His attacks came not wild, not emotional, but surgical. Sengoku fought with economy. With knowledge. With the calm precision of a man who had studied warfare for longer than most pirates had been alive.
The Marine Fleet Admiral was no mere brawler; he was the culmination of centuries of government warfare, fighting with the cold intellect of a tactician and the overwhelming force of a demigod.
He remembered exactly where Whitebeard's old injuries were. The scar beneath his ribs from a duel with Shiki. The collapsed right lung from his legendary battle with Roger. The old knee fracture from God Valley that had never properly healed. The compromised cardiac tissue from a poison attack years ago.
He struck them all.
One by one.
Each blow precise. Methodical. A testament to decades of intelligence gathered by the most powerful organization in the world.
Whitebeard grunted as the third strike connected with his sternum, the force reverberating through his massive frame. Blood sprayed from his mouth, spattering his white mustache with crimson, but his grip never loosened on his weapon. His eyes, fierce and undefeated, remained fixed on his opponent.
"You ain't gonna win this clean," he rasped, pushing forward again despite the pain radiating through his body. "Not against will."
He struck the air, not at Sengoku, but behind him.
CRACK!
The sky shattered.
Entire portions of the battlefield buckled, twisted, and lifted into the sky. Marines and pirates alike were pulled into the chaos, tumbling upward as if gravity had been forgotten. Sengoku turned on reflex, gold plates gleaming, and braced.
Reality inverted.
Chunks of steel, battlement, and bodies rained down from above. Stone became a hailstorm. Warships groaned and tipped as the harbor surged. Sengoku stood beneath it all, arms crossed in defense, teeth clenched, letting the wrath of a Yonko crash against his golden hide.
It struck his form like a storm, each impact sending shockwaves across his golden skin. The pressure mounted. His defense began to crack.
BOOM.
A massive section of masonry struck him square in the back, the impact driving him to one knee. His golden form flickered momentarily, the transformation threatening to fail under the onslaught.
Whitebeard roared, closing the distance like a predator sensing blood. His bisento, wrapped in blackened Armament Haki and the pulsing vibrations of the Gura Gura no Mi, came down in a clean diagonal arc.
SHHRRRRING!!
The blade bit deep, across Sengoku's chest. Divine ichor burst forth. Not red blood, but shimmering liquid light, glowing gold as it splattered across the stones.
Sengoku's face registered genuine surprise, then pain.
But the Buddha emerged, golden skin cracked in multiple places now, bleeding from his temple and chest, but standing tall once more. His robes were in tatters, revealing the full extent of his transformed body. Where the bisento had struck, a deep gash slowly oozed that strange, luminescent blood.
Whitebeard stared across the field, recognizing the moment for what it was, a turning point. The man who had seemed untouchable was bleeding.
But Sengoku didn't stagger.
He advanced.
"You're not human anymore," Whitebeard said, coughing as more blood filled his lungs. The observation wasn't just about Sengoku's Devil Fruit transformation, it spoke to something deeper, something that had changed in the man who had once been his rival rather than his enemy.
Sengoku's voice echoed like a judgment bell across the battlefield. "No. I am Justice."
The declaration was met with a chorus of shouts from nearby Marines, reinvigorated by the sight of their leader standing tall despite his injuries. They pushed forward with renewed vigor, driving back the pirate lines that had begun to falter.
He clapped his hands.
The shockwave was titanic.
An expanding sphere of golden energy exploded outward, flattening stone, launching pirates, rupturing the ice itself. The sheer force of his will manifested as divine punishment. Even the mighty Whitebeard staggered under the weight of it, forced back two steps, a rarity in a lifetime of advancing.
"Fleet Admiral!" Marines screamed, surging forward with fresh momentum, inspired by the living icon of their cause. They pressed hard, driving into disoriented pirates reeling from the aftershock.
High above, Marco saw the fight unfold, and despaired.
Whitebeard was forcing himself to hold the line. The old man's power was undiminished, but his body was failing him, internal bleeding, muscle tearing, bones fracturing under the strain of wielding the Gura Gura no Mi at its limits. And the Admirals were spreading chaos through the battlefield, systematically dismantling the Whitebeard Pirates' careful strategy.
Kizaru was fast, too fast. Marco could barely keep up, his regenerative powers pushed to their limits as beams of light pierced through his phoenix form. Already, the third air wing had been devastated. Vista's forces were in disarray, surrounded by Marine reinforcements. Jozu was down, his diamond form cracked and bleeding after a surprise attack from Aokiji.
Marco deflected another beam and dove low, flames trailing behind him as he desperately tried to reach Whitebeard's position. If they didn't regroup soon, even Whitebeard's strength wouldn't be enough.
Kizaru reappeared behind him, a kick already mid-swing.
"Too slow, bird-boy."
BOOM.
Marco was sent spiraling, wing seared, flames sputtering.
On the ground, Akainu had pressed deep into the enemy lines. His path of destruction stretched like a river of fire across the battlefield, pirate bodies left behind in carbon-black ruin. Those who had faced him directly were simply gone, reduced to ash by the terrible heat of his magma. Those who had merely been close were still dying, their bodies cooking from the inside out.
"No mercy," he said, voice flat, unmoved as a pirate captain begged for help. "No survivors."
Aokiji followed from the flank, his own brand of destruction more subtle but no less effective. He had succeeded in freezing the bay's edges completely now, isolating Whitebeard's ships from any possibility of retreat. The ice spread with unnatural speed, trapping unwary pirates and raising walls that divided the battlefield into killing zones.
Above it all, Sengoku and Whitebeard collided again.
CLASH!
This time, it was no mere test of strength. It was the clash of ideologies.
Whitebeard's bisento curved through the air, wrapped in both Armament and Conqueror's Haki, distorting space with each swing. Sengoku met him blow for blow, golden palms lighting with bursts of light and shockwave force that cracked the horizon.
Black lightning danced between them.
Each contact threw out arcs of destructive Haki, enough to kill weaker men just by proximity. Buildings split. The sky wept fire. The ocean rolled like it feared them both.
Whitebeard slammed a quake punch into the ground, Sengoku leapt and fired a blinding blast of golden energy down in response. The resulting detonation split the plaza in half, sending Admiral and Yonko flying in opposite directions.
Sengoku landed in a crater of his own making, panting, cracks spidering across his golden form. But he remained upright. Unyielding.
Whitebeard rose too, slower this time, blood dripping from his side, but his grip still firm. Still fighting.
*************************************
For a heartbeat, the battlefield was stunned into stillness, not by silence, but by shock. The titanic clash between Sengoku and Whitebeard had sent a ripple of awe across every corner of Marineford, and even the fiercest hearts could feel the seismic shift in the war's momentum.
Dracule Mihawk narrowed his eyes as black lightning forked from the latest collision. The tension in his fingers, barely perceptible to most, betrayed the truth, even he wasn't certain how he'd fare in a direct clash like that.
Donquixote Doflamingo's usual grin twitched. Just a bit. His glasses caught the glow of Sengoku's radiance as if it were fire reflecting off glass. "Keh keh keh… so the old man's been hiding that level of brutality?" His voice tried to sound amused, but sweat beaded down his brow.
And then..
"AAAAHHHHH!!!"
Gecko Moria screamed, shadows recoiling violently around him. The aura of Sengoku's golden form, now surging with renewed fury, reached into the cracks of the battlefield, and the Buddha's radiance burned like daylight.
Moria's stolen souls writhed and fled instinctively, torn from his grasp like sins exposed to divine truth. He stumbled back, arms flailing, desperate to reassert control as his summoned horde frayed and dissipated into smoke.
Far above, in the sky torn by battle,
Luffy had arrived.
Torn pants. Bloodied lip. Fists clenched. Alive.
He stood atop the back of a flying Marine cannonball mid-trajectory, Gear Second already coursing through his veins, steam rising like the engine of a storm.
His eyes locked onto the execution platform. Onto Ace.
Then, onto Sengoku.
He saw the cracks in the Buddha's armor, the divine wounds, the falling light around the man who had once been just another old Navy boss in stories.
And for the first time in his short life, Monkey D. Luffy felt awe for a Marine.
"...That old man," he said under his breath, watching as Sengoku rose again after the last clash, bathed in gold, haloed in the glow of his own pain and resolve, "...he's not normal."
All across the shattered battlefield, reactions rippled,
Marines cheered. Some wept. Their Fleet Admiral was no longer simply leading the battle. He was the battle.
Pirates faltered. Morale shattered. Even among the Whitebeard Pirates, men looked to their father not just in worry, but in doubt.
The will of the Yonko was mighty. But Sengoku?Sengoku had become something else. A symbol.
Above the screams and chaos, the massive golden figure of the Buddha loomed again, hands crackling with fresh divine force. The light of Armament Haki surged across his arms like ink burning through parchment, and the echo of Conqueror's Haki pushed weaker men unconscious across the field.
And still, he advanced.