Across the battlefield, heavy silence hung in the air.
The Eternal God's light still bathed Belmont Island, casting the world in shimmering gold.
On a battered Navy flagship, Sengoku opened his mouth—
but no words came out.
In the end, he simply let out a long, exhausted sigh.
His shoulders sagged.
The once-proud Fleet Admiral suddenly looked decades older.
If this truly brings peace to the world...
Then maybe... it's better this way.
Nearby, Aokiji was half-heartedly teasing the transformed Kizaru, who now had the head of a golden retriever.
He waved his hand carelessly in front of Kizaru's nose.
"Hey... don't bite me, we're still companions, right?"
CHOMP!
"Ugh—!" Aokiji yelped, pulling his hand back.
Kizaru's canine eyes glinted with disdain.
Who told you to treat me like an actual dog?
Let's see how you like it now...
Kizaru didn't just bark.
Since becoming a dog, he felt stronger.
His Observation Haki and Armament Haki had both been amplified—twice over.
In the next instant, Aokiji was slammed to the deck, pinned down by an aggressive yellow blur.
All he could do was groan.
"No fair... you're actually stronger as a dog...?"
The sea wind carried their strange struggle across the fleet—
a small, ridiculous echo amid a battlefield ruled by gods.
High above, the majestic Azure Dragon—formerly Dragon—descended slowly from the clouds.
Electric light danced along his scales.
His sharp, golden eyes locked onto Whitebeard.
Thunder cracked ominously around him.
"Edward Newgate."
"You have two choices."
"Surrender.
Or disband your pirate crew.
Choose wisely."
Each word rumbled like a divine command.
Golden arcs of thunder licked the air, flashing across the shattered landscape.
Whitebeard's massive frame stood silent.
The Mobydick rocked gently in the waves behind him.
Around him, his sons—the captains and crewmembers of the Whitebeard Pirates—abandoned the ship and rushed to his side.
But even standing together...
Under the Azure Dragon's divine pressure, they could barely even hold their swords.
Their knees shook.
Their breathing labored.
The power of the gods was simply beyond mortal limits.
Whitebeard gripped his naginata tightly.
For a long moment, he said nothing.
He thought back—
To his youth.
To his dreams.
To a poor hometown, long lost.
To the sons he had gathered, the family he had built with his own hands.
A wry, bitter smile tugged at the corners of his lips.
If I die here, what will happen to my sons...?
My body is already failing me.
What pride is left to protect?
Finally, Whitebeard looked up at the towering Azure Dragon.
His voice was steady.
Resolute.
"Marco!"
"From today onward—
"The Whitebeard Pirates shall be integrated into the Eternal God Cult."
"We will be known as the 'Whitebeard Squadron'—
"loyal servants of the Eternal God!"
Tears welled in Marco's eyes.
He saluted fiercely.
"Yes, Father!"
As Whitebeard made his declaration, formally surrendering to the Eternal God, a group of Revolutionary Army believers approached from the golden altar.
They carried thick stacks of books bound in strange, shining leather.
Dragon, now in his Azure Dragon form, smiled down at Whitebeard.
His voice rumbled across the air:
"This is the God's Meditative Thought."
"Feel it. Let the greatness of our Eternal God guide you."
He glanced knowingly at the Whitebeard Pirates.
"I remember—your crew holds dominion over many islands.
You rule the seas."
"But know this—among our believers, only those truly devout may achieve something greater..."
"An eternal lifespan.
Ten thousand years of life."
Ten thousand years?
The Whitebeard Pirates' eyes widened in disbelief.
They could barely imagine living a few decades beyond their prime.
Yet Dragon offered the promise of an eternity blessed by the gods.
Dragon didn't linger on explanations.
Instead, he raised a claw.
A bolt of golden divine thunder crackled from his palm, lancing toward the sea with a deafening roar.
The oceans parted before it—
entire tides evaporating in an instant.
And in the path of the divine thunder—
the fleeing Red-Haired Pirates were struck.
The bow of their ship was obliterated in a flash.
The great pirate ship tilted violently, torn apart by the force.
Before they could react—
Dragon's colossal form appeared above them, casting a shadow that blotted out the sun.
His brilliant eyes gleamed with mocking amusement.
"Dignified Red-Haired Pirates...
And this is how you run?"
He chuckled darkly.
Below, Shanks and his commanders scrambled to regroup.
Weapons drawn, battle-ready.
Shanks called out with strained diplomacy:
"Friend, we're just passing through.
We have no intention of declaring war on you!"
His voice was calm, but every muscle in his body was taut.
Ready to strike.
Dragon's gaze sharpened.
"You saw my God.
You heard His teachings.
Yet you chose to flee."
"That makes you heretics.
And heretics must be judged."
Shanks narrowed his eyes.
"You plan to kill us?"
Dragon's booming voice answered:
"Surrender—
or die."
Without hesitation, Yasopp fired the first shot.
At the same time, Ben Beckman soared into the sky alongside Shanks, blades flashing with deadly intent.
They understood.
The so-called God was real—
But no god could freely descend into the mortal world at will.
He needed priests, spokesmen, believers.
If they could kill Dragon—
if they could destroy the altar—
Maybe, just maybe, the world would remain theirs.
They struck together.
With every ounce of power they had.
Cutting. Slashing. Shooting.
And yet—
their blades barely even scratched the dragon's scales.
Not a single crack.
Not even a dent.
Shanks stared in horror.
"This…
This can't be real!!"
Dragon's voice dripped with pity.
"Foolish mortals.
You still believe that what you see with your eyes is the real world."
He didn't even bother defending.
He simply allowed them to attack.
And when they failed—
he moved.
With one mighty sweep of his claw—
Space itself shattered.
Thunder crashed across the battlefield.
The sea roared in terror.
The Red-Haired Pirates' ship was torn apart like paper.
The shockwave hurled Shanks and Beckman hundreds of miles through the air.
Blood sprayed from their mouths.
Their bodies battered and broken.
The rest of the crew fared no better—
all of them were gravely wounded.
That very same day—
the live broadcast to the world resumed.
Across every screen, every den den mushi—
the image appeared:
The Golden Altar gleaming under the divine sky.
And beside it—
a broken, bloodied crew lying helplessly on the ground.
A crude wooden sign had been stabbed into the earth.
Upon it, painted in bold letters:
[FOUR EMPERORS: RED-HAIRED PIRATES]
A trophy.
A warning.
A declaration to the world—
that even the strongest pirates—
could be crushed like ants beneath the gaze of the Eternal God.