Summit War 1

The next second, the enormous ship-shaped shadow burst out of the mist like an ancient sea monster.

The Moby Dick led the way, followed closely by forty-three pirate ships. Whitebeard's skull and crossbones flag fluttered in the sea breeze atop the mainmast, like a battle flag rising from the depths of hell.

The ground in Marineford was trembling slightly—not from an earthquake, but from the shockwaves of fifty warships firing simultaneously from the bay.

A barrage of shells rained down on the Moby Dick, the Kakkō illuminating half the sky and billowing smoke that engulfed the entire giant ship in flames.

The smoke of battle slowly dissipated.

The Moby Dick had more than a dozen scorch marks of varying depths on its hull, but it did not slow down, turn, or even fire a single shot in return.

It simply hurtled silently and irresistibly toward the head of the bay at full speed.

Edward Newgate stood directly in front of the deck.

The Murakumogiri upright on the deck beside him, its hilt still trembling slightly.

His arms were crossed over his chest, and his wide white cloak billowed wildly in the wind whipped up by the shells, the Whitebeard emblem on it still clearly visible in the smoke.

A slight smile played on his lips, not a wild laugh or a roar, but a slightly helpless smile that he only occasionally showed when his juniors were being silly.

"Gururu la la la la-- Sengoku, long time no see." He laughed, his voice not loud, but it pierced through the smoke and fire, clearly reaching everyone's ears. "That kid Ace, didn't he cause you any trouble, did he?"

He lifted his right foot and took a step forward.

The military boots stepped on the edge of the ship's gunwale, sending up a cloud of fine wood chips.

Then he leaped down, his massive body crashing heavily into the bay like a collapsing mountain.

The seawater was churned up into huge waves tens of meters high, which capsized several small gunboats nearby.

After the waves subsided, he strode out of the sea, holding the Murakumogiri in his hand, the tip of the blade dragging through the water, leaving a long white trail.

He walked alone at the very front of the entire fleet.

On the Execution Platform, Garp's hands were gripping his knees so tightly that his knuckles turned white.

From the moment Ace was led to the execution platform, he remained in this posture—daring not to look, yet unable to look away.

But just as Whitebeard leaped off the ship's railing, his Observation Haki trembled violently, as if someone had struck a bell in his head.

He suddenly raised his head, his eyes wide open, staring intently at the huge figure riding the waves towards the bay.

wrong.

That's not right.

Every month, the Marine Intelligence Department would submit an assessment report on Whitebeard's physical condition to his desk—his muscle mass was continuously declining, his bone density was decreasing year after year, and the degenerative damage to his nervous system had become so severe that he could not even receive daily intravenous infusions without Marco's help.

The intelligence department's comprehensive assessment last time clearly stated that it was expected to lose its front-line combat capability within the next three years.

But the Whitebeard before him— Garp's Observation Haki wouldn't lie to him.

The muscles in that body were at least several times stronger than the data from three months ago. The stiffness and pain from the old injuries at the joints had disappeared. The arrogant and domineering aura in his gait was just like that of the blond, muscular man standing behind Roger when he first bumped into Roger in the New World thirty years ago.

peak.

This old monster, using some unknown method, returned to his peak.

Garp's expression changed several times in a very short period of time.

As a naval hero, he knew all too well what a Whitebeard in his prime meant—it wasn't just the title of "Four Emperors," it was a monster capable of shattering the foundations of Marineford with a single punch.

If Whitebeard had truly recovered to his full strength, even if the Navy won today, they would inevitably pay an unbearable price.

But as Ace's grandfather, he caught a glimpse of a possibility he almost dared not think about in that instant—what if Whitebeard really could win, what if Whitebeard really could snatch Ace back from the execution platform... Garp pinched his thigh hard, forcing himself not to think about such thoughts.

On the commander's seat, Sengoku suddenly stood up.

He braced his hands on the railing in front of him, his knuckles turning blue from the excessive force, and the metal bars of the railing creaked under his weight.

His Observation Haki wasn't as sharp as Garp's, but his intuition, honed from clashing with Whitebeard on the battlefield for most of his life, wouldn't lie to him.

That sense of oppression, that suffocating feeling that made the surrounding air thick and sticky just by standing there—the last time he felt this kind of oppression from the Whitebeard was more than twenty years ago.

More than 20 years ago, Roger was still alive, the Golden Lion was still alive, and he was still young.

At that time, Whitebeard was in his prime. With the Tremor-Tremor Fruit and his monstrous physique, he could turn an entire island into a pile of rubble with a single punch.

As time passed, Whitebeard, like them, slowly grew old, his body gradually hollowed out by injuries, illnesses, and the backlash from the Devil Fruit.

Sengoku believed that this Summit War would be his last confrontation with his old rival. He did not expect to win, but he at least hoped to keep the losses within an acceptable range.

But the man standing at the bay, with that long-lost sense of oppression, that familiar aura that sent chills down his spine, silently told him— Whitebeard wasn't there to die. He was there to take Ace home. And he had the ability to do so.

"That's impossible." Sengoku's voice was extremely low, so low that only Tsuru, standing behind him, could hear it. "The intelligence department's report—his body should already be..."

He didn't finish speaking.

Because the crane did not answer him.

The crane's gaze also fell on the figure at the bend, and for the first time, a subtle expression of alertness appeared on its usually calm and Shisui face.

It wasn't fear, but the kind of intense, focused tension that only a staff officer would show when he discovers that all established plans need to be scrapped and redone.

On the plaza, 100,000 marines were completely bewildered by what had happened.

All they knew was that Whitebeard had jumped off the ship, and that a fierce battle was about to begin.

But the officers and soldiers standing at the front, the veterans who had fought against Whitebeard on the battlefield, all gripped their weapons tightly.

They didn't know anything about Observation Haki or physical indicators, but they could sense that the man standing at the head of the bay was different from any of the photos on Whitebeard's wanted posters they had seen before.

That wasn't an old whale, about to be eliminated by the times; it was a behemoth in its prime, having just smashed through an iceberg.