-Real World-
The casual, overwhelming display of power sent a profound and chilling shockwave through every timeline. Whitebeard's absolute dominance—five years after his confirmed death—was a terrifying testament to the fact that the strength of the Four Emperors transcended the mortal coil itself. What had appeared to be a named, complex technique was, in fact, nothing more than the World's Strongest Man's normal attack, delivered with the unadorned, brutal efficiency that comes only from absolute mastery.
The demonstration raised deeply uncomfortable questions for every major faction watching the Sky Screen. If these legendary figures could so effortlessly dismantle two of Doflamingo's elite executives, what cataclysmic, world-altering event could possibly lead to their downfall? What force in the cosmos could erase such a man and his entire armada from the pages of history?
Those with a deeper, more technical understanding of Devil Fruit mechanics noted the most terrifying detail of all: Whitebeard's tremor force had completely and utterly bypassed Gladius's Armament Haki. It hadn't overpowered the defense; it had rendered it irrelevant, passing through it as if it were mere air to strike the vulnerable body within. Such selective permeability was the unmistakable hallmark of an awakened Paramecia-type fruit—meaning that even this resurrected echo of the great pirate retained powers far beyond the comprehension of ordinary mortals.
In a makeshift medical tent on a forgotten island, Crocodile watched the Sky Screen through a haze of pain and bitter frustration, his body wrapped in bandages. The searing memory of Admiral Kuzan's ice still burned in his nerves; he had come within a hair's breadth of death, and only his subordinates' quick thinking with vats of boiling water had prevented his sand-body from being permanently crystallized. The sight of Whitebeard, his old rival, still projecting such immense power even from beyond the grave, drove the Shichibukai deeper into his obsessive, meticulous planning.
"Pluton," he whispered, the sound a dry rasp through cracked lips. "I need the power of Pluton more than ever. If that archaeologist is truly gone, then I will find another way to read the Poneglyphs. I don't care how many fools have to die for it."
The battered remnants of the Baroque Works fleet sailed desperately toward Arabasta, having abandoned their operations on Drum Island entirely. The presence of Eren Jaeger had become a magnet for catastrophe. Wherever the titan shifter appeared, battlefields, death, and chaos followed in his wake like a pestilence.
-Broadcast-
With Gladius reduced to a fine particulate matter scattered across the factory floor, the resurrected Whitebeard stood with a patient, almost serene posture, awaiting news of his old rival's progress. The competitive gleam that still shone in his eyes suggested he was supremely confident of victory in their impromptu, bloody contest.
The Sky Screen's perspective shifted, the invisible camera sweeping through the factory to follow the Pirate King's relentless pursuit. Roger wore his signature, impossibly wide grin, but his borrowed eyes burned with a lethal, predatory intent as he closed the ground on the frantically fleeing Beast Titan.
"Don't run, my friend!" Roger called out, his voice deceptively cheerful and booming through the industrial labyrinth. "This factory isn't that large—where exactly do you think you can possibly go? I promise, I'll make it quick when I catch you."
Machvise's massive, golden-furred gorilla form bounded desperately through the maze of steel and concrete, his Ton Ton no Mi reducing the titan's immense weight to nearly nothing. Each leap carried him dozens of meters through the air, a blur of panicked motion. Yet even with the laws of gravity bent in his favor, he could not shake his supernatural pursuer.
"Roger, you were the Pirate King!" the Beast Titan pleaded, his voice a desperate roar over his shoulder. "The strongest, most respected man of your entire era! Please, spare me—I'm no longer a threat to that skeleton!"
The executive's desperate, groveling appeal fell on deaf ears. This was not the merciful Red-Haired Shanks. This was Gol D. Roger, and he had no patience for weakness. The Pirate King spotted a massive, twisted steel support beam in the rubble of Gladius's destruction and hefted it with one hand as if it were a simple sword.
"If I were still alive, boy, I might consider it," Roger said, his voice losing all its earlier mirth and taking on the cold, hard finality of the grave. "Unfortunately for you, I've spent years rotting in hell. Down there, kindness is a luxury that gets you killed, a weakness they carve out of you with rusty knives."
A river of Armament Haki flowed across the improvised weapon like liquid darkness, transforming the piece of scrap metal into a blade worthy of a legend. When Roger swung, a violent storm of crimson and black lightning crackled along its edge, his Conqueror's Haki infusing the attack as his sword intent tore through the very air itself.
"No! Give me a chance!" Machvise screamed, but his desperate, terrified turn revealed only the sight of approaching doom, a wave of pure, destructive energy.
The scarlet sword wave carved a perfect, clean line through everything in its path—concrete pillars, steel gantries, and enhanced titan flesh were all severed with equal, contemptuous ease. Even the gorilla's own Armament Haki offered no protection against an attack that was a perfect fusion of supreme technique and raw, overwhelming force. The blade wave bisected both the titan and its pilot in a single, unstoppable, brutally efficient stroke.
Roger landed lightly on the Beast Titan's still-steaming corpse, then reached down and twisted Machvise's severed head free from his body as proof of a completed contract. "That golden gorilla ran faster than I expected," he admitted with a flicker of mild annoyance. "Seems I lost our little race after all."
There had been no stakes beyond pride and bragging rights—just two old legends amusing themselves after years of hellish, mind-numbing boredom. Roger examined his grisly trophy with an air of professional satisfaction before turning back towards Brook's position.
The Pirate King dropped Machvise's head at the Soul King's feet with a dull thud, like a cat presenting its owner with a mouse. "One executive, delivered as requested. Though I have to say, Edward, you chose the cleverer opponent. Mine actually tried to escape using his Devil Fruit powers. Lucky for me, he couldn't fly high enough to get away."
Whitebeard's booming, iconic laughter filled the factory, a sound that had once shaken the seas themselves. "Gurararara! A loss is a loss, Roger. Don't make excuses just because you can't accept that I finally beat you at something."
The friendly, yet fierce, rivalry between their legendary crews had been the stuff of myth—epic, island-shattering battles that always ended in shared sake and mutual respect rather than animosity. Roger had even borrowed Oden from Whitebeard's crew for his final, fateful voyage, cementing a bond of brotherhood that transcended even death itself.
Brook prodded Machvise's severed head with the tip of his cane sword, his skeletal features revealing nothing of his thoughts. Another of Doflamingo's executives, even one enhanced by the power of a titan, had been returned to the great, impartial judgment of the cosmos. The Yomi Tribunal would now weigh his sins with perfect, unerring accuracy.
"Now then," the Soul King said, his voice cutting through the lingering echoes of laughter as he turned to address his temporary, legendary allies. "You have both fulfilled your contracts admirably. As we agreed, I shall grant each of you one favor that lies within my authority. Choose wisely—some threads of fate are woven too tightly for even me to unpick."
The unspoken warning was crystal clear: do not waste this singular opportunity on impossible, universe-altering demands. Several spirits had already chosen to bank their favors for more opportune moments, demonstrating the profound value of patience when dealing with the powers of the afterlife.
Roger paced back and forth, rubbing his chin in thought, clearly unprepared to make such a monumental decision on the spot. This hesitation gave Whitebeard the opening he needed to speak first.
"Soul King," the World's Strongest Man said, and for the first time, his voice carried the heavy, paternal ache of a father who had lost too much. "Hell is a lonely, cold place for an old man. I wish to see one of my sons again—to make up for the time I failed him."
Brook understood the deep, cosmic tragedy behind that simple request. In his legendary career, Whitebeard had accumulated both tremendous virtue and terrible sin. By the normal calculus of the afterlife, he should have been reincarnated into the warrior realm of Asura. But he had willingly sacrificed the vast majority of his accumulated merit to ensure that his hundreds of fallen sons would avoid the suffering of the three lower paths of reincarnation.
The price of such immense, paternal love was an eternity of servitude in the ghost realm, working as an unpaid, tireless overseer in the vast, unforgiving bureaucracy of hell for countless eons.
"You wish to see Portgas D. Ace," Brook said, his voice filled with a gentle, solemn understanding. "I can arrange that meeting. Though any... complications that may arise from it will be your responsibility, and yours alone, to bear."
As Roger's borrowed features registered a jolt of shock and a dawning, horrified comprehension, another spirit began to emerge from the shimmering depths of the hellgate. The newcomer's face bore an unmistakable, startling resemblance to the Pirate King himself—the same determined jawline, the same fierce, unyielding eyes, though they were now softened by the profound weight of youth and tragedy.