Speaking of this, Kronos' eyes flashed with a chilling killing intent.
"Anyway, no matter what, I must know what Whitebeard and his crew will do next!
"Only then can we maximize the benefits."
Payne nodded slightly and said,
"Leave this matter to me.
"But you need to be prepared. Although my Puppet Technique can track a ship over long distances, its strength and accuracy will decrease the farther it goes."
Kronos already had an idea in mind. He smiled faintly.
"Alright, that's good enough. Do your best."
Meanwhile, the Moby Dick, which had just left the waters around Honeycomb Island, drifted forward with dozens of scattered remnants of the Whitebeard Pirates—like a swarm of headless flies.
To be honest, at this point, everyone—including Marco—was lost and confused.
They didn't even know what to do next.
The worst part was that Whitebeard, their backbone and source of strength, had fallen into a coma.
Without Whitebeard to lead them, they had no direction, no hope, and their hearts were filled with despair about the future.
When a disaster of this scale strikes, no one can simply step out of the shadows in a short time.
An unprecedented defeat!
In this battle, they had lost so completely that it felt even worse than the Summit War.
Not only was Whitebeard unconscious, with no idea when—or if—he would wake, but their base on Honeycomb Island had been seized by the enemy.
This string of losses had driven them to the brink of madness.
"How could it end like this?!"
"Damn it all!"
Joz slammed his fist into the cabin wall, his face twisted with frustration.
The majority of the crew mirrored his grief. Their faces were pale, their spirits crushed.
No one had ever imagined things would come to this.
At first, when faced with the fearsome Kamui Pirates, they had still believed they could win.
As long as they fought carefully and avoided recklessness, victory seemed possible.
But reality had slapped them hard across the face.
Kronos, that madman, had only sent five of his crew—and the entire Whitebeard Pirates collapsed!
Most of their main force had been wiped out. Nearly all survivors were injured.
They had numbered in the tens of thousands, while Kronos' side only had a few dozen.
Yet somehow, despite such overwhelming numbers, they were the ones on the losing end.
Marco and the others couldn't help but ask themselves again and again:
Where did we go wrong?
Yes, they had lost. But why? How?
After the wave of grief began to fade, the survivors tried to think about what to do next.
Some suggested returning to Whitebeard's hometown.
Others, more despairing, argued that they should simply find a place to live in seclusion.
Some had already gone numb—moving and breathing like puppets who had lost their souls.
Marco glanced around. He could feel the suffocating weight pressing down on everyone.
But he himself didn't know what to say.
All he could do was sigh, weak and powerless.
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