The low clouds over Spearhead carried no rain, only the taste of blood. The air was heavy, thick with smoke, distant screams, and the silence that followed shattered structures. Roofs torn open, walls crumbled, civilian bodies piled in the streets. A metal bell, once signaling arriving ships, hung crooked on a cracked tower.
Gallo knelt amidst the rubble, his broken drum slung across his back by a single strap. The beat in his chest was uneven. The sound of his own blood rang louder than any rhythm.
Marco descended the broken staircase slowly. His chest heaved. The Phoenix's wings were singed at the edges but still spread.
The ground crunched under his steps.
Gallo coughed. Blood dripped from his mouth, pooling on the ground. He stared at his reflection in a dark puddle and grinned, teeth stained red.
"So this is it?"
He lifted his face. His eyes trembled, but his expression didn't falter.
"You're gonna kill me with that dead stare?"
Marco didn't answer.
"Of course you are. Pretty boy… all serious… just like the old man."
He tilted his head. A cymbal on his boot clinked faintly.
"Your dad was a drag. An old wall with a beard and family speeches. Stood tall for too long… but fell like everyone else."
The drum creaked as he shifted on his knees. The leather was cracked, the wood splintered in three places. Still, Gallo slid his hand to one of the drumsticks strapped to his leg.
"I played his name in my war march. But to be honest…"
He spat on the ground, thick blood.
"…his sound was boring."
Smoke rose behind him, slow and heavy. Broken structures marked the horizon, fallen columns forming paths of shattered stone. Spearhead was a living ruin. Muffled cries echoed through alleys and narrow corridors.
"Family this, family that. The man was a plank with a beard, nothing more."
Marco kept descending the steps. His wings didn't flap. His body showed no anger, no haste.
"You're just like him. Dead eyes. Full of empty glory."
Gallo spun a drumstick between his fingers. The motion wavered. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, but the grin remained.
"You know what? All this…"
He gestured to the surroundings—the hidden people, the fallen bell, the empty houses.
"…this was his fault. The old man's. He left these islands in peace, but they got lazy. Thought they'd be protected forever. That someone would show up when the fire started."
The drum creaked again. Gallo leaned forward, as if sheer will could make his weapon work.
"He didn't show up."
His fist struck the wood, but the sound failed to come.
"You didn't show up either."
Marco stopped in the center of the cracked plaza. He looked at the broken towers, as if trying to recall what they once were.
Gallo started laughing. Choked. Ragged. A laugh mixed with blood in his throat.
"Now you show up, huh? Pretty boy. Fiery wings and open chest. Posing as the Phoenix. Closing the opera."
He extended his arm, pointing with the drumstick. His hand shook, but his voice grew stronger.
"You're weak."
The words came out firm. Cold.
"You're weak like your father."
Gallo struck the drumstick against his boot. A metallic clang echoed, malformed. The cymbal rang out of rhythm.
"And you'll die with that same look… like you're at peace. Like this isn't your fault."
Cries echoed again. Closer now.
Children. Women. Elders. Among ruins. Hidden. Watching.
"You saved half the island just to watch the other half collapse. What kind of protector is that, Phoenix?"
Marco didn't answer.
Gallo's fallen drum gave a final dry crack, as if the wood had fully given way. The drumstick rolled to the edge of the blood puddle. The cymbal on his boot swayed in the wind, clinking unevenly.
The sunlight couldn't pierce the thick clouds. Everything in Spearhead was gray. Every stone seemed coated in dust and regret.
Marco looked around. What remained wasn't a city. It was a corpse. Fragments of promises.
A woman knelt in an alley's corner, hands covering her face. Her dress was stained, her left arm trembling. Beside her, two boys huddled against the wall, too drained to cry anymore.
An old man dragged his feet through charred boards. His cane was gone, his leg faltering. One eye had been struck. The other searched for someone no longer there.
Silent children sat on the ground, staring at the sky, not for hope. Just waiting for the smoke to clear.
A nearby house stood half-intact. A broken balcony. A shattered chair. A body hung from a twisted railing, with no one to bury it. The stench had already settled.
Marco stood still.
His open wings reflected the faint glow of embers still burning at the city's edges. His chest rose slowly. Dried blood on his feathers left black marks. His left shoulder was torn. His right wing showed signs of impact.
A group of men gathered near the village's central well. Two were covered in dust. One tried to dig with his hands. Another muttered soundlessly. The buckets were all destroyed. The water inside was too filthy to save anyone.
A child stared straight at Marco. Wide eyes, but no expression. Not fear. Not awe. Just absence.
The bell tower's top finally collapsed. It fell in two stages—first the base, then the rest, crashing onto the stone street. The sound was muffled. The impact sent dust into the air, but no one reacted.
Gallo was motionless.
His head slumped. Blood dripped from his mouth in a straight line. His hands lay open. The cracked drum hung on his back. His left leg twisted at an odd angle. The cymbal still swayed with the wind.
Marco shifted his gaze to the right.
Where an inn once stood, only charred beams remained. Part of the roof was on the ground. Inside, three bodies lay under white cloths. Someone had tried to hold a vigil. No one stayed to finish it.
The sky above Spearhead was mute.
Marco took two steps. The stones under his feet groaned, but he didn't stop.
A group of fishermen watched from behind an overturned boat. Their faces were wrapped in rags, their hands clutching broken oars. The boat never reached the sea. The sea offered no escape.
The plaza was empty of any life that wasn't raw survival.
Marco stopped a few meters from Gallo.
The body on the ground seemed smaller now.
The Phoenix's wings beat once. The breeze stirred the surrounding dust. A white scarf flew from a ruined house, drifting aimlessly until it landed at Marco's feet.
'This wasn't supposed to happen like this.'
'He taught me to protect.'
'Said carrying his name meant keeping everyone alive… not just surviving after.'
Marco looked at the scarf on the ground. The soot-stained cloth partially covered a dried blood puddle. Around it, charred wood fragments outlined what was left of a home.
'I swore I wouldn't just be a shadow.'
'But now… there's not even a shadow left.'
The distant sound of a structure collapsing echoed through the streets. A pillar of smoke rose from a northern district. The people didn't react. Didn't scream. They just lowered their eyes, as if they already knew the end before it arrived.
'He entrusted this place to me.'
'This people, this territory.'
'His very name.'
Marco turned, facing a row of flattened houses. A child's bicycle was trapped under beams. An arm protruded from the rubble. No one tried to clear it.
'I became the heir to the impossible.'
'But even if I survive… this isn't victory.'
The Phoenix's flames rose slowly on his wings. The movements were deliberate. Respectful. Not for the one who fought—but for those who watched it all, powerless.
'If he were here… it wouldn't be like this.'
'He'd have stopped it before the first scream.'
'Before the first collapse.'
Marco looked at the broken windows of the old school on the hill. It was the only building with half a roof left. Burned flags hung from its sides. An exposed blackboard showed words written in white chalk. The last lesson of a world that didn't return to finish the class.
'I wasted too much time believing I could handle it.'
'But inheriting a title doesn't make you worthy of it.'
Embers crackled around him. Gallo's body was beginning to dissolve in dry heat. His hands lay open. His face turned aside. The cracked drum seemed frozen mid-beat, never completed.
'I killed the threat.'
'But I didn't save what mattered.'
'This was never about him.'
Marco closed his eyes for a moment. The air filled his lungs, heavy with ash and burnt oil. The heat in his wings grew. The feathers reformed slowly. Not like before. As if every inch of regeneration cost something internal.
'Father…'
'If you saw this now…'
'You'd be ashamed.'
'Of me. Of what I let happen. Of what I let crumble.'
The sea breeze finally swept through the plaza's center. The shattered bell from the nearby tower rolled slowly on the cracked ground, producing a faint, repetitive metallic sound. Not an alarm. An echo.
'This island was a symbol.'
'And now… it's just a reminder.'
Marco lifted his eyes.
In the distance, over the sea, a shape emerged on the horizon. The orange clouds let a thin line of light fall on the hull of an approaching ship. Its sail bore a familiar symbol—one that had flown behind Whitebeard for decades.
A golden phoenix head. Wings spread. The mark of the new Phoenix.
The ship crossed the waterline slowly, still distant.
But not distant enough to go unnoticed.
The flames on Marco's wings flared higher. Not from anger. Not from glory. Just from the weight that refused to leave his shoulders.
Spearhead didn't react.
But the next beat… was already approaching.
And the legacy was far from saved.
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