On the seas of the New World, the Moby Dick dragged its shattered hull through the dark current with difficulty.
Half the ship's side had been blasted through, and the vessel leaned heavily against the waves, creaking under the strain with every rise and fall.
The main mast had been scorched black and snapped. The surviving Whitebeard flag had a huge tear in it, yet it still hung stubbornly from the highest point, snapping loudly in the sea wind.
The deck was covered in wounded men.
Some had lost an arm and leaned against the rail, breathing weakly.
Some had splinters embedded in their chests. The medical team wanted to pull them out but did not dare, so they could only bind the wounds tightly with strips of cloth.
Some held brothers who had already stopped breathing, sitting silently in the corners.
Blood ran through the gaps in the deck. Cries were choked back in their throats, and no one spoke.
Even the loudest men were now like souls had been torn from them, able only to stare blankly at the shattered sea.
They had survived, but everyone knew it.
The Whitebeard Pirates had been crushed. From their flag to their bones, Rock had smashed them to pieces.
Marco knelt in the middle of the deck, both hands pressed against Whitebeard's wounds.
The Blue Flames had dimmed to the point of nearly going out, yet they still burned desperately, sustaining Whitebeard's last breath.
Jozu sat not far away, one arm hanging limply at his side, cracks from his diamond transformation covering half his body.
Vista gripped his broken sword and knelt on the deck, gasping heavily, his face frighteningly pale.
Whitebeard leaned against the base of the main mast.
He was covered in blood, and his breathing grew lighter and