Chapter 343

The first light of dawn crept over the horizon, its golden rays piercing the dense mist that clung to the ocean's surface. As the sunlight stretched further, it revealed a vast armada—a fleet so immense it seemed to swallow the horizon.

Ships of all sizes, from the pristine vessels of the Marines to the haphazardly patched warships of pirates and bounty hunters, formed an imposing blockade. The fleet loomed over the waters like a wall of steel and wood, bristling with cannons, their gunports gaping like the maws of waiting beasts.

At the forefront of this massive formation, a dozen Marine ships held the vanguard, their clean lines and disciplined ranks starkly contrasting with the chaos of the mercenary vessels behind them.

The Marine flags fluttered in the morning breeze, the proud emblem of justice flapping defiantly, but beneath the facade of order lay cracks of fear and uncertainty.

Aboard the lead Marine vessel, the tension was palpable. Sailors moved with nervous energy, their boots clattering against the deck. The whispers among the crew had grown louder as the reality of their situation settled in.

"This is madness," one Marine muttered, clutching his rifle as if it might offer some comfort. "Why the hell are we being sent here? The Donquixote Pirates? That's suicide!"

"Keep your voice down!" another hissed, though his own hands trembled as he tied a knot that didn't need tightening. "Orders are orders."

The first Marine sneered. "Orders? From who? This isn't even World Government territory! Elsar isn't affiliated with us. Why are we risking our necks for them?"

The sentiment was shared by many aboard the ships. Even the Vice Admiral in charge of the operation, a grizzled man with a deep scar cutting across his face, stood on the bridge with a grim expression.

His hands were clasped behind his back, his fingers twitching with barely restrained unease. He stared out at the fleet under his command, knowing full well that they were not prepared for this battle.

Their enemy wasn't a ragtag group of pirates. It was the Donquixote Pirates, one of the Emperor crews, led by Doflamingo, whose shadow stretched far across the New World.

The Vice Admiral tightened his jaw. This is folly, he thought but dared not speak aloud. He had no choice but to follow orders. But deep down, he knew—they were being sent to die.

Farther back in the fleet, on the disorganized ships of bounty hunters and mercenary pirates, the mood was different.

Greed and ambition burned in the eyes of men who had been lured here by the promise of riches and renown. Lavish payments from the Elsar Kingdom had drawn them to this blockade, and the thought of taking down even one of the Donquixote cadres had them salivating for glory.

"The Marines are cowards," one bounty hunter captain sneered, his lips curling into a cruel grin. His observation haki swept lazily over the Marine ships at the front, sensing the anxious energy radiating from them.

"Look at them—they're shaking, and the fight hasn't even started!"

His crew erupted in laughter, but one among them, a wiry man with a scarred face, spoke up hesitantly.

"But, Captain, is this really wise? We've already been paid. Why not take the money and run? The Donquixote Pirates are no joke. They're an Emperor's crew. Even if they're not Kaido or Big Mom, they're dangerous."

"Ptuiii...!" The captain spat overboard, his massive five-meter frame rising to its full height. His scarred knuckles cracked as he clenched his fists.

"Dangerous? Ha! You think Doflamingo and his crew are on the level of Kaido or Big Mom? Don't make me laugh!" He grabbed a jug of rum, guzzling it before slamming it down.

"What have the Donquixote done? Nothing! Look at Kaido and Big Mom—they've carved empires out of the New World. They crushed Wano, beheaded Oden, and made legends kneel. Compared to them, the Donquixote are paper tigers."

"But what about their bounties?" another crewman asked nervously. "Their cadres are worth insane amounts. No other crew has so many high-level threats!"

The captain waved his hand dismissively. "Bounties are numbers to scare idiots like you. If they were truly that strong, why is their territory so small? It's not even a fourth of Big Mom's dominion, and don't even try comparing it to Kaido or Whitebeard. They're all smoke and mirrors."

The men around him began to cheer, emboldened by his confidence. Another crewman, his crooked teeth bared in a greedy smile, leaned forward. "So, you're saying we stand a chance, Captain?"

The captain's grin turned feral. "A chance? Look around you, bastards!" He spread his arms wide, gesturing at the fleet.

"We have over a hundred ships. Close to a hundred thousand men tested by the harsh seas of the New World. This is a fortress of power. Unless a god descends, no one crosses this barrier!"

As if mocking his words, the sea beneath the fleet rumbled ominously. The laughter and cheering among the bounty hunters faltered, replaced by uncertain glances.

The water rippled unnaturally, and a sudden chill swept through the fleet. The golden sunlight was swallowed by thick, roiling clouds that gathered unnaturally fast. The sky above darkened, and a low rumble of thunder echoed across the waters.

"What the hell is going on?" a Marine shouted, gripping the railing of his ship as the vessel rocked slightly.

On the bounty hunter ships, faces turned skyward, their confidence wavering. The once-vivid horizon seemed to blur as an unnatural mist began to spread, cloaking the distant sea in an eerie shroud.

The captain who had spoken so boldly moments ago found himself gripping the rail harder than he intended, his observation haki straining to make sense of the sudden shift.

"Captain…?" one of his crewmen whispered, his voice trembling.

The captain forced a laugh. "It's just a storm! Nothing to fear. Stand your ground!"

But his bravado couldn't mask the growing dread in the air. The oppressive atmosphere bore down on every man in the fleet, the weight of something monstrous approaching. Then, through the mist, faint shadows began to emerge far in the horizon—massive shapes moving with purpose and inevitability.

The Donquixote Pirates had arrived.

The ocean seemed to tremble as their fleet approached, each ship cutting through the waves with the precision of a predator stalking its prey. And in the silence that followed, every man knew—no god was descending. It was something far worse.

The winds howled around us as I stood at the bow of the Donquixote flagship, the towering vessel cutting through the tumultuous sea with terrifying ease. Miles away, the massive blockade of ships awaited, their formation impenetrable—or so they thought.

Their taunts and laughter echoed clearly in my mind, carried by my Observation Haki like whispers across the vast expanse. Mockery. Doubt. Greed. Fear.

A small smile tugged at my lips. "It seems they've planned us a grand welcome," I mused, my voice carrying an edge of amusement as I addressed the crew behind me. They looked on in silence, their trust in me absolute. The storm-choked skies darkened further, the rising sun vanishing beneath the weight of gathering thunderclouds.

"It seems like everyone looks down on the Donquixote Pirates," I said, stepping forward onto the very edge of the prow. "Time to teach the world why we are feared."

The world shifted as I let my Conqueror's Haki loose, no longer restrained, no longer tempered. The skies above roared in answer, the black clouds swirling in a vortex of power as streaks of crimson and black lightning tore through the heavens. The ocean below buckled, waves surging as if to escape the crushing pressure emanating from my very being. The massive flagship beneath my feet groaned as even its colossal frame quaked under the force.

The air itself seemed to hold its breath for a single moment before the first pulse of my Haki erupted outward.

Miles away, at the heart of the blockade, the morning light had turned to night. Darkness enveloped the fleet as if the heavens had forsaken this stretch of ocean.

"What...what is happening?" a Marine whispered, his voice trembling as he clung to the railing of his ship.

Beside him, a pirate-turned-mercenary stared wide-eyed at the horizon. "Sea god have mercy on us... Are you seeing this?" he stammered, grabbing the arm of his captain in desperation.

From the blackened skies, a massive silhouette began to take form—a shape both human and otherworldly. A towering figure of pure darkness, wreathed in jagged lightning, loomed over the blockade like the Reaper himself. Its eyes glowed crimson, and its scythe of shadow arced high, ready to reap every soul present.

Every man, regardless of allegiance, froze in place. Veterans of countless battles found their knees shaking. Bounty hunters who had faced beasts of the New World felt their courage drain like water from a sieve.

"That... that's not a man..." a pirate muttered, his voice barely audible over the roar of the storm.

"It's a demon. A god of death."

Then it came—the first wave of Haki.

The invisible ripple surged through the air, tearing through the blockade like a scythe through wheat. It was not simply a force of will—it was a physical manifestation of overwhelming dominance. Ships, dozens at a time, splintered into pieces as if struck by an unseen hammer.

The creaking of wood turned to snapping, then to deafening explosions as hulls shattered and masts collapsed. Cannons, men, and entire decks were flung into the churning sea.

The poorly built and hastily patched ships of bounty hunters and mercenaries stood no chance. Their vessels disintegrated like fragile glass sculptures, shards of wood and iron scattering into the wind. Screams of terror filled the air before being swallowed by the crashing waves.

Within moments, over half the fleet was gone, obliterated by a force they couldn't comprehend. Hundreds of thousands of men were hurled into the sea, their cries drowned by the howling wind.

The surviving ships, mostly Marine vessels built to endure the harshest conditions, were left battered and barely afloat. Cracks spread across their hulls like spiderwebs, masts bent at unnatural angles, and sails hung in tatters.

On one such ship, the pirate captain who had mocked us earlier stood frozen. His mind was blank, his body paralyzed. The mast of his sinking vessel came crashing down, splintering against the deck, but he didn't flinch. His gaze remained locked on the towering Reaper in the sky.

"Monster..." he whispered hoarsely, his trembling lips barely forming the words. "That's an absolute monster."

On the Marine flagship, the Vice Admiral collapsed to his knees, his face pale and eyes wide with disbelief. The mighty ship groaned under the strain of the Haki's force, cracks spreading along its deck. Around him, his men lay unconscious, their bodies sprawled across the ship like broken dolls.

"This... this is beyond humanity," he murmured, clutching the hilt of his sword. His hands shook as he raised the blade to his chest. "I will not fall into that demon's hands." With a trembling cry, he drove the blade into his heart, freeing himself from the nightmare.

Back on our fleet, my men watched the destruction through their spyglasses. They couldn't see the Reaper in the skies nor feel the oppressive weight of the Haki—it was beyond their comprehension. But they saw the results.

"Captain... Captain Rosinante just destroyed an entire armada without lifting a finger!" one pirate exclaimed, his voice filled with awe.

Cheers erupted among the Donquixote fleet. Men roared in triumph, raising their weapons to the sky. But amidst the celebration, there were a few who remained silent.

Issho, standing near the helm of our ship, gripped his sword tightly. His advanced Observation Haki had caught a glimpse of what others could not—the monstrous presence that Rosinante had unleashed.

His blind eyes stared into the void as he muttered, "This... this is unnatural. To reshape the physical world with Conqueror's Haki alone… This is the power of a god."

The air hung heavy with the scent of blood and salt, the sea a swirling canvas of crimson and broken wood. I turned from the shattered horizon, my voice rolling out like distant thunder.

"I want their heads," I commanded, each word soaked in malice and finality. "Sever their heads and bring them ashore. I will teach the world what true fear means."

Though my tone was soft, it carried with a weight that pressed upon the hearts of every Donquixote soldier. My words resonated through the fleet like a funeral bell, chilling in their clarity.

I wanted this to be remembered—a massacre that would not just echo across the seas but carve terror into the souls of pirates, marines, and kings alike. Fear was the sharpest weapon, and this demonstration would ensure our name became synonymous with despair.

The formation of our fleet shattered as our ships surged forward like predators descending upon wounded prey. The scattered remnants of the blockade—a mixture of floating debris, unconscious bodies, and broken vessels—were utterly defenseless.

My men, emboldened by my command and their loyalty to the Donquixote family, descended upon them with a ferocity that turned the ocean into a scene from the depths of hell.

The sea itself seemed to rebel, waves thrashing violently as if recoiling from the carnage. Men who had barely survived the shockwave of my Conqueror's Haki now found themselves dragged from the water like drowning rats.

Diamante led the charge with cold efficiency, his cruel laughter echoing across the battlefield as his men hacked through whatever remained.

"Take their heads!" he bellowed, driving his blade through a mercenary who had tried in vain to raise his weapon. "Leave nothing but blood and memories of despair!"

Even those floating helplessly in the water, their arms flailing for salvation, were met with merciless steel. The Donquixote pirates fished them from the sea like discarded cargo, their cries drowned out by the roaring waves and the battle-hardened cheers of their executioners.

The beheaded bodies were cast back into the sea, their blood painting macabre trails in the water, while the severed heads were collected in grim silence, piled high on every Donquixote ship like gruesome trophies.

From the deck of my flagship, I watched with unflinching eyes. This was not chaos; this was order born from fear. The seas would carry my message far and wide—that none could oppose the Donquixote Pirates and live to tell the tale.

Behind me, Issho's voice broke the ghastly symphony. "Ros-kun, is this really necessary?" His tone was calm but firm, tinged with sorrow. "Let the dead rest. Why scar their souls even after death?"

On the deck, only a select few were allowed to remain—Issho, Lucci, and Smoker. The others had been sent below deck, shielded from the horrors unfolding. Issho, ever the mentor, wanted to protect Reiju, Robin, and Mansherry from this brutality for as long as possible.

I turned to him slowly, my gaze piercing through the stormy air. "To save more lives, Issho-san," I whispered, my voice carrying a weight that silenced even the storm for a fleeting moment.

Issho frowned deeply, his blind eyes scanning as though searching for answers in the void. "Save lives? By slaughtering the helpless?"

Lucci stood nearby, his sharp gaze unyielding as he observed the scene through Hattori's eyes. There was no remorse in him, no flicker of doubt. This was the way of the world—of power, dominance, and survival. The strong dictated the rules, and the weak were swept aside.

"Helpless…? Do you really believe they are helpless? Don't try to understand Master, Issho san," Lucci said coldly, his tone as sharp as a blade.

"Master Ross isn't simply saving lives—he's rewriting the world's understanding of what power is. Fear will do what words never could."

Smoker, standing off to the side, clenched his fists. His unease was evident, but he knew this was the path he had chosen. He had sworn his loyalty to me and the Donquixote family, but witnessing such ruthless efficiency in action was another matter entirely. He turned away from the sea of severed heads and the blood-soaked water, his jaw tightening.

As our flagship moved steadily through the crimson-streaked sea, the deck quaked under the weight of collected heads. The bodies of the dead drifted aimlessly, bumping against the wreckage and the sides of our massive ships.

The cries of survivors grew fainter as the Donquixote pirates silenced them one by one, their brutal work painting the ocean in crimson streaks. The men moved like shadows of death, their laughter and shouts chillingly casual amid the carnage.

Issho gripped his blade tightly, his knuckles white as he struggled with his own turmoil. This was beyond what he had expected, even after witnessing Rosinante's growth all these years by my side.

His Observation Haki, honed to an advanced level, allowed him to feel every flicker of life extinguished. Yet the sheer force of Rosinante's actions—the storm, the Conqueror's Haki, the merciless slaughter—was beyond even his comprehension.

"This... this is more than power," Issho muttered under his breath. "It's domination. A force even the sea itself seems to bow to."

Above it all, I stood, unmoving, watching as my command was carried out with ruthless precision. The seas churned around us, waves rising as if in deference to the carnage. The silence on my deck was heavy, broken only by the distant sounds of battle and the soft whispers of the storm.

Fear was my weapon. Cruelty was my currency. Today, the world would learn that the Donquixote Pirates were not merely a force to be reckoned with—they were the force that rewrote the rules of power itself.

The opulent throne room of the Elsar Kingdom was abuzz with tension. Gilded chandeliers cast golden light upon the anxious faces of nobles, advisors, and military leaders who crowded the chamber.

The massive chamber, adorned with banners depicting the sigil of the kingdom—a glacial phoenix—felt oppressively silent as they awaited news of the Donquixote Pirates' advance.

On the towering obsidian throne sat King Theron, a cold and calculating monarch whose every movement exuded power. He leaned forward slightly, his icy blue eyes fixed on the chamber doors.

His white hair, streaked with hints of silver, framed a face marked by both wisdom and cruelty. Despite his composed exterior, his patience was wearing thin.

The plan had been simple: the massive blockade formed by their armada was to act as a show of force. Surely, even the infamous Donquixote Pirates would reconsider if faced with overwhelming numbers.

If not, they were prepared to negotiate. For Theron, money was no object. If he could pay off his adversaries and recoup the costs by squeezing the life out of the common people, it was a price he would gladly pay.

But there was no word from the fleet.

Suddenly, the grand doors to the throne room burst open. A captain of the armed forces stumbled inside, his face pale as a corpse, his body drenched in sweat. His chest heaved as he struggled to catch his breath, eyes darting wildly like a man haunted by demons. Protocol and decorum were the furthest thing from his mind as he dropped to his knees before the king.

"Your Majesty...your Majesty...the fleet," he gasped, his voice trembling with pure terror. "The entire fleet is... gone."

The room erupted into murmurs of disbelief. The advisors and nobles exchanged alarmed glances, their faces draining of color. Theron, however, remained unnervingly still, his fingers drumming lightly against the armrest of his throne.

The Supreme Commander of the kingdom's military, a giant of a man clad in pitch-black armor, stepped forward. His deep voice boomed through the hall, silencing the murmurs.

"What do you mean, gone?" He demanded, his hand resting dangerously close to the hilt of the massive greatsword strapped to his back. "Explain yourself, soldier, or lose your head for creating panic!"

The captain trembled, words failing him as he struggled to form a coherent sentence. "The Reaper... the Grim Reaper... took them all." He finally stammered, collapsing to his knees, his face a mask of abject horror. "The sea, the sky—it was death itself..."

The throne room grew colder with every word the captain uttered. Snowflakes began to drift lazily through the air, and the breath of everyone present turned to visible mist. The temperature dropped so sharply that frost began to creep along the polished floors, coating the edges of the captain's boots in ice.

Theron rose slowly from his throne, his sheer presence silencing even the faintest murmur. He exuded a chilling aura, a deadly combination of his powerful Mythical Zoan Devil Fruit, the Tori Tori no Mi, Model: Ice Phoenix, and his unshakable authority.

The king descended the steps of the dais, his footfalls echoing ominously. Standing before the captain, he extended a single hand. "I do not abide failure or fear," Theron said softly, his tone devoid of emotion. "You should have died with the fleet."

With a flick of his wrist, the captain froze solid. His terrified expression was locked in a crystalline prison of ice, his body glittering under the chandelier's light. The room was deathly silent as Theron clenched his fist.

The ice shattered with a deafening crack, sending frozen shards flying in every direction. The captain was no more—reduced to nothing but fragments of jagged ice and terror.

Theron turned to his advisors, his voice cold and commanding. "Deploy scouts immediately to determine the fate of the fleet. And as a precaution, mobilize the armed civilians. If the Donquixote Pirates have indeed broken through, then we will drown them in bodies. Let them tire themselves against our cannon fodder."

The supreme commander did not hesitate but nodded, bowing deeply before issuing orders to his subordinates. The advisors murmured their approval, though their expressions betrayed their growing fear. No one dared to question the king's plan, not after witnessing his merciless punishment.

As the commanders departed, a mocking laugh echoed through the chamber. It was soft at first, then grew louder, dripping with amusement. King Theron's piercing gaze shifted toward the shadows at the far end of the room.

There, seated lazily on a carved wooden chair, was Patrick Redfield. The infamous pirate reclined casually, peeling the skin off an apple with a claw-like nail, his crimson eyes glinting with mischief. His gaunt yet regal form was draped in a long, dark coat, and his presence, though nonchalant, carried an undeniable menace.

"Hahaha, I told you, Theron. Numbers don't mean much at our level," Redfield said, his voice smooth yet taunting. He tossed the apple skin aside, biting into the fruit with a sharp crunch.

"Though I must admit, even I'm surprised. A hundred thousand men, wiped out before they could even scream for help? Now that's a statement."

Theron's eyes narrowed, but he did not rise to the provocation. "Do not mock me, Uncle. If you have something useful to say, then say it. If not, I suggest you handle this problem yourself. Or are you planning to sit there idly until the very end?"

Redfield grinned, his sharp teeth gleaming. "Oh, I will act when it is time. But for now, I'll just enjoy the show. Let's see how your kingdom fares against the monster heading your way."

Theron turned his gaze back to the frozen window overlooking the sea, his hands clasped behind his back. "Let him come," he said coldly. "The Grim Reaper may have taken my armada, but I will personally send him to the icy depths of hell."

The snow outside grew heavier, as though the heavens themselves were responding to Theron's wrath. The battle was not just for the survival of the Elsar Kingdom—it was a collision of titans, each determined to reshape the world through terror and power. And the stage was set.