyond mortal limits.
Ace and Jinbe were like forces of nature locked in a death grip. One moment, they were like two cavalry chargers, crossing the battlefield in a blur of motion to clash with devastating momentum. The next, they were like ferocious beasts, locked in a brutal, close-quarters brawl, tearing at each other with a savagery that was terrifying to behold. Every exchange was a thunderclap, a shockwave of raw power and passionate will that sent tremors through the sand.
After several hours, with the sun climbing high into the sky, it became brutally clear to the onlookers that this was not a fight that would end quickly. The two combatants, though breathing heavily, were still radiating an incredible amount of energy, their spirits unbroken.
It was Deuce, ever the pragmatist, who finally broke the spell of awestruck silence. "Alright, everyone, huddle up!" he called out, his voice cutting through the din. "We can't just stand here and watch."
The crew gathered around him, their eyes still nervously flicking back to the epic duel.
"This could go on for a while," Deuce stated, his expression grim. "And our real target is Whitebeard himself, not just his gatekeeper. We can't afford to be caught off guard if this is just a delaying tactic. We need to be prepared."
He quickly laid out a plan. "We'll split into two groups. A small team will stay here as an observation post. I know we can't interfere," he said, glancing at Jerry, "but we can't lose face, either. We need to show we're ready for anything."
He then pointed toward the island's dense interior. "The rest of us will proceed with the original plan. Scout the island, gather information, and secure a fallback position. The last thing we need is for Ace to finish this fight, only for us to get surrounded by the main Whitebeard fleet because we were lazy. That's a game over we can't afford."
The logic was sound. After a quick discussion, the teams were set. Jerry and Mihar, the crew's vice-captain and master sniper, would remain behind to keep an eye on things. The rest, led by Deuce, moved out, disappearing into the lush greenery of the forest.
Back on the beach, the fight only escalated.
"Sacred Fire: Shiranui!"
"Fishman Karate: Five Thousand Brick Fist!"
Ace launched twin lances of pure flame from his hands, while Jinbe met them with a shockwave punch so powerful it shattered the very air. Their figures were a constant, intertwined blur. Every strike was swift, every kick precise, each movement executed with the clear intent to end the fight in a single, decisive blow. But they were too evenly matched. In a battle between masters of this caliber, there were no openings, no flaws to exploit. The only option was to attack faster, hit harder, and push beyond every conceivable limit.
Jerry and Mihar watched for another hour, the sun beating down on them. The tense, electric atmosphere of the fight was draining even for spectators. Finally, Jerry broke the silence.
"Teacher," he said, turning to the quiet marksman. "Let's find a place to sit. I have a feeling they'll be at this for a while."
"Mm. That's fine," Mihar replied, his response as concise as ever. Pragmatism was a language they both understood.
Jerry scratched his head, a thoughtful, almost mischievous glint in his eye. He glanced back towards the calm waters lapping at the shore. "You know… my previous offer still stands," he said casually. "We could find a nice shark, get a fire going…"
Mihar shifted his gaze from the battlefield to Jerry, his expressionless face somehow conveying deep skepticism. He moved his lips, but no sound came out. Jerry took it as encouragement.
"I'm just thinking," Jerry began, touching his chin and adopting a gravely serious tone. "From a strategic standpoint… what if this is all a trap?"
Mihar raised a single eyebrow.
"Think about it!" Jerry's voice grew more animated. "Whitebeard is an Emperor! A master tactician! What if he deliberately sent Jinbe here to tie Ace up for days? He's banking on us getting exhausted, letting our guard down from lack of food and sleep. Then, just when we're at our weakest… BAM! The entire Whitebeard fleet appears on the horizon! A surprise attack! We'd be wiped out without lifting a finger!"
He threw his hands up in mock terror. "How terrifying! The mind of that man, Whitebeard! It's diabolical! We have to prepare! We need to be at peak condition!"
With a look of extreme urgency, Jerry whipped out his Supreme-Grade Fishing Rod, his face a mask of grim determination.
Mihar stared at him, his deadpan expression unwavering. "…Whitebeard will attack us by surprise?" he asked, his voice flat.
"Won't he?" Jerry shot back, his eyes wide with feigned innocence.
"Will he?" Mihar tilted his head.
"No way he won't!" Jerry leaned back dramatically.
"He will?" Mihar straightened up.
"Hey!" Jerry suddenly dropped the act, blinking and waving his hand dismissively. "I'm just brainstorming with you, why are you getting so serious?" He then turned and started walking toward the water's edge, muttering just loud enough for the sniper to hear.
"…You just want to fish."
Mihar's voice was devoid of accusation, a simple statement of fact that cut right through Jerry's elaborate performance.
"Haha! You saw right through me! As expected of our teacher!" Jerry laughed without a hint of shame. "I'll get my daily fishing done, then I'll come right back to watch the show with you."
He didn't have to go far. He found a suitable spot just a dozen steps away, cast his line into the surf, and secured the rod in the sand. A moment later, he was back by Mihar's side, the two of them settling in for the long haul.
As evening fell, the scouting parties returned one by one. They gathered to exchange information, confirming that no one had been spotted and that, as far as they could tell, the island was just an ordinary supply depot, populated by civilians going about their daily lives.
Looking over at the two figures still locked in combat, now silhouetted against the setting sun, the crew felt a collective sense of awe. Following Jerry's lead, they set up a proper camp, preparing food and drinks and establishing a rotating watch for the night. Their priority was to ensure everyone remained rested and ready for whatever came next.
One day bled into the next.
By the third day, most of the Spade Pirates had abandoned their other tasks to watch. What they were witnessing was no longer just a fight; it was a testament to the sheer indomitability of the human (and Fishman) spirit. For an ordinary person, fighting at this intensity for a single day would be a monstrous feat. Four days was the stuff of legends.
Then four days had passed in the blink of an eye.
On the morning of the fifth day, the battle continued.
On the battlefield, both men were clearly exhausted. Their movements were a fraction slower, their breathing ragged. Bruises and cuts littered their bodies. But their eyes still burned with ferocious light, their wills supporting them long after their muscles should have given out. This was a battle of conviction, a war for the beliefs they held in their hearts, and neither would—or could—give up.
Jinbe's Fishman Karate had become a force of nature. He was a true master, borrowing water not just from the sea, but from the air, the ground, the moisture in the trees, and even from Ace's own body.
Yet, as Jerry watched with his Observation Haki, he perceived a subtle difference. Jinbe was undeniably the pinnacle of what Fishman Karate could be in this world. He could command vast quantities of water with ease, especially from the ocean. However, he seemed unable to condense and control water on a microscopic level with the same instantaneous, large-scale efficiency that Jerry could. The ability to pull moisture from the very air or from a person's body on a massive scale seemed to be just beyond his grasp.
Jerry guessed the difference was twofold. It was partly his own unique understanding and application of the art, but the biggest factor was likely a system skill he had acquired long ago: Ocean Blessing.
He hadn't thought much of it at the time, but its effect—greatly enhancing his perception and affinity for all liquids—was proving to be absolutely incredible.
It had allowed his own water-manipulation abilities to skyrocket, reaching a level of fine control that was likely impossible to achieve through Fishman Karate training alone. It was the ultimate cheat, a secret weapon that defined his entire fighting style.