While Fleet Admiral Sengoku worried about the Marines' future from his office at headquarters...
-Broadcast-
...Admiral Gin's elite force was being systematically slaughtered on Dressrosa's shores.
The ambush had come without warning. One moment, the Marines were securing the perimeter and evacuating civilians. The next, Vice Admiral Vergo—respected officer, fifteen-year veteran, trusted commander—had torn free of his human skin to reveal the monster beneath.
The Warhammer Titan stood fifteen meters tall, its body encased in white armor-like hardening that gleamed in the sunlight. But the real horror wasn't its appearance—it was what it represented. Vergo had been Doflamingo's spy in the Marines for over a decade, feeding intelligence to the enemy while wearing their uniform and accepting their trust.
Now he was killing them by the hundreds.
"FALL BACK!" Admiral Gin's voice carried across the battlefield, enhanced by his Ame Ame no Mi (Rain-Rain Fruit) to echo like thunder. "All personnel capable of Geppo , evacuate to minimum safe altitude! Those who can't fly—find cover and pray!"
But there was precious little cover to be found. The Colossal Titans emerging from the sea made sure of that.
Each one stood sixty meters tall, their bodies radiating steam so hot it boiled the ocean around them. The temperature within a hundred meters of their forms climbed to lethal levels—thousands of degrees that turned flesh to ash and metal to slag within seconds. Even coating yourself in Armament Haki only bought you a few extra heartbeats before the heat penetrated and cooked you from the inside out.
This isn't a battle, Gin thought grimly, manifesting a massive cloud of acidic rain to intercept three approaching Colossal Titans. This is a massacre.
His Logia powers allowed him to create localized weather phenomena—acid rain strong enough to corrode steel, downpours that could drown enemies, mists that concealed his forces. Against normal opponents, he was nearly invincible. But these titans felt no pain, possessed no survival instinct, and could regenerate from injuries that would kill anything else.
The acid ate through their flesh, stripping muscle from bone and revealing the grotesque inner structures. But the moment they dragged their corroded bodies into the sea, the wounds healed with terrifying speed. Tissue regrew. Bones reformed. Within minutes, they were ready to attack again.
I can slow them down, Gin realized with bitter clarity. But I can't stop them. Not alone. Not with this fruit.
The elite Marines who'd mastered the Rokushiki martial arts fared better—they could at least escape into the sky using Geppo. But that represented maybe two hundred survivors out of the nearly three thousand who'd departed Marine Headquarters with such confidence just days ago.
Two-thirds casualties. The worst loss in the new Marines' short history.
Those who couldn't fly died screaming as the Colossal Titans' ambient heat incinerated them where they stood. Some tried to run. Some tried to fight. It made no difference—the temperature was too high, the approach too fast, the death too absolute.
Helmeppo's bald head gleamed with sweat as he maintained his Geppo several hundred meters above the carnage, his muscular right shoulder supporting a single precious passenger. As Admiral Gin's second-in-command, he'd received explicit orders that superseded all other considerations: protect the Celestial Dragon at any cost.
Even if it means abandoning my comrades, Helmeppo thought, the guilt sitting heavy in his chest. Even if it means watching them burn.
Saint Donquixote Mjosgard wasn't a typical World Noble—he'd been reformed by Queen Otohime's influence, transformed from a typical spoiled aristocrat into someone who actually cared about common people. More importantly, he had a sister serving in the Marines. Admiral Seiryū. One of the Twelve Admiral under Artoria.
If he dies on my watch, I'll have failed both Admiral Gin and Admiral Seiryū, Helmeppo realized. That's not acceptable.
Below them, black shadows moved through the boiling ocean—more Colossal Titans swimming in formation, each one trailing plumes of superheated steam that rose like volcanic vents. The water around them literally bubbled and churned, turning the sea into a cauldron.
"How many of those things are there?" Mjosgard asked quietly, his voice lacking the hysterical fear most Celestial Dragons would show in such circumstances. Years of character development had given him genuine courage. "And where did they come from?"
"Terra," Helmeppo answered grimly. "Eren Yeager's Devil Fruit allows him to create these monsters. As for how many..." He scanned the ocean, counting the visible steam plumes. "At least fifty Colossal-class. Maybe more."
Nearby, another figure defied gravity through entirely different means. Uncle B—the massive, dark-skinned warrior who served as Illya's guardian—simply walked through the air as casually as if he were strolling down a street. No technique. No training. He'd watched someone use Geppo once and immediately replicated it through pure instinct and superhuman physical ability.
He carried two people—a restaurant owner named Bellhill clutched carefully in his right arm, and young Illya herself perched on his broad shoulders. Both Dressrosa citizens. Both survivors of a massacre that had consumed their entire district.
Uncle B's face remained expressionless, but his eyes tracked the battlefield below with the focus of a predator assessing threats. If any titan approached his charges, he would fight. Until then, he waited.
Nearly three thousand Marines, the thought echoed through the minds of every survivor. We lost two thousand in less than an hour. This was supposed to be a peacekeeping operation. An evacuation. What the hell happened?
The answer was currently fighting several kilometers away, where Admiral Smoker had finally cornered his prey.
The battle between Admiral "White Horse" Smoker and the traitor Vergo had raged across Dressrosa's coastline for the better part of an hour. The Warhammer Titan's offensive capabilities were extraordinary—creating massive weapons from hardened titan flesh, launching ranged attacks with crystalline projectiles, manipulating the battlefield terrain through sheer destructive force.
But its defense couldn't match the legendary Armored Titan. And Smoker had finally identified the critical weakness.
"Found you," Smoker growled, his body transforming into smoke that infiltrated the Warhammer Titan's nape. The human "cockpit" where Vergo controlled his titan form was protected, but not perfectly sealed.
His Moku Moku no Mi (Smoke-Smoke Fruit) granted him gaseous form—he could become intangible, slip through microscopic gaps, and manifest inside supposedly secure spaces. Combined with his Armament Haki coating the smoke itself, he possessed both penetration and striking power.
Smoker's hand materialized inside the titan's nape, grabbed Vergo's physical body, and yanked him free with brutal efficiency. The Warhammer Titan's form began dissolving immediately, the flesh evaporating into superheated steam as its controller was forcibly ejected.
They fell together toward the scorched earth below—predator and prey locked in combat until the very end.
Vergo hit the ground hard, his body already failing from the violent extraction. Blood leaked from his ears and nose, his breathing labored and wet. But he managed to smile—that same cold, professional expression he'd worn throughout fifteen years of betrayal.
"Too late, Smoker," Vergo said, each word punctuated by a wet cough. "You can't stop the Young Master's ambitions now. And you can't protect your subordinates. Leaving your team to chase Buggy the Clown without permission..." Another cough, this one producing blood. "I think you'll regret that decision very soon."
Smoker's eyes narrowed. "Buggy? That filler Shichibukai?" He'd never taken the clown seriously—a joke appointment to round out the Seven Warlords, notable only for somehow surviving Impel Down's chaos. "I captured him personally. I know exactly what his useless Bara Bara no Mi (Chop-Chop Fruit) can do. Hina and Tashigi are more than strong enough to handle him."
And to ensure absolute success, Smoker had temporarily requisitioned two additional Vice Admirals—Doberman and Onigumo—to support the operation. Four Vice Admirals against one clown pirate and his ragtag crew of Impel Down escapees. The odds were overwhelmingly in the Marines' favor.
"You're confident," Vergo observed, his smile widening despite the blood on his teeth. "That's always been your weakness, Smoker. Arrogance masquerading as competence."
"And you talk too much for a dead man." Smoker's hand closed around Vergo's throat, cutting off further commentary. "Since you have nothing useful to contribute, I'll send you to hell ahead of Doflamingo. Admiral Gin and I will make sure he follows shortly."
There was no dramatic proclamation. No mercy. No hesitation.
Smoker simply released his fruit's power directly into Vergo's respiratory system.
Carbon monoxide—colorless, odorless, tasteless, and absolutely lethal. The gas molecules bonded with Vergo's red blood cells faster than oxygen could, effectively suffocating him at the cellular level even as he continued breathing. His lungs filled with air that carried no life, only death.
The symptoms manifested within seconds. Vergo's eyes went wide with panic as his brain recognized oxygen deprivation. His mouth gaped, sucking in desperate breaths that accomplished nothing. His face paled to a bloodless white as his cardiovascular system failed to deliver oxygen to vital organs.
Carbon monoxide poisoning was particularly cruel because the victim remained conscious almost until the end—aware they were dying, unable to do anything about it, watching their body shut down piece by piece.
Vergo lasted two minutes. His bulging eyes stared at Smoker with accusatory hatred even as the light faded from them. No sound. No final words. Just the wet rasp of failed breathing and the gradual cessation of all vital functions.
When it was over, Smoker released the corpse with disgust. Vergo's body hit the ground with a wet thud, face frozen in a rictus of suffocated agony.
"Talks big for someone so weak in the end," Smoker muttered, kicking the body toward the ocean's edge. He watched it roll into the waves, sinking beneath the surface to join the thousands of other corpses littering Dressrosa's waters. "Good riddance."
He turned to leave, already planning his rendezvous with Admiral Gin, when movement caught his peripheral vision.
A fighting fish—nearly twenty meters long, its distinctive features marking it as one of Dressrosa's native species—burst from the water like a breaching whale. Its massive jaws gaped wide, revealing rows of serrated teeth designed to shred prey.
But it wasn't hunting. It was rescuing.
Caesar Clown, the mad scientist who'd been captured and restrained aboard the Marine prison ship, disappeared into the fish's mouth in a single gulp. The creature had timed its approach perfectly, waiting until Smoker was distracted by Vergo's execution before striking.
"Damn it!" Smoker launched himself forward, smoke propelling him like a rocket toward the escaping fish. If Caesar escaped with all his research data and Devil Fruit knowledge—
His personal Den Den Mushi rang.
The sound cut through his focus like a knife. That particular Den Den Mushi had a very short contact list—only his most trusted subordinates and direct superiors knew the number. When it rang, something critical was happening.
Smoker hesitated, torn between pursuing Caesar and answering the call.
The Den Den Mushi rang again, more insistently.
Caesar can wait, Smoker decided, pulling the snail from his pocket. If this is important enough to interrupt—
"Smoker!" The voice on the other end belonged to Hina, his longtime friend and colleague. But Hina never sounded like that—panicked, breathless, desperate. "We've been deceived! If you don't come immediately, we're all going to die here! Buggy the Clown isn't—"
Static.
The connection cut off mid-sentence, leaving only the empty hiss of a broken transmission.
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