Chapter 76
20th of April 1522
Marineford
Moria's laughter echoed across the blood-soaked battlefield as he raised his hands. "Absorb," he commanded, his voice dripping with malevolence. Instantly, the shadows of the dead, strewn across the battlefield, began to writhe and shift. Like dark serpents, they slithered towards Moria, converging on him in a terrifying wave of darkness.
The shadows coalesced around Moria, wrapping him in a cocoon of swirling blackness. From this vortex, twisted forms began to emerge, taking shape as imposing Shadow Knights. Clad in heavy, sinister armor, these knights rose from the ground, their eyes glowing with an eerie, malevolent light. Each one exuded an aura of pure malice and death, their forms crackling with dark energy.
[Gecko Moria]
Dourikis: 17,516 → 18,942/32,000
The Whitebeard Pirates watched in horror, their faces etched with desperation and fear. "No... this can't be happening," one of them whispered, his voice trembling. "We've lost so many already," another cried out, his eyes wide with terror. The realization that their fallen comrades were now being used against them was almost too much to bear. The sense of hopelessness spread like wildfire among them, their morale crumbling under the weight of Moria's dark power.
On his vantage point, Sengoku's face was pale, beads of sweat trickling down his temples. His usually composed demeanor was replaced with visible anxiety as he watched the nightmare unfold. "Damn it, Moria," he muttered under his breath. "He's amassing an army of the dead. If he continues like this, he'll have the strength of an emperor at his command." The gravity of the situation weighed heavily on him. While Moria might only be Yonko Lieutenant level in personal combat prowess, the army of shadows he was creating could shift the balance of power on the world dramatically.
Blamenco, Haruta, and Izou's lifeless bodies were swallowed by the shadows, their forms reanimated into grotesque, dark knights. The sight was too much for Marco, who, despite his flames and fury, felt a gnawing dread. "We can't let this continue," he shouted, trying to rally the remaining pirates. "We have to stop him, no matter what!"
[You have absorbed a total of 50 S-rank stats]
You earned a Reward : [Cursed Random Box]
Moria felt the power coursing through him, a dark and intoxicating surge of energy that made his whole body thrum with newfound strength. He looked over the battlefield, his grotesque grin widening as his shadow army moved with terrifying precision. But then, he frowned. Garp was dead, and he was the only D on the battlefield. Too bad, he thought. His grand plan would need adjustment - but he had prepared for it. He didn't want to resort to this, but…Well…Let's wait until he absorbed Whitebeard's shadow. It could wait.
— — —
20th of April, 1522
Thriller Bark
However, the ground beneath their feet began to rumble, an ominous prelude to the island's dark secrets. Without warning, the earth split with a deafening crack, separating the group. On one side, Baby 5, Buffalo, Lao G, and Gladius stumbled as the ground shifted violently beneath them, swallowing them into a gaping chasm. Pica, Señor Pink, and Dellinger remained on the opposite side, their expressions twisted with shock and concern as they watched their comrades disappear into the depths.
"Hold on!" Pica shouted, but his high-pitched voice was lost in the cacophony of collapsing earth and stone. Desperation flashed in his eyes as he attempted to use his Devil Fruit powers, trying to merge with the stone of the floor to stabilize the ground. But to his dismay, the composition was more earth than stone, and worse, it was laced with an alarming amount of electricity. Sparks danced across the surface, forcing him to retreat.
Pica clenched his fists, his frustration palpable. "We have to trust they'll handle whatever's down there," he said, his voice a low growl. "We need to keep moving."
Señor Pink nodded solemnly, adjusting his bonnet, his usual stoicism masking his worry. "Let's get to that castle," he agreed, his tone flat but resolute.
Dellinger, his face a mix of fear and determination, followed closely as they ventured into the eerie forest. The twisted, gnarled trees seemed to close in around them, their branches like skeletal fingers reaching for the sky. The air was thick with the scent of decaying leaves and something more sinister that clung to the back of their throats.
Suddenly, the forest was illuminated by a blinding flash of light. Lightning struck with a deafening roar, hitting Dellinger squarely. He collapsed instantly, his body lifeless on the ground, smoke rising from the charred remains. They had felt nothing though haki, so he hadn't time to use armamaent. Pica and Señor Pink froze, horror and sadness etched on their faces.
"No!" Pica's voice broke through the stillness, a high-pitched cry of anguish. He dropped to his knees beside Dellinger, his massive frame shaking with the shock of the loss.
Señor Pink, his usual impassivity cracked, placed a hand on Pica's shoulder. "We have to keep moving," he said quietly, though his own eyes glistened with unshed tears.
Pica stood slowly, his sorrow transforming into steely resolve. "For Dellinger," he murmured, his voice like stone. The fuckers would pay.
As they pressed on, the forest gradually gave way to a rose garden, the air filled with the sickly sweet scent of the blooms. The roses, unnaturally large and vibrant, seemed to pulse with an eerie life. The petals glistened with what looked like fresh blood, and thorns as long as daggers lined their stems.
Another flash of lightning split the sky, striking Pica this time. He braced himself, his body instantly transforming into solid stone. The electricity surged around him, but he remained unharmed, the lightning's fury dissipating harmlessly against his hardened form.
Señor Pink glanced at Pica, a mix of relief and grim determination in his eyes. "We're close," he said, his voice a whisper in the oppressive silence. "Let's end this."
Together, they moved forward, the imposing silhouette of the central castle growing larger with each step. The gothic spires and crumbling battlements loomed like dark sentinels, casting long shadows over the haunted island. Pica's heart burned with the promise of vengeance, his mind fixed on the destruction they would bring upon Moria's stronghold.
However, a sinister laugh pierced the silence, echoing through the desolate landscape and sending a shiver down their spines. "Caesar?" Pica muttered, recognizing the mocking tone of the sadistic scientist. The laugh echoed again, bouncing off the twisted trees and decaying structures, growing louder and more menacing. Their breaths became shallow, their hearts pounding faster as panic set in. Something was wrong.
Señor Pink's eyes widened in realization. "It's not normal...the air...it's changing," he wheezed, clutching his throat as he struggled to draw a breath. Their lungs felt heavy, each inhalation more laborious than the last. The creeping realization dawned on them with horrifying clarity: Caesar Clown had been replacing the oxygen in the air with carbon dioxide, slowly suffocating them without their notice.
Pica, desperate to save them, tried to merge with the castle, hoping to bring it down in one final act of defiance. But as he touched the stone walls, he was met with a violent shock. The entire structure was coursing with electricity, crackling and sparking, repelling his powers and forcing him to retreat in agony. His massive frame trembled, not from fear but from the frustration and helplessness that gripped him.
Their breaths grew shallower, their hearts racing faster in a futile attempt to pump oxygen that wasn't there. Señor Pink's normally stoic face contorted with pain and fear. He could feel his body weakening, his vision blurring as the poison took hold. The air, once their source of life, had become their executioner, a slow and torturous death creeping over them. The sinister laughter of Caesar echoed in his mind, mingling with the sound of his own labored breathing.
Pica's thoughts became fragmented, his mind a chaotic swirl of despair and rage. He had faced countless enemies, endured unimaginable pain, but this was different. This was insidious, a betrayal by the very air they breathed. His vision darkened, his thoughts slipping away like sand through his fingers. The promise of vengeance turned to bitter ash in his throat, a silent scream of unfinished retribution.
Señor Pink collapsed to his knees, his strength ebbing away. He clawed at his throat, his eyes wide with the terror of impending death. Pica, too, fell, his massive body hitting the ground with a thud. Their last moments were marked by the eerie silence of Thriller Bark, the only sound the soft hum of electricity and the distant, mocking laughter of Caesar Clown. The island, with its gothic decay and eldritch horrors, claimed them as its own, their lives extinguished by the cruel manipulation of a madman.
— — —
20th of April 1522
Marineford
Mihawk deflected a sword with effortless precision, his movements so fluid and casual that it seemed as if he was engaged in a mere exercise. He barely acknowledged his opponent—a desperate pirate whose frantic strikes were wild and uncoordinated. The clash of steel was nothing more than background noise to Mihawk, whose sharp eyes were fixed on the broader chaos of the battlefield. He was not giving his all; he was merely passing time.
Surveying the scene, Mihawk noted the unexpected dominance of the Marines. It was a surprising development, given the sheer might of the forces arrayed against them. The tide had turned decisively when Garp had confronted Whitebeard, their titanic clash sapping the strength of both legends. Moreover, Moria's dark army had seized control of a significant portion of the battlefield, a nightmarish tide that halted the pirates' advance. Mihawk's analytical mind pondered the astonishing rise in Moria's power—a once comical figure now commanding an army that could change the course of war.
Effortlessly, Mihawk cut down one of Whitebeard's affiliated captains, his black blade slicing through the air with lethal grace. He barely broke a sweat as the captain fell, another casualty in the sea of chaos. His eyes then turned to the heart of the battlefield where Akainu was locked in a ferocious duel with Whitebeard. The intensity of their clash drew his attention, the air around them thick with the promise of death and destruction.
Akainu's assault was merciless, his magma fists tearing into Whitebeard with unyielding brutality. Each blow landed with a sickening crunch, reverberating across the battlefield. Whitebeard, almost dead from his duel with Garp, stood firm, his towering presence unshaken despite the relentless onslaught. Blood poured from his numerous wounds, cascading down his body and staining the ground, yet his spirit remained unbroken. His eyes, filled with an unyielding determination, locked onto Akainu's with a fire that refused to be extinguished. As Akainu delivered the final, devastating blow, the battlefield fell into a stunned silence, as if the very air had been sucked out of the world.
The once deafening clamor of battle faded into an eerie hush, every combatant turning to witness the fall of the great pirate. Whitebeard, bloodied but unbowed, stood tall, his massive frame defying the death that sought to claim him. His voice, carrying the weight of a thousand battles and a legacy that spanned the seas, cut through the silence like a beacon of hope. "The bloodline of those who carry the Will of Roger still burns," he declared, his voice a thunderous rumble that seemed to shake the very ground beneath him.
His proclamation was a statement of defiance, a promise that the spirit of freedom and adventure would never die. "One day, a grand battle that will engulf the whole world will begin," he continued, his voice unwavering. "When someone finds 'that' treasure, the world will be turned upside-down." The intensity in his eyes was palpable, blazing with the fierce determination of a man who had seen the truth and would carry it to his grave. "The One Piece... it exists!" he roared, his declaration echoing across Marineford like a storm, reaching the ears of every soul present.
Sengoku's face twisted in fury, his rage barely contained as Whitebeard's truth shattered the controlled narrative of the World Government. The declaration was a spark in the powder keg of the world, a promise of upheaval and change that could not be ignored. Whitebeard's massive frame remained upright, even in death, a testament to his indomitable will and unyielding spirit. He was more than a man in that moment; he was a symbol of defiance, a beacon for all who dreamed of freedom.
In his final moments, Whitebeard's thoughts drifted to his younger days, a time when the seas were wilder and his ambitions simpler. He recalled a conversation with a crewmate, who had asked him what he desired most if not treasure. "Family," he had answered, a simple yet profound truth that had defined his life. A bittersweet smile crossed his lips as he remembered, the weight of years and battles lightened by the memory of his loved ones.
As he gave his final farewell to his grieving crew and distraught subordinates, Edward "Whitebeard" Newgate died standing on his feet. His body bore the marks of 267 stabs and slashes, 152 bullet wounds, and 46 cannonball impacts. Yet, when his coat fell, it revealed his back to be unscarred by any wound of retreat—a testament to his unyielding courage and the honor with which he had lived his life. The scene was one of solemnity and epic grandeur, the fallen titan a lasting symbol of the enduring spirit of piracy and the undying quest for freedom.