Chapter 139: Absolute Justice
The steam was thinning, the ice melting, the sea already beginning to swallow what was left of the battlefield. Sakazuki stood on a slab of ice that tilted with the waves, his chest heaving, his arms still smoking, his eyes fixed on the place where Kyle had been standing. The light that had risen from the blade was gone. The man who had carried it was gone. And Sakazuki, who had spent his life making himself into a weapon that could not be stopped, was still standing.
He should have been satisfied. He had faced the man who had cut Marineford, who had walked away from Garp and Sengoku, who had thrown Kuzan into the sea and left him to rise or drown. He had survived. He had not retreated. That was enough, for most men. It was not enough for him.
"Bastard."
The word was a whisper, a breath, a thing that carried no weight. He raised his fist. The magma that answered him was thin, his reserves almost gone, but the rage that fed it was not. It gathered, formed, became a hound with teeth of fire and a throat that had learned to swallow ships. He let it go.
The hound tore across the ice, its heat melting the frozen sea, its shadow a streak of red against the gray. It found nothing. Kyle was already gone, his afterimage dissolving into steam, and the hound struck the water where he had been, raising a column of steam that reached toward the clouds.
Sakazuki stood in the silence that followed, his arm still raised, his breath still coming in ragged gasps. He had missed. He had always missed. At Marineford, when the man had walked away from Garp and Sengoku, when he had cut down the blade that should have ended him, when he had left Sakazuki bleeding in the rubble and walked into the storm. He had missed then, and he was missing now, and the rage that had been his fuel was beginning to burn what was left of him.
Kuzan's voice came from across the ice, thin, scraped raw. "He's gone."
Sakazuki turned. Kuzan lay on a slab of ice that was already breaking apart, his arm bent at an angle that should not have been, his face pale, his breath a white cloud that did not rise. He had fallen from the sky, had been thrown by the light that had swallowed his star, had been carried by the sea that had always been waiting to take him. He was alive. He was breathing. He was not moving.
"He could have killed us," Kuzan said. His voice was not the voice of a man who was afraid. It was the voice of a man who was trying to understand. "He could have killed us both, and he didn't."
Sakazuki's fists tightened. The magma that had been cooling on his arms cracked, fell, revealed the burned skin beneath. "He's a pirate. He doesn't get credit for letting us live."
"I'm not giving him credit." Kuzan's eyes were open, fixed on the sky. "I'm asking why."
Sakazuki did not answer. He stood on the ice, the sea lapping at his boots, the steam from his failed attack still rising behind him, and he did not know the answer. He had spent his life believing that the world was simple, that there was good and evil, that the men who stood against the law were monsters who deserved to be burned. Kyle was a monster. He had cut Marineford, had walked away from Garp and Sengoku, had stood on a cliff and watched Ohara burn. He was evil. He was the thing that Sakazuki had sworn to destroy. And he had let them live.
Kuzan's hand moved, slow, reaching for the ice beside him. His fingers found nothing. He let his arm fall. "The ships that ran. The ones with civilians. You ordered them sunk."
Sakazuki's face did not change. "They were carrying the seeds of Ohara. If even one scholar escaped, the poison would spread. More would die. More cities would burn. The sacrifice was necessary."
"They were children."
"They were carrying the same poison as their parents. The World Government does not make exceptions for age."
Kuzan was silent for a long time. The ice beneath him was cracking, the water rising, and he did not have the strength to move. He lay on the slab that was already sinking, and he thought of the scholars he had seen in the streets, the children who had been playing in the square, the woman who had been reading on the steps of the library. He thought of the ships that had tried to run, the ones Sakazuki had ordered sunk, the men who had pulled the triggers and told themselves it was justice.
"It was murder," he said. His voice was quiet, but it carried across the ice. "We murdered them. All of them."
Sakazuki walked to the edge of his slab, looked down at the man who had been his rival, his comrade, his mirror. "We did what was necessary. That's the difference between us and the pirates. They kill because they want to. We kill because we have to."
Kuzan's laugh was a thin, broken sound. "That's what we tell ourselves. That's what we've always told ourselves."
He closed his eyes. The ice was breaking, the water rising, and he did not have the strength to move. He lay on the slab that was already sinking, and he let the cold take him.
Sakazuki watched. He watched the ice crack, the water rise, the man who had been his rival slip toward the sea. He did not move. He stood on the slab that was still whole, his arms at his sides, his face a mask that did not show what he was thinking. He watched, and he waited, and when the water had almost reached Kuzan's chest, he moved.
His hand closed on Kuzan's collar. The ice beneath him cracked, his weight shifting, his arm straining. He pulled. The water that had been rising fell away, and Kuzan lay on the slab, his chest heaving, his eyes open, his face turned toward the sky.
"You saved me," Kuzan said. It was not a question.
"I did what was necessary." Sakazuki released him, stepped back. The ice groaned under his weight, but it held. "You're still a Marine. You're still useful."
Kuzan lay in the cold, the water lapping at the edges of the slab, and he did not answer. He had seen the light that rose from Kyle's blade, had felt it touch his skin and pass through him, had been thrown from the sky and left to drown. He had not been enough. He had never been enough. And the man who had saved him was the same man who had ordered the ships sunk, who had burned the children, who had told himself that it was justice.
He did not know what to call it. He did not know what to call any of it.
The sun was setting, the sea gold and red, the island of Ohara already gone. The ships that had come to burn it were turning, their work done, their crews already forgetting what they had done. Sakazuki stood at the edge of the ice, his face toward the horizon, his hands at his sides. He did not look at Kuzan. He did not look at the island. He looked at the sea that had swallowed the fire, the smoke that was already thinning, the light that was already fading.
He had done what was necessary. He had burned the poison, killed the carriers, buried the truth that the World Government had ordered buried. He had done it because it was his duty, because the world was not a place where justice could afford mercy, because the men who had come before him had been weak and the world had suffered for it. He was not weak. He would not be weak. He would burn every seed of heresy, every carrier of poison, every man who thought that the law did not apply to them. He would burn until the world was clean.
He looked at his hands. The burns that covered them were old and new, the scars of a man who had made himself into a weapon. He had been a weapon today. He had been a weapon at Marineford, at God Valley, at every battle that had made him what he was. He had burned, and he had killed, and he had been not enough. The man who had walked away from him had been enough. The man who had let him live had been enough.
He did not know why. He did not want to know why. He turned from the sea and walked toward the ships that were waiting, his steps heavy, his hands at his sides, his face a mask that did not show what he was thinking. Behind him, the ice was melting, the sea rising, the man who had been his rival lying on a slab that was already sinking. He did not look back.
The ships were waiting. The crew was waiting. The orders that would come tomorrow, the battles that would be fought, the world that would be burned clean. He was ready. He had always been ready.
He climbed aboard, and the ship turned, and the sea took them.
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End of Chapter 139