"Whoosh—!"
A fierce, howling gale, born from the clash of titans, whipped through Shiki's wild, lion-like golden mane.
His two famed swords, "Oto" and "Kogarashi," which served as his prosthetic legs, danced through the air in a blur of deadly motion.
Each swing, each kick, unleashed a violent, roaring tempest of golden sword energy.
Like a stampede of ethereal, golden lions, they roared and charged, their momentum terrifying, their goal to tear the world's greatest swordsman limb from limb.
"Swish—"
The Black Blade "Yoru" moved with a sublime, almost lazy grace in Mihawk's hand.
Slash after slash of deep, emerald-green energy arced through the air like crescent moons, meeting the oncoming golden lions with pinpoint, contemptuous precision.
"Boom! Boom! Boom!"
The clashing slashes erupted in a series of deafening, sky-shattering explosions, shaking the very air.
The gale, now a full-blown hurricane from their clashing power, whipped the sea into a frenzy, forming towering, chaotic whirlpools that surged skyward before crashing back down in a torrent of white foam.
Golden energy and green slashes intertwined in a deadly, beautiful ballet in the sky, colliding, annihilating, and regenerating in a constant, furious exchange.
This was not just a contest of swordsmanship; it was a clash of wills, a brutal battle of endurance.
Time passed, second by agonizing second.
"Boom—!"
The final, cataclysmic clash of their strongest attacks unleashed an even more violent shockwave, sending the surrounding seawater surging backward in a massive, concave wall, as if the ocean itself was recoiling in terror.
A full hour of relentless, high-stakes swordplay.
For the aging Shiki, a man with a ship's rudder embedded in his skull and swords for legs, the burden was immense.
It wasn't just his stamina that was drained, leaving his muscles screaming and his lungs burning.
His very spirit, his indomitable will, was exhausted.
"Haa… Haa… Haa…"
Shiki, now hovering weakly in the air, exhaled a heavy, ragged breath.
His chest heaved, and sweat, mixed with the salty sea spray, soaked his flamboyant kimono.
His gaze, now dimmed, fell upon his opponent.
In those wild, golden eyes was a storm of conflicting emotions: unwillingness, bitter resignation, and the profound, tragic sorrow of a hero long past his prime.
Mihawk, in contrast, was the very picture of elegance.
He stood on the deck of the warship, his breathing steady, his black coat billowing dramatically in the sea breeze.
He flicked his wrist with an effortless, almost bored ease, the Black Blade Yoru resting comfortably on his shoulder.
He stood there like an insurmountable, obsidian mountain, untouched and unbothered.
"..."
"Damn it!" Shiki cursed under his breath, his voice a hoarse, rattling rasp, laced with a bitter self-mockery.
"Golden Lion," Mihawk spoke, his voice calm, low, and utterly final.
"Your sword has dulled."
"..." Shiki fell silent.
He had no retort.
He had no choice but to admit it.
He had grown old.
The peerless swordsmanship he once took pride in, the god-like physical prowess he once boasted of—all of it had been eroded, faded away by the relentless, cruel passage of time.
"Hum—!"
Mihawk raised the Black Blade once more, gripping its hilt with both hands.
The massive dark blade began to tremble, vibrating with a deep, resonant, and hungry hum.
"Farewell, remnant of the old era."
"Yoru—Eternal Cry!"
With a mighty, devastating swing, Mihawk poured all of his strength, all of his Haki, into one final, decisive strike.
The black blade tore through the sky, leaving behind a trail of dark, weeping green.
An overwhelmingly massive slash, carrying the momentum to annihilate everything in its path, roared silently toward Shiki's falling, exhausted figure.
"..."
Standing on the warship's deck, Issho, who had been observing the duel with his Haki, knew it was his time to act.
He drew his sword.
"Gravity Blade: Fierce Tiger!"
Channeling the crushing power of the Press-Press Fruit into his sword, Issho unleashed his own devastating strike.
He didn't slash at Shiki, but at the space around him.
In that instant, an invisible, colossal force of gravity erupted outward, pressing down on the Golden Lion like a collapsing mountain.
The air compressed with sharp, cracking sounds.
The sea surface directly beneath Shiki caved in under the immense pressure, as if an invisible, giant hand sought to crush him into the depths.
"..."
Shiki, his body already screaming, felt the crushing gravity immobilize him.
He tried to resist, to use his Float-Float Fruit to break free, but the prolonged, intense battle had left him utterly spent.
He tried to dodge Mihawk's oncoming, world-ending slash.
He couldn't.
His body, weighed down as if filled with lead, refused to move.
"NO—!!!"
A desperate, final roar echoed through the air, only to be swiftly scattered by the uncaring sea breeze.
In that cry lay a lifetime of unwillingness, of defiant fury, and the helpless, tragic realization of a hero at his end.
Memories flashed before his eyes.
His glorious days dominating the seas.
His grand, mad plan to destroy the East Blue.
The countless heads severed by "Oto" and "Kogarashi."
The fearsome reputation of the Flying Pirates.
The brilliance of his past flickered like a dying lantern.
But now, all of it had turned to dust.
The colossal, dark green slash descended like the scythe of death itself, mercilessly swallowing him whole.
"Thud—!"
A fountain of blood erupted into the sky.
A deep, bone-exposing wound split Shiki's chest clean in two.
"Thump—"
Mortally wounded, Shiki could no longer maintain his Devil Fruit's power.
Like a bird with broken wings, he plummeted helplessly from the sky.
"Splash—"
The icy, uncaring waters swallowed him instantly, his consciousness fading into the dark, cold depths.
"Go. Retrieve him," Mihawk ordered, sheathing Yoru with a clean, final click.
"Yes, sir!"
Several New Marine soldiers, who had been watching in awe, snapped to attention.
They shed their coats and dived into the sea, soon resurfacing with the unconscious, bleeding form of the Golden Lion.
They hauled him back onto the warship, which slowly turned its bow, cutting through the waves as it headed back toward Marineford.
'The remnants of the old era have been cleared away', Issho thought, sheathing his own blade.
'Now… the age of the new truly begins.'
...
New Marine Headquarters—Marineford.
A colossal warship, several times larger than a standard vessel, docked slowly at the main pier, the new crimson flag of the New Marine fluttering proudly in the wind.
"PUHAHAHA—!"
Garp strode energetically down the gangplank, showing not a single sign of fatigue from the bloody purge of Impel Down.
Instead, he appeared vigorous, full of life, and positively giddy.
"Remember our deal!" Garp turned around and boomed at Sengoku, Zephyr, and Tsuru, who were following him closely behind.
His tone was full of pride and a childish, boasting edge.
"All the credit for this Impel Down operation goes to me! I'll treat you all to tea and all the rice crackers you can eat!"
Hannyabal and Magellan followed respectfully behind them.
And behind them, escorted by elite, heavily-armed soldiers, were the legendary prisoners of Level 6—Bullet, Redfield, and the others, all chained in sea-prism stone, their bodies broken, their spirits seemingly crushed.
"Hmm…?" Garp, Sengoku, and Zephyr, all three, sensed it at the same time.
The atmosphere at Marineford was... wrong.
In the past, though serious, the base had always had an underlying hint of ease, of routine.
But now, the entire fortress was shrouded in a sharp, palpable, murderous aura.
It was oppressive, suffocating, the air thrumming with the energy of an army on the absolute brink of war.
Sengoku frowned, his sharp, strategic instincts picking up on the unusual tension.
He casually flagged down a passing soldier.
"What's going on here? Why is everyone on high alert?"
"Report, Minister Sengoku!" The soldier snapped to attention, his eyes blazing with a fiery excitement as he delivered a crisp salute.
"The grand military parade, sir! It's been moved up!"
"NANIIIIII?!"
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