Somewhere in the New World, a colossal ship the size of a white whale drove through the waves with implacable momentum, a silent testament to Haki and command.
The skull-and-sabers Jolly Roger with its crescent mustache snapped from the mast in the icy wind.
The Moby Dick—flagship of the Whitebeard Pirates.
On deck, the crew stood in unaccustomed silence. The laughter was gone; resolve took its place.
"Pops," Marco said as he dropped from the sky, azure flames guttering out as wings folded back into hands. His pineapple tuft swayed in the gale. "We're nearing the waters around Miracle Island."
Hands rose to shade eyes. Far ahead, the clean blue thinned into a somber band. Within that twilight, lightning lit a storm with a dead man's pall.
"The Miracle Sea…" the navigator murmured.
A perpetual tempest in the New World, famed for swallowing fleets. Fewer than one in ten ships ever limped out; those that did were said to carry the sea's blessing. A legend, maybe—but one born from real peril.
"But Pops," Diamond Jozu rumbled, concern bleeding through his granite calm, "what's our objective this time?"
At the head of the table, Whitebeard opened his eyes. A sharp light cut through their tiger's gold. After a beat, he shook his head.
"I don't know either."
Puzzled glances flickered. If he didn't know… why go?
He exhaled, and in the rain-scoured horizon he saw Roger's wild grin. Wind combed his golden hair like a rough crown.
"Maybe," he said at last, a low chuckle edging the words, "I just want to see an old friend off."
Silence, then small, knowing smiles. They all understood what tied Pops and Roger together.
After that last meeting—when Roger cast aside pride, knelt to "borrow" Oden, and confessed his illness—something in Pops had changed. He laughed less. He stared at the sea longer, sake cupped alone in a hand built for war. Solitude clung to his back like a cloak.
Time had gone thin. From their generation of greats, Byrnndi World and Shiki had already fallen in the North Blue. Now Roger neared his own horizon. Even Pops felt the weight.
"Then let's go!"
"Yeah! Let's see what Kaido and Big Mom are really made of!"
"Hahaha! That's the spirit!"
"The Whitebeard Pirates fear no one!"
Grins flared; eyes shone.
Whitebeard looked at those bright faces—his sons—and laughed, pride warming his chest. This was the family he'd wanted his whole life: the kind that stood behind him no matter the choice or storm. That was what family meant.
"How unfortunate," a deep voice cut across the wind, arrogance riding its echo. "None of you are going anywhere."
"Who's there?!"
"Approaching, dead ahead!"
Muscles tensed; hands went to hilts.
Before anyone moved, a lance of black light tore down out of the sky with unnatural force. It crossed the void in a blink and struck the Moby Dick's deck like a teleporting spear.
Clang!
The air sang with a ringing hum.
Whitebeard's eyes flashed a feral red. For a man his size, he moved like a storm, seizing Murakumogiri and hewing down with thunder.
One of the 12 Supreme Grade Blades met the black radiance head-on.
Boom!!
The impact roared like a ruptured world. Shockwinds hammered the deck; Marco and the others staggered, forearms raised against the gale.
And the instant the blade met that light, Whitebeard's pupils tightened.
A monstrous force surged up the haft, numbing his hands. Weight like a falling mountain drove his feet deep into the planks; the Moby Dick's deck split and screamed.
Splinters spun in the wind; his huge cloak snapped and writhed.
What… is that?
Marco and the others stared, disbelief widening their eyes.
Pops's raw power couldn't smother that light?
"Momo: Hundredfold Speed—Kill Shot!"
The cold voice fell again.
As if the words themselves were a trigger, the black beam—already vibrating with afterimages—surged with ruinous speed.
Whitebeard's jaw set; sinew roped his forearms.
The Moby Dick lurched, timbers shuddering under the crushing drive.
The world pitched and blurred. Marco and the rest clamped onto rail and rigging, teeth bared against the skid.
From above, the view was stark:
Shoved by that hundred-meter streak of black light, the whale-ship skated sideways for hundreds of meters and slammed into the rocky flank of a deserted island.
BOOM!!
Dust leapt; waves climbed like walls around the shore.
The Moby Dick slid to a listing halt.
As the haze thinned, Marco finally saw the "light" for what it was.
A jet-black longsword, its steel chased with violet flame patterns.
"That's… Enma!"
"Flower Sword" Vista fixed on the blade, scarcely believing.
Shock rippled through the crew. If that was Enma, then—
"Kahahaha! You really did it, Darren! Stopping the whole Whitebeard Pirates with a single blade!"
The hoarse, cocky laugh rolled down from the clouds.
A metal ark with strange, elegant lines settled out of the overcast and hovered above the island. Arrogant silhouettes lined its rail, peering down.
A black-haired Marine with a cigar clamped in his teeth stepped forward, hands in his pockets. He exhaled a dragon's plume and met Whitebeard's dark stare without blinking.
"You'll stay here until the war ends," he said, flicking his hand like he was brushing dust away.
Shing. Shing. Shing. Shing.
Four beams speared the sky and locked on the Moby Dick from the cardinal points. Enma, Ame no Habakiri, Oto, and Kogarashi—four peerless Meito—breathed killing intent until the island itself seemed to hold its breath.
The Vice Admiral spread his arms; the six Warlords behind him answered with a surge of blood-hot battle lust.
"This place… is off-limits."
To be continued...