Three days and three nights.
The deafening roars, the sky-tearing slashes, the thunderous lightning and azure flames… all of it finally fell silent.
The forward outpost island housing the G-10 base was utterly unrecognizable.
The earth was scarred beyond comprehension, crisscrossed with bottomless chasms and massive craters. The air was thick with dust, smoke, and a faint metallic tang of blood—a testament to the unrelenting carnage that had transpired.
At the center of the battlefield, two figures faced each other across the ruin.
Whitebeard's once-pristine captain's coat was now tattered and soaked in grime and dark red blood. His massive frame bore multiple new scars, the deepest running from his left shoulder down across his chest. The flesh had stopped bleeding, but the gash still looked horrifyingly raw and menacing.
"Huff… huff…" he exhaled through clenched teeth, sweat and blood streaking his steadfast face. Bushinkiri remained planted in the ground beside him, the blade still radiating a lingering, fearsome aura.
On the other side, Gern was equally battered. His breathing was heavy, his bloodstains dried to a dark brown, and his exposed torso was streaked with cuts and abrasions.
Three consecutive days of facing the "world's strongest" had drained him, body and spirit alike. His right arm, still clutching Hakkai, was cracked and bleeding at the base of his thumb, trembling involuntarily. He had no choice but to plant the hilt into the ground, using it to support part of his weight.
Yet even in their exhaustion, their eyes remained sharp, colliding across the battlefield, though traces of fatigue were now impossible to hide.
For three days, they had poured everything into this fight—Haki, swordsmanship, physical prowess, Devil Fruit powers—colliding on all fronts, and still neither had managed to truly bring down the other.
Around them, the battlefield resembled a hellish painting.
Among the Whitebeard Pirates, the captains were almost universally wounded. Some injuries were minor, others severe.
"Diamond" Jozu's once-radiant body was streaked with fine cracks; he was half-kneeling, gasping for air.
"Flower Sword" Vista and the Serpent Princess Toritoma had ceased their duel entirely, their hands trembling slightly from fatigue.
Marco, his flames dimmed, collapsed beside Jozu, exhaustion written across his face, eyes locked on Enel, whose electric aura still shimmered unevenly in the air. Though not as strong as Marco, Enel had mastered the use of his Goro Goro fruit to exploit the smallest advantage, thanks to his frequent duels with Barrett.
Other captains—Blamenco, Curiel, Sachy, Izou—had been supported to relative safety in the rear, most unconscious or severely injured.
Even Teach, who had been hiding near the water, was affected, clutching his chest in pain as he peered warily at the central clash.
On Gern's side, Lipona's carrot-short daggers had bent from overuse. She leaned against a boulder, chest heaving, her usual youthful energy replaced entirely by battle fatigue.
Tyzolo's pale face betrayed the enormous toll of maintaining widespread golden constructs and suppressing Jozu for three days.
Enel hovered above, arrogance slightly dampened (though he tried to mask it), the high-intensity aerial combat with Marco having taken a heavy toll.
Across the battlefield, only Douglas Barrett seemed untouched by exhaustion. Standing just behind Gern, he bore some injuries, but his presence remained wild and violent. His dark Armament Haki flowed almost like a living entity beneath his skin, and his eyes blazed at Whitebeard with unrestrained intensity.
For a moment, the entire battlefield fell into an eerie silence, broken only by the wind and the suppressed groans of the wounded.
Whitebeard slowly shifted his gaze from Gern to sweep over his battered captains. A flicker of barely-visible pain crossed his eyes.
Finally, his gaze reached past the battlefield to the Decalvan brothers dangling on the cliffside. Days of wind and sun, combined with the lingering aftermath of three days of battle, had already extinguished their life force. Their heads hung limp, bodies stiff.
Whitebeard's brow furrowed, his gaze deepening. He returned his focus to Gern—and to Barrett, who, despite exhaustion, still radiated formidable strength.
The situation had become clear.
On Gern's side, he still had Barrett—a vice-commander of near-Emperor level strength. On Whitebeard's side, aside from himself, there was no other sustained source of true power.
Continuing the fight, Whitebeard could still, by sheer might, battle Gern to the end—and perhaps even emerge victorious. But what of his "sons"? Facing a nearly Emperor-level Barrett, and the exhausted but still capable Tyzolo, Enel, and Toritoma, how much longer could his injured, battered captains hold out?
The cost could be unbearable.
To risk the lives of those still living for the sake of two sons already dead, two who had even made grievous mistakes… this was not Whitebeard's way. Not his sense of fatherly love.
After a long, heavy sigh, Whitebeard seemed to release a weight that had burdened him for ages.
He straightened his towering frame, his gaze deep as an ancient well, and looked at Gern.
"Gurararara…" His laughter no longer carried its usual boldness, replaced by a raspy exhaustion. "What a… rare feast, Gern boy."
Gern's eyes flickered. He said nothing, simply observing him quietly.
Whitebeard lifted his massive hand, grasping the hilt of Bushinkiri embedded in the ground. He pulled it free, but did not point it at Gern—instead, he let it hang heavily.
"No more fighting."
The words fell like a boulder into the silent battlefield, freezing all who still retained consciousness.
Whitebeard's gaze swept over his crew, his voice loud and commanding, leaving no room for argument:
"This battle… ends here."
He returned his gaze to Gern, complex emotion flickering in his eyes.
"Those two foolish boys… they paid the price for their choices. I… and their brothers, did everything we could."
Whitebeard acknowledged reality, choosing to cut losses—for the sake of the living.
Gern met his gaze, as if searching for something within him. After a moment, he relaxed slightly, the Hakkai planted in the ground humming softly. He nodded, his voice hoarse:
"Wise choice, Whitebeard."
The titanic clash that had lasted three days, one that had nearly obliterated an entire island, ended with this brief exchange between two commanders.
No victor. No vanquished.
Only devastation, and wounds that would take time to heal.
Whitebeard cast one last, deep look at Gern.
"If my second division captain were still here… I wouldn't be 'admitting' so easily!"
"Children!" His voice carried across the battlefield, low but clear. "Put away your weapons… carry the wounded…"
"We… go home!"
With that, he hoisted Bushinkiri, stepping forward with measured, heavy strides toward the Moby Dick. His monumental silhouette, framed by the setting sun, was both desolate and indomitable.
The Whitebeard Pirates followed in silence, supporting the injured, gathering the fallen, and retreating in an organized fashion.
..
Want to unlock up to 90+ early-access chapters and exclusive novels ? Join my Patreon today and dive deeper into the adventure!
patreon.com/denji21