The waves dragged him in like a discarded ragdoll, rolling his limp body across jagged rocks and coarse sand. Every crash of the surf pushed him further inland, each retreat tugging him back as if the sea itself couldn’t decide whether to spare him...or finish what the massacre had started.

A final wave—heavier, angrier—slammed him flat on the beach and receded with a hiss, leaving the fishman sprawled on the shore like a broken relic. For a long moment, he didn’t move. Only the rising tide and the rasp of his strained breathing proved he was still alive. 𝒻𝘳𝘦𝘦𝘸ℯ𝒷𝘯𝘰𝑣ℯ𝑙.𝘤𝑜𝘮

Then—"...khh—!"

A choked breath tore from his throat. His gills fluttered violently, instinctively searching for water, only to burn with the painful reminder that they were clogged with blood—his own and the blood of thousands. His hand twitched first.

Blue fingers, bruised and mottled with purple splotches, clawed at the sand, dragging grooves through the wet earth. His arm trembled as he forced it beneath him, the effort making veins bulge painfully under battered skin.

His eyes cracked open. Murky vision greeted him—distorted shapes of trees swaying overhead, the blurred curve of shoreline, and the faintest golden light of a setting sun bleeding across the horizon. None of it made sense to his disoriented mind.

"I... survived...?"

The thought was faint, barely more than a dying spark in a storm. Then his memories crashed down upon him. The screams. The collapsing palace. The oceans trembling beneath the force of godlike clashes. The bodies—so many bodies.

His entire frame convulsed. He rolled onto his side and retched seawater and blood, spasming until he tasted copper and bile. His gills opened and closed frantically, gagging and sputtering like drowning wounds. His heart slammed against his ribs. He remembered. Everything.

Vander Decken’s consciousness clawed its way back from the abyss like a drowning man breaching the surface. The first thing he felt was pain—a deep, marrow-aching agony that radiated through his entire body. Salt water stung the raw wounds across his scales, and when he coughed, brine and blood splattered onto the wet sand beneath him.

He lay sprawled on the shore of an unknown, uninhabited island, its jagged black stones rising like teeth around him. The tide surged and hissed at his feet, eager to drag him back into the deep where he should have died. Gulls circled above, their cries sharp and mocking—as if the sea itself was laughing at him.

Vander Decken wheezed, forcing his body upright, each breath like a stab to the ribs. He was alive. Alive. A cracked, delirious grin stretched across his face. He had survived the annihilation of Fishman Island—the shockwaves, the collapse, the crushing pressure of the abyss, and the chaos of titanic wills colliding. Even with a Devil Fruit’s curse anchoring him like a stone, he had not perished.

A miracle. A sign. A blessing from fate itself—or so he tried to tell himself. Because no sooner had the optimism bloomed inside him than a sharp, electric agony tore through his right shoulder—so sudden and violent it ripped a choked scream from his throat.

"—GAAAH!"

His instincts reacted before thought. He reached with his left hand to clutch at the source of the pain—his right arm, the arm he had used to mark Poseidon... but his fingers closed on nothing. Nothing but wet sand and shredded cloth.

For a moment, his brain refused to process it. His mind simply... blanked. Then the phantom pain struck him again, harder, burning like molten iron where his arm should have been. His eyes flew open wide—wild, bloodshot—and he jerked upright, staring down at himself.

At the empty sleeve. At the jagged, torn stump where his entire right arm had once been. At the limb that had defined his entire existence—the arm that connected him to Shirahoshi, the arm that tied Poseidon’s power to his will, and the arm that guaranteed him dominion over the seas and the world beyond.

"No..."

He whispered it first—small, trembling, unbelieving. Then louder.

"No... no... no... NO—NOOOOOOO!"

His scream ripped through the island, echoing across the cliffs and scattering the gulls in a frenzy of flapping wings. His remaining fist pounded the sand, sending sprays of grit flying. He shook, trembling uncontrollably, his breaths coming in hysterical gasps.

Because he could still feel the connection—that faint, distant pulse in the back of his mind that told him Poseidon lived. Shirahoshi lived. But she was now forever beyond his reach.

Without his arm—without the hand that had marked her—his power was useless. His Devil Fruit ability was sealed away behind the wall of his own mutilated flesh. The world he had envisioned, the dominion he dreamed of, the throne he believed was his destiny—all had crumbled into dust the moment his arm was severed.

His ambition. His plan. His entire identity. All ripped away, leaving nothing but a broken, mangled creature screaming at a sky that did not care.

"I was supposed to rule..." he choked, voice cracking. "I was supposed to command the seas... Poseidon... Poseidon was mine..."

But the ocean answered only with the cold rush of another wave across his legs—uncaring, indifferent, washing the blood from the stump of his missing arm. Vander Decken crumpled forward, forehead pressing against the sand, tears mixing with the sea.

On that empty, forgotten shore, a fishman who once dreamed of dominating the world finally understood: he had lost everything. And his path to godhood had ended with the simple truth he had never considered—without his arm, he was powerless.

A strangled breath tore itself from Vander Decken’s throat—then another, wheezing, broken, and hysterical. He stared at the ragged stump where his arm had once been, fingers shaking violently as if denial alone could will the limb back into existence.

The surf crawled up the sand, hissing like mockery. Each wave that touched his skin felt like the ocean itself was laughing at him—the devil fruit crippled fishman who dreamed of ruling the seas. A hoarse sound escaped his lips.

Then a second. And then, finally—he began to laugh. Not the laugh of a pirate. Not the laugh of a man. This was the laugh of someone whose entire world had caved in, whose delusions had been crushed so suddenly that sanity couldn’t keep up.

"Ah... hah... hahahaha...!"

His voice cracked, then spiraled upward, deranged, unhinged. He clutched at the stump of his arm, smearing blood and sand together, staring at the empty sleeve flapping uselessly with each gust of wind.

"My arm... my ARM...!" he screamed, eyes bulging. "How—HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO THROW ANYTHING NOW?! HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO COMMAND HER?!"

He slammed his forehead against the ground, over and over, sand grinding into the cuts on his face.

"I MARKED HER! I MARKED THE POSEIDON! SHE WAS MINE—MINE! DO YOU HEAR ME?! THE SEA ITSELF SHOULD HAVE BEEN MINE!"

Another wave washed up and drenched him fully, cold enough to seize his lungs—but his devil fruit-weakened body couldn’t even stand in knee-deep water without collapsing. He sputtered, dragged himself back onto the sand, panting like a dying animal. His breaths turned ragged, manic.

"I can still feel her... the mark is still there..." he whispered, eyes wide and lucid for a fleeting second. "She’s alive... she must be... and if she’s alive... then I can..."

His pupils shrank. The hope that flickered in his gaze twisted into something grotesque.

"I don’t need my arm," he muttered, giggling. "I don’t need anything. She’s mine. Fate tied her to me—ME!"

He raised his one remaining hand and stared at it as though it might sprout a new limb on command. When it didn’t, his lips peeled back in a snarl.

"I’ll find her," he hissed. His voice dropped to a chilling whisper. "And when I do... the whole world will bow."

A gust of sea wind blew across the beach, and Vander Decken froze mid-sentence—because something had just occurred to him. Something simple. Something horrifying.

"Someone... someone cut off my arm," he murmured, slowly turning his gaze toward the jungle inland. "Someone who wanted to STOP me. Someone who wanted Poseidon for themselves."

His breath quickened.

"WHO WAS IT?!" His scream rattled the treetops.

"WHO TOOK HER FROM ME?! WHO STOLE MY DESTINY?!"

His gaze darted wildly over every shadow, every sound, every flicker of movement—paranoia cracking what little sanity remained. Even the rustling of leaves became threats in his mind. He staggered to his feet, swaying like a man drunk on grief and hatred.

"Fine... fine..." He licked the blood on his lips, madness gleaming in his eyes.

"I’ll hunt them. I’ll hunt the thief who took MY WEAPON. MY FUTURE." His voice dropped into a soft, murderous croon.

"And when I kill them... when I tear them apart with my own remaining hand... the sea will remember the name Vander Decken IX."

He limped forward, dragging his feet, muttering to himself in broken, feverish fragments.

"She’s mine... she’s mine... she’s mine... Poseidon belongs... to me..." The moon rose above the desolate shore, silver light washing over a man who had lost everything—the arm, the ambition, the sanity. But the obsession remained. And obsession was sometimes far more dangerous than power.

****

Silence. Not the tranquil kind found in the quiet corners of the sea, but an oppressive, crushing void that smothered everything—even thought itself. In that darkness, deeper than ten thousand meters below the sunlit world, Whitebeard drifted.

His massive frame floated like a fallen mountain, wounds still glowing faintly with the remnants of haki that had torn through him again and again. The surrounding water was colder than death, and yet nothing compared to the cold spreading inside his heart.

The sea pressed against his skin now—raw, poisonous, lethal. Without his protective bubble, every second that passed leeched his strength. Even a titan like him could feel the death sentence creeping into his bones. His limbs felt heavy, his muscles sluggish, and his lungs burning for air that would never come. The sea was patient. Even the strongest of men would drown eventually.

But he did not fight. He didn’t even raise a hand. He simply stared upward at the fading glimmer of light far above, like a dying star swallowed by endless night. He simply accepted his fate and sank deeper into the darkness.

"I failed them..." The words never left his lips—they didn’t need to. The ocean around him carried his grief like a dirge. Fishman Island... all those smiling faces who had welcomed him. The children who ran behind him asking for stories. The warriors who stood tall because his jolly roger flew above their home.

The families who slept soundly believing, "As long as Whitebeard lives... no one will harm us."

And under his very presence — under his watch — not only were they harmed... they were erased. No battlefield had ever broken him. No enemy had ever made him kneel. But this... this crushed him. He felt like the abyss pressing on his skin was also pressing on his soul.

What worth is a father who cannot protect his family?

What worth is a Yonko whose promise is worth less than sand?

What worth is the world’s strongest man... when his strength saves no one?

The water filled his lungs, the sea dragged him deeper, and yet he did not resist.

A flicker of light—somewhere inside the suffocating void—sparked. Images of his sons and his crew passed like ghostly flames: Blamenco laughing as he stole food from the kitchen. Marco’s calm smile as he patched wounds he pretended not to worry about. Thatch chastising others while quietly slipping treats to the younger brats.

Jozu, Vista, Izo... The countless sons who called him "Oyaji" with pride and love. They needed him. Without him, the vultures—Kaidou, Scarlett, the Marines, and the shadows beyond the world—would descend. His crew was strong... but not yet strong enough to stand alone. If he died here, they would crumble. And the New World would feast on their bones.

"I can still fight."

"I can still live."

"They need me... my sons need me..."

His fingers twitched. But then... the faces of the dead, the millions of lives that were snubbed, the ones that he had sworn to protect, flashed by his eyes. A girl with a little seashell hairpin he vaguely remembered gifting. A mermaid mother who thanked him for making her children feel safe. A soldier who stood at the palace gate and saluted him with pride.

The merfolk children who had tugged at his mustache with innocent laughter. Bodies swallowed by the ocean, lives extinguished by the ambition of the world government. Voices silenced forever. Because of him. Because he was too prideful. Too weak. Too blind. The guilt dragged him deeper than gravity ever could.

"Maybe... I should sleep here..."

"Maybe... this is where a failure like me belongs... first my brother Oden...then it was my own sons...and now the entire race."

His eyelids grew heavy. The currents slowed around him, as though the sea mourned with him.

Life or death? ... Fight or surrender? Return to his sons, or die with the people he failed?

One part of him—the father—screamed to live. Another part—the man who had sworn to protect the helpless—whispered to let go. In that endless abyss, those two sides tore at each other. Whitebeard, the pirate. Whitebeard, the father. Whitebeard, the protector. Whitebeard, the failure. For the first time in decades... he didn’t know which he was.

A single bubble of air escaped his mouth and rose toward the surface, shimmering like a teardrop. He watched it drift away. His hand, large enough to crush mountains, drifted limply in the water. If he wished it—truly wished it—he could pull back his fist and shatter the sea itself to reach the surface. His tremor powers could split the very ocean apart.

But he didn’t raise his arm. Didn’t make a fist. Didn’t move. He simply floated deeper into the abyss... Caught between the weight of his sins, his failures, and the faint, flickering warmth of his sons’ voices calling out in his mind... beckoning him to come back, to fight for them, for himself.

****

The ocean swallowed every sound as I descended, the pressure gnawing at the edges of my body—not enough to hinder me, but enough to remind me that even monsters can be crushed if they sink deep enough. But the silence wasn’t silent.

Not to me. Not when the Voice of All Things screamed. I pushed deeper. The darkness was thick, almost viscous, clinging to my skin like tar. My fingers tightened around Murakumogiri, the massive bisento feeling unnaturally light in my hand ever since I tore it free from the seabed, where it had been lying forgotten by its previous wielder.

I didn’t look back on that moment. Not yet. Not until the nightmares forced me to. Right now, all I cared about was finding one specific man in this endless black grave.

Whitebeard. Edward Newgate. My observation haki flickered—nearly drowned out. It wasn’t the oppressive pressure. It wasn’t even fatigue from fighting a god’s puppet. No... It was the millions of voices that drowned my senses like a storm of weeping ghosts. They were everywhere.

"Help—"

"My child—"

"Why—why—?"

"Please—!"

Their final wills pressed against my skull, against my lungs, against the marrow of my bones. The moment I reached where Fishman Island should have been, I understood why. There was... nothing.

The proud coral arches, the shimmering domes, and the glowing forests—erased. Shattered. The last fragments of the Sea Forest floated like splinters. The Adam tree’s roots, stripped bare, glowed faintly in the abyss like the ribs of a dead god.

And in that pale blue glow... they floated. Merfolk. Fishmen. Children. Guardians. Families. Drifting like wilted petals in a boundless, black ocean. My breath hitched. My body trembled. Even Murakumogiri hummed—mourning, perhaps. A weapon forged by a man who called this place family, now seeing the price of failure.

I swept my haki outward, farther, wider, pushing it past its limits until the veins around my eyes burned. Nothing living. Nothing breathing. Just the dead.

And the voices.

Their agony was a hurricane. Every scream echoed in me like I was the one drowning. I knelt in the water—not floating, not swimming. Kneeling, because anything more felt disrespectful.

I’m sorry... I came too late.

The ocean didn’t forgive. The ocean didn’t answer. But it pointed me—faintly—toward something deeper. Something colossal. Something familiar. A dim spark. A giant flicker of life. Faint...fading.

Whitebeard.

I shot downward like a fired bullet, the water parting around me in spiraling streams. My heartbeat thundered against my ribs, louder than the abyss, louder than the ghosts screaming through the Voice of All Things.

Until I finally saw him. A titan, slumped in total darkness. The strongest man in the world...sinking like a ruined monument. His chest rose shallowly, bubbles slipping from cracked lips. His skin was gray from the ocean’s curse. His scars—god, his scars. Massive gouges carved through muscle and bone, proof of how many times he had died and clawed his way back only to die again.

If he wanted to live, he would’ve lived. He simply... didn’t. And I understood why. Even before his thoughts reached me. Even before I felt his will flicker like a candle in a storm. He had failed them. Or so he believed. He hovered motionless, eyes barely open, staring into the abyss like it was the only place left that would accept him. I heard his whisper through the Voice—not words, but intent.

"I’m sorry... everyone... forgive me..."

His will inclined toward death, gentle as a father letting go of a child’s hand. I didn’t think. I didn’t hesitate. My hand shot forward, seizing his shoulder, every muscle in my body straining to pull him upward. His eyes widened—slowly, like a dying star flickering back to life. I met his gaze and growled through clenched teeth.

"It’s not your time to die yet, Newgate-san." My voice rang like a cannon blast in the still water. "You don’t get to die until you make them answer for all these lives lost here today...not until you get vengeance."

The ocean boomed. Or maybe it was my haki—my own will refusing to let another pillar fall today.

I yanked him upward, dragging him out of the pitch-black void. But as we ascended, as the dim, eerie glow of Adam’s roots illuminated our surroundings... Whitebeard finally saw what I had seen.

The corpses. The drifting bodies. The kingdom he swore to protect—gone. His breathing hitched. His entire frame shook—a mountain on the verge of collapse. But he didn’t push me away. He didn’t fight. He simply closed his eyes... and let me pull him. Behind us, the dead whispered through the Voice of All Things.

"Thank you..."

"Take him home..."

"Don’t let our deaths be wasted..."

Their last regrets, their last hopes, brushing against my skin like cold hands. I felt tears burn the back of my eyes—but I clenched my jaw and pulled harder. No... not today. Not someone like him. Not like this. Whitebeard’s massive hand suddenly gripped my arm—not resisting, but steadying.

A simple gesture. A silent acknowledgment. A man who had given up... choosing, again, to endure. We broke through a stream of rising debris, and for the first time since descending, light from far above shimmered faintly through the water. Whitebeard coughed weakly.

"...Rosi...nante..."

A rasping whisper—not through haki, not through the Voice. Just his own failing breath. I tightened my grip on his shoulder.

"Save your strength. The world still needs you...your family still needs you."

He didn’t answer. But he didn’t let go of me either. And that was enough. I turned upward, haki blazing through the abyss like a pillar of fire, dragging a broken titan back toward life, away from the graves of the people he loved.

Behind us, Fishman Island remained silent. A kingdom of ghosts. A requiem at the bottom of the sea. And I carried the last surviving witness—not to mourn, but to fight again. Because now...

Newgate had a debt to settle. And so did I.