The bells of Dressrosa rang out as the final moments of sunlight surrendered to oncoming night. The ocean churned up a dense fog that swathed the coast in a slow-moving shroud, growing denser minute by minute.
From his seat on the palace balcony, Solian Flare gazed out upon the tempestuous seas. The Marine fleet had drawn near, their forms black blisters along the horizon. Ships, dozens of them, crept forward with cold inexorability, their white sails glowing with the dying light, their flags streaming in the rising wind.
A chill hush pressed down on the city behind him. In the great hall, the generals and officers whispered to each other, their voices taut with tension. Soldiers moved with urgency, buckling armor, sharpening blades, readying the last of the defenses. And in that storm of preparation, Solian's crew stood out — not because they were louder or more upset, but because they stayed.
Kael tightened the leather strap on his defense sleeves, looking briefly over the harbor metropolis below. Vance leaned back against one of the granite supports, arms crossed, lips twisting over a narrow, wicked grin. Milo recounted the last defensive maps, moving silently through the calculations.
And there was Itachi.
Itachi stood alone, next to one of the high windows. His black, flowing cloak billowed with every gust of wind, and for a moment, he appeared almost not of this world — a darkness carved from storm. His half-extended hand crackled faintly with sequestered power, the air around his fingers humming, threatening blows.
Solian spun around from the perspective and into the hall. His boots clanged against the gleaming stone with a heavy, resonant sound that cut through the chattering voices. When he stood in the center of the room, conversations fell away one by one, until there was only the wind and the boom of waves in the distance.
He stopped and turned to face them all.
"They are here," he said, his voice moving easily on the heavy air. It was not loud, but it filled the room with conviction, with certainty. "They do not arrive with words. With warnings. They arrive to kill what we have built."
There was a murmur that ran through the hall, a wave of anger, of fear — but also of something stronger, something more real.
Solian continued, his eyes running across the gathered warriors.
"They believe us to be weak," he declared. "They believe we will bow. They believe this island to be ripe for the taking."
He paused, letting the richness of his words sink in. A rumble of thunder crashed far out across the sea.
"But they are wrong," Solian said, his voice hardening. "Today, they will face not prey — but predators. Today, they will see that Dressrosa exists independently. Today, we carve our name into history."
No assent booms. No dramatic slaps of fists. Just a chill, reciprocal nod among combatants who recognized the game. Who might have known that all of them would not be living tomorrow — but were willing to fight nonetheless.
Solian met their eyes in turn. Then he turned and passed through the big doors, stepping into the storm brewing ahead without hesitation.
Following him, his crew followed.
The city marched with purpose now. Soldiers marched into their assigned battalions, archers climbed over the walls, bands of sharpshooters took over hidden positions among the broken buildings. All traps, all bottlenecks, all ambush points had been set, precisely as planned.
The harbor was the first to feel the impact of the attack.
A low bellow of the deep horn from the lead Marines' ship, and hundreds of tiny landing craft sprinted forward, filled with shouting Marines in white and blue. The decks blazed with a sickly, flickering yellow light from the torches and lanterns, casting a queasy glow through the mist.
Hidden beneath the waves, Milo's traps exploded. Water erupted in gigantic pillars, capsizing boats like toys, casting screaming Marines into the air. The harbor shook with the force of the explosions, and for a moment, there was disarray among the attackers.
Vance stood atop the main defense wall, smiling as he observed.
"Showtime," he snarled, bounding over the parapet, crashing into the enemy lines like a thunderbolt.
Kael else sent units to push the Marines into the constricted streets and side alleys where ambushes lay in wait. Hidden riflemen and archers showered death upon them from above, while troops burst forth from behind fallen walls and destroyed wagons.
Despite the confusion, most of the Marine force pushed ahead, with iron discipline and brute power as their guides. Among them walked men in cloaks of white edged with gold — Rear Admirals, hard-won in battle and deadly, cutting lines through defenders like sharks slicing through a school of fish.
Solian barely looked.
His senses were pulled elsewhere — to a darker, heavier presence moving steadily towards the harbor. A force of nature in human form.
Green Bull had arrived.
Roots and vines curled outward from the Admiral's feet as he stepped on land, sucking hungrily from the blood-soaked earth. Where he walked, the ground split and twisted, and the very air seemed to thicken, weigh more, come alive.
Solian's feet moved of their own accord. He descended the broken stone steps of the palace, his cloak billowing behind him like a dying star, until he stood alone on the cracked and battered waterfront.
Across the plaza littered with rubble, Green Bull rested his head, regarding him with idle interest.
"You're the king, then?" the Admiral slurred. His tone was deep, slow, like an animal that hadn't decided if it was worth the trouble to kill its quarry. "Guess it saves me some time."
Solian said nothing. He closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the power running through him — the burning core of the Solar Rift Fruit, the well of power he had accumulated through pain, through battle, through determination.
When he opened his eyes, his golden light radiated.
Green Bull smiled lazily and attacked.
The ground tore open. Vines as wide as tree trunks burst forth from the earth, slithering out for Solian in lethal urgency. Thorns glinted in the moonlight, dripping with venom.
Solian responded.
In a blur of motion, he sidestepped away, his body stretching impossibly, his fist covered in haki punching through the leading vine. The impact sent a shockwave ripping across the waterfront, sending shrapnel flying everywhere.
Green Bull's smile widened. He leaned at them with another salvo, the vines swooping more rapidly, sharper, carving through steel and stone like butter.
Solian repelled them.
Each step was a dance — twirling, striking, dodging — his body shrouded in the infernal blaze of his Devil Fruit and his soul raging within. With a roar, he released a blast of solar plasma, incinerating the crawling vines away in a wave of flame and heat.
The Admiral's loose pose tightened, ever so subtly.
Above the city, thunder rumbled once more.
And elsewhere, within the broken-down ruins, a new fight was already in progress.
Itachi stood before two Vice Admirals, his cloak streaming in the wind, his katana shining with distilled storm energy.
Onigumo, his spider-armed hands gruesome, sneered, his many hands grasping swords that glinted with lethal precision. At his side, Doberman shifted his stance, the giant saber on his shoulder glinting with menace.
"You should have run," Doberman said, his voice cold.
Itachi tilted his head.
"I do not run," he said.
And then he disappeared, a breath on the wind, a flash of movement.
Steel struck steel. Ruins trembled beneath the power of their blows. Each blow from Itachi was like the storm's hammer — swift, accurate, ruinous — but the Vice Admirals fought ruthlessly efficiently, countering, blocking, pressing.
Neither of them yielded ground easily.
Battles flared like wildfire throughout Dressrosa.
Rear Admirals stormed through squads of defenders, their landing tipping the battle in the places where they set down. But Solian's people battled with flame and desperation, not falling.
The harbor burned. Streets ran slippery with rain and blood. The air overhead was split with blasts of otherworldly lightning, and the very ground groaned at the impact of monsters.
Solian and Green Bull fought anew, their fists crashing with the deafening boom of a cannon. The impact flattened buildings to either side of them, threw Marines and soldiers sprawling.
Not a word now. Their wills spoke them — primal, raw, irresistible.
One battled to protect.
One battled to dominate.
And Dressrosa's destiny lay on the scale.