Chapter 67: The Melee
The beach erupted.
Roger and Whitebeard had already vanished from the center of the crater, their weapons clashing high above, the shockwaves of their battle carving new scars into the island. The crews did not wait for orders. Men who had been sharing drinks moments before now faced each other with blades drawn, grins wide, the joy of a true contest lighting their faces.
Marco was the first to move from the Whitebeard side. Blue flames erupted from his shoulders, and he shot into the air, his eyes scanning the chaos below for a worthy opponent. He found Rayleigh already engaged with Vista, their blades moving in a rhythm too fast for most to follow. Jozu was barreling through a cluster of Roger pirates, his diamond body shrugging off blows that would have felled lesser men.
Then Marco saw him. Kyle stood apart from the main brawl, his naginata resting on his shoulder, his expression calm. He was watching the fight, not participating, and something about that stillness drew Marco's attention.
He dove.
His claws, wrapped in Haki and azure flames, aimed for Kyle's head. He was fast—faster than most on the field—but Kyle did not flinch. He tilted his head, and Marco's strike passed through empty air. Kyle had not dodged; he had moved before Marco committed, his vibration sense reading the attack before it came.
Marco twisted, wings flaring, and landed a few paces away. "You're fast."
"I'm patient." Kyle shifted his grip on his naginata. "You're Marco, right? The one with the healing flames."
Marco's eyes narrowed. "And you're the one they call the Wave Guiding King. I've heard you're strong."
"I've been around."
They circled each other, the chaos of the battle flowing around them. Marco struck first, his claws raking across the space where Kyle had been. Kyle sidestepped, his naginata sweeping low to force Marco back. The younger man's wings folded, then snapped open, propelling him forward. Their weapons met—claws against blade—and the impact sent a pulse of air through the sand.
Kyle gave ground, not because he was losing, but because he was reading. Marco's style was aggressive, his flames giving him speed and recovery, but his attacks were linear. He committed to his strikes. Kyle let him come, each time deflecting just enough to avoid damage, each time taking a half‑step back.
Marco pressed harder. His claws came in a flurry, blue fire trailing. Kyle's blade moved in a tight circle, meeting each blow, turning it aside. He did not counter. He was waiting.
"Fight back!" Marco snarled, frustrated.
Kyle smiled. "If you insist."
He sent a low vibration through the sand beneath Marco's feet. The ground shifted, and Marco's balance broke for an instant. Kyle stepped inside his guard, the flat of his blade tapping Marco's shoulder—a touch, not a cut. Marco stumbled back, wings flaring to steady himself.
"That was cheap," Marco said.
"It was effective." Kyle's voice was calm. "Your flames let you heal, but they don't make you invincible. You overcommit. You rely on your regeneration."
Marco's eyes flashed. He lunged again, faster, his claws wreathed in flame. This time Kyle met him head‑on. Their weapons locked, and for a moment they were face to face, Marco's flames licking at Kyle's blade.
"You're holding back," Marco said.
"So are you."
They broke apart. Marco was breathing harder, but his eyes were sharper. He was learning, adapting. Kyle approved.
---
Across the beach, Jozu was having the time of his life.
Jabba's axes rang against his diamond skin, sparks flying with every blow. Jozu laughed, his voice booming. "You're strong! But you can't break me!"
Jabba grinned, his axes spinning. "Who said anything about breaking you?" He changed his angle, striking not at Jozu's chest but at the sand beneath his feet. The ground gave way, and Jozu stumbled. Jabba's axe caught him in the side, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to move him.
Jozu regained his footing, his grin wider. "Clever."
The two clashed again, strength against strength, neither willing to yield.
---
In the chaos, Oden had found his own battle.
He had crashed through the lines of both crews, his swords cutting arcs that scattered friend and foe alike. He was looking for Roger, but a tall figure with a scarred face and twin axes blocked his path.
"You're the one from Wano," Bullet said, his voice flat. "I've heard you're strong."
Oden's eyes lit up. "You want to fight?"
Bullet did not answer. He attacked.
Their blades met, and the sand around them erupted. Oden's style was wild, powerful, each swing carrying the weight of his years on the sea. Bullet was controlled, brutal, his fists and his blade working together. They traded blows, neither giving ground.
"You're good!" Oden shouted.
"I'm better," Bullet replied.
They fought on, their battle carving a new scar into the beach.
---
The clash between the captains had moved inland, but its echoes still rattled the trees. Kyle could feel the pulse of Roger's Haki, bright and fierce, and Whitebeard's answering pressure, a mountain against a storm. They were pushing each other, testing limits, saying goodbye in the only way they knew.
Marco, watching Kyle's attention drift, saw his chance. He lunged, his claws aimed at Kyle's exposed side.
Kyle moved. He did not dodge—he turned, his palm meeting Marco's strike, a focused vibration deadening the force. He stepped into Marco's guard, his naginata's shaft pressed against Marco's chest.
"Good try," Kyle said. "But you telegraphed."
He pushed, and Marco slid back across the sand, his wings flaring to stop his momentum. He was breathing hard, but he was smiling.
"Next time," Marco said.
"Next time," Kyle agreed.
---
The battle wound down as the sun began to set. Neither side had won; neither side had lost. Men who had been fighting now sat together on the sand, sharing bottles, comparing wounds. Roger and Whitebeard returned from the jungle, their clothes torn, their faces bruised, both laughing.
"Kuhahaha! Not bad, Newgate!"
"Gurararara! You're still alive, Roger."
They clasped arms, the crews watching, and the celebration began.
Kyle found a spot near the edge of the beach, his back against a palm tree, a fresh cup of juice in his hand. Marco dropped onto the sand beside him, his wings folded, a bottle in his grip.
"You're not celebrating," Marco said.
"I'm watching."
Marco followed his gaze to Roger and Whitebeard, sharing a barrel, their crews mingling around them. "He doesn't have much time, does he? Roger."
Kyle was quiet for a moment. "No. But he's going to use what he has."
Marco nodded slowly. He raised his bottle. "To the ones who burn bright."
Kyle touched his cup to it. "To the ones who burn."
They drank, and the sun set on the island, and for one night, the sea was quiet.
---
End of Chapter 67