Ever since Ace went out of contact, the atmosphere aboard the Moby Dick felt as if it had been filled with lead.
Every member of Whitebeard's crew was frantic for news about Ace.
Leading the worry was Marco — the unease in his eyes heavier than it had been yesterday. He leaned against the rail, saying nothing, staring out toward the horizon.
Beside him stood Jozu, Vista, and the other division commanders. On the surface they appeared calm, but inside each of them was quietly fraying with anxiety.
Since Ace lost contact, every minute, every second had become torment.
Lucian Thorn stood not far behind them. He didn't comfort anyone, and he didn't ask more questions.
He knew better than anyone: what must come, would come soon.
At that moment a piercing, urgent cry from a bird shredded the deathlike silence.
Everyone snapped their heads up.
A paper-bird was flapping its wings with all its might, staggering in from the distant skyline.
It flew low and with great effort, as if its wings were bound with the world's malice and weight.
"It's a paper bird!"
"Quick! Get it!"
A crewman sprinted to the rail, leapt up, and tore the paper from the bird's leg.
He hurriedly opened the paper. The moment his eyes landed on the front page, it was as if an invisible hammer struck him in the chest.
His face went as pale as the page itself.
His pupils shrank violently from sheer terror.
"No… this… this can't be real…"
He trembled; his lips quivered, but no sound came out.
The paper slipped from his numb fingers with a faint slap.
A gust of sea wind lifted the page and sent it skittering across the deck like a black butterfly.
No one moved to pick it up.
All eyes were fixed on that newspaper, on the single fleeting yet impossibly clear, enormous photograph.
Marco reacted.
His figure became a blue flame as he appeared beside the paper and snatched it up.
The next second his flames seemed to freeze.
In the photograph—
The man who usually shone like the sun, the flame-incarnate Ace, was on his knees.
Cold, heavy chains of seastone were wrapped around his body; the bright spirit that used to burn in him had been replaced by humiliation and bitter refusal.
Behind him stood a monstrously tall man with a mouthful of rotten teeth, grinning in a mute, feral laugh.
Marshall D. Teach.
Blackbeard.
Above the photo, a headline had been printed in the thickest, blackest, most glaring type.
Each character stabbed at the hearts of everyone present like a poisoned blade.
"'Fire Fist' Ace Defeated! Teach to be Promoted to the Seven Warlords of the Sea!"
"Whitebeard Pirates' Second Division Commander to be Publicly Executed at Marineford One Month from Now!"
Silence.
An unprecedented stillness fell across the deck.
The wind stilled.
The waves stilled.
The world seemed to have been paused.
It was as if everyone's breath stopped at once.
A crewman's long knife clattered onto the deck.
A senior officer clenched his teeth so hard his gums bled, and he did not seem to notice.
Jozu's diamond-hard arm creaked under the strain as if it might shatter.
Marco no longer wore that habitual lazy composure.
His face contorted with fury so extreme the blue flames that danced around him seemed frozen — not a hint of warmth, only an ice-cold thirst for killing.
"Teach… that bastard…" he hissed, each name forced through his clenched teeth.
Lucian closed his eyes.
It had come.
After all, it had come.
He drew in a deep breath; when he opened his eyes again, there was only cold resolution in them.
He didn't look at the paper. Instead he fixed his gaze on the mountain-like figure who had not spoken a word the entire time.
Whitebeard sat on his throne, motionless.
A son trembled as he pushed the paper forward.
Whitebeard slowly reached out and took it.
His movements were slow and steady; those hands capable of overturning the world did not tremble at all.
He looked at the photograph — at the son he regarded as his own — at Ace's ruined figure.
He read the lines that announced death after death.
Time stretched to infinity in that instant.
The whole world seemed to wait for this man's reaction.
Crack—!!!
A sound, sharp and absolute, shattered the air.
The huge sake bottle in Whitebeard's hand was not crushed; instead, an invisible shockwave seemed to vaporize it into the finest powder.
He slowly stood.
Rumble!
The legendary giant ship Moby Dick gave a pained groan and lurched downward.
An indescribable, terrifying aura shot from Whitebeard into the sky.
This was not a calculated release of Conqueror's Haki.
This was the raw, primal, uncontrollable wrath of a king of the sea.
Centered on the Moby Dick, the surrounding ocean heaved into monstrous waves, as if even the sea trembled and bowed before the rage of the world's strongest man.
The air on deck grew viscous like mercury; everyone felt as if a mountain had been placed on their chests — breathing became painfully difficult.
They stared at their old man in horror.
Those eyes, which usually carried a gentle smile, were now molten rock and endless storm.
"Marco."
Whitebeard's voice sounded — low, hoarse, yet filled with a command that made heaven and earth change color.
"…Here, Pops." Marco's body tensed as he answered in a solemn voice.
"Jozu."
"Here!" Jozu roared back, his voice like a bell.
"Vista."
"Here!" The Flower Sword was half-drawn; the blade sang with murderous intent.
Whitebeard's gaze slowly swept across the faces of each of his sons on deck, across the flames of vengeance burning in their eyes.
Finally he tilted his head to the endless sea leading to Marineford.
His voice rolled like thunder across the sky and the sea.
"All hands listen!"
"Summon all of my sons! Summon every fleet!"
He paused, and that voice — laden with endless murderous intent — became a proclamation of war to the entire world.
"We are going to—"
"—wage the greatest war the world has ever seen!"