The ocean stretched out like an endless canvas, tinged with a deep, dark blue, barely illuminated by the pale moonlight. The night breeze gently rocked the waves, creating an almost hypnotic murmur, like the whisper of an ancient world slumbering beneath the surface. A silhouette floated motionless among the waters, barely disturbing the sea's balance. Its eyes, bright and filled with a strange power, silently watched the vessel moving slowly through the dense mist.
A flagship rocked gently on a calm ocean, but nothing in that stillness conveyed tranquility. The air on board was thick, dense, permeated with a suffocating humidity. The mist covered the vessel like a shroud, making it impossible to see more than a few meters ahead. The lapping of the waves, nor the song of seabirds, could not be heard. Only the whisper of the wind... or something else.
From the deck of the flagship, the marines watched their surroundings with growing unease. It was a strange night for them, too quiet to be in the waters of the New World. Even the sea, normally capricious and brutal in those latitudes, seemed to have calmed down with an unnatural docility.
The salt spray stung the captain's face, but it offered little solace against the fear swirling in his stomach. The Grand Line was famous for its unpredictable weather, but this... this was different. A thick, unnatural fog had swirled in, completely engulfing the battleship, muffling the sounds of the ocean in a suffocating silence. It wasn't just the density; it was the sensation, a damp, oppressive pressure that pressed on the ship, the crew, their very souls.
At first, the crew was indifferent. Veteran sailors, hardened by years of battling the whims of the sea, dismissed the unusual fog as just another peculiarity of the Grand Line. But as the hours passed, a subtle unease began to surface. The ship's usual comforting rhythm was disrupted. Navigation systems flickered and went dark, plunging them into a disconcerting darkness. The radio crackled with static; their pleas for help were swallowed by the impenetrable fog, leaving them adrift in a white, silent void.
Every creak and groan of the battleship's hull, normally ignored as the normal strain of a vessel at sea, now sounded ominous, a portent of something unseen and terrible. The air itself felt thick, heavy with a silence that oppressed the ears, a silence more terrifying than any storm. The men, usually boisterous and filled with the camaraderie of shared hardship, lapsed into a tense silence, broken only by nervous whispers and furtive glances. A palpable sense of isolation crept over them, a chilling realization that they were completely cut off from the rest of the world.
Even the seasoned Vice Admiral Renard, a man whose steely gaze had weathered countless storms and skirmishes, felt the rising tide of fear. His voice, normally calm and authoritative, trembled as he ordered checks on every system. His efforts to maintain order were met with a growing sense of futility. The fog was more than just a meteorological phenomenon; it seemed sentient, alive, deliberately isolating them, distorting the very essence of their reality.
Meanwhile, in the vastness of the ocean, the floating silhouette hadn't moved a single muscle. Its eyes remained fixed on the ship, expectant, with inhuman patience. For the Marines, the threat was still formless, but in the heart of the ocean, horror had already begun to weave its web.
The Marines exchanged anxious glances. Something was wrong, but he couldn't identify what. Vice Admiral Renard stood tall on the deck, his jaw tense as he scanned his surroundings. He'd fought pirates, revolutionaries, and monsters from the New World, but this sense of threat was different, more subtle… like something from a child's imagination in a nightmare. Something wasn't right. He could feel it in his skin, in the weight of the air, in the way his men muttered to each other, their fists crunching on their weapons.
"I don't like this..." the officer muttered to the helmsman, a man with years of experience and very skilled in observation haki, because in these waters of the New World, you had to be skilled if you wanted to stay alive. "Something's watching us."
In response, a larger wave formed to starboard, breaking the apparent stillness of the sea. The marines tensed; some drew their rifles and others lit their oil lamps, projecting beams of light that barely managed to cut through the fog. But there was nothing. No enemy ships, no signs of life. Just the sea and its eternal surge.
"Vice Admiral, a lookout is missing!" one of the soldiers shouted from the crow's nest, his voice thick with panic.
Renard whipped his head around. Sure enough, one of the lookouts, who had been at his post a few minutes earlier, had disappeared. There were no screams, no struggle. He had simply vanished. Fear spread through the crew like a disease, creeping up the skin of the most seasoned men, all of whom tried to find their missing comrade with Haki, but to no avail.
As time passed, the subtle glitches intensified. Lights flickered and went out, plunging sections of the ship into an eerie darkness. Doors attacked and then inexplicably opened. Instruments spun wildly, displaying absurd readings. The very structure of the ship seemed to sway and creak, as if the fog itself were trying to tear it apart. Barely audible whispers drifted through the air, voices that seemed born from the fog itself, weaving tales of madness and despair. They were whispers of unseen things, of incomprehensible horrors, of a creeping madness that threatened to engulf them all.
The chronometer ticked away the seconds with maddening slowness, each tick a hammer blow against the men's growing fear. The oppressive silence, interrupted only by the ship's haunting creaks and groans, and the icy whispers of the fog, played a brutal symphony of terror. Sleep became a luxury no one could afford, haunted by fragmented dreams of winding corridors and invisible eyes peering out of the mist.
Renard simply watched as even the most seasoned sailors began to crumble. Their once tanned and strong faces were now pale and drawn, racked with terror. The usually jovial banter gave way to hushed conversations, filled with superstition and fear. Men who had faced pirates and mythical sea monsters now huddled together, nervously whispering about the evil that seemed to emanate from the fog itself.
The vice-captains, despite their attempts to maintain order in this situation, felt a growing unease. Their years of experience told them this was something beyond their understanding, something that defied logic and reason. The fog wasn't just a natural phenomenon; it was a suffocating entity, an invisible predator that seemed to feed on their fear. They tried to find explanations, to rationalize the inexplicable malfunctions, but the mounting evidence painted a terrifying picture: they were trapped in a nightmare from which there seemed to be no escape. The fog was alive, and it was hunting them.
They observed the subtle changes in the men's demeanor, the frantic glances, the nervous movements. The fear emanating from them fed back into their own fear, creating a vicious cycle of anxiety that subtly eroded their command. They felt a desperate need to maintain order, not only for the sake of their crew, but also to preserve some vestige of sanity in the face of the coming terror.
The psychological pressure increased with each passing hour. The fog, thick and oppressive, seemed to fuel their fear, amplifying it, distorting their perceptions until the line between reality and illusion began to blur. The men began to see things: shadows moving on the periphery, fleeting glimpses of faces in the swirling fog, whispers that seemed to reflect their own darkest fears. The ship, their refuge, was becoming a prison; its familiar confines became claustrophobic, threatening. But even so, I should continue, at least for now, to put all this aside as simple tiredness.
The whispers, at first faint and almost imperceptible, grew louder, more insistent. They were no longer simple sounds; they were a psychological attack that slowly infiltrated their minds like background noise whispering things they didn't even understand, sowing paranoia and distrust.
Some Marines looked at each other. Others gripped their weapons more tightly. It wasn't a direct attack. It was something worse. It was uncertainty.
Then, a loud bang echoed across the deck.
Everyone turned toward the source of the sound and found themselves staring at something impossible. One of the Marines was on the ground, completely motionless. His body was twisted at an unnatural angle, his eyes open in a grimace of absolute horror. There was no sign of wounds, no blood. He was simply... broken. As if something invisible had toyed with his body until he stopped moving.
"Medic!" Renard shouted, running toward him.
The ship's doctor knelt beside the soldier and took his pulse. His face drained of color.
"He's alive... but his body is…" He rechecked his signs, shining a flashlight into his eyes, receiving no natural response, as if he were just static there. "As if… as if something had stopped working."
A creaking sound echoed in the ship's wood. At first soft, like the snapping of an old plank, then intensified into a grotesque twisting sound. The ship's hull began to vibrate beneath their feet, as if an invisible force were trying to twist it from within. The vice admiral issued orders, but before the marines could react, the deck split in two with a terrifying roar. The nearest men were swept through the crack, falling into the dark abyss between the planks.
The marines' murmurs turned into a murmur of suppressed panic. One of them stepped back too far and tripped over a barrel. His breathing was erratic, his hands shaking.
"This is a damn Devil Fruit..." he whispered to someone.
"They're attacking us! Form a defense!" Renard bellowed, trying to impose order amid the panic.
But then, the mist came to life.
Shadows stretched out like elongated fingers, creeping across the deck, enveloping the sailors. One of the soldiers fired his rifle, but the bullet never reached its target. It stopped in midair and, with impossible smoothness, slowly spun around until it was pointed back at the shooter. There was a moment of horror before the bullet sank between his eyebrows, knocking him down without a sound.
Others rushed to the cannons, but before they could aim, the weapons began to melt, the metal bending like wax exposed to fire. The shells in the holds exploded before being fired, turning the ship's interior into a hell of flame and smoke.
The deck began to creak again, this time as if something invisible was striking it with immense force. The wood splintered, the sails began to burn with flames that emitted no heat. Some of the more experienced marines rushed to the cannons, but before they could aim, the weapons began to melt, the metal bending like wax exposed to fire. The shells in the holds exploded before being fired, turning the ship's interior into a hell of flames and smoke, and the entire vessel seemed to groan like a living being trapped in agony.
"It's a Devil Fruit ability!" a lieutenant shouted, his voice choked with terror. "We're walking into a trap!"
"It doesn't make sense!" another soldier replied. "We can't even see our enemy!"
Renard closed his eyes for a moment, trying to calm his mind. If this was a Fruit ability, it must have a limit. They all did. If only he could find the user… Renard clicked his tongue and sat up, trying to maintain his composure. He couldn't let fear take over.
"Listen carefully. We don't know what's happening, but if this is a Fruit ability, there must be a user somewhere. Hold formation and don't separate!"
The vice admiral's words brought a faint respite of order among his men. But the fog seemed to stretch farther and farther, like an ocean within an ocean. And then, the whispers began as the fog filmed.
Not as it would with the wind, but as if it had a will of its own. It swirled around the marines, spreading like a liquid shadow. And, within it, shapes began to appear. Human silhouettes, vaguely defined, moving with whispers.
"Vice Admiral... there are people in the fog..." a marine whispered, his voice trembling.
Renard gripped his saber tighter.
"Hold it right there! Identify yourselves!"
The whispers were barely audible at first, like distant echoes. Then they became clearer, sharper. Voices that knew their names, their stories, their deepest fears. Renard felt a chill run down his spine when he heard an impossible voice.
"Renard... Renard... Do you still remember when you let your brother die?"
The vice admiral felt the blood drain from his face. It was impossible. No one knew about it. No one except himself, yet the others didn't react as if it was only for him, or at least only in part.
Around him, other marines slowly sobbed, falling to their knees as the voices tore at them from within. Some covered their ears, but the words remained there, in their minds, clawing at their sanity. One of them, unable to bear it any longer, threw himself over the side with a stifled scream. The sea received him, but there was no splash. Only absolute silence
One of the marines couldn't stand it any longer. He aimed his rifle and fired, trying to stop it all—either by shattering the illusions, the creators, or even himself.
The thunderous sound broke the silence. But the bullet never reached its destination. Instead, it hovered in the air for a moment, spun slowly, and headed back toward the shooter, just like every time it was fired. The marine barely had time to gasp before the bullet sank into his forehead. He fell without a sound.
Panic erupted among them as they were plunged into despair.
"FIRE! SHOOT!" shouted a lieutenant, overcome with fear of the unknown, even though he knew they would likely end up like the man who died a few moments before.
Rifles and cannons roared, but the bullets disappeared into the mist, as if they had never been fired. Some soldiers tried to run toward the lifeboats, but their feet sank into the wood as if trapped in quicksand. Others raised their weapons only to see them turn to dust in their hands.
Then the bodies began to appear.
First came the lookout and other missing men, falling from the sky like rag dolls. They had no visible wounds, but their faces were frozen in expressions of pure terror, as if they had witnessed something the human mind couldn't process.
The candlelight danced in the mist without the need for oxygen, consuming men without even having time to react. One of the lieutenants tried to use his Armament Haki to strengthen his sword, but the blade turned into sea foam and dissolved between his fingers. Another marine fired his rifle in desperation, only for the bullet to stop in midair and return to him at twice the speed. He had no chance to dodge it.
"This isn't real...! It can't be real!" a young recruit sobbed before his own reflection emerged from a pool of water and dragged him inside, drowning him in a surface area barely a few inches deep.
Renard gritted his teeth and raised his saber. He'd never done anything particularly remarkable. Of all the vice admirals, he was probably one of the few without great accomplishments, but he made a decision when he took up his saber, imbuing it with all his will. If he died, at least he would die fighting.
"Show yourself, you damn demon! Fight with honor!"
Renard felt a chill run down his spine. Whatever was attacking them wasn't fighting with brute force. It was toying with them, watching them slowly crumble.
And then, the voice spoke.
"Are you going to surrender now?" It was soft, almost childlike, but his tone was laced with cruel mockery. "I haven't even begun to have fun yet."
Renard felt his blood run cold. The fog began to close in on them, thicker, more suffocating. The silhouettes within took a step closer, and this time, he saw something within them.
Then, it appeared.
Not with a roar or a flash, but like a subtle shift in the fog itself. One moment, the swirling white nothingness remained untouched; the next, a figure stood there, almost as if it had always been there, woven into the fog itself. It was small, almost childlike, with pale skin and large, innocent eyes. It wore a plain, almost ragged white shirt and trousers, its bare feet sinking slightly into the damp wooden planks of the deck. Its short hair was disheveled, contributing to its seemingly harmless appearance. A faint, almost ethereal glow emanated from it, a soft luminescence that contrasted starkly with the oppressive darkness of the fog.
And with that, everything grew calm as the fog swirled around, dispelling all illusions. All that remained were the older sailors who had experienced so much and were beginning to recover from this nightmare.
Vice Admiral Renard spat to the side, his gaze sharp as a dagger as he adjusted his stance. His saber was wrapped in intense Armor Haki, shining with an almost metallic black. His enemy, a youthful figure with light hair and an amused expression, floated a few feet away, watching him with a mixture of curiosity and amusement. He noticed how a brief relief began to settle over him. This wasn't a monster, this wasn't whatever he'd been thinking, this was only a human, something he'd long been told, but as such, he'd begun to doubt.
"You're overconfident," Renard growled, flexing his muscles. "Whatever your Devil Fruit ability is, it has a limit." "Everyone has it," he said happily, for seeing his opponent, he could finally deal with him and damage him. After all, even the white beard of the strongest man in the world had scars, and if he were a vice admiral, he couldn't take on a mere child face to face...
As these thoughts formed in his mind, the young man tilted his head, as if analyzing her words.
"Devil Fruit? Oh, I see. You think my power comes from something like that..." He put a finger to his chin, thoughtful. "Yes, I suppose it's logical that you think so." He smiled.
It wasn't a friendly smile, not exactly. It was disturbingly placid, serene, a mask that hid something vast and terrible. A smile that betrayed neither emotion, joy, nor malice; only an unsettling, unchanging calm in the face of absolute chaos. He looked at the crew composing themselves, scanning them with a detached curiosity, as if observing a particularly fascinating insect colony.
Renard didn't give him time for further monologues. His silhouette disappeared with a burst of speed, emerging to the right of his enemy in a split second. His saber descended with terrifying speed, imbued with Haki.
The blade sliced through the air… and collided with an invisible barrier.
Renard's eyes snapped open. The impact resonated as if he had hit a wall of steel, stopping his attack dead in its tracks.
"Not bad," the young man commented. "But it's not enough."
Renard didn't flinch. He flexed his legs and used Geppou, propelling himself through the air to circle around him. He shifted his focus and launched a Rankyaku, a slicing gust of wind that split the mist in two, causing strong air currents to divide the fog. His opponent raised an eyebrow, but tilted his body slightly to dodge.
"You're persistent," he murmured, as if he were truly enjoying the confrontation. "But you sacrifice speed for raw power, not that it matters anyway," he said with some humor.
Renard gritted his teeth, reconsidering his strategy. If ranged attacks didn't work, then he had to take the fight to a close combat. He reinforced his body with Tekkai and used Soru to appear directly in front of his enemy, launching a combination of punches with Armor Haki on his fists.
This time, the young man seemed surprised. He raised a hand to block the first blow and frowned when his own defense cracked. Renard seized the opportunity and launched a spinning Rankyaku kick, followed by a Shigan blast to the chest.
For the first time in the entire battle, the young man moved back, his smile faltering only for a moment.
"Interesting..." he whispered.
Renard gave him no respite. He propelled himself with Geppou and combined his movements with Kami-e, moving with an almost illusory fluidity, launching attacks that varied between swift Shigan strikes and devastating Haki slashes with his saber. Each attack landed with a force that made the air tremble.
The marines, previously plunged in utter fear, began to react. They watched the fight with expressions torn between fear and hope. Some trembled, others could barely breathe as they watched their vice admiral face an unknown threat.
"You think... that he can win?" one of the recruits whispered, his voice trembling.
"I don't know... but I've never seen anyone fight like that," another replied, swallowing hard.
"Shut up!" the snailphone operator muttered, his fingers trembling as he tried to connect. "Renard is giving us an opportunity... we have to notify Headquarters!"
He said, because Renard's battle was giving them a respite, a chance to escape what they thought was certain doom.
Meanwhile, on the battlefield, Renard felt a tightness in his chest. It wasn't just from the fight. It was a dark feeling, a restlessness he couldn't ignore.
"This... sounds a lot like... those guys' abilities," his opponent muttered softly. "Although somewhat more... rudimentary."
That moment of distraction was enough. Renard sensed it and attacked with everything he had.
"Rokuougan!" he roared, channeling all his strength into a devastating blow.
The impact was brutal. The air distorted with the shock wave, making the vessel's wood creak. His enemy took a direct hit to the torso, being thrown against the ship's mast, which snapped in two upon collision.
A few seconds later, the air became heavy. Renard felt his body begin to sag, his limbs feeling strangely heavy. He tried to move, but his speed slowed considerably.
"Vice Admiral Renard..." a marine whispered, his voice choked with fear. "Something's happening to him..."
"Come on, come on, answer now!" the snailphone operator shouted. "We have to warn them!"
Finally, the snailphone emitted a connection sound.
"This is Marine Headquarters! Identify yourselves!" The voice on the other end was firm but anxious.
Renard, still resisting, turned his head slightly toward his men, his gaze serious.
—No… stop… call…
The young man, seemingly hidden among the rubble of the destroyed mast, noticed the persistence of the marines. He was in no hurry. It didn't matter if they contacted Headquarters. For him, this was just an experiment.
"I suppose I can stretch this out a little longer..." he muttered quietly to himself.
But as if the marines had heard him, they felt fear course through them, without knowing why. They didn't know who that person was, what that ability was, but what they did know was that the vice admiral was risking everything to give them a chance, looking at the destroyed mast, knowing it wasn't the end yet.
And he couldn't waste it, looking at the destroyed mast, knowing it wasn't the end yet.
The dendenmushi crackled with static as the voice on the other end of Headquarters demanded answers. The transmission was choppy, but the fear in the breath of the marine holding the communicator was evident.
"This is Vice Admiral Renard! We request immediate reinforcements! We have been attacked by an unknown enemy! I repeat, an enemy with abnormal abilities, impossible to explain!" an officer shouted, his voice shaking.
"Vice Admiral Renard! What is the nature of the enemy? Is it a pirate? A Devil Fruit ability?" the Headquarters operator responded urgently.
The answer never came immediately. A muffled scream sounded through the line, followed by a loud bang that shook the hearts of everyone listening.
Renard staggered as he felt his body grow heavier and heavier. He had faced countless enemies, pirates with extravagant Devil Fruit powers, and while he managed to give it a try, he knew it wasn't the end. Even if a part of him had hoped that the boy relied on his strange ability and that blows would have been enough to defeat him, he couldn't let his guard down.
Through the snailphone, the voice of the Headquarters operator tried to maintain communication.
"This is Headquarters! Vice Admiral Renard, report your status!"
He approached slowly, his body heavy and tired but still in good condition.
"This is Renard!" he managed to say between gasps. "We're facing an unknown threat! It's not a common Devil Fruit... it's probably a mythological Zoan or special Paremacia!"
The light-haired young man tilted his head, as if listening with interest even within the wreckage.
"Oh..." he whispered, taking a step forward in front of everyone. "So you're finally beginning to understand... or at least getting closer, as much as your imagination allows."
The full moon rose over the ocean, its reflection dancing on the choppy waters as the wind carried the scent of gunpowder and blood with it. On the shattered deck of the Marine ship, the bodies of fallen marines lay scattered, while the remaining soldiers watched the young man emerge from the wreckage and surrounded him with lists. His breathing was erratic, his clothes tattered, and his posture wobbly. It seemed on the verge of collapse.
The dendenmushi beeped, indicating that the transmission was still ongoing. Headquarters had heard everything.
The sailors held their breath. They had seen their vice admiral strike it full force with his best technique, and for the first time, it seemed the enemy had felt the impact.
"Vice Admiral, we did it!" exclaimed a soldier. "We can defeat him!"
Vice Admiral Renard stood at the forefront, his saber wrapped in Armor Haki. Every fiber of his being screamed at him not to let his guard down. His enemy had displayed overwhelming power before, but now… now he looked human. Fragile.
"Don't give him any space! Keep pressing him!" Renard ordered firmly.
The marines responded with a barrage of attacks. Bursts of gunfire tore through the air, Rankyakus sliced through the deck's wood, and a group of Rokushiki fighters launched themselves at their enemy with relentless blows.
The light-haired young man moved with difficulty. His reflexes were still quick, but each dodge seemed to cost him more effort. He took several hits: superficial cuts, bruises forming on his skin, a bullet even grazed his arm, leaving a trail of blood on his torn sleeve.
"Vice Admiral… we're overtaking him!" "—a soldier exclaimed euphoria.
Renard, on the other hand, remained serious. He watched the enemy's every move, looking for any sign of deception. Something inside him told him this wasn't a real victory.
"Don't declare victory yet," he muttered, his jaw clenched. "Something's not right."
"This is Headquarters! What's the situation? Report the enemy status!"
Gerald, one of the officers, took the communicator with trembling hands.
"The vice admiral has managed to damage him, but..." He swallowed, hesitating for a moment. "We're not sure if he's really weakened. We think he's hiding something! We need reinforcements now!"
Meanwhile, at Naval Headquarters…
The snailphones in the command room blinked red emergency lights as the fleet's intermittent communication reached the high command as if someone were manipulating it to block out all of it.
"This is Vice Admiral Renard's squadron! We have been attacked by an unknown enemy! Abnormal powers! We request immediate reinforcements! I repeat, we need help now!" The operator's voice was laced with desperation.
Several officers exchanged tense glances. In the center of the room, a tall, thin figure, dressed in the characteristic Navy cape, stood with his arms crossed. His uniform was slightly disheveled, as if he had barely been awakened by the emergency. His expression was relaxed, almost indifferent, as he yawned and stretched.
"Well, well... what a pesky problem," he drawled.
The "kizaru borsalino" admiral inclined his head. His eyes still held traces of sleep, but his voice carried the authority of someone not to be underestimated.
"An unknown enemy capable of shaking a vice admiral... sounds like a nuisance, but also something we can't ignore," he continued, turning his head to a nearby officer. "Who is available to intervene immediately?"
"Rear Admiral Seigen is at a nearby base; he can arrive in a matter of hours," a subordinate replied, quickly scanning an operations map.
Tokisada let out a sigh and adjusted his cloak.
"Good, send him immediately with a reinforcement fleet. Have the best Haki users and heavy artillery accompany him. If this gets out of hand, I'll take care of it myself." He yawned once more before turning to leave the room. "And bring some coffee... I feel like this is going to drag on."
Back to the battle...
The light-haired young man panted, resting a hand on the deck as beads of sweat fell from his forehead. The marines had created a ring around him, ready to launch a final assault.
The battle reached its climax after a few hours when Renard, with desperate speed and strength, managed to land a precise slash on the light-haired young man's torso. His sword, sheathed in Armor Haki, tore through skin and flesh, causing a spray of blood to stain the ship's deck.
The Marines cried out in unison in amazement and relief.
"We did it!" one of them exclaimed, barely able to contain his excitement.
Gerald, however, remained motionless, his brow furrowed. Something wasn't right.
The young man staggered back, staring at the wound on his body with an expression of mild surprise. For the first time in the entire battle, his breathing became labored, and his posture drooped as if his body was finally giving in to the damage.
Renard, still holding his bloody saber, tried to catch his breath.
"It's over..." he murmured, though without letting go of his weapon.
And then, the young man smiled.
"I think... that's enough."
Before the astonished eyes of the Marines, the wound on his torso slowly began to close. The flesh regenerated, the blood disappeared as if it had never existed. In seconds, it was completely intact.
Panic gripped the crew.
"That's impossible!" one of the marines shouted, backing away.
"No... It can't be!" another stammered.
Before he could react, the young man turned his gaze to Renard, who remained rigid in his position. His smile widened, and in an instant, with a simple movement of his hand, Renard's head exploded in a shower of blood and bone.
The silence was absolute.
The marines froze, horror etched on their faces.
"At what moment...?" one whispered, unable to tear his gaze away from Gerald's lifeless body slumped on the deck.
The young man placed a hand on his chin, feigning curiosity.
"I thought they'd hold out a little longer before breaking," he murmured. "How disappointing."
The sound of staggering footsteps and weapons falling to the ground was the only thing that broke the deathly silence. Some marines put down their rifles, unable to contain their fear. Others tried to suppress their terror, but the trembling in their legs betrayed them.
Then, the fog began to thicken.
The moon hid behind a veil of dense clouds, leaving the battlefield shrouded in shadow. Only the fearful murmurs of the soldiers and the young man's low laughter could be heard, resonating like a spectral echo.
And then, the sound came.
A dry, repetitive, deafening boom.
It was a succession of shots, but not those from ordinary rifles. It wasn't the measured rhythm of a musket or the controlled report of a Marine rifle.
It was a storm of continuous fire, relentless bursts of shells piercing the fog, the sound of something impossible in that world: the echo of machine guns firing incessantly, as if an entire invisible army had opened fire at once.
The screams of the marines mingled with the roar. Some tried to flee, others fired in the darkness, unsure what they were fighting against.
Hell had descended upon the deck.
As the fog began to dissipate, the young man's figure became visible again. His clothing, for the first time, was clearly distinguishable.
His uniform was immaculate white, with a long cape that fluttered lightly in the night breeze. An unfamiliar emblem was embroidered on his chest, and his black gloves contrasted with the paleness of his hands.
Blood spattered his clothes, but he remained unspoiled, looking with amusement at the bodies lying around him.
Without taking his eyes off his victims, he tilted his head and smiled.
"So... let's see what's here?" he said, then headed inside the ship.