After confirming Garp's location—
Lucian and Whitebeard exchanged a glance.
Then both of them wore the same grin, like two cats that had just cornered a mouse.
"Gurararara…"
Whitebeard chuckled, shaking his head.
"That old geezer Garp—claims he's retired, but his body's as loyal as ever."
His tone oozed sarcasm and amusement.
"Looks like his disciple's face is worth more than his own old one."
"Can't blame him."
Whitebeard glanced at the catastrophic battleground at the island's center, then at the solitary black figure atop a distant iceberg.
He was practically bursting with glee.
"Come on, let's find a good spot."
Lucian's voice was casual.
"This is one show we're not gonna miss."
And just like that, the two of them started walking.
No hiding.
No fanfare.
Just an old man and a young one, strolling up the mountainside.
The ground beneath them was half-scorched volcanic rock, half-covered in thick frost.
Every step crunched or cracked beneath their boots.
The air itself was split by an invisible line—
To the left, blistering heatwaves that could melt steel.
To the right, bone-chilling winds that froze marrow.
Anyone else would've collapsed from the extremes.
But Lucian and Whitebeard strolled like they were out window-shopping.
Magma curved around their feet.
Frost slid past their bodies.
They stepped over searing ground and slippery ice without missing a beat.
To them, the environment was merely… novel.
Minutes later—
They arrived at a leveled mountain peak.
A perfect viewing platform.
From here, they had a clear view of the entire Punk Hazard battlefield.
The former lake had been obliterated.
Now, it was split clean down the middle—
On one side: a lava sea, red-hot waves crashing toward the sky.
On the other: a glacial world, jagged ice peaks stabbing upward like frozen spears.
At the border between the two—
Two silhouettes clashed violently, so fast the eye couldn't follow.
"Meteor Volcano!"
A brutal roar.
Sakazuki's right arm turned to magma. Countless massive lava fists came crashing down like meteorites.
Every strike aimed to destroy everything.
Relentless.
Ruthless.
Target: Kuzan.
"Ice Age!"
Kuzan's face was frozen with focus.
He slammed both hands onto the ground.
Crack.
Crack.
Crack.
The Ice Age spread violently, freezing everything in its path—land, sky, magma, and fire alike.
The two forces collided.
Lava fists versus an ice-covered world.
Every clash made Punk Hazard wail like a dying beast.
Mountains turned to volcanoes.
Ground morphed into frost.
Even the sky seemed on the verge of shattering.
Energy shockwaves became rings of white steam, flattening everything they touched.
"Gurararara… Truly monstrous little brats."
Whitebeard folded his arms, watching the devastation unfold.
Even he had to admit—
"Though they're just guard dogs for the World Government…"
"You gotta hand it to them. They've truly mastered the art of destruction."
He spoke casually, but the praise was genuine.
"This level of battle is no less fierce than the fights we old-timers had in our day."
To him, these two Marines were indeed impressive.
Their power alone deserved respect.
Lucian, though, didn't linger on the center of the battlefield for long.
Sure, it was spectacular. But also predictable.
He already knew Sakazuki and Kuzan inside out.
His gaze drifted farther—to a solitary peak even further away.
There stood a lone figure.
Clad in a dog-head cap and the Navy's "Justice" coat.
Arms crossed. Motionless.
Alone.
The Marine Hero—Monkey D. Garp.
His face was hidden beneath the brim of his hat, expression unreadable.
But his iron-like body was visibly tense.
On one side—his handpicked disciple, Kuzan.
On the other—a man he watched grow, now the Navy's strongest: Sakazuki.
His two greatest successors, now like wild beasts, locked in a fight to the death for a cold, empty title.
No matter who won—
To Garp, it was nothing but a tragedy.
Lucian's face curled into a mischievous smile.
He turned to Whitebeard and said:
"Pops, the show's started. I'm gonna go say hello to an old friend."
He paused.
"Also… collect a bit of interest."
The word "interest" was spoken slowly, lightly.
Whitebeard, of course, understood immediately.
He repeated the phrase, glancing between Lucian and Garp in the distance.
Then he couldn't hold it in anymore.
"Gurararara!"
"You sly brat! You really don't let anything slide!"
Whitebeard plopped down on a flat boulder and—who knows where from—pulled out a massive jug of sake, slamming it down with a loud thud.
"Go on, then."
He waved lazily, grin wide and shameless.
"Have a good old chat with that crusty bastard."
Lucian grinned wider.
His figure blurred—then disappeared.
No sound.
Not even a gust of wind.
—
At that very moment, atop another icy mountain—
Garp was still locked onto the battlefield, fists clenched so tight the knuckles were white, veins bulging across the back of his hands.
Behind him, space trembled faintly.
A figure appeared silently behind him.
No sound. No pressure.
It was as if he'd stepped out of the snow itself.
Garp didn't notice.
All his attention was focused on that brutal duel.
Until—
A voice rang out behind him.
Casual. Slightly teasing.
Like an old friend dropping in uninvited.
"Vice Admiral Garp. Watching this all by yourself must be boring."
"Mind if I… join in as another spectator?"
The voice wasn't loud.
But it exploded in Garp's ears.
Swish!
His steel-hard body tensed instantly.
A terrifying aura burst from within him, cracking the ice beneath his feet.
He slowly turned around—
Bit by bit.
In his eyes—no more goofiness, no more silent anguish.
Only a sharp, blade-like edge of alertness.
His eyes locked onto the young man smiling at him.
The King of Time and Space—
Lucian Thorn.
"You've come to see this old man…"
"To what end?"