The two giants stood at the center of a battlefield on the edge of collapse.
Marineford was no longer a fortress, it was a crucible. Fire roared on the eastern flanks, where Akainu had turned stone to magma. The inferno spread with hungry tendrils, consuming barracks and weaponry depots as pirates and marines alike fled from the unstoppable advance of liquid death. Ice walls cracked like ancient bones as Aokiji expanded his prison across the battlefield, the temperature dropping so rapidly that the moisture in the air crystallized, forming a sparkling, deadly haze that choked those who ventured too close.
Overhead, the sky flashed with beams and debris as Marco danced with Kizaru in a furious aerial ballet. The Phoenix's azure flames left trails across the heavens, momentarily blinding those who dared look up. Kizaru's light attacks pierced through clouds, vaporizing rainwater before it could fall, creating eerie columns of steam that rose like ghostly pillars from the battlefield below. Their combat was so fast that most observers saw only the aftermath, broken masonry, smoking craters, and the occasional flash of blue or yellow as the combatants briefly slowed enough to be visible to the naked eye.
Screams echoed from the western corridors where Pacifista units marched in perfect sync, their mouths opening in unison, energy gathering before unleashing destruction that reduced swaths of pirates to ash and ruin. The mechanical precision of their movements stood in stark contrast to the chaos surrounding them, an army of perfect weapons advancing through blood and fire without emotion or hesitation.
But at the center of it all, where history itself seemed to hold its breath, stood the golden Buddha and the strongest man in the world.
Sengoku the Buddha.
Edward Newgate, Whitebeard.
Neither moved.
Yet the earth beneath them trembled.
The tension between them manifested physically, cracks spider-webbing through stone, dust rising in spirals around their feet, the very air charged with potential energy. Marines and pirates alike gave them a wide berth, recognizing instinctively what was about to unfold: a clash of titans that would reshape the battlefield itself.
Whitebeard's bisento was buried blade-first in the ground, his massive arms flexed, veins bulging against age-worn skin. His chest, riddled with old scars, rose and fell like tectonic plates. His breath came with effort, but not hesitation. The symbol of his pride, the white mustache, cast a curved shadow across his face like a crescent moon presiding over war.
"You're not the same man I fought thirty years ago," Whitebeard said, spitting blood to the side. The crimson spatter steamed against the stone. "The Sengoku I knew believed in balance."
Sengoku, towering in his Buddha form, did not blink. His golden body shimmered with divine power, but his eyes were cold iron. The transformation had enlarged him to loom over Whitebeard's imposing height, his normally stern features now magnified into a visage of celestial judgment. His glasses, a reminder of his scholarly nature, had been discarded, revealing eyes that had witnessed generations of pirates rise and fall.
"I believe in order," he replied, his voice resonating through the plaza. "And you have disrupted that order long enough."
A marine captain nearby dropped to his knees, overcome by the sheer pressure of the Fleet Admiral's voice. Pirates with weaker wills found themselves paralyzed, their bodies refusing to obey commands to flee. The strongest among them, commanders and vice-admirals, watched with expressions caught between awe and terror.
The plaza around them seemed to distort with tension. Marines froze, their boots rooted to the battlefield. Even pirates, normally eager to leap into battle, halted as their commanders raised arms. Something ancient was about to unfold, a confrontation that transcended the war itself.
Sengoku raised one hand, palm outward, and golden light flared from his body like a second sun. The radiance was almost painful to behold, forcing many to shield their eyes. Those closest to him reported later that shadows seemed to flee from his presence, as though darkness itself feared the Fleet Admiral's wrath.
Whitebeard grinned, despite the ache in his lungs and the medication dripping from tubes concealed beneath his coat. His eyes, sharp despite his years, reflected the golden light, not with fear, but with the fierce joy of a warrior who had finally found a worthy opponent.
"Then let's see what judgment feels like when you bleed from the mouth."
The clash came not with words, but with impact.
Whitebeard surged forward with speed that belied his age and size, pulling his bisento from the ground and swinging with a roar that split the sky. The very air parted before the blade, creating a vacuum that sucked debris and unfortunate combatants toward the point of impact.
Sengoku met it head-on, catching the weapon with his forearm. The shockwave alone leveled a dozen meters of plaza stone. Wind howled. The air itself cracked with a sound like thunder.
BOOOOOM.
Haki laced both blows, black lightning snaked across the sky as invisible forces collided. The sheer force of their collision launched nearby Marines and pirates into the air like rag dolls. Flames guttered out. Ice shattered. The sea itself seemed to retreat from the harbor, as though the ocean feared being drawn into the conflict.
Sengoku's arm, though strengthened by his Devil Fruit power, trembled under the force of Whitebeard's strike. A hairline fracture appeared in his golden skin, the first sign that the Buddha was not invulnerable. He betrayed no pain, but his eyes narrowed slightly.
Sengoku stepped back, body glowing brighter as he summoned more power, and drove his palm forward, not with brute strength, but with precision. The air compressed before his strike, creating a visible distortion that sliced through the battlefield.
His aim was Whitebeard's liver, one of the few vulnerable points on the Yonko's body, weakened by years of battle and excess.
The old man twisted just enough to deflect the blow, his experience allowing him to read the attack before it connected, but the shockwave still made him stumble. A lesser man would've had his spine pulverized. As it was, blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, internal damage that would have killed almost anyone else.
"You've grown cruel," Whitebeard coughed, spinning his bisento upward and slamming it down with enough force to crack the earth. "Is that what they teach Fleet Admirals now?"
The ground beneath Sengoku's feet collapsed inward, creating a crater that threatened to swallow him. He leapt upward, golden feet carving furrows into the stone as he landed, and answered with a double-palm strike that sent a visible wave of force across the battlefield.
"I teach myself," he replied, voice level despite the exertion. "The world is done waiting."