Back at the center of the battlefield, Whitebeard and Sengoku circled each other, both bleeding now, both showing signs of fatigue, but the way they bore their pain told different stories. For Whitebeard, each breath was a battle; his body, already ravaged by time and illness, now betrayed him under the weight of his own power. Sengoku, meanwhile, stood firm in his golden Buddha form, his glowing skin marred by slashes and impact fractures, yet visibly mending with unnatural speed.
The Mythical Zoan coursed through his body, its divine resilience knitting tissue, sealing wounds with radiant light, and slowly restoring structure beneath the surface. Each breath he drew shimmered faintly with energy, a divine rhythm of regeneration and will.
"You won't stop what's coming," Whitebeard said, his voice carrying despite its roughness. "A new age is dawning. The world government, your precious order, can't hold it back."
Sengoku's expression remained impassive. "I've heard such declarations before. From Roger. From Rocks. From countless others who believed their will could overcome the world's desire for peace."
"Peace?" Whitebeard spat. "You call this peace?"
"Better than the chaos your kind bring," Sengoku replied, gathering his strength for another attack. "Better order than the anarchy you pirates would unleash."
Whitebeard's hand trembled as he pulled back for a final quake punch. His body was failing, he could feel it. Decades of battles, of pushing his Devil Fruit to its limits, had exacted a terrible toll. The medications pumped into his system by the medical team were no longer enough to offset the damage.
But Ace was still alive.
And his sons were still watching.
So he roared, pouring every ounce of his will into one final punch, not at Sengoku.
But at the execution platform.
Stone buckled. The air rippled. A terrible crack spread from Whitebeard's fist, traveling through the ground like lightning seeking the path of least resistance.
Sengoku's eyes widened as he realized the target. "No!"
The platform cracked. Steel supports bent and warped. The structure began to list to one side, threatening to collapse entirely.
Marines screamed, abandoning their posts as the platform swayed. The executioners stumbled, their blades dropping harmlessly away from Ace's neck.
Garp moved, years of instinct driving him toward the platform to protect his position, but Sengoku was faster.
He vanished in a burst of golden light, reappearing atop the stage just as the platform began to fall. His transformation strained the already damaged structure, but he raised both hands, channeling his power.
His hand came down, BOOM, and a golden dome of energy exploded outward, reinforcing the platform's base with divine force. The structure stabilized, though it now stood at an awkward angle, partially collapsed but still intact enough to hold the prisoner.
The quake stopped, its energy dispersed by Sengoku's intervention.
Ace remained alive, though now fully alert, his eyes wide as he witnessed the battle unfolding below. Garp, halfway through a lurch forward, halted as Sengoku's presence radiated calm authority.
Whitebeard collapsed to one knee, coughing violently. Blood no longer simply trickled from his mouth, it poured, staining the front of his captain's coat. Internal organs were failing. Bones were breaking beneath his skin. Yet still he lived.
"You protect the stage more than the world itself," he said bitterly, looking up at the golden figure that now stood between his son and freedom.
Sengoku looked down at him from the damaged platform, his expression no longer merely stern but tinged with something like regret. "Because this stage ends your world."
He leapt again, descending like judgment itself. Arms outstretched, the Buddha bore down like divine punishment, twin palms wreathed in golden energy and Conqueror's Haki so dense the very air cracked around them.
The old pirate didn't move. Didn't try to dodge.
Instead, he thrust his bisento upward with the last of his strength, aiming for the center of Sengoku's chest.
The impact cracked the bay.
Sengoku's full weight, magnified by both Devil Fruit and Haki, slammed into Whitebeard's defense. The bisento's blade penetrated the golden skin, driving deep into Sengoku's shoulder. The Fleet Admiral's momentum carried through despite the wound, sending the Yonko flying backward.
Whitebeard skidded across the plaza, coughing blood, body twitching from the impact. The bisento remained embedded in Sengoku's shoulder, its blade darkened with golden ichor.
"Pops!" several pirates screamed, their voices rising above the chaos of battle. Some rushed forward, only to be cut down by Marine fire or driven back by the advancing Admirals.
Marco tried to reach him, wings beating frantically against the air, but a beam from Kizaru pierced through his right shoulder, forcing him back. "Damn it!" he hissed, flames already working to heal the damage.
Sengoku advanced, every step shaking the earth. He pulled the bisento from his shoulder with a grunt of pain, tossing the weapon aside. Blood flowed freely now, dripping from multiple wounds across his body. For a moment, his form flickered, flesh peeking through glowing cracks, but the Mythical Zoan flared to life again, closing wounds even as new ones formed. His breathing steadied.
"You were the strongest man and your persistence admirable," he said quietly, his voice carrying despite the cacophony of battle surrounding them. "But the world doesn't need a king."
Whitebeard raised his head, eyes blazing with fury. Blood streaked his face. His mustache, once pristine white, was now crimson. His body was broken, but his will remained unbreakable.
"It needs a father," he growled, surging upward, one last time.
He had no weapon now. Only his bare hands. Only his will.
But that will had shaped decades of piracy. Had challenged the world itself.
He charged, arms outstretched, directly at Sengoku.
The Buddha raised both hands, channeling the last of his power into a final, devastating attack.
They met at the center of the crater their battle had created.
BOOOOOOOM.
Time seemed to freeze.
The plaza detonated.
Stone exploded outward in a perfect circle. Water from the bay was pushed back by the force of their collision, leaving ships momentarily grounded on exposed seabed before the wave rushed back in with terrible force.
The sky cracked, not metaphorically, but literally. A pressure wave shot upward, parting clouds and creating a perfect circle of clear blue directly above the impact point.
For a moment, everything vanished in gold and white light.