Marco watched the commanders charge again and again, only to be forced back by the Poison Gas each time. He watched his companions be firmly halted on the ice field, unable to advance even a single step. The eyes that always held a gentle smile were now filled with anxiety.
His azure-blue Phoenix wings flapped chaotically in the air, and even his flight path had become somewhat erratic.
Anxiety was like wildly growing vines, tightly wrapping around his heart and squeezing until he could barely breathe.
Ever since the Roger Pirates disbanded, the Whitebeard Pirates had been hailed by the entire sea as the "world's strongest pirate crew," while Pops had been revered by all as the uncrowned king of the seas.
For all these years, they had roamed the New World, broken through Marine Headquarters' encirclements, and clashed head-on with other legendary pirates, yet they had never faced such a predicament—being stopped by a newly risen pirate crew.
He knew better than anyone that if Pops personally made a move, a single strike would be enough to instantly tear apart this Poison Gas and crush the enemy's entire line of defense.
Yet precisely because of that, the sense of defeat in his heart only grew heavier.
If Pops, their captain, had to personally resolve everything, then what was the point of commanders like them?
If they could not even handle something like this, what right did they have to be Pops' sons?
The more Marco thought about it, the more anxious he became, and the rhythm of his attacks fell completely into disarray. With a fierce beat of his wings, he turned into an azure streak that tore through the sky. His claws, burning with Regenerative Flame, let out a piercing shriek as they ripped through the air toward