Chapter 57: The Measure of a King
In the rarefied circle of the world's true apex, Red-Haired Shanks was assessed by two universal metrics. First: his Haki, particularly his Conqueror's and Armament, was considered unparalleled, perhaps the strongest in the world. Second: his swordsmanship, honed under the legendary Rayleigh's eye, was of a supreme, devastating caliber, every swing carrying the weight of a king's decree.
Shanks had expected his initial Conqueror's surge to clear the plaza like a scythe through wheat. He didn't use his full, crushing weight—that was reserved for the likes of Garp—but even his casual release was enough to render most Vice Admirals wobbly and anyone below unconscious.
Yet, as the golden shockwave receded, he was mildly surprised. More Marines remained standing than his calculations allowed. A Rear Admiral, face strained but conscious, even muttered under his breath, "Huh… not as heavy as Admiral Black Crow's…"
A nearby Vice Admiral, fresh from a distant base and reeling from the pressure, stared at the Rear Admiral. "What did you say? How are you still standing?"
The Rear Admiral blinked, equally confused. "I… I don't know. It's strong, but… compared to when Admiral Black Crow released his at the prison… this feels more like a strong wind. That felt like the sky falling."
The Vice Admiral's face paled further. That was the rumor? The new Admiral's Haki was a benchmark that had somehow inoculated part of the garrison?
Gion stepped out from the shattered headquarters doors, her sword in hand, her expression one of cold irritation. "Compared to that infuriating man's spiritual bludgeoning, this is merely unpleasant. But strong. Stronger than most of the trash in Impel Down."
Shanks's sharp ears caught the whispers, Gion's remark. A spark of genuine, competitive interest lit in his eyes. Black Crow's Conqueror's… so the tales are not exaggerations. Someone has pushed the King's Disposition to a realm even I have not fully charted? The thought was exhilarating, even amidst the violence.
"Red Hair!" Garp roared, his body flushing with heat, his fists sheathed in crackling black-and-red Armament Haki that spat miniature sparks into the air. "You're staying!"
Sengoku, the Golden Buddha, issued a terse, echoing order. "All personnel Vice Admiral and below—FALL BACK! This is not your arena!"
The plaza cleared with disciplined speed, leaving only the strongest Vice Admirals forming a wary perimeter. The real battle, the clash of titans, commenced.
Garp and Sengoku moved as one, a devastating pincer. Sengoku's massive, light-shrouded palms launched Buddha Shockwaves, blasts of concussive golden energy meant to pulverize. But Benn Beckman was there, a cigarette dangling from his lips. He didn't block; he unmade. His bullets, imbued with a strange, space-warping Haki, shot forth, not to pierce, but to intercept. They struck the shockwaves mid-air, causing them to distort, fracture, and dissipate harmlessly.
Shanks met Garp head-on. Gryphon, wreathed in a corona of visible, rippling Conqueror's Haki, met the Hero's legendary fists.
BOOM-KRAKOOM!
The collision wasn't sound; it was the sensation of the world's fabric tearing. Shockwaves of pure force radiated outward, cratering the already ravaged stone. Sword met fist, will met will, in a cataclysm of black, red, and silver light.
For hours, Marineford became a canvas of destruction. Golden Buddha blasts, spatial-disrupting bullets, earth-shattering sword slashes, and continent-cracking punches turned the fortress island into a storm of apocalyptic energies. Vice Admirals could only watch from the edges, looking for an opening that never came, their faces etched with awe and dread.
High above, hidden in the veil of clouds, a massive, serpentine form observed. Kaido, in his Azure Dragon guise, snorted, steam billowing from his nostrils. Attacked me as a diversion, then bolted here. A good show. He watched the carnage with a drunkard's appreciation for fine violence.
News of the battle, transmitted by frantic Den Den Mushi, exploded across the globe. The world held its breath, stunned. A Fourth Emperor was assaulting Marine Headquarters now? The calculus of the coming war was shattered.
"DAMN THAT RED HAIR!" Sakazuki snarled in Impel Down, torn between the urge to rush to Marineford and the fear that this was a feint to spring Rayleigh. Aokiji and Kizaru, receiving the alerts, were already streaking across the sea at maximum speed.
But Shanks and Beckman had planned for this. They had precisely calculated the response times of the other Admirals. As the first chill of Aokiji's approach touched the air and the tell-tale glint of Kizaru's light appeared on the horizon, the Red Hair Pirates executed their withdrawal. It was not a rout, but a disciplined, almost casual disengagement. Beckman fired a volley of space-anchoring rounds that created a brief, confusing barrier of distorted gravity, and the crew vanished into the chaotic sea lanes as seamlessly as they had appeared.
They left behind a Marineford that was a third in ruins, a monument to their audacity. Both sides bore wounds—Shanks had a bloody gash on his cheek from a near-miss by Garp, and Sengoku's golden form was marred by dark smears from Beckman's rounds. But the damage was more psychological than physical.
The humiliation was profound. An Emperor had walked into their home, fought their legends to a standstill, and walked out.
As the adrenaline faded, a new, chilling sound echoed over the devastation—a deep, mocking laugh from the clouds. Kaido, revealing himself, bellowed, "KEHAHAHA! SO MARINE IS JUST A PAPER TIGER AFTER ALL!"
Kizaru, arriving in a flash of light, aimed a finger at the dragon. "Oh my… so rude~"
But Sengoku, bloodied and grim, raised a hand. "Let him go, Borsalino. Not now." Chasing the nearly indestructible Kaido was a fool's errand, and they were in no state for another extended battle.
The Red Hair had come. Kaido had witnessed. The world had seen.
In the echoing silence of the ruined plaza, the message was clear: the invincibility of Marineford was a myth. The stage for Whitebeard's assault was now set under a spotlight of doubt.
A call from the Five Elders came through, their voices icy but resolute. "The plan proceeds. Whitebeard must die. Use this… embarrassment. Channel the rage. His execution will be the anvil upon which we reforget the world's fear. There is no turning back."
Sengoku looked at the shattered remains of his headquarters, at Garp nursing his bruised fists, at the demoralized faces of his men. The path was set. The war was no longer just about Ace, or justice. It was about survival. It was about proving that the house, though damaged, would not fall.
The countdown to the summit had become a race against total collapse.
(End of Chapter)
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