Atlas stood at the railing of the Dancing Mermaid, looking across the glowing waters of the Sacred Eye at Judgment's now-powerless ship. The contrast was striking: the Government vessel sat dead in the water like a predator suddenly stripped of its claws, while around them the living islands of Pelagios pulsed with gentle light and ancient power.
"You don't have to do this," Marina said quietly, moving to stand beside her captain. "Nereia's people can probably keep that ship neutralized indefinitely."
"She's right, lad," Ezra added, his weathered hands steady on the ship's wheel despite the tension. "There's no shame in accepting help when it's offered."
Atlas's hazel eyes shifted from gold to green as he considered their words. His Devil Fruit was offering him dozens of ways to end this confrontation quickly—he could adapt to become overwhelmingly powerful, transcend human limitations, become something divine and untouchable.
But that wasn't who he wanted to be.
"Judgment!" Atlas called across the water, his voice carrying clearly in the supernatural calm. "I challenge you to single combat! Winner takes all!"
"Atlas!" Marina hissed. "What are you doing?"
"Something I should have done back in Loguetown," Atlas replied, his expression growing serious. "I've been running from my past instead of confronting it. That ends here."
Judgment's amplified voice responded immediately. "You would face me without the protection of these... creatures?"
"I would face you as myself," Atlas corrected. "Just Atlas. Not a Celestial Dragon, not a divine being, just a pirate captain who's tired of being hunted."
Nereia had been listening to this exchange with obvious interest. Now she swam closer to the Dancing Mermaid, her impossible grace making it look like she was flying through the water.
"The heaven-marked one would face his hunter in the Sacred Eye?" she asked. "This has not been done in three centuries."
"Is there a problem with that?" Atlas asked.
"No problem," Nereia replied, her color-shifting skin taking on patterns of what Atlas was learning to recognize as approval. "But if you fight in the Sacred Eye, you fight by its rules. No weapons save those you were born with. No powers save those that come from your own spirit. And the victor must show mercy to the defeated."
"Acceptable," Atlas called back to Judgment. "Do you agree to these terms?"
There was a long pause from the Government ship. Then: "You would limit your Devil Fruit abilities?"
"I would fight as the person I am, not the power I was given."
Another pause. "Very well. But know this, former Saint—when you lose, you will be executed as an example to any other World Nobles who think to betray their class."
Atlas felt his crew tense around him, but he simply nodded. "And when I win, you leave my crew alone and report to your superiors that Seraphim D. Atlas died in the storm. Deal?"
"Deal."
The floating islands of Pelagios began to arrange themselves in a rough circle, creating a natural arena in the center of the Sacred Eye. The Deep Current Tribe gathered on the coral formations to observe, their bioluminescent patterns shifting in what Atlas assumed was their equivalent of excited chatter.
"This is insane," Marina muttered.
"Aye," Ezra agreed. "But it's the right kind of insane. The lad's finally ready to face his demons head-on."
A small coral platform rose from the depths at the center of the arena, just large enough for two people to fight without falling into the water. Atlas prepared to dive in and swim to it, but Nereia gestured for him to wait.
"In the Sacred Eye," she explained, "combatants arrive with honor." She sang a brief melody in her strange harmonics, and the water between the Dancing Mermaid and the fighting platform solidified into what looked like crystalline ice, creating a walkway.
Atlas stepped onto the impossible surface, feeling it hold his weight perfectly despite being made of concentrated seawater. As he walked toward the center of the arena, he could feel his Devil Fruit responding to the ancient power suffusing this place, but instead of offering him enhancements, it seemed to be... settling. Finding balance.
Judgment approached from the opposite direction, having abandoned his ship for a similar water-bridge. Up close, without his technological advantages, the assassin looked smaller somehow. Still dangerous, still lethal, but human-sized.
They met in the center of the coral platform, facing each other across a distance of perhaps ten feet. This close, Atlas could see details he'd missed before—scars on Judgment's hands that spoke of years of training, a slight favoring of his left side that suggested an old injury, and most surprisingly, eyes behind that blank white mask that held something almost like respect.
"You know," Judgment said conversationally, his voice no longer amplified and therefore more human, "in all my years of hunting targets for the World Government, you're the first one to challenge me to honorable combat."
"Most of your targets probably weren't raised to believe in noblesse oblige," Atlas replied. "Even corrupted nobility has some useful aspects."
"Indeed." Judgment settled into a fighting stance that Atlas's enhanced perception immediately recognized as a fusion of multiple martial arts styles. "I find myself curious to see what manner of man you've become, former Saint Seraphim."
"Just Atlas," he corrected, dropping into his own stance—not the formal dueling poses he'd been taught as a World Noble, but something more flexible, more adaptable. "And I'm curious about the same thing."
They circled each other slowly, each taking the measure of their opponent. Atlas's Devil Fruit was providing basic enhancement—improved reflexes, pattern recognition, tactical analysis—but nothing beyond what intensive training might have achieved. He was fighting as a skilled human, not as a supernatural being.
Judgment moved first, his attack a blur of precise strikes aimed at nerve clusters and pressure points. Atlas flowed around the assault, his Heavenly Adaptation allowing him to match his opponent's speed and technique without overwhelming superiority.
They exchanged a rapid series of attacks and counters, each testing the other's defenses. Atlas quickly realized that Judgment was every bit as skilled as his reputation suggested—a master of multiple fighting styles, with reflexes honed by years of successful assassinations.
But Atlas had advantages too. His adaptation allowed him to learn from each exchange, gradually matching and then slightly exceeding Judgment's capabilities. More importantly, he was fighting with something Judgment lacked: a cause he believed in.
"You're holding back," Judgment observed during a brief separation, not even breathing hard despite their intense exchange. "Your reputation suggests capabilities far beyond what you're demonstrating."
"I'm fighting as myself," Atlas replied, equally composed. "Not as the weapon my birth was supposed to make me."
"Admirable. But ultimately pointless." Judgment's next attack sequence was faster, more vicious, clearly intended to end the fight quickly.
Atlas met the assault with fluid grace, his body adapting to match the increased intensity. But instead of escalating in return, he did something unexpected—he began to fight defensively, using his opponent's aggression against him.
It was a strategy that would have been impossible in his Celestial Dragon training, which emphasized overwhelming superiority. But it was perfect for who Atlas was becoming: someone who won through understanding rather than domination.
The tide of battle began to shift. Judgment's precise strikes met empty air as Atlas flowed around them. His carefully planned combinations were disrupted by counters he hadn't anticipated. Slowly but inevitably, the assassin's perfect technique began to show cracks under pressure.
"Impossible," Judgment muttered, his breathing finally showing strain. "You're adapting faster than any human should be able to."
"That's because," Atlas said, catching the assassin's wrist in mid-strike and looking directly into his eyes, "I'm not fighting to prove I'm superior. I'm fighting to protect the people I care about. And that makes all the difference."
With a swift, precise movement, Atlas used Judgment's own momentum to send him tumbling across the coral platform. The assassin rolled to his feet quickly, but his perfect balance was gone, his flawless technique disrupted by the realization that he was losing to an opponent who was holding back.
"Yield," Atlas offered, his hazel eyes warm with something that might have been compassion. "You fought with honor, and I bear you no personal grudge."
Judgment stared at him for a long moment, his breathing labored and his stance showing the strain of their battle. Then, slowly, he straightened and removed his blank white mask.
The face underneath was younger than Atlas had expected, marked by scars but still recognizably human. And in his eyes, Atlas saw something he hadn't expected to find in a Government assassin: relief.
"I yield," Judgment said quietly. "And I will honor our agreement. Seraphim D. Atlas died in the storm. My report will reflect this."
Around them, the Deep Current Tribe erupted in harmonious celebration, their bioluminescent patterns creating a light show that turned the Sacred Eye into something magical. But Atlas barely noticed, his attention focused on the man who had been hunting him.
"What will you do now?" he asked.
Judgment—or whoever he had been before the Government made him into a weapon—looked out at the floating islands around them, then back at Atlas.
"I think," he said slowly, "I might finally remember what it feels like to make my own choices."
As the Sacred Eye began to calm from their battle, Atlas realized that he had won something more important than a fight. He had proven to himself that he could face his past without becoming it, and that the person he was choosing to become was worth the struggle.
The fallen angel was truly learning to fly.