Shawn Newman – POV
…A pair of gauntlets.
Not mere constructs, but extensions of my soul—forged from the densest veins of Conqueror's Haki, wrapped in the flowing river of Armament. They pulsed like living things. Black as the void, threaded with streaks of silver-white, shifting like liquid steel but firm under my will.
On the knuckles: jagged, brutal ridges.
On the palms: markings I never designed, etched from conviction itself—symbols born from a soul that refused to kneel.
My spirit had taken form.
My Will had become weapon.
I flexed my fingers. The gauntlets moved as if they had always belonged—heavier than mountains, yet light as thought.
Roger grinned.
"Oh?" he said. "You've done it."
There was no surprise in his voice.
Only recognition.
But I didn't wait for praise.
I moved.
With a step that cracked the very sky, I shot toward him, gauntlets blazing with the pressure of a soul made manifest. Every strike wasn't just an attack — it was a declaration. A testament to obsession. To discipline. To my belief that spirit, not steel, was the final edge.
Roger blocked with his blade, each clash setting off shockwaves that obliterated jungle and churned the sea into chaos. Behind us, islands trembled. Horizons vanished under tidal waves.
And then I saw it — in his eyes.
A flicker.
Not of fear.
But respect.
And beneath that — acceptance.
He knew what I had become.
Roger – POV
He's done it.
He turned his spirit into something real.
It wasn't just Haki anymore. It was identity. Formed. Hardened. Weaponized.
But could he carry it?
I saw it—behind his punches. The cost. The way his spirit frayed, the toll it took. Spirit Projection didn't just draw from stamina. It drew from the core—from the furnace of selfhood.
Every blow was a gamble. A shortening of tomorrow.
But he didn't flinch.
He pressed on.
And I… I laughed.
Because this was what I had always wanted.
A rival. A mirror. A friend.
Third Person
Their battle shook the world.
With each collision, Shawn's gauntlets threatened to outpace the speed of thought. Roger's sword—infused with his own evolving Haki—cut through the air like a statement of purpose.
And then Shawn struck the ground.
BOOM.
Not a shockwave of wind, but of spirit. Pure, unfiltered Haki exploded outward in a dome, knocking Roger into the mountainside like a cannon shell.
Dust. Silence.
Then laughter.
Roger stood again, slow, bloodied — and grinning.
"You've got something special," he said. "But so do I."
And with that…
He unleashed it.
Not a weapon.
Not a projection.
But an environment.
Roger's spirit bled into the battlefield. His Haki colored the air, shaped the trees, whispered in the wind. His Conqueror's Haki became atmosphere—reality bent under the weight of his dream.
Every movement around him felt like Roger.
It was less about domination, and more about presence—a world warped around one man's journey to freedom.
And Shawn? He smiled.
Because this was exactly what he wanted.
Two worldviews.
Two conquerors.
Colliding.
Shawn – POV
Each blow was heavier now. Not because of force, but because of meaning.
Roger wasn't trying to win.
He was trying to understand.
So was I.
Each strike refined my technique. My Spirit Projection became smoother. Lighter. Stronger.
Eventually, my Haki didn't just wrap around my skin.
It seeped into my bones.
Down to the cells.
It flowed like water across sponge-flesh, and for the first time… I had full control. Cellular movement. Energy direction. I didn't just wield my body.
I commanded it.
And when I funneled my Conqueror's Haki into my Armament?
It solidified.
Black and silver. Dense. Tangible. I didn't just channel my spirit anymore.
I shaped it.
And it formed exactly what I imagined:
Twin gauntlet blades.
My Will. My Weapon.
Roger – POV
"HAH. So it's real."
Spirit Projection wasn't theory anymore.
It was technique.
And it was dangerous.
More dangerous than any sword.
Because it wasn't built from metal.
It was built from belief.
Third Person
Their final clash split the sky open like shattered glass.
The ocean recoiled. Clouds scattered. Time itself seemed to pause.
And when the dust settled, both men stood…
…breathing hard…
…bleeding…
…but smiling.
Shawn Newman – POV
I raised my fist.
Roger stared.
Then bumped it.
"Hell of a fight," I said, voice hoarse.
"Maybe the last of its kind," he said. "For now."
He sat down in the dust. I joined him.
After a long pause, he said, "You're not from here."
I nodded. "I know."
"You planning on conquering it?"
"Only if I have to," I said. "I just want to understand it."
He laughed.
"You'll fit right in."
But then, his smile faded.
"There's danger ahead for you, Shawn," Roger said. "I've seen glimpses… strange signals in my Observation Haki. Your spirit—it's too foreign. Too bright. The world doesn't like you."
I chuckled. "Then let's see if the world can handle me."
Third Person — Weeks Later
Vice Admiral Shawn Newman stood on the bow of his new ship — a heavily modified Marine vessel, stripped of its standard paint, its sails blackened and reinforced to cut through the chaos of the Grand Line.
He had changed.
His posture was straighter. His presence, deeper. He no longer leaked power — he contained it. Like a bomb waiting to detonate.
After his duel with Roger, he had returned to Marineford only briefly. Filed a vague report. Accepted no praise.
Then he disappeared again — on an "unofficial assignment."
Destination: Sabaody Archipelago.
Official purpose: Monitor pirate traffic.
True purpose?
To pull back the curtain.
To find out how deep the World Government's rot goes.
To uncover what the Marines were truly protecting.
The scent of Sabaody's soap trees drifted in on the wind.
Shawn's hands flexed. His gauntlets—now liquefied into his bloodstream—pulsed beneath his skin.
The sea ahead whispered of Emperors.
Of monsters.
Of ancient weapons.
Of secrets the world would kill to bury.
And Shawn Newman?
He whispered back.
"I'm coming."