On Forward Defense Line Island, where G-10 Base stood, the battlefield had become a boiling furnace.
All around, swordsmen's slashes tore through the atmosphere, diamond and gold clashed violently, and Thunderbolt and Blue Flames intertwined with thunderous roars.
White Rabbit's nimble movements, Demon's bellows, and the furious cries of the Whitebeard Pirates' commanders rose one after another.
Yet at the heart of this utter chaos stood two absolute "still points."
At one end of the battlefield, Whitebeard stood towering and immovable, Murakumogiri's tip angled toward the ground.
His white captain's coat whipped wildly in the turbulent air, but his mountainlike body did not budge.
His gaze cut through every chaotic skirmish and fixed on the figure sitting cross-legged atop the distant base platform, like a lion locking onto its prey.
At the other end of the battlefield, Gern had risen and leaped down from the platform at some point, and was now walking slowly forward.
Every step was exceptionally steady, and a chilling stillness hung around him.
Then the corner of Gern's mouth lifted, and his left hand finally closed around the hilt of Black Blade: Eight Desolations, which had remained at his waist, wrapped in old, grayish-white bandages.
Their gazes met in midair. Neither spoke, yet invisible sparks seemed to clash violently between them.
The entire clamorous battlefield seemed to pale before their silent confrontation.
Everyone fighting felt an involuntary pang of dread, their movements faltering slightly.
The next moment, both men began to advance.
Whitebeard dragged the enormous Murakumogiri behind him, its edge carving a deep furrow through the rocky ground and scattering sparks.
Gern walked slowly forward with a reverse grip on Black Blade: Eight Desolations' hilt. His silent presence was like the retreating tide before a tsunami, so oppressive that it left people unable to breathe.