The dust in the auction house had not yet settled when Garp stepped out through the massive doors, his feet crunching over splintered oak and shattered glass.
The dazzling sunlight made him squint slightly as his gaze swept across the distant, iconic colorful bubbles of the Sabaody Archipelago.
Beneath that surreal glow were Saint Charlos' pistol, the icy gleam of Camie's sea-prism handcuffs, and countless lives displayed like commodities, each tagged with a price.
A long-suppressed rage, like molten lava, surged, accumulated, and boiled deep within his chest.
The helplessness of Enies Lobby and the warnings of the Red Line now erupted in full force before the concrete manifestation of this corrupt system.
"Garp!"
Rayleigh's voice came from behind him, carrying the weight of seasoned solemnity.
The figure of "Pluton" emerged from the still-settling dust, holding a pristine oak wine jug, its surface streaked with the grime of the auction house.
"That stomp could shake even the Red Line subway."
His gaze was sharp as a hawk's, as if piercing Garp's boiling rage to see even deeper truths. "The warship of the new era… needs you. Its strongest backbone."
Garp's steps never faltered. He did not look back. His voice rumbled like thunder, each word deliberate and heavy. "New era? I only care if my grandson survives the execution block!"
His eyes, locked like a tiger on its prey, stared at the heart of the archipelago the relatively flat District 7, connected to a branch of the Red Line.
There, a few gilded luxury yachts flew the Celestial Dragons' "Dragon Hoof" banner as they slowly docked, their domed structures reflecting a nauseating, privileged brilliance under the sun. The new "gods" were about to disembark and continue their "hunt."
"Stop him! Protect Saint Charlos!"
A hoarse shout came from a Marine, and dozens of elite Marines stationed on Sabaody, tormented by fear and duty, mustered courage and surged from the street corners.
Their flintlock rifles and shoulder-mounted rocket launchers, barrels and muzzles blackened, were aimed at the shirtless figure like a moving natural disaster.
Their faces reflected extreme terror at the fifty-billion-berry monster before them, tempered by grim military resolve. Retreat meant death; advancing could also mean death, yet orders were absolute.
Garp did not even glance at them.
His steps were measured, as if surveying the land he was about to reshape.
But with each footfall, the solid ground, woven from mangrove roots, groaned under the immense pressure.
The dormant core of his power, known as "One-Punch Man," erupted violently, fed by his escalating fury.
Thirty percent. That was the highest threshold he could currently control.
Raw power condensed, compressed, and intensely concentrated.
The surrounding air twisted as if squeezed by an invisible giant hand, light refracting strangely in response.
"Fire!"
The Marine commander's voice warped with terror, like the dying wail of a wounded beast.
Bang, bang, bang, bang!
Boom, boom, boom, boom!
Bullets rained down like a torrential storm.
Cannon rounds streaked across like lethal meteors.
The sky tore with the sound of a metal tempest, forming an impenetrable deadly storm aimed at Garp.
Gunpowder filled the air!
And just as the metal storm was about to engulf Garp, he stepped forward with his left foot.
His body twisted slightly, right arm stretching backward.
There was no explosive energy gathering, no blinding radiance only pure, supreme will, condensing every ounce of rage and determination to protect, to shatter anything twisted before him.
To protect what he cherished most behind him, his fury surged beyond the breaking point.
"Trash… in the way!"
Roar!
His fist slammed into the ground, and the earth let out a pained wail.
The target was not the Marines, ants beneath his gaze.
The lower-lying crust of District 7, connected to a branch of the Red Line, lay ahead.
That land was precisely where the Celestial Dragons were about to step, to continue their "sacred game."
Boom!
A terrifying pressure from the punch solidified into a visible wave of force, distorting the air, like a colossal subterranean bomb roaring outward.
The air was displaced, compressed, and torn.
A temporary, lethal vacuum formed.
Where it struck, solid ground collapsed and cracked silently, peeling layer by layer like fragile biscuits.
Rumble!
A deafening, massive roar!
It was not an explosion but the agonized groan of the crust being mercilessly ripped apart, deep layers of rock compressed violently.
The foundations of the Earth screamed.
District 7!
The land, supported by the massive roots of ancient mangroves, carrying countless buildings and people, was thrust toward hell as Garp's strike reached the crust's core.
Crack! Pop! Pop! Pop!
Huge fissures spread like a mad spiderweb, tearing the land apart.
The thick, entangled mangrove roots were ripped and uprooted by unstoppable force.
Entire foundations were shredded, losing support.
Whoosh!
Seawater, drawn like a predator to blood, surged in from all directions, pouring through the massive cracks.
It roared like a thousand beasts.
Gigantic waves shot skyward, walls of white water dozens of meters high, engulfing yachts, luxurious buildings, terrified crowds… everything.
In ten short seconds!
Once bustling District 7, a symbol of Celestial Dragon privilege, vanished.
Submerged beneath the cold sea.
In its place, a massive, bottomless whirlpool over a kilometer in diameter formed.
Like a horrific scar torn into the Earth, a gateway to the abyss.
Water spun violently at its center, forming a consuming black hole.
At the whirlpool's edge, fresh, jagged, deep-red rock was exposed.
The foundation of the Red Line branch, violently torn! A wound in the world!
A terrifying new strait connecting the endless ocean was born under Garp's iron-fisted rule.
The raging waters surged into the wound, filling it completely.
The waves struck the exposed rock like fists of fury, roaring like thunder.
The entire Sabaody Archipelago shivered!
Dead silence! Only the terrifying roar of incoming water and the whirlpool echoed like doomsday bells.
All other sound was swallowed by nature's wrath.
Rayleigh, standing at the edge of the auction house ruins, let the pristine oak wine jug slip from his hands, smashing loudly. Amber liquid spilled across the ground.
For the first time, his wrinkled face displayed near-dazed shock.
He had foreseen destruction, even catastrophe, but not… permanent, irreversible geological transformation.
"One punch… tore the crust…"
His cracked lips moved faintly, barely audible. "This power… has already… surpassed the realm of humans…"
In the distance, the Marines who had opened fire lay scattered, limbs splayed, as if their bones had been drained.
Weapons slipped from their hands, eyes hollow, bodies trembling uncontrollably.
This was not a battle, not a fight it was divine punishment, a god's judgment on desecrators.
They were not even worthy of being extras.
Garp slowly withdrew his fist, bronze muscles rippling, veins coiling like dragons of rage.
He gazed blankly at the infernal entrance he had created, the eternal, churning whirlpool consuming everything.
No pride, no mercy, only cold calm.
He had vented his fury in the most direct, intense, and unrestrained way, declaring to the corrupt world: the chains of the old order will be utterly shattered.
Any obstacle to protecting those he cared for would be leveled.
"Fist of Bone."
Rayleigh's voice sounded again, heavy with indescribable meaning shock, excitement, and a sense of fated gravity.
He looked at the roaring whirlpool, seeing in it the dog-head sculpture Garp had carved from the ruins of Enies Lobby.
"Good name. Enies Lobby was just the beginning…" He paused, then turned to Garp's mountain-like, silent back. "This is the trumpet… sounding war against the old world."