The balcony of the royal chambers, once adorned with the gilded opulence of the Elsar Kingdom's former regime, now bore the unmistakable stamp of conquest. The banner of the Donquixote Family fluttered in the breeze, casting its shadow over the capital.
Seated in perfect seiza on the smooth marble floor, Donquixote Rosinante remained utterly still, as if carved from stone. Before him rested his twin blades, Akatsuki and Shusui, placed with reverence on a simple sword stand.
The moonlight poured over him, illuminating his bare torso, riddled with fresh wounds and dried blood—a testament to the ferocity of his recent clash with the legendary Redfield.
Rosinante's gaze was distant, locked inward as his mind replayed the battle. His breathing was steady, almost imperceptible, the rhythm in sync with the thrum of life itself. He hadn't allowed Mansherry to heal his wounds, choosing instead to let his body mend naturally, no matter the pain.
Pain was a teacher, and every scar was a lesson carved into flesh. He was determined to absorb every ounce of insight, every fragment of growth that his clash with Redfield had offered. This was the moment—a fleeting opportunity to break past the barriers of mortality and step closer to the realm of gods.
Rosinante knew the truth that most warriors refused to acknowledge. At the level of Admiral-class strength, the path forward became a crawl. Each step required immense sacrifice, often carved from life-and-death struggles.
To ascend beyond, to reach the realm of the Emperors, was akin to defying fate itself. But Rosinante's ambitions soared beyond even that. The battle against Redfield, the former Rocks Pirate and peerless fighter, had offered him a glimpse of what lay beyond that threshold.
The whispers of untapped potential. The road to mastery not just over his blade or his Haki, but over the very essence of his being.
Inside the chamber, Nico Robin stood with her arms crossed, watching him through the glass doors. She couldn't help but voice her curiosity. "What's he doing?" she asked softly, her usual composure giving way to genuine intrigue.
The room was filled with key figures of the Donquixote Family, the ones who belonged to the inner circle, the ones who had helped secure the conquest of Elsar. The city's rebellion had been quelled with brutal efficiency, and a new monarchy had been established with their allegiance to the Donquixote family.
The family had claimed half of the royal treasury while leaving the other half to rebuild the kingdom. Yet none of that seemed to matter now as all eyes turned to Rosinante, seated alone on the balcony, his aura palpable even at this distance.
Robin's gaze flicked to his back, her expression shifting as she noticed what lay there—the Hoof of the Soaring Dragon, burned into his flesh. The mark of the Celestial Dragons, a brand of servitude and shame that had scarred this very world.
It was a chilling reminder of the cost Rosinante had paid for Doflamingo's folly—a debt he bore without complaint. The sight of it stirred emotions in those who looked, a mixture of pity, admiration, and fury.
"Shh…" A soft hiss from Rob Lucci silenced Robin's inquiry. Seated with his legs crossed, the assassin's sharp gaze remained fixed on his master. "Don't disturb him. Not now."
Robin raised a brow at Lucci's tone but chose to remain silent. It wasn't fear—it was respect. Lucci, more than most, understood what Rosinante was doing. The young master was replaying the battle in his mind, reliving each clash, each strike, and each moment of vulnerability against Redfield.
Haki was not a static power. It was fluid, a force tied to one's will, spirit, and soul. To evolve, it required moments of clarity, where the boundary between defeat and triumph was razor-thin. Rosinante was walking that edge now.
Lucci leaned back, his arms folded across his chest. "He's using the fight to refine himself," he murmured, more to himself than anyone else.
"When you fight above your limits, you can see what lies beyond. If you survive, you grow. If not…" He left the words hanging, the implication clear.
At the corner of the room, Diamante sat quietly, his aged features softening as he watched Rosinante. His mind drifted to memories of the past—of the day he first pledged himself to Doflamingo and his younger brother.
The family had endured so much loss. Trebol and Pica were gone, lost to time and war. Yet Rosinante had endured, rising from the ashes of their tragedies to lead them forward.
"Trebol… Pica…" Diamante whispered under his breath, his voice almost lost in the room's stillness. "If only you could see him now." His lips curled into a faint smile. "He's taking us to the place we dreamed of. The place where we'll reign above the world."
The silence of the room was broken only by the sound of Rosinante's slow, deliberate breaths. Even Smoker, seated at the far end with an unlit cigar between his lips, couldn't help but be drawn in. He didn't fully understand the methods Rosinante employed, but he recognized the resolve.
Rosinante's body trembled faintly, a sign that he wasn't simply meditating. His Haki—both Armament and Observation—was flaring in subtle bursts, almost imperceptible to those without keen senses. Redfield's strength, his mastery over the Conqueror's Haki, had pushed Rosinante to the brink.
Now, he was breaking down every movement, every nuance of the fight, searching for the cracks in his own technique and the paths to greater power.
The air around him seemed to shimmer faintly, as though bending to his will.
"He's trying to break through," Lucci finally said, his voice carrying a weight that silenced the room entirely. "This is the kind of thing that separates those who dream of power and those who take it."
Robin's eyes softened, though she didn't look away. "But at what cost?"
"Whatever it takes," Lucci replied without hesitation.
The room fell into a contemplative silence as Reiju, her voice barely above a whisper, broke the tension.
"Diamante-san, is there a story behind that mark?" Her gaze, unusually solemn for someone of her composed demeanor, rested on the infamous symbol seared onto Rosinante's back—the Hoof of the Soaring Dragon.
Everyone turned their attention to Diamante, the eldest remaining pillar of the original Donquixote Family. Even Smoker, typically aloof, leaned forward slightly. He knew what that mark represented: slavery.
And yet, it seemed to contradict the Donquixote Family's ethos. Their network controlled almost every corner of the underworld, from weapons to blackmail, drugs, and espionage. Yet slavery was conspicuously absent from their portfolio. That absence spoke louder than words, and now curiosity filled the air.
Diamante, seated at the far corner of the room with his long legs crossed and a faint smirk on his lips, opened his eyes fully and exhaled. His mind, however, wasn't here; it had drifted back decades.
"Have you kids ever wondered," he began, his voice low and deliberate, "why Master Doffy despises slavery so much, even though we practically rule the underworld?"
The question lingered in the air. Reiju tilted her head slightly, her lips parting as she thought. Smoker's sharp gaze never left Diamante. Buffalo, seated quietly beside the others, furrowed his brow, clearly taken aback by the notion.
It was true; the Donquixote Family had no equal in their dominion of the underworld. Yet, while they seized control of countless illicit trades, the slave market had remained untouched, almost taboo.
Diamante chuckled, the sound rough with age and bitterness. "You kids probably think it's because we're noble or something. That maybe deep down, Master Doffy has some grand sense of morality." He leaned forward slightly, his hands resting on his knees.
"Let me tell you—it's not that. It's because of that mark on Rosinante's back. That mark is a reminder of our past—of their past. A past drenched in stupidity, naivety, and failure."
Reiju's eyes widened slightly, and even Robin, who rarely showed surprise, raised an eyebrow. Even Lucci seemed surprised; he couldn't believe the words coming out of Diamante's mouth; after all, to him, Master Rosinanate was simply perfect.
"It's not just a scar, little Reiju," Diamante continued, his voice dropping an octave. "It's a symbol of what happens when you trust the wrong people. When you think the world works on some kind of code. When you think people will forgive and forget." He leaned back, his expression hardening.
"That mark reminds both of them—Master Doffy and young Master Ross—of a time when they made the mistake of believing in anything other than themselves."
Diamante paused, his gaze lingering on the glass doors leading to the balcony where Rosinante still sat in unbroken seiza, his bloodied form framed by moonlight.
"You see," Diamante continued, his voice quieter now, almost reverent, "there was a time when Doffy thought he could return to Mariejois. He thought the Celestial Dragons would welcome the both of them back with open arms because of their bloodline. That they'd take them in after all they'd been through. So he brought Rosinante, just a kid at the time, back to Mariejois with him."
The room was deathly silent now, the weight of his words pressing down on everyone like a shroud. Smoker's jaw tightened, while Reiju placed her hands on her knees, her youthful expression filled with unease. Even Lucci, stoic as ever, shifted slightly, his sharp gaze flicking between Diamante and Rosinante on the balcony.
Diamante's smile turned bitter. "But what did they do? Those arrogant bastards laughed in his face. Then, to teach Doffy a lesson for daring to think he was still one of them, they branded Rosinante with the Hoof of the Soaring Dragon. A kid who had done nothing wrong. They made him their example."
Reiju gasped softly, her hand instinctively moving to cover her mouth.
Smoker's knuckles cracked as he clenched his fists. "The damn Celestial Dragons," he muttered under his breath, his disgust evident.
Diamante nodded knowingly. "Oh, they taught Doffy a lesson, alright. But not the one they thought. That day, Doffy stopped believing in anything but power. He realized the world is ruled by strength and nothing else. Not bloodlines, not justice, not even morality. Just power. And that's why he swore he'd never allow himself or anyone under him to be anywhere near slavery again."
He leaned forward, his eyes blazing with conviction. "That's why we don't touch slavery. Not because we're good people—but because we know what it's like to have everything stripped away. And Doffy made damn sure we'd never kneel to anyone again. Especially not those bastards."
The room was quiet again, the weight of the story sinking into everyone present.
Reiju broke the silence. "But if young master Rosinante wanted to, he could have that mark removed, couldn't he?"
Diamante smiled faintly, a flicker of pride in his expression. "Of course he could. But he won't. He carries that mark as a reminder—not of his pain, but of his resolve. To never lose sight of his purpose. To never forget what happens when you show weakness in this world."
On the balcony, Rosinante shifted slightly, his body still framed by moonlight. His conqueror's haki, faint but undeniable, radiated across the room. The man who bore the mark of slavery on his back, who had taken the lessons of pain and forged them into unbreakable will, was pushing himself to the next threshold of strength.
Diamante's voice broke the silence one last time. "That mark… it doesn't define him. It drives him. And as long as he keeps moving forward, so will the Donquixote Family."
On the balcony, Rosinante's lips curled into a faint smile. He could feel it—the barrier between himself and the next level, the thin veil of understanding that separated him from true greatness. Redfield's power had shown him a glimpse of what lay beyond. Now, it was his turn to seize it.
As the moon climbed higher, the tension in the air deepened. And while his body remained still, his spirit roared forward, clawing at the limits of fate itself.
*****
Uncharted Islets, New World
On a vast, desolate, and uncharted island, Whitebeard stood alone, his colossal frame rooted at the very heart of the barren land. His breathing, slow and deliberate, seemed to echo across the emptiness, resonating with the world itself as if the planet held its breath in anticipation.
The island stretched endlessly, its silence absolute, save for the faint whistle of the wind brushing against jagged cliffs and lifeless stone. This was no ordinary place; Whitebeard had chosen this isolated expanse for a reason.
For thousands of miles in any direction, no human settlement existed—no witnesses, no one to be caught in the cataclysm he was about to unleash.
For the first time in decades, Edward Newgate, the man who had defied gods and monsters alike, felt something foreign—a gnawing unease that refused to be quelled. It was a disquiet born of failure, pain, and unrelenting fury.
His brother, Kozuki Oden, was gone, stolen from the world by forces that even Whitebeard's mighty arms could not reach in time.
Rage burned in his chest, hotter than the sun, an inferno that refused to be doused. His blood roared in his veins, and with it, the dormant power of his Tremor-Tremor Fruit began to stir.
For the first time since the day he had consumed the devil fruit, it felt alive—no, more than alive—it screamed for release. It demanded he become what it was destined to make him: the embodiment of destruction itself.
Whitebeard's calloused hands, each as large as boulders, flexed. He planted his feet into the cracked earth, the ground crumbling beneath his unimaginable weight. Slowly, he raised his arms, the veins bulging along his forearms as he held them before him.
The world itself seemed to react, the air growing heavy and electric, the ground trembling beneath his fury. Then, with a soundless roar, Whitebeard's fingers curled, clawing at the very fabric of space and reality.
For a moment, there was absolute stillness.
Then, a deafening crack echoed as spiderweb-like fissures exploded from his hands, racing across the air and the ground faster than the eye could follow. The cracks spread for hundreds of meters, splitting the sky itself like shattered glass. The earth groaned in agony, as if the world was rebelling against the power being forced upon it.
And then, it happened.
The island collapsed inward as though crushed by an invisible hand. Mountains crumbled into dust; cliffs folded like paper. The sea surrounding the island heaved and churned violently as if caught in a titanic storm.
The very seabed rose, monumental chunks of the ocean floor erupting from the depths, forming jagged new landmasses. For hundreds of miles, the horizon was warped and twisted—a new continent carved by sheer force of will.
Whitebeard didn't stop.
His arms, still gripping the air, pulled once more, and the tremors grew more violent. The ocean screamed as towering tsunamis, thousands of meters high, surged outward, consuming everything in their path.
The sky seemed to shatter, fissures of white light cracking through the heavens themselves. It was as if the world was being folded and broken at the same time, collapsing under the sheer magnitude of Whitebeard's power.
His roar split the air, a sound that could freeze the hearts of even the bravest warriors. His voice carried not just fury but sorrow, a bottomless well of grief that fed his wrath.
"ODEN!!!" he bellowed, the name ripping through the air like a thunderclap. His vision blurred, not from weakness, but from the storm of emotions within him.
He had failed. He, the world's strongest man, had failed when it mattered most. Oden, his brother in all but blood, had died, and Whitebeard had been powerless to stop it. He had been too far, too slow, too late. And now, the weight of that failure bore down on him, crushing his soul.
The fury he felt at the ones who took Oden—the traitorous beast Kaido, the bitch Linlin, and most of all the puppet-master in the shadows, and those who had stood by and allowed it to happen—was matched only by the wrath he turned upon himself.
He had been complacent, content with his strength. He had thought himself untouchable, a giant among men. But Oden's death was a stark reminder: power meant nothing if it could not protect those who mattered most.
And so, he pushed himself beyond.
With another pull, Whitebeard unleashed the full force of his Tremor-Tremor Fruit, the very air collapsing in upon itself as if reality could no longer contain his strength. The seas roared, swallowing entire islands that once dotted the ocean.
The horizon shifted, landmasses breaking apart and reforming in the wake of his fury. For miles upon miles, the world bore his mark—an entire region reshaped by the wrath of a single man.
Finally, his arms lowered, his massive chest heaving with each ragged breath. The desolation around him was absolute. The island he had stood upon was now unrecognizable, its once-barren landscape transformed into a chaotic expanse of jagged cliffs, craters, and rising seas.
The ocean had birthed new mountains, and the sky remained fractured, the remnants of his power lingering like a scar upon the heavens.
Whitebeard stood tall, his silhouette framed by the destruction he had wrought. His hands, stained with the blood of his past battles, clenched into fists. He turned his gaze to the horizon, where the setting sun painted the ruins in hues of red and gold.
"Damn you…," he growled, his voice low and guttural, like the rumble of an earthquake. "You'll pay. All of you will pay."
And as the wind carried his words across the fractured seas, it was clear to anyone who heard it: Edward Newgate, Whitebeard, was no longer just the world's strongest man. He was its reckoning.
The desolate island beneath Whitebeard groaned as if in protest, trembling violently under an invisible weight. His observation haki flared, warning him of the looming danger.
Suddenly, the very ground beneath his feet heaved upwards as though being lifted by an immense, unseen force. The earth cracked, and the air itself felt heavy, vibrating with the unnatural energy of another Conqueror's Haki pressing down upon him.
Whitebeard's eyes narrowed, his breath steady as he felt the oppressive force trying to seize the island and crush him under its might. But the World's Strongest Man was not one to be pushed.
With a thunderous bellow, his Conqueror's Haki exploded outward in a wave of pure willpower, rippling through the air like a tsunami of dominance. The invisible force was instantly neutralized, the island crashing back down into the ocean with a resounding impact that sent shockwaves rippling across the horizon.
Before the waters could settle, another wave of Conqueror's Haki lashed out, more focused, more intense, as if testing him.
Whitebeard stood unmoved. His haki surged in response, meeting the challenge head-on. The clash of wills created an oppressive pressure that sent cracks splintering across the surface of the island, but Whitebeard didn't budge an inch. His defiance was absolute.
And then, the skies darkened.
A shadow of unimaginable proportions engulfed the heavens, blotting out the sun. Whitebeard tilted his head upward, his piercing gaze locking onto the impossible sight: a colossal island, easily ten times the size of the one he stood upon, descending upon him like a hammer of the gods.
The sheer scale of it was mind-boggling, its jagged peaks scraping the sky, and its landmass casting a shadow over miles of ocean.
Whitebeard didn't need to rely on his haki to know who was behind this audacious move. His instincts—and years of rivalry—told him everything he needed to know. "Shiki." His deep voice rumbled like distant thunder.
The power emanating from the descending landmass was staggering. The weight, the velocity, and the overwhelming aura it carried would have crushed anyone else into oblivion. Yet, Whitebeard's expression didn't falter. If anything, his lips curled into a feral grin. The immense pressure of the island didn't intimidate him; it only ignited the fire of his fury further.
His muscles tensed, veins bulging as he clenched his massive fists, the groan of his sinews echoing like the taut strings of an unearthly bow. A glowing halo of destructive energy enveloped his fists, shimmering with the raw power of his Tremor-Tremor Fruit. The very air around him distorted, unable to withstand the concentrated force he was channeling.
The sea roared as Whitebeard crouched slightly, his mighty legs digging into the crumbling ground. And then, with a sound like the detonation of a thousand cannons, he launched himself upward, the island beneath him collapsing from the sheer force of his leap. The shockwave shattered what remained of the landmass, sending towering waves racing outward in every direction.
Shiki, high above, watched with wide eyes as Whitebeard rocketed toward the descending island like a titan aiming to punch through the heavens. The Golden Lion had poured every ounce of his awakened devil fruit's power into this "greeting," straining to lift and hurl the colossal island.
And yet, as Whitebeard's tremor-infused punch met the base of the descending landmass, Shiki felt the full weight of why his old rival was called the strongest.
The initial impact was deafening, a crack that split the heavens and sent shockwaves tearing across the ocean for miles. At first, the monstrous island seemed to hold, its momentum grinding to a halt midair. But then, spiderweb fractures began to radiate outward from the point of contact.
"You absolute monster…" Shiki whispered, his tone one of awe and exhilaration.
Whitebeard roared, the raw force of his will and strength combining into a single, devastating blow. The fractures spread further and further until, with an earth-shattering explosion, the massive island shattered into countless chunks, its remains raining down like a meteor shower into the ocean below. The seas churned violently as the massive debris plunged into the water, creating towering waves that rolled out for miles.
The sky cleared, the shadow of the island gone, and amidst the chaos stood Whitebeard, his breath heavy but his stance unbroken. The remnants of the shattered landmass sank into the sea around him, dwarfed by the sheer scale of the devastation he had wrought.
High above, Shiki grinned, his golden mane billowing in the wind. "You've changed, Newgate," he said, his voice carrying a mix of respect and exhilaration. "You've always been strong, but now… now you're something else entirely."
Whitebeard, still radiating the energy of his tremor power, glanced up at the floating figure.
"You're alive.., Shiki. I was starting to think that the rumors were true that you had lost your life in South Blue or even worse that you lost your nerve. And I thought maybe you would never sail the seas again."
Shiki's laughter echoed across the ocean. "Shihahahaha….Nerve? Nah. Just wanted to see if you were still worth the trouble! I came here with every intent to take that title you hold away from you."
Whitebeard raised a fist, still crackling with power, and pointed it at Shiki. "I hope you brought more than an island. Because I'm just not in a mood to entertain your theatrics..."
The two titans stood poised, their long history and rivalry reigniting in the wake of their overwhelming displays of power. The world would tremble once more, caught in the collision of their wills. The strongest men alive were far from done.