This was a fragment embedded into humanity's genes from the moment they were created as a tool species.
The purpose of adding this genetic fragment was to impose the most fundamental form of enslavement upon all creations.
As creations of the gods, how could they possibly be allowed to possess the will to resist the gods?!
Thus, scattered across the countless island-kingdoms, all ordinary humans—though they could not even see the twelve green meteors plummeting through the heavens—still felt an inexplicable and irresistible terror rise within their hearts.
That terror compelled them to kneel toward the sky, as though bowing before gods they had never truly laid eyes upon.
Even questions that surged from the depths of their souls could not overcome this total bodily domination.
Only those gathered on either shore of the Holy Land Mary Geoise—the strongest beings this world had to offer—could rely on sheer willpower to barely maintain a fighting stance.
Across the entire New World defensive line, stretching for kilometers where pirate crews and the Revolutionary Army had joined forces, only a scarce handful still stood tall!
Though they were already drenched in blood, covered in wounds, and surrounded by the twitching, writhing black stomach sacs that testified to the brutal battle they had just endured…
…still they fought back, with the last shreds of their will, against that crushing force burrowing through their very bones, demanding their submission and worship.
Onboard the Pluton, the elite navy officers—equally battered and exhausted—stood just as straight-backed, not a single leg bent!
In their eyes, as they gazed up at the twelve flaming green meteors, there burned only searing battle spirit.
They all knew well: they were the final line of defense for this world, its last remaining backbone!
If they knelt now, then every sacrifice, every effort made up until this moment would be rendered meaningless.
Even if Roya could shield them from death afterwards, even if he could lead them to slaughter the entire alien Harvester civilization, it would already be too late.
For if they survived by cowering… they would no longer be worthy of calling themselves human.
To continue existing beneath the stars in that manner—what difference would there be between them and the slave-knight, Green Bull?!
Roya felt, with piercing clarity, the violent clash unfolding within each of their bodies, and realized:
This war no longer belonged to him.
This was a final battle that Whitebeard and the others had to face themselves.
If they triumphed, the world could at last break free from the fate of being nothing more than a resource-star.
If they failed… then nothing more need be said.
The twelve green meteors had already closed to less than a thousand meters overhead.
At that range, the genetic shackles pressed down with even greater force.
It was as though each person carried the weight of an entire Red Line upon their backs—determined to bend their spines, to crush them to their knees, and not relent until they broke!
Whitebeard, Squard, Sengoku, Kizaru—each clenched their jaws so tightly they had already drawn blood.
Every shred of energy within their bodies was being squeezed out through their pores by this immense pressure, draining their strength and will to resist.
Five hundred meters!
Whitebeard's teeth shattered outright, blood flooding his mouth, staining his meticulously combed beard bright red.
And it was not only bodily shackles—their Devil Fruits were rebelling as well!
From the green meteors radiated a strange pulsing wave.
Under its influence, every Devil Fruit within five hundred meters erupted into a state of violent frenzy!
Even Whitebeard, who had long mastered the improved Return of Life, could no longer suppress it—his body began to mutate!
From his ribs burst an arm of pitch-black tar, thick and viscous, its five fingers fused into a grotesque spinning drill.
It lunged straight for his ear!
And embedded within its rotation was a palpable quake-force—so strong it shattered the air itself into spiderweb cracks with each spin!
Whitebeard grunted, swinging Murakumogiri in a savage arc down toward his own shoulder.
If that black drill did not withdraw, he would slice it in two without hesitation!
At the same time, every Devil Fruit user along the battlefront was thrust into a life-or-death struggle.
From within their bodies, alien limbs erupted at impossible angles, attacking their original hosts in the vilest ways imaginable.
Those few still standing could barely defend themselves—
But those already forced to their knees, their bodies denied even the chance to resist, were helpless prey.
In an instant, the defensive line suffered catastrophic losses!
The kneeling Fruit users were slaughtered outright.
From their corpses, new abominations were born—mutant spawn that immediately pounced upon their powerless, kneeling comrades who lacked Devil Fruits as well!
But Whitebeard and the others could scarcely save themselves, let alone mount rescues.
On the Pluton, the navy elites fared far better.
Most of them specialized in martial arts—masters of the Six Styles—with only a few being Devil Fruit users.
Most crucially: every single one of them still stood tall, blazing with fighting spirit!
So when the Devil Fruit mutations erupted, it was as though the abominations had leapt directly onto the blades of waiting swords.
The handful of navy elites whose bodies had sprouted aberrant limbs didn't even have time to react—
Their comrades cut the growths off at the root in an instant!
Regenerate? Cut again!
And again—until no more regeneration was possible.
By the end, the scene had become a frenzy of tens of thousands of marines surrounding Sengoku and Fujitora, hacking away relentlessly.
For Kizaru and Aokiji, their Devil Fruits had already fully merged with them, leaving them unaffected by the skeletal meteors' pulses.
But Sengoku and Fujitora—whose Devil Fruits carried overwhelming power—sprouted aberrations with staggering vitality, harder to suppress than any other.
Only the ceaseless waves of tens of thousands of comrades taking turns could barely restrain the mutations, sparing the two from being overtaken and consumed.
Three hundred meters!
Whitebeard cleaved through the black drill—but had gravely underestimated its strength.
Unable to halt or redirect his blade in time, half the weapon's length bit straight into his own shoulder.
Blood gushed in torrents—yet Whitebeard did not utter a single pain.
Instead, he let the naginata lodge deep in his flesh, released its long handle, and freed his right fist.
He slammed it into his chest, just below his heart, with all his might.
The strike carried the internal explosion technique of Armament Haki—its force lying dormant until it penetrated deep within, where it detonated like a miniature nuclear blast.
Guided by Whitebeard's will, it erupted in a controlled, directional explosion.
A massive lump of tarry black flesh—and half of his own ribs—were blasted free from his body!
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