"Whitebeard's attack… was it completely blocked?"
"That young man is terrifyingly strong."
Big Mom and the Golden Lion stared intently at the two figures clashing in the center of the battlefield.
If Ryoma's earlier strike against Kaido and that strange, reality-twisting power had only shocked them, then his battle with Whitebeard now left no doubt — this man was a monster on their level.
"Your power… it's truly extraordinary — unpredictable, overwhelming."
Whitebeard's voice rumbled like a storm as he raised his massive right arm. His expression hardened.
"But now… I'll stop holding back!"
As he spoke, the veins on his arm bulged like coiled serpents, his muscles surging with monstrous force.
With a deep, guttural roar, Whitebeard gripped Murakumogiri in his left hand while his right fist drew back, enveloped in a white, quaking aura.
The power condensed around it — a manifestation of his Gura Gura no Mi — strong enough to shatter an island in a single blow.
The air trembled. The world itself seemed to groan.
Ryoma felt a rare thrill rise within him — a primal battle rush that only came from facing someone who stood atop the world. Stepping forward, his eyes narrowed. Crimson markings began to crawl across his face.
"Sage Mode!"
"Creation Rebirth — Strength of a Hundred Technique!"
In the next instant, he vanished.
The ground beneath him exploded as his afterimage shot forward, compressing the air into a vacuum corridor. The world blurred — a flash of red and gold cutting through the quake-filled storm.
To the onlookers, he was like a divine blade, a spear of willpower intent on piercing everything before it — even the collapsing space itself.
"It's suicide…"
Rayleigh frowned, his seasoned gaze fixed on Ryoma. The young man was charging headlong into the full force of Whitebeard's quake — an act no sane fighter would attempt.
Such raw, destructive energy could pulverize an island, and yet he was meeting it with his bare fists.
What a waste…
The former right hand of the Pirate King shook his head in regret.
With talent like that, the boy could have reached unimaginable heights in ten years. But now, he was about to be erased — not even a corpse left behind.
Big Mom and the Golden Lion shared the same thought. Everyone on that battlefield — veteran monsters who had seen the rise and fall of legends — had already pictured Ryoma's shattered remains.
But what happened next defied all reason.
Ryoma's fist pierced through the quaking air. The space around Whitebeard's fist cracked — then shattered like glass.
The violent seismic energy, the very force that could crush continents, was dispersed the moment Ryoma's fist struck it. The residual shockwaves tore outward in all directions, blasting hundreds of spectators off their feet.
Gasps and shouts filled the air.
Even those watching from kilometers away — Rocks, Kaido, Shiki — felt their eyes widen in disbelief.
But no one was more shocked than Whitebeard himself.
"He… shattered my quake power!?"
Before he could recover from his astonishment, Ryoma was already upon him — faster than thought, faster than sound — a crimson streak closing the distance like an arrow loosed from heaven.
Whitebeard had no time to hesitate. Instinct took over.
Gripping Murakumogiri with both hands, he channeled every ounce of Armament Haki and quake energy into the blade.
For the first time in decades, Edward Newgate — Whitebeard, the strongest man in the world — fought without restraint, without hesitation, just like in his youth.
When his Murakumogiri met Ryoma's fist —
—the world held its breath.
And in that blinding instant, Whitebeard finally understood what absolute power truly was.
Whitebeard's defense didn't last even a second.
Pain shot through his hands as Murakumogiri — one of the twelve supreme-grade blades — splintered into several broken fragments under the force of Ryoma's strike.
The monstrous impact hurled Whitebeard like a cannonball, blood spraying from his mouth as he crashed into a mountain hundreds of meters away, reducing it to rubble.
Even then, the aftershock of Ryoma's punch didn't fade — it roared outward like a living storm, tearing through everything in its path.
A nearby Marine officer's expression changed drastically.
"Not good! That blast— it's heading straight for the palace!"
Top Floor of the Celestial Palace
Inside the grand, lavish hall, Saint Nicholas — a Celestial Dragon clad in white robes and a transparent bubble hood — paced back and forth with growing irritation as explosions echoed outside.
"Damn it! Why hasn't that useless Garp dealt with those filthy pirates yet!?"
"Brother, perhaps we should withdraw for now," said Saint Rosward cautiously.
"Withdraw?!" Nicholas roared, his face twisting in fury. "You want the noble Celestial Dragons to flee from those lowborn mongrels?!"
His voice was still echoing when another deafening explosion resounded outside, shaking the entire palace.
Unable to suppress his anger, Nicholas stormed toward the balcony to see for himself what was happening.
But the moment he opened the doors—
A blinding white shockwave tore through the sky.
It struck him instantly, erasing flesh and bone alike. Saint Nicholas disintegrated into a mist of blood, vanishing without even a scream.
The next second, the entire palace crumbled. The golden spires and marble towers were swept away like sandcastles beneath a tidal wave.
"I might've overdone it," Ryoma muttered, lowering his fist as he gazed toward the shattered landscape — the mountains crushed to dust, and the once-gorgeous palace reduced to ruin.
He could feel it — the divine energy of the Six Paths flowing even stronger within him.
"Huh?"
A faint pulse brushed against his senses — a trace of energy emanating from the ruins he'd just obliterated. It was weak, but carried a strange, ancient resonance.
Without hesitation, Ryoma kicked off the ground, shooting through the air like an arrow released from a bowstring.
Behind him, Golden Lion, Big Mom, and Rayleigh exchanged quick glances before following suit.
Elsewhere — Valley of the Gods
A thunderous explosion echoed across the battlefield. Rocks D. Xebec, Garp, and Roger all turned toward the distant peak, where the magnificent Celestial Palace had just been blown apart.
"What the hell…?" Roger's eyes widened.
"That energy…" Garp's face hardened. "No! Someone's attacking the palace!"
He realized instantly what that meant — while he and Roger were holding off Rocks here, someone had slipped through their defenses.
"The treasures—!"
Without another word, Garp launched himself forward, vanishing in a burst of speed.
Roger and Rocks exchanged brief, grim looks. Both knew what was hidden within that palace: the Poneglyphs and the ancient weapon components.
They took off right behind him.
The once-magnificent palace was now nothing but rubble and dust. The Celestial Dragons and their slaves lay buried beneath collapsed marble and twisted metal.
A faint groan broke through the silence.
"Ugh…"
Saint Rosward dragged himself from the debris, coughing violently. He had survived only by ducking behind the throne — using its reinforced structure as cover at the last moment.
His pristine white attire was in tatters. Blood dripped from open wounds, soot and ash clung to his skin, and his once-glossy hair now resembled a bird's nest. The stench of smoke and burnt silk filled the air.
He looked less like a World Noble and more like a starving beggar.
But his trembling hands clutched two objects tightly to his chest — a rectangular stone slab covered in inscriptions, and a strange metallic sphere faintly humming with power.
"Heh… heh… fortunately, these two treasures are intact."
A crooked smile spread across his burned face.
Nicholas had been the one obsessed with protecting the signpost Poneglyph and the ancient weapon core, ordering them hidden in a secret compartment beneath the throne. Rosward, fleeing for his life, had snatched them up by sheer instinct.
Now, they were his.
He tried to stand, his legs trembling, but a shadow suddenly fell over him.
The air grew heavy.
Slowly, Rosward looked up—
A man with black hair and crimson markings on his face was descending through the smoke, his eyes sharp and cold.
He landed silently before Rosward, the ground cracking under his feet.
"W-Who are you!?" Rosward stammered, clutching the Poneglyph to his chest in terror.
Ryoma's gaze flicked down to the slab, his expression unreadable.
"The one who destroyed your world," he said quietly.
Saint Rosward stared at Ryoma with wide, fearful eyes, instinctively hiding the two artifacts behind his back.
"Hand over what you're holding," Ryoma said flatly.
His voice carried no emotion — cold, commanding, and absolute. The shattered fragments of Rosward's bubble hood still clung to his hair, and that alone was enough for Ryoma to recognize what the man was.
A Celestial Dragon.
The so-called "descendants of the gods" — arrogant tyrants who ruled the world from above, living off the blood and suffering of others.
Ryoma's expression didn't change, but his chakra flared subtly, the air around him vibrating with restrained power.
He had no fondness for these creatures.
No mercy, either.
Saint Rosward's lips twisted in fury.
"Do you even know who you're talking to!?" he shouted, spittle flying.
"I am a Celestial Dragon! A god of this world! You filthy mongrel — if you dare touch me, there will be no place left for you to exist!"
Ryoma didn't respond.
The moment Rosward opened his mouth again, a shadow passed before his eyes.
"Wha—"
That was all he managed to utter.
Ryoma's fist blurred — a single strike, precise and overwhelming.
"Trash," he muttered.
The blow connected with a thunderous crack.
Rosward's body exploded in a burst of blood and dust, his threats silenced in an instant. The ground split beneath the impact, leaving only smoldering debris where a Celestial Dragon once stood.
Without breaking stride, Ryoma reached out and retrieved the two items from the ruin of Rosward's corpse — the ancient stone tablet and the metallic sphere, both humming faintly with power.
He examined them briefly, his eyes narrowing.
The Poneglyph emitted a faint chakra-like energy — subtle, but unmistakable to someone who had mastered Sage Mode.
And the metal sphere… its core pulsed with a strange rhythm, almost alive.
"Interesting," Ryoma murmured.
For a moment, the wind carried only silence — the sound of falling ash and crumbling marble.
Then he turned, his expression unreadable, and vanished into the ruins — leaving behind only the faint echo of destruction and the lingering dread of a god's wrath.
...
TN:
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