The island did not settle.
Not completely.
The ground still shifted beneath their feet—subtle, but undeniably wrong. It dipped where it should have held firm and rebounded where it should have remained still. The impact of the strike had not faded; it had rooted itself into the island, turning the battlefield into something unstable, something unnatural.
And beneath it all—
a rhythm lingered.
Faint.
But present.
Doom. Da-dum.
It pressed against the air in uneven pulses, quiet enough to ignore at first, but impossible to forget once noticed.
The laughter remained with it.
"HAHAHAHAHAHA—"
It carried across the battlefield, lighter now, but no less unsettling.
Smoke drifted over shattered ground as Marines struggled to rise. Some forced themselves upright with trembling arms, others remained where they had fallen, staring ahead as if their bodies had not yet caught up with reality.
This wasn't how it was supposed to feel.
Fighting Gol D. Roger made sense.
Fighting Rocks D. Xebec made sense.
Even dying here—
felt right.
But this?
A laughing, bouncing, white-haired… thing?
"…what the hell is that…"
The words slipped out before discipline could catch them.
Nearby, a Marine pushed himself up—only for the ground beneath him to dip again, forcing him back down as the terrain shifted unpredictably.
"Hold formation!"
"Don't break—!"
The order came out sharper this time.
Desperate.
Several Marines tried to obey—tightening ranks, stepping forward—
Then the ground bounced again.
Harder.
One lost his footing entirely, crashing into the man beside him. Another flinched, instinct overriding training.
The line held.
Barely.
"Identify him!"
"Who is that?! What unit—?!"
Further back, command forced its way back into the chaos.
The voice was sharp, controlled—trained to demand answers.
"He's not in any—"
"Silence."
The word didn't rise above the noise.
It didn't need to.
It cut through everything.
The battlefield didn't quiet—
but attention shifted.
Saint Jaygarcia Saturn had spoken.
The exchange didn't stop.
It was ended.
Cold. Immediate. Absolute.
For the briefest moment—
something else slipped through.
Recognition.
Then it vanished.
"His identity is irrelevant."
A pause followed, measured, deliberate.
"No records are to be made. No reports. No discussion."
Each command landed like a closed door.
Final.
Controlled.
Unquestionable.
"He is the target."
No rise in tone. No emphasis needed.
"Eliminate him."
This time, the order spread without resistance.
Fear remained.
But confusion was gone.
And still—
the laughter continued.
At the center of it all, he remained in motion.
"HAHAHAHA—"
His body twisted sideways, folding inward before snapping back out, movement flowing without logic or restraint. His foot struck the ground—
It bent.
Then launched him slightly upward.
"…okay—okay…"
He landed again.
The ground dipped.
A nearby Marine lost balance from that alone.
Then—
he spun.
His head turned once.
Twice.
Faster.
"HAHAHAHA—"
"…Gum-Gum—"
The thought never finished.
It didn't need to.
His body followed the motion anyway.
"—WHIP MY HEAD BACK AND FORTH—!"
He started singing.
Loud.
Off-beat.
"WHIP MY HEAD BACK AND FORTH—HAHAHAHA—!"
A Marine raised his rifle—
hesitated—
then lowered it without realizing it.
"…what is he doing…"
No one answered.
Because no one understood what they were seeing.
Not far from the chaos, Gol D. Roger laughed.
"HAHAHA—!"
Short.
Sharp.
Real.
"…that's one hell of a distraction…"
His gaze moved quickly across the battlefield.
Focused.
Shakky.
If Rayleigh and Gaban hadn't reached her yet—
they would now.
"Move."
The command was quiet.
Immediate.
He didn't wait.
Nearby, Edward Newgate adjusted his stance as the ground shifted again beneath him.
"Gurararara…"
His grip tightened slightly.
"…whatever that is…"
His eyes stayed locked forward.
"…it's not something you ignore…"
He didn't advance.
But he was ready.
Across the battlefield—
Rocks D. Xebec stopped.
For less than a second.
"…Nika…"
Another ripple passed through the ground. Someone slid past him, thrown by the shifting terrain.
He didn't look.
Didn't care.
Recognition came instantly.
No hesitation.
No doubt.
His direction changed.
Immediately.
"…they're not safe."
The ground shifted again—
he stepped through it without slowing.
Anyone in his way—
wasn't for long.
Whatever he had been doing—
was over.
Near the edge of the chaos—
Bartholomew Kuma stopped moving entirely.
"…he's here…"
His voice shook.
"…Nika…"
Tears streamed down his face.
"…Dad… you were right…"
Behind him, Emporio Ivankov grabbed him hard.
"Kuma! MOVE!"
The ground dipped again.
"We have to go—NOW!"
Another voice joined.
"Run!"
But Kuma didn't move.
He couldn't.
Not with that laughter still echoing.
Not with that presence still there.
At the center—
nothing had changed.
"HAHAHAHAHAHA—"
He bounced again.
Someone nearby was knocked off their feet from that alone.
He didn't notice.
Didn't care.
Spinning.
Moving.
Laughing.
Elsewhere, Monkey D. Garp didn't move at first.
Not when the ground shifted.
Not when the laughter began.
Not even when the first Marines went down.
Another fight.
Another battlefield.
That was all it had been.
Then the ground bounced again.
Harder.
A Marine nearby was thrown sideways, his body hitting the ground with a force that didn't match the movement.
He didn't get back up.
Garp's gaze shifted.
Around him, more Marines struggled—not just losing the fight, but losing control. Their footing, their rhythm, their ability to even stand.
This wasn't Roger.
This wasn't Rocks.
"…tch."
His stance changed.
Not reacting anymore.
Deciding.
"This isn't a battlefield…"
Another ripple passed through the ground.
His feet didn't move.
"…this is something else."
At the center—
the laughter continued.
"HAHAHAHAHAHA—"
Garp exhaled slowly.
"…I can't let him run wild like this."
This time—
he moved.
No hesitation.
The ground shifted beneath him.
He didn't.
Each step steady.
Controlled.
Deliberate.
His gaze locked forward.
And he didn't stop