Neither Gunko nor Saint Sommers ever entertained the delusion that they could stop what was coming. Even in all their divine arrogance, they knew—no one could counter a landmass of such magnitude.
They had seen it with their own eyes earlier: the Azure Dragon's fury, a torrent of living stormfire that had once scorched through armies, had barely scraped a corner of that colossal continent Shiki now wielded as a weapon. The fragments that had fallen already blotted out the night sky, raining devastation upon the seas. To think he could hurl the entire mass was insanity—an act that defied nature itself.
And yet… Shiki, that golden-maned madman, laughed.
The heavens split with that laughter—wild, ragged, echoing like thunder across the world below. The sound wasn't merely mirth; it was the scream of a man who had long crossed the threshold between genius and lunacy. His voice rolled through the air as his golden aura shimmered like wildfire around him.
"Shihahaha…! If the world wants an end, then let me be the one to drop it!"
Even Kaido, the Emperor of Beasts, grimaced. His titanic frame twisted, bones cracking and muscles tearing before reforming as he returned to his Flaming Azure Dragon form. His scales burned brighter than molten steel as he coiled through the air, eyes narrowing on the mountain of land descending from the stratosphere.
Perhaps, in that draconic form, he thought he might survive—with a few broken ribs, maybe a shattered spine—but survival wasn't guaranteed. Not against this.
Below them, Scarlett disengaged from the fight, her crimson blades fading into dust. She looked upward, her heart pounding, and for the first time in years, doubt claimed her face. She could run—she knew that. She could escape if she abandoned her crew now. But she wasn't that kind of woman.
"If this is the trial I must face to surpass myself," she whispered, her voice trembling but proud, "then I'll face it standing."
She turned, watching her crew scrambling to steer their entire armada of ships through the rising gales. The sea churned as gravity itself bent, waves curling upward toward the descending mass. Even with everything collapsing, Scarlett planted her boots firmly on the floating metal platform and raised her sword skyward, defiant in the face of the inevitable.
On Water 7, panic consumed the city. The night sky—once painted dark and serene—was now a canvas of doom. The colossal shadow swallowed the heavens whole, stretching horizon to horizon. Entire structures crumbled as survivors in hiding flooded the streets, their cries mixing with the screech of breaking metal and the distant roar of battles still ensuing on the island.
Marines, pirates, and civilians alike stared up, unable to comprehend the sight before them.
Some fell to their knees, praying to gods they had never believed in. Others simply froze, breathless, as the continent's silhouette loomed ever larger.
"It's… it's the end… the sky is falling…"
Any officer who still retained a sense of sanity screamed orders into their den den mushi, but even as they shouted, they knew no command could save them. Battleships scattered in every direction, but the sea was already trembling from the shockwaves above.
The World Government fleet, once proud and orderly, had devolved into chaos. Warships collided, cannons misfired, and even vice admirals were struck dumb, staring up at what looked like divine judgment made real.
Further away from the shore in the middle of the naval battle, on the flagship of the World Government, the floating fortress of the Holy Knights, Gunko's mind raced. Her body trembled—not from fear, but from cold calculation.
Her mismatched eyes glowed crimson as the tendrils of her Aro Aro no Mi flared to life. Bandages snaked from her arms, writhing like living things. With a snap of her wrist, they expanded outward, wrapping around the entire floating fortress. The wind howled as the fortress cocooned itself in a web of glowing silk.
Saint Sommers merely watched from beside Gunko as she personally took action while he himself made no move to intervene or help. His expression was unreadable—bored, even—as he observed the continent's descent. Tens of thousands of Marines, Cipher Pol agents, and World Government soldiers screamed for orders. None came.
"Tenryubito-sama!" one Cipher Pol captain shouted from the deck of the flagship. "We have to evacuate! Our men—our fleet—!" Even someone like a Cipher Pol agent trained to be ruthless and emotionless could feel the sting at the possibility of losing so many of their men.
Saint Sommers, however, didn't even turn his head. His sinister eyes watched the burning light shimmer against the falling landmass. The reflection danced across the entire dark ocean floor like the last flicker of a dying star.
"Expendable," he murmured. "All of them."
The word hit the air like frost. Around him, even the elite agents fell silent, unsure if they had misheard. But the Saint continued, voice calm, detached, and utterly void of humanity.
"The mission will continue regardless. Let the weak burn. At least this way their deaths would have some meaning…"
As the command was spoken, Gunko's arrow cocoon tightened, sealing the fortress in a sphere of shimmering bandages. Her expression hardened—cold and sharp as steel. She had no intention of saving anyone, for her all that mattered were her orders. The Aro Aro Fruit roared to life.
With a deafening crack, the entire floating fortress shot backward like a meteor in reverse, propelled by the immense power of Gunko's devil fruit. The bandages glowed red-hot as friction tore through the air, the cocoon streaking across the sky in a trail of fire. Below them, the waves exploded outward as the continent's shadow deepened.
Inside the cocoon, Gunko's mind was ice. She thought of nothing but the mission, her lips curling as she whispered to herself.
"Maffey. Killingham. Retrieve the Fishman. That's your only task."
Her eyes flickered toward the island as her observation Haki painted a vivid picture showing the battlefield. Maffey and Killingham—immortal, indestructible—were still locked in the chaos on the island. She didn't worry for them. Even if crushed to pulp, they would regenerate. That was their curse. Their gift. As for the rest—tens of thousands of loyal marines, Cipher Pol elites, and government agents—she felt nothing. Not even a flicker of regret.
"They served their purpose," she muttered.
The fortress streaked across the sky, faster and faster, leaving behind the city that had once been Water 7—a city about to vanish beneath the wrath of a madman.
And then it happened. The air itself screamed. The sky tore apart with a noise that transcended sound—a pressure so immense that it crushed lungs and shattered glass across miles. The sea rose in walls higher than mountains as the continent began its final descent.
Shiki's laughter echoed one last time, manic and wild, the sound of a man who no longer recognized the world he sought to destroy.
"Let the sea remember my name once more…!"
Kaido roared in defiance, his dragon form colliding with the falling mass. Lightning arced from his entire form as a molten lance of flames fired from his maw as he struck with everything he had. But the energy vanished against the sheer enormity of it—the impact of a god's hand upon the world. The dragon was flung backward, his roar swallowed by the avalanche of stone and fire.
Scarlett stood on her floating platform, eyes locked on the falling sky. Her crew wept, screaming for her to move, but she simply smiled—a quiet, almost feral expression—as the world turned white above them.
The world… stopped.
For one fleeting heartbeat, the seas, the winds, and even the cries of dying men froze in time. The colossal shadow of Shiki's continent hung above like the mouth of death itself, swallowing the light, swallowing the world. Under its looming darkness, distinctions lost all meaning — marine, pirate, civilian — all equalized beneath the sheer inevitability of oblivion.
On ships, decks, and crumbling islands, people stood as statues—eyes wide, throats tight, unable to breathe. Some fell to their knees, faces buried in trembling hands. Others simply stared upward, their souls already surrendering. The air grew heavy, pressing down like a god's hand upon the world. Even the sea began to sink.
"It's… over," someone whispered.
"The world's… done…"
And then—the air screamed. It wasn't a sound born of life—it was the death cry of the sky itself. A tearing, shredding wail that shook every molecule in existence. The pressure hit seconds after the figure had already moved, the sonic booms chasing him like desperate echoes.
A blur tore through the stratosphere—so fast the naked eye couldn't follow, only the devastation in its wake. Clouds split apart in perfect symmetry, forming a gaping tunnel through the dark heavens. The sea below cratered from the passing shockwaves, sending spirals of water miles into the air.
It wasn't light. It wasn't thunder. It was Garp.
Vice Admiral Monkey D. Garp, the Hero of the Marines, the man who made every pirate on the seas once tremble with the mere mention of his name—and now, the only force still standing between Water 7 and its utter annihilation.
He wasn't flying. He was crashing through the air—each movement detonating the atmosphere around him. Sonic booms followed in succession, hundreds of them, so rapid that they blended into a single, world-rending roar. By the time the sound of his first movement reached the sea, Garp was already beside the falling continent.
To the naked eye, it looked like an island descending upon an ant—yet the ant looked up, unflinching, his marine coat whipping in the chaos. The winds tore at his flesh, and fire licked at his uniform, but the old man's grin never faltered.
"So this is your madness, Shiki…" he muttered. "Dropping the world to prove a point."
He cracked his knuckles—each pop echoing like gunfire. The veins in his forearms bulged like coiled serpents, black and crimson lightning dancing across his skin. His Haki burned — raw, ancient, monstrous. The kind of presence that made even nature hesitate.
The world stilled again—not because it was peaceful, but because it feared him. His aura expanded outward in a single heartbeat, shaking the heavens. It wasn't the will of a man anymore. It was the will of a god, unleashed through mortal flesh.
The entire sky parted. Darkness split. And for the first time since the fall began, light returned to the world—not from the sun, but from Garp's fist.
Red and gold lightning burst across the sky, dancing like ribbons of divine wrath. His Conqueror's Haki surged outward in colossal rings, obliterating the clouds, the rain, and even the air itself. The pressure of his spirit made the seas flatten for miles. Far below, Kaido's dragon eyes widened. Even in his beastly arrogance, he felt his scales crawl.
"That… old bastard…"
Scarlett lowered her sword, a bright grin streaming down her soot-streaked face as she looked up at the glowing figure in the sky.
"Garp… you crazy, monstrous bastard…"
Shiki's laughter, once manic and unhinged, faltered mid-breath. For the first time since his fall began, the Golden Lion looked uncertain, and an emotion he had long thought buried surfaced again; FEAR.
Garp's voice tore through the heavens—not shouted, but roared, primal and commanding.
"GALAXYYYYYYYYY… IMPAAAAAAAAAAAACCT!!!"
The sound transcended the realm of sound. It was a declaration, a strike so pure it felt like the world itself roared with him. The moment his fist connected with the continent, reality fractured. A single, infinitesimal point of contact — one man's fist against a landmass the size of nations — and yet, in that instant, time seemed to hold its breath.
Hairline cracks spread outward from his knuckles, thin as spider silk. At first, nothing happened. The world waited. Shiki's smirk began to return. And then—
BOOM.
The cracks ignited. Red lightning exploded through the cracks like blood through veins, racing across the continent in an instant. The sound didn't even have time to follow; light outpaced it, the world flashing white. The sheer pressure vaporized the air, creating a vacuum that pulled the seas upward like claws reaching for heaven.
Then came the shockwave. A single detonation that made the heavens scream. The entire continent — obliterated. Rock turned to dust, dust to fire, fire to light. The explosion spanned the horizon, painting the world in blinding gold. Mountains crumbled midair, torn apart by invisible shockwaves. The sky lit up like the birth of a star—Garp's fist glowing brighter than the sun as he roared against the inferno.
The very atmosphere bent away, space rippling like water. The noise came seconds later—a thunderclap so colossal it shattered the eardrums of anyone within hundreds of miles.
The seas were chaos incarnate. Tsunamis rose miles high, but even they were torn apart by residual Haki pressure. Ships were flipped, yet miraculously, most survived—shielded by the very shockwave that should've killed them, as if the old man's will had subconsciously spared them.
From the wreckage of light and fire, Garp descended slowly — his cloak torn, his uniform scorched, his fists still glowing faintly like dying stars. The remains of the continent were gone. Not broken— erased.
Shiki's insane laughter was no more; the Golden Lion himself was hurled far into the deck of his ship as he had defended the flying ship from the shockwave, his face bloodied, his madness silenced. Even Kaido, the Beast of Calamity, simply hovered in stunned silence.
The silence that followed was sacred. A silence born not from peace, but from awe. Marines and pirates alike gazed upward, unable to speak. They had seen battles, legends, miracles — but this? This was something else. A mortal fist that shattered the impossible.
Far away at sea, dozens of miles away, standing on the prow of the floating fortress of the World Government flagship, which had been hurled to safety by Gunko's ability, Saint Sommers watched with narrowed eyes. For the first time, even he seemed uncertain and afraid.
"That… was not of this world."
Gunko stared at the world-shattering punch, her bandaged hands trembling slightly—not in fear, but in instinct, as if her body realized that even with their immortality, that man was fully capable of killing them.
"Monkey D. Garp… What are you?"
Garp landed upon the shattered remnants of the sky itself—walking on compressed air as if it were solid ground. He exhaled, a deep, rumbling sigh that echoed like the sea's final wave.
"BWAHAHAHAHA… damn thing almost broke my arm."
His voice was casual, but his presence… unreal. Every inch of his body radiated raw power. His Haoshoku still shimmered, coating the sky in red lightning that refused to die down. Even the world seemed unwilling to move until he did.
He looked down upon the devastated sea, upon the thousands of marines and pirates now floating in stunned silence. Then he smiled—that same reckless grin that had terrified pirates and inspired generations.
"Don't go dying on me now, you brats," he called out, voice booming across the ocean. "There's still a world worth punching!"
And as the last fragments of the shattered continent fell like glowing embers into the sea, Garp stood alone against the heavens, the absolute titan of an era—one man who refused to let the world end, not while he could still raise a fist.
The people below, especially the Marines, began to cheer—hesitant at first, then louder, then unstoppable. From despair to disbelief to jubilation. The Hero of the Marines had done it again. He hadn't just saved the island and all those lives. He had reminded it why it still deserved saving.
The world still trembled. Even after the light faded and the last fragments of the shattered continent dissolved into the horizon, the ocean heaved as if remembering the fist that had just broken heaven.
Smoke rolled across the sea, glowing faintly with traces of red lightning. Ships floated half-wrecked, their flags torn and masts leaning like exhausted sentinels. And on one such ship, Vice Admiral Vergo steadied himself against the shattered bay, jaw clenched, eyes wide.
His usual calm, that disciplined stillness that made recruits tremble, was gone. He could only stare upward at the figure standing in the sky—a lone man haloed in the afterglow of his own power.
"So this… is the strength of the Marine Hero," Vergo whispered. "No report… no archive ever came close."
His voice cracked with something foreign — reverence. Beside him, Borsalino was still half-kneeling, his body flickering with the fading trails of his Pika Pika no Mi. He had pushed his light beyond endurance, darting across the battlefield to carry marines from ship to ship, scattering beams of salvation across chaos. Even light had limits; he had felt them. His limbs were trembling, photons dispersing unevenly around him as he tried to keep his form stable.
He looked up, pupils narrowing against the brightness still hanging in the sky. There was Garp—old but defiant, laughing faintly at the oblivion he'd survived — and for the first time, Borsalino felt slow.
"Light…" he murmured. "Light's supposed to be the fastest thing there is… but I couldn't even reach him."
The words came out half-smile, half-confession. He remembered the blinding sonic booms that had followed Garp's charge — the way the sound arrived after the man himself. The air had moved too slow to keep up with him. Even light seemed hesitant to follow.
He exhaled, the corner of his mouth twitching upward in an attempt at humor that never formed.
"So this is what it means… to punch faster than light."
The realization wasn't defeat — it was awe. He understood, in that moment, that there existed a height of power unreachable by any technique or Devil Fruit, a realm built only from spirit — the weight of will that bends the world.
On the other side of the ruined fleet, Vice Admiral Momonga stood at the bow of his ship, hat lost to the wind, coat drenched in sea spray. He had been commanding evacuations moments before—cutting lines, steering ships away from the shockwaves, and shouting himself hoarse as he watched the continent fall. Now, he stood in silence.
The sea hissed around him, ripples spreading outward from where the debris of the shattered land had turned to dust. And above that endless horizon, Garp hung suspended in the air, his fist still faintly glowing, like the last ember of creation.
Momonga straightened his back and saluted. He did not salute an officer, nor even a hero.
He saluted a guardian deity — the living embodiment of the Marines' soul.
"The man who held the line," he whispered. "Even the heavens bow before his fist."
Around him, the remaining marines followed suit, one after another. Some were still bleeding, others clutching shattered weapons, but as one they raised their hands, silent. The salute spread from ship to ship, across the broken armada — a wave of respect that replaced their terror with faith.
Borsalino finally stood, brushing dust from his coat. The tremor in his hand betrayed him; his usual lazy grin wouldn't come. He looked toward Vergo and exhaled through his teeth.
"Oi, Vergo… maybe I'll stay vice admiral for a while," he said, voice light but hollow.
"I think I've just seen what an admiral really looks like."
Vergo didn't answer at first. His gaze remained locked on the sky, where Garp descended slowly through the last rays of light. The clouds curved away from him as if the air itself refused to touch the man who had defied extinction. Every movement radiated an ancient strength — not rage, not pride, but something purer.
"Kuzan-san," Vergo said quietly, his voice barely rising above the hiss of the settling sea, "I don't think anyone in this world could replicate that… let alone the Marine Admirals."
The words hung heavy in the air—not spoken as doubt, but as revelation. Around them, the sea still shimmered with the afterglow of Garp's strike; the waves themselves seemed hesitant to move, as if the ocean feared to disturb the will that had just split the heavens.
Borsalino said nothing. His usual lazy calm had long since vanished. The light from his body flickered in uneven pulses, struggling to decide whether it wanted to shine or dim. He had seen power in his years—the cataclysms of Devil Fruits, the fury of Yonko—but what he had just witnessed transcended any measure of strength he knew.
Vergo continued, his gaze fixed on the shrinking figure of the old man standing atop the sea.
"If that's the kind of power the Admirals truly held," he said, the words trembling with a rare intensity, "then the seas would've already flown the Marine banner from the Four Blues to the New World. What supernova? What Yonko? They would've been nothing but toys in our grasp…"
He trailed off, the thought collapsing under its own weight. The world itself seemed to reject the idea that more than one being like Garp could ever exist at once. Because that wasn't power born of rank. That wasn't a fruit of nature or a title earned through politics. It was something else.
Vergo drew a slow, shuddering breath, the reflection of red lightning still flickering in his eyes.
"No… that isn't the realm of Admirals," he whispered. "That… is the realm of gods."
The words left his lips with reverence, and for once, even Borsalino didn't mock the sentiment.
Because standing there, with the sea flattened to glass beneath the weight of a single man's spirit, it didn't feel like exaggeration. It felt like truth.
The air was still trembling—as if the fabric of the world hadn't yet recovered from the impact. The very sky carried the scent of ozone and divine fury, a reminder that for one blazing instant, a human had reached beyond mortal limits and struck something higher.
Vergo's hand clenched at his side, the realization sinking deeper with each heartbeat.
He had dedicated his entire life to discipline — to order, to strength, to the ideal of the perfect marine. He had thought the Admirals represented the pinnacle of that pursuit. But now, after seeing Garp break the impossible with his bare hands, that belief shattered.
"Maybe…just maybe," he said softly, almost to himself, "humans can transcend… Maybe we can step into the realm of gods."