While the world burned around him, Whitebeard calmly took out a small exquisitely crafted bottle from his pocket.
With a focus and enthusiasm that was utterly bizarre given the circumstances, he began carefully collecting the precious liquid on the ground.
It was as if this strange, new task was the most important thing in the world to him.
"Captain," Ron said, his voice a mixture of bewilderment and shock as he watched the old man.
"What kind of… uh… hobby is this?" He was beginning to realize his captain had developed some inexplicable new habits.
Meanwhile, high above, the remnants of Whitebeard's world-ending storm still raged.
Sengoku and Garp had already leaped back into the air, their bodies glowing with power as they rushed to intercept the descending bolts of lightning.
Golden shockwaves erupted from Sengoku's palms, while Garp's Haki-infused fists simply punched the lightning out of existence.
They dissipated the destructive energy high in the sky, desperate to ensure it wouldn't strike the ground.
If it did, the consequences for what was left of Marineford would be catastrophic.
At the same time, the newly arrived reinforcements finally joined the battle.
Amidst the intense battle, even though they noticed Shanks being wounded and the surreal sight of Whitebeard collecting his blood, the urgency of the situation left them no room to intervene.
"Damn it!" Sengoku roared furiously, smashing another lightning bolt.
"Newgate, you despicable old monster!"
Garp voiced his own outrage. "You'd burn down the whole world for a few drops of blood?!"
In response, Whitebeard only laughed heartily, a sound that carried over the roar of the storm.
"Gurararara…"
After collecting the last drop and sealing the bottle, he grinned with profound satisfaction.
"Consider this a bit of payback." He looked them in the eyes, a challenging glint in his own.
"Besides, aren't pirates supposed to be the 'despicable' ones in your eyes?"
"You—!!!" Sengoku was so enraged he nearly exploded.
Down below, Shanks clutched his grievous wound, retreating to the ground to focus on recovery.
Lucky Roux, Benn Beckman, Yasopp, and the others quickly rushed to his side.
"Boss, are you alright?!"
"Hahaha, it's been a long time since we've seen the Captain take a hit like that."
"Whitebeard's triple Devil Fruit powers are just ridiculously strong," Lucky Roux muttered, his hand tightening on the piece of meat he was stress-eating.
Shanks remained silent as he forced himself to stand, the gruesome wound on his chest still bleeding heavily through the makeshift bandages.
His gaze was firmly locked on Whitebeard as he began to stride forward with heavy yet resolute steps.
"Not now, Captain! You just took a massive slash!" Yasopp exclaimed, his voice filled with concern.
He knew Shanks' current condition was extremely poor.
If he didn't rest, the consequences would be unthinkable.
"Captain, even if you won't rest, at least wait until the bleeding stops!" Lucky Roux couldn't help but advise.
Yet Shanks paid them no heed.
Beckman finally spoke with a cold voice.
"Enough. Keep this up and you'll really anger the Captain." He watched Shanks with grave concern.
As the vice-captain, he fully understood the complex mix of emotions and barely contained rage burning within his captain.
But more than anything, he hoped Shanks would remain level-headed and not lose sight of their true purpose for being here.
...
Meanwhile, Sengoku, Garp, and the others, including Momousagi, had also gathered, their equally furious gazes fixed on Whitebeard.
The entire scene was tense and oppressive.
Everyone held their breath, waiting.
Whitebeard's eyes held a calm indifference, as if the assembled forces of the World Government and another Emperor's crew posed no threat to him whatsoever.
"What's this? Still want to fight, rookie brat?" Whitebeard's voice was deep and powerful, carrying a clear hint of disdain for Shanks.
His gaze then shifted to Sengoku and the others, his tone as calm as still waters.
"Don't tell me you're all planning to gang up on this old man? That's fine by me. I'll take all of you head on!"
Hearing this, the flames of anger in Sengoku's eyes burned even brighter.
He glanced at Shanks beside him, who stood holding Gryphon with an equally composed expression.
Shanks spoke slowly, his voice heavy.
"Newgate, since you refuse to cease hostilities, what's wrong with us joining forces?"
"..."
'Were they seriously considering teaming up?'
A sense of foreboding rose in Ron's heart.
If Shanks truly decided to ally with the Marines, the Whitebeard Pirates would be in an extremely disadvantageous position.
Thinking this, Ron knew it was time to retreat.
He turned to Whitebeard and shouted, his voice casual but firm.
"Captain, it's about time we headed home for dinner."
Whitebeard blinked.
"Huh? Time to go?" He looked around at the array of powerful enemies, a reluctant frown on his face.
"But we were just getting to the fun part. It's time for dinner already?"
However, Sengoku had no intention of letting them leave.
He transformed back into his massive Buddha form, his eyes blazing.
"Leaving?!" his voice thundered. "You didn't leave during the ceasefire—you think you can just leave now?!"
Garp immediately followed up, cracking his knuckles.
"Newgate, you're not getting away this time."
Though Shanks remained silent, the crimson Haki rekindling around his sword spoke volumes.
Seeing this, although Whitebeard was eager to continue the glorious fight, he trusted his son's judgment.
If Ron said it was time to leave, then it was time to go.
Besides, after several consecutive, world-shaking battles, his stamina had nearly reached its limit.
He looked at the furious expressions of his enemies and decided to end things quickly.
"Gurarararara!" Whitebeard burst into a wide, ferocious grin.
"Since you're all so eager for a fight, then come at me together!"
"Thunder God Form!"
With that roar, Whitebeard seemed to be infused with a new, terrifying life.
His body was bathed in crackling, crimson-black lightning.
The dancing sparks didn't just illuminate the surroundings; they seemed to pour boundless, raw energy directly into him, stitching his wounds and erasing his fatigue.
His ordinary clothes, under the influence of this immense power, gradually turned a pristine, brilliant white, as if woven from the purest lightning itself.
And his stature began to grow, visibly taller at an astonishing rate, soaring to an unbelievable height that dwarfed even the giants among them.
He had become a true god of the storm, ready for one last, earth-shattering rampage to secure his family's escape.
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