"Luffy! Properly familiarize your vessel with this force—this is the definitive layout of true Conqueror's Haki! Only an individual who commands this tier of power can realistically anchor the title of a true King!" Shanks lectured calmly, yet the operational pacing of his saber never paused for a single fraction of a microsecond.
The high-altitude duel had smoothly transitioned from a textbook slaughter into a seemingly deadlocked, balanced front.
At least, that was the baseline diagnostic analyzed by the surrounding spectators.
Only Drake possessed the necessary technical data to comprehend that the metrics Shanks was currently displaying were far from his true operational ceiling. Sundering the world's constraints and stabilizing at a combat metric of 10,000 was fundamentally more complex than this current display.
The Emperor was deliberately adjusting his pacing to help Luffy buffer and adapt to this completely unsealed energy system.
The reality unfolded exactly as he calculated. From the very inception of the clash, Shanks's strategic mandate had been to stress-test the absolute ceiling of Luffy's potential. Yet the active telemetry had completely shattered his expectations; he hadn't anticipated that after a single demonstration, Luffy would cleanly unlock and channel that dense pool of internal energy.
Although Luffy lacked the capability to deploy 100% of the force at his current stage, the relentless, high-stakes combat was allowing his biological network to rapidly master the parameters.
Before long.
Luffy's optimization was progressing at a visible rate.
The mechanics of this force were uniquely efficient. The advanced application of Armament Haki—Ryou—which had previously required intense mental focus to generate, could now be projected effortlessly with a casual gesture. Striking across the empty air currents was as simple as a basic reflex.
Furthermore, this output completely outperformed standard Conqueror's Haki infusion. If infusion merely coated the weapon with a fractional sliver of one's sovereign aura, then the Conqueror's Domain was the absolute mobilization of the user's entire Haki reserve, discharging it across any geometric form at will.
KABOOM!
Luffy and Shanks traded monumental blows in mid-air, dense webs of anomalous black lightning fracturing the atmosphere around their perimeters.
This had broken past the boundaries of a standard Haki clash. The surrounding spatial matrix was executing a continuous series of micro-tremors. While this structural feedback remained invisible to the ordinary senses of the spectators, Drake's specialized spatial perception mapped the reality with absolute precision.
The physical atmosphere appeared mathematically incapable of buffering the sheer kinetic weight of the impact, every single residual shockwave triggering a localized distortion in the spatial grid.
The absolute zenith of the world!
At this precise juncture, that exact realization solidified within Drake's mind.
While Luffy and Drake were anchoring their vanguard opposite the Red Hair Pirates, the global landscape was undergoing a monumental paradigm shift.
Concurrently, Ace had successfully executed his return to the Whitebeard Pirates. Following a grand, roaring celebration, Yamato and Otama were formally registered as members of the fleet.
Initially, the veteran core of the Whitebeard Pirates couldn't rationalize the data. They found it highly unusual that Ace would permit a small child to enlist. Across the decades of their history, aside from the children of Kozuki Oden long ago, the Moby Dick had never carried infants among the crew. Consequently, the baseline fighters harbored a trace of operational resistance toward a little girl claiming the mantle of a comrade. After all, what practical utility could a child of those proportions bring to a high-stakes pirate deployment?
Yet over a short timeline of daily interaction, they fell completely under the spell of the vibrant, pure-hearted little girl. Concurrently, as the historical details of the extreme hardships Otama had endured in Wano saturation-bombed their command channels, the crew began showering her with absolute, protective devotion.
The presence of a child seamlessly reinforced the institutional reality Pop had always cultivated—transforming the armada into a true, living family.
As for Yamato, her boisterous, unbridled personality was naturally engineered to thrive in any social ecosystem. It took a remarkably short window for her to establish absolute popularity across the divisions.
The fighters clearly deciphered Ace's protective stance toward the pair. They were now comrades who would share the same horizon, a development that triggered zero structural ripples within the massive organization. For a giant fleet of their scale, absorbing fresh personnel was a standard, daily occurrence.
On this specific afternoon, Ace, Marco, and Yamato slowly marched down the corridor of a secluded, high-security holding structure.
The moment they crossed the threshold of the chamber, a colossal, hulking figure wrapped in massive layers of heavy iron chains materialized within their vision.
Former Warlord of the Sea, Edward Weevil!
The individual who loudly proclaimed himself as the biological son of Whitebeard.
Right before Ace had initiated his deployment to Wano Country, this monster had aggressively targeted their perimeter, loudly demanding the immediate surrender of Whitebeard's accumulated treasures. His chaotic assault had inflicted severe injuries upon multiple baseline divisions of the fleet. It had ultimately required Ace's direct intervention to unleash his arsenal and completely suppress the brute.
Given the extreme time constraints governing his departure back then, Ace hadn't possessed the window to run a thorough diagnostic on the brute's lineage. However, his intelligence channels had compiled a dense log of Weevil's field activities over the preceding two-year timeline. The independent pirate crews operating under the protective banner of the Whitebeard Pirates had suffered severe structural devastation at his hands.
And on the exact eve of Ace's voyage, Weevil had closed the distance to their main camp.
Brandishing his massive naginata with manic, unbridled arrogance, he had roared at the top of his lungs, "I am the true son of Whitebeard! Whitebeard Pirates! Surrender every single fraction of my father's treasure immediately!"
At that juncture, Ace had classified the interloper as nothing more than a delusional idiot. But the exact microsecond the brute initiated lethal strikes against his family, Ace's incandescent fury exploded, nearly thrashing the absolute daylights out of him.
Following that definitive containment, Weevil had entered a sterile, unlit phase of total incarceration. It wasn't until this hour that his eyes registered living faces once more.
To permanently eliminate any probability of a structural breakout during his absence, Ace had issued an absolute command strictly forbidding anyone from approaching the cell. Even the distribution of basic rations was handled via a specialized, minimal aperture built into the heavy door, feeding him directly at his mouth's coordinate.
After all, the monster's raw physical metrics were undeniably formidable. In the absence of both Ace and Marco, very few powerhouses anchoring the Whitebeard Pirates possessed the necessary combat mass to neutralize him.
"You assert that your vessel is the biological flesh and blood of Pop. Do you possess a single shred of verifiable data to anchor that claim?" Ace questioned, staring down at a thoroughly depleted, silent Weevil.
Ace's analytical models verified that the brute's biological signatures were perfectly stable. He had thoroughly processed the telemetry of the cell over these weeks. Throughout this month-long timeline of isolation, Weevil had spent the initial half executing frantic, violent struggles to rupture his constraints.
However, the specialized modification Ace had engineered rendered his raw strength entirely useless. The heavy chains binding his massive frame were continuously infused with a localized coating of his thermal energy. The more violently Weevil struggled against the steel, the more intensely the living fire would flare to scorch his flesh. Following a series of agonizing stress tests, Weevil had completely aborted his violent behavioral patterns. Over a prolonged timeline, he had stabilized into this hollow, static posture.
"Hey!" Before Weevil could formulate a verbal response, a shriveled, pint-sized old crone standing shackled right beside his massive frame let out a piercing, shrill screech. "Analyze his mustache, you blind fool! Is it not a perfect, absolute copy of Whitebeard's own?!"
Ace slowly swept a cold, detached glance across her frame, before systematically erasing her from his focus to look back at Weevil.
This creature was none other than Miss Bakkin—the individual who continuously claimed to be Whitebeard's former lover.
She was the supreme architect who had steered Weevil across the New World, intentionally picking bloody conflicts with the Whitebeard Pirates' territory. During their initial capture, her arrogance had broken all institutional metrics. She had immediately attempted to pull rank as Whitebeard's sovereign woman, shouting directives and demanding administrative control over their command structure.
Ace wasn't about to afford her a single sliver of face.
He had immediately delivered a devastating backhand saturated with a monumental concentration of Advanced Armament Haki. The sheer kinetic impact had scattered fresh blood and broken teeth across the entire stone floor.
"As of this hour... I am the absolute Captain of the Whitebeard Pirates!" He had driven the statement with magnificent, unyielding weight back then.
Of course, that sequence had been a calculated tactical choice. He was fully aware that these two scammers had operated under the assumption that Whitebeard had perished during the Summit War two years ago, intending to manufacture a narrative where the dead could not testify.
Throughout that extended timeline, while Ace had been locked in deep seclusion to refine his vessel, Whitebeard had remained perfectly active. Pop was thoroughly privy to the global data shifting across the sea. Consequently, he had cleanly delegated the resolution of this farce entirely onto Ace's shoulders.