The magma never struck the shore.
It slowed first, as if meeting resistance in midair, and then it simply began to fall apart.
Jack's blade moved before the rest of him did. The sword vanished from sight, not because it moved far, but because it moved too fast. The air around him compressed, screamed, and then fractured into countless invisible seams.
A thousand cuts bloomed in the same instant.
The sphere of molten rock shuddered. Its surface tightened, then rippled as though struck by something too fine to see. A web of lines spread through it—hair-thin fractures, intersecting, multiplying. For a heartbeat, the magma held its shape, a cracked lantern suspended in the air.
Then it came apart.
Heat bled out of it faster than it could sustain itself. What had been a city-crushing projectile became glowing grit, then ash, then nothing more than warm powder drifting harmlessly into the sand.
A soft hiss, like dying embers.
Jack Sparrow stood beneath the falling dust, sword planted tip-first into the ground, leaning heavily on it. His boots sank slightly into the sand as his knees threatened to give out. His breathing was ragged, uneven, drawn deep from somewhere far below exhaustion.
Blood spilled from his mouth, dark against his teeth.
He coughed once—hard—and spat crimson onto the sand.
Behind him, the world had gone still.
Dorry and Brogy stared.
For eighty years, they had fought without pause. For eighty years, their duel had shaped the island, carved valleys, split the land. And yet, in that moment, neither giant spoke. Their eyes were fixed on the human standing between them and death—small, shaking, bleeding, but still upright.
"…That," Brogy finally rumbled, voice rough but unmistakably impressed, "was amazing."
Jack turned slowly, the movement dragging pain through his shoulders and spine. His lips twitched upward into a crooked grin that didn't quite hide the strain in his face.
"I do try to amaze," he said hoarsely. "Though I'd appreciate it if my insides stopped rearranging themselves."
Brogy coughed, blood flecking his beard, and still managed to lift a massive thumb. "That was well done."
Jack blinked once. "I've had practice," he said, voice hoarse. "Wouldn't recommend the method."
Dorry stepped forward, the sand trembling under his weight. He looked down at Jack—at the trembling legs, the sword used as a crutch, the blood staining his shirt—and then did something no one had expected.
He bowed. From respect.
"Human," Dorry said, his voice deep and steady, "you saved my brother. And you saved me."
Jack straightened a fraction, hissing softly as the motion pulled at abused muscles. "Saved is… generous," he replied. "I'd call it problem-solving using aggressive means."
Brogy let out a low laugh that shook his chest and made him cough again. "You have pride," he said. "And courage. Too much of both."
Jack smiled wider. "That's what they all say."
Dorry pressed a massive fist to his chest—the ancient salute of Elbaf, given only to warriors deemed worthy. "From this day onward, Jack Sparrow of the Caribbean Pirates, you and your crew are friends of the Giant Warrior Pirates."
Jack considered that. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and looked at the two towering figures before him. "Friends, then," he said at last.
"If you sail to the New World," Dorry added, "you will find Elbaf."
Brogy's expression softened, the hard lines of battle easing. "You will be received there."
Jack nodded once. "I've heard it's worth the trip."
Jack opened his mouth to respond, already preparing something dramatic, when Dorry added calmly, "We have the finest rum."
Jack froze.
Then straightened fully, pain be damned.
"I will," he said solemnly, like a man swearing in a court in front of the judge, "absolutely come."
Brogy chuckled weakly. "Good."
The island chose that moment to remind them all that this reunion would be short-lived.
The ground convulsed violently. A deafening crack split the air as the volcano tore itself open further, belching smoke and fire skyward. The air grew hotter by degrees.
Jack wiped the blood from his mouth and glanced back at the giants. "So," he said, forcing lightness into his tone, "what now?"
Dorry looked down at Brogy, whose breathing was shallow but steady.
"We leave," Dorry said simply. "It has been too long. Elbaf awaits."
Brogy nodded. "And we finish our duel another day."
Dorry smiled faintly. "Another day."
Jack dipped his head. "I'll hold you to that."
As he turned toward the beach, his body screamed in protest. Every step hurt. Every breath burned. But this time, he quite liked the pain.
Because this time, there was no tearing sensation in his muscles. No violent recoil snapping through his joints. No black-red lines crawling up his forearms as it had in Arabasta when he forced too much power through a body unprepared to hold it.
His arm was completely normal.
The chaotic surge, the violent recoil every time he pushed haki too hard—it wasn't there.
Jack slowed, frowning slightly.
His arms felt… heavy. Exhausted. Damaged.
He flexed his fingers as he walked.
No lock. No tearing pain. No internal scream.
"…Huh," he muttered. "So that's what it feels like when the body is ready."
The herd of white elephants that had grazed inland earlier had reached the shoreline in a wave of panic. Tusks flashed in the ash-dimmed light. Smaller beasts poured after them—scaled reptiles with long jaws, thick-furred creatures with curved horns, birds that shrieked as they circled low and frantic.
Jack scanned the shore, heart hammering.
The Black Pearl.
He spotted her—farther out than expected.
Moving.
Sails already full.
He stopped walking.
His chest tightened.
"They…" he murmured.
The ship cut cleanly through the water, already pulling away from the island. For a heartbeat, something sharp twisted in his gut.
Anger.
Hurt.
Betrayal.
Then it passed, replaced by something steadier.
Acceptance.
He exhaled slowly.
"So that be how it is," he said quietly. "So that be how it will be. So that be the way things are. So that is how things are done."
Before he could continue, a beast lunged from the side, mistaking him for easy prey.
Jack did not look at it directly.
His sword left the sheath in a short, controlled motion. The blade traced a line barely wider than his own arm. The creature fell in two halves at his feet before it understood what had happened.
He wiped the edge of the sword against the sand and sheathed it again.
"They made their choice. And I make mine," he added.
Then he saw it.
A small rowboat, bobbing in the surf. Untouched. Waiting.
Jack blinked.
Then grinned.
"Oh," he said. "Good."
He didn't know whose boat it was, but he will commandeer it for now.
He stepped forward—then halted.
Between him and the boat stood a writhing wall of panicked animals. Tusks, claws, teeth. Survival of the fittest at its most brutal.
Jack tightened his grip on Wado Ichimonji.
He drew a deep breath, tasting ash and salt and blood.
"Well then," he murmured, eyes sharpening, grin returning, "let's see if this new balance holds."
The volcano roared behind him.
The beasts surged forward.