Chapter 409

Despite all the devastating losses suffered by the World Government and the Marines, one question loomed over them like a specter—an unanswered mystery that gnawed at the backs of their minds since the war had begun.

Where was Donquixote Rosinante?

No matter how many strategies were drawn, no matter how many fleets were sent into the abyss, this single uncertainty kept both Sengoku and the Elders on edge.

It was an undeniable fact—Rosinante was the single greatest asset of the Donquixote Pirates. Their strongest combatant, their deadliest warrior, their greatest enigma. And yet, throughout this brutal, year-long war, not a single appearance.

Not one. This was not mere coincidence.

Rosinante was no ordinary pirate—he was a sword in the shadows, a storm waiting to break. Unlike Doflamingo, who played the game of war with ruthless cunning and overwhelming firepower, Rosinante was something else entirely. He was the unseen dagger. The death sentence that came without warning.

Sengoku knew this better than anyone. And that was why his hands were tied.

Had Rosinante been accounted for, the World Government might have attempted bolder, riskier strategies to counter the Donquixote Family. But with him lurking somewhere in the unknown, the mere possibility of his return was enough to keep the Marines paralyzed in hesitation.

With his Lightning Logia, Rosinante's mobility rivaled even Borsalino's. He could move across the seas in an instant, striking from anywhere, at any time. There was no fortification safe from him, no fleet that could prepare for his arrival. He was a force of nature, and Sengoku dreaded the moment he finally chose to enter the battlefield.

The thought made his fists clench involuntarily. Across the room, a deep, gravelly voice cut through the tense silence.

"We must act. We cannot allow pirates to dictate the laws of the sea."

Sakazuki's words were sharp, filled with seething fury, as he took a long drag from his cigar, the ember at its tip glowing ominously. It was only then that Sengoku's eyes drifted to the fresh, jagged scar that now marred the Admiral's face—a gift from the countless battles fought in this war.

A painful reminder of their repeated failures.

Normally, Sengoku would have forbidden smoking in his office, but he made an exception this time. He owed them that much—Sakazuki and Raylene had borne the brunt of this bloody crusade, throwing themselves into the maelstrom of the New World, only to be humiliated time and time again.

They had tried, on multiple occasions, to break through Whitebeard's blockade. Every single attempt had ended in disaster. Even with the combined might of two Admirals, the old pirate hadn't budged an inch.

Sengoku had thought that perhaps, if they pressed hard enough, Whitebeard would withdraw from his position, giving them an opportunity to push into Donquixote territory.

Instead, the Emperor of the Seas had made his stance unmistakably clear. If the World Government made any move to bypass the Red Port, he would sink every last one of their ships.

And considering the power Whitebeard wielded, it wasn't an empty threat.

With such close proximity to Marineford, neither Sengoku nor the Elders felt comfortable deploying Garp. His presence could tip the scales—but at what cost?

Sengoku's lips pressed into a thin line. Garp's relationship with Rosinante was a problem. Despite being a Marine legend, despite his loyalty to the cause, no one truly knew how he would act if ordered to annihilate Dressrosa.

Especially with how volatile his relationship with the World Government had become in recent years. The thought of what could happen if they forced Garp into a war against Rosinante and Doflamingo was not one Sengoku wanted to entertain.

A sharp rustling of papers pulled his attention back.

"It's too late for that now," Tsuru spoke, her voice calm but laced with undeniable weariness. The years of war and relentless conflict had begun to weigh on her, yet her mind remained as sharp as ever. Her piercing gaze never left the reports in her hands.

"If we had been fighting head-on with our full forces, this war would have ended long ago. But Doflamingo isn't playing by the rules. He's turned this into a game of cat and mouse—except we are the mice. And as much as it pains me to admit it, he's winning."

The words hung heavy in the air, settling deep into the bones of every Marine in the room.

She was right. This war of attrition was draining the Marines far more than it was affecting the Donquixote Family.

Morale was at an all-time low. Entire fleets had been lost. Veteran officers, once brimming with confidence, now spoke in hushed, uncertain whispers.

The Donquixote Pirates had bled them dry without ever truly engaging them in full combat. They dictated the battles. They chose when to strike and when to disappear.

And the World Government—supposed rulers of the seas—was left floundering. Sengoku let out a slow, controlled breath, his eyes sweeping across the room. Something had to change.

Because if things continued down this path, if they kept being forced to fight on Doflamingo's terms… Then there was only one possible outcome.

Knock… Knock…

A soft but firm knock echoed through the stifling war room, cutting through the heavy atmosphere.

"Enter."

With Sengoku's permission, the doors swung open, and in strode Admiral Raylene, fresh from her grueling training session. Her appearance spoke volumes.

She was dressed in a sleeveless black tee, her toned arms still glistening with sweat from countless hours of relentless combat. A jacket was tied loosely around her waist, its ends swaying with every step, and slung across her back was her prized Supreme Grade Odachi, its handle peeking over her shoulder like a slumbering beast. Beads of sweat still clung to her brow, yet her sharp amber eyes were as intense as ever—a warrior who had been reforged in the crucible of battle.

"Sorry I'm late… I was in the middle of my training session with Garp-san," Raylene said, her voice steady as she greeted everyone in the room with a nod.

Even Sakazuki, who wasn't one for pleasantries, gave her a curt nod in return. He respected warriors, and more importantly, he respected those who had fought by his side. He and Raylene had stood together on the frontlines, their backs to each other, holding the line against Whitebeard himself.

It was in those brutal clashes that Raylene had found humiliation—and through that, she had found her resolve.

For the past year, she had submitted herself to Garp's brutal training, determined to close the impossible gap between herself and the monstrous forces ruling the New World. Despite already being an Admiral, she saw herself as a student—and she had chosen the strongest teacher the Marines could offer.

Sengoku leaned forward, her words sparking a different thought in his mind. His expression hardened as he shifted the conversation to something that had been weighing on him.

"So, has Garp made an assessment yet?"

There was a rare edge of expectation in his voice. Recently, a development had sent shockwaves through the upper echelons of the World Government—one that even the Elders had taken immediate notice of.

The World's Strongest Swordsman had offered his allegiance to the Marines. For a faction constantly struggling to balance the power of the Emperors, this was an opportunity they could not afford to squander. Even the normally cutthroat bureaucracy had waived the usual political hurdles in recruiting him—an unprecedented move that showed just how desperately they wanted him.

But strength alone wasn't enough. So, Garp had taken it upon himself to personally assess the old warrior, to determine whether he was truly worthy of an Admiral's mantle.

Raylene exhaled, her fingers tightening around the hilt of her odachi as she recalled her own clashes with the man.

"He is strong... exceptionally so," she admitted, her voice carrying no hesitation. "Stronger than me. By a considerable margin…."

A ripple of silent acknowledgment spread through the room. Raylene was not one to downplay her own strength—and for an Admiral to say such a thing was no small matter.

"It's like he's had a rebirth in his withering years."

She had crossed swords with the old man multiple times, expecting to see signs of deterioration, expecting to find the weaknesses that came with age.

Instead, she had found something terrifying. It was as if the man had reached some new enlightenment, some profound mastery of the blade that had elevated him beyond what he once was. He was growing, even in his twilight years.

And that… was a dangerous thing. Sakazuki's eyes narrowed.

"So, we're not pushing Kuzan's name for the admiral position?" He questioned, his voice neutral but with an undercurrent of something else.

Rivalry.

It was no secret that he and Kuzan had always butted heads, their ideals as incompatible as fire and ice. But deep down, there was something Sakazuki would never admit out loud.

He respected Kuzan.

And in his heart, he knew—Kuzan might very well be stronger than him. He would never say it. But it was part of the reason why he pushed himself so relentlessly, why he burned with the desire to prove himself superior.

For years, he had watched Kuzan overshadow him, despite being younger, despite having joined the Marines later.

And now… now the Admiral seat was being considered for someone else entirely? Sengoku sighed, rubbing his temple.

"As things stand, we need every high-level combatant we can get." His voice carried the weight of a man who had spent the last year watching his forces shatter against the Donquixote Family and the New World's overwhelming strength. "But that doesn't mean we can afford to rush it."

His sharp eyes landed on Raylene again.

"If Garp believes he's worthy of an Admiral's position, I'll defer to his judgment. Despite his recklessness, I trust his instincts when it comes to measuring strength."

There was no better barometer of power than Garp the Hero. But that didn't mean there weren't concerns.

"However..." Sengoku's voice dropped, his tone heavier. "There's still the question of why he's joining now. The timing is too convenient. We've seen how drastically the seas have changed in the past few years. We need to be certain that his motivations align with our cause."

A silence settled over the room as those words sank in. It was true. What kind of man, after decades of wandering alone, suddenly decided to throw his lot in with the Marines?

The world was shifting. The balance that had once kept the seas in check was crumbling.

And the World Government could not afford to make mistakes. Sengoku exhaled, running a hand through his graying hair.

"As for Kuzan..." He glanced at Sakazuki. "You don't need to worry. That seat was always meant for him."

Had it not been for the Elders' political interference, Kuzan—not Sakazuki—would have been sitting at this table as an Admiral already. That was a truth Sakazuki knew but refused to acknowledge.

Raylene watched the exchange silently before finally breaking the tension.

"Well, if this old man does join our ranks…" she said, stretching her arms above her head, her muscles aching from Garp's latest torture session.

She smirked.

"Let's just hope he doesn't make the rest of us look bad."

For a moment, the room was still. And then, to everyone's surprise—Sakazuki let out a low, gruff chuckle.

"Hmph. If he does, then you just need to get stronger."

Raylene grinned.

"That was always the plan."

****

A few dozen miles from Marineford, on a deserted island battered by time and tide, two titans stood across from each other, their battle-ready stances shaking the very air around them.

Garp inhaled deeply, his chest expanding like a war drum, as he prepared himself for a spar unlike any other.

Across from him stood a man who had once held the title of the world's greatest swordsman.

A title he had since relinquished.

Garp grinned, his massive fists tightening, the anticipation electrifying his veins. It had been far too long since he had a real fight. Despite the war raging in the New World, he had not been deployed often—a deliberate choice by the higher-ups, wary of his unpredictable nature and personal ties to certain individuals.

But all that had done was make him restless. And now, staring at the swordsman before him, he knew—this was exactly what he needed.

"I hope the world's greatest swordsman truly lives up to expectations," Garp said, rolling his shoulders, his knuckles cracking like cannon fire.

The old swordsman, however, merely smiled—a calm, serene expression that carried the weight of decades of battle.

"I lost that title long ago," he said, his voice as tranquil as a still ocean. "I am no longer worthy of it."

But despite his words, there was no sadness, no regret—only a profound understanding of the path he walked. Losing had not broken him. It had freed him.

For decades, he had walked the path of the sword, thinking he had reached its peak. And then, a younger swordsman had cut through his delusions and shattered his ceiling. That loss had not been a defeat—it had been an awakening.

And now, with a new horizon before him, he sought to walk further than ever before. Garp raised an eyebrow, genuinely intrigued. For a man of his caliber to admit he was no longer the strongest…

That meant there was someone out there who had surpassed him. And if that was the case—who was this swordsman who had bested a legend? But Garp, ever the brawler, didn't press the matter. He didn't need to.

Right now, the only thing that mattered was the man in front of him—and the fight that was about to begin. The old swordsman chuckled, his eyes gleaming like polished steel.

"I now understand why that young man relentlessly sought out challenges," he mused. "Only when one ceases to fixate on a destination can they truly walk the path beyond."**

His fingers wrapped around the hilt of his katana, and as the blade whispered from its sheath, the air itself shuddered. In an instant—his entire presence changed.

The serene, aged warrior was gone. In his place stood a bladed tempest, a swordsman who had cut through mountains of enemies and weathered storms of steel.

The very pressure of his sword aura rippled outward, distorting the wind, sending shockwaves across the landscape. Trees splintered. Boulders cracked. The very earth trembled beneath their feet.

Hundreds of meters away, jagged scars carved themselves into the terrain, evidence of a sword that could slice through reality itself.

Garp only laughed.

A deep, booming sound that shook the island more than the sword pressure ever could.

"Bwahahaha! I don't intend to hold back!" He cracked his knuckles, his massive forearms hardening, turning pitch black as they became coated in an overwhelming layer of armament Haki.

The sheer density of his Armament Haki distorted the air, radiating a pressure that made the old swordsman's eyes brighten with excitement.

"I just hope I don't end up breaking your old bones!" Garp bellowed, his grin widening.

The swordsman exhaled, his grip tightening around his blade.

"Yes…" he whispered, almost to himself. "Only by fighting—by staking my life at every turn—can I truly ascend on the way of the blade."

His heart raced—not with fear, but with exhilaration. The young swordsman who had bested him had already walked beyond his reach. And yet, even that young man had admitted inferiority to another. A man who stood even higher.

What level had those two reached? The thought sent shivers of anticipation through him.

But for now—his path led through Garp the Hero. And he would carve his way forward.

The moment Garp moved, the world reacted. The earth groaned beneath his feet, the sheer power in his launch fracturing the ground into a spiderweb of destruction. Air detonated around him, and in an instant, he was upon the swordsman—a fist like a meteor streaking toward its target.

The old man stood his ground.

His katana blurred, a flash of steel against the coming storm. A single diagonal slash—so sharp, so refined, that the very fabric of the air split apart, sending a crescent-shaped shockwave roaring forward to intercept Garp's charge.

BOOOOM!

The two forces met in a cataclysmic collision—a deafening burst of energy erupted outward, leveling trees and tearing a canyon into the earth. The sky itself trembled as clouds spiraled above, the island caught in the throes of their battle.

But Garp was already moving through the aftermath. His other fist, blackened with Haki, crashed down like a divine hammer. The old swordsman barely had time to react—his blade came up just in time, meeting the blow with all the force of his swordsmanship.

KRAKOOOOOM!

The impact split the ground beneath them, a crater forming instantly as a shockwave rolled across the land, sending tidal waves rippling through the ocean beyond. The sheer force of it sent the swordsman skidding back, his feet digging trenches into the dirt as he fought to regain balance.

But Garp was relentless.

Before the swordsman could recover, the Marine Hero was already upon him again, fists like battering rams, each strike packed with enough force to obliterate mountains.

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

Each punch met the katana in a burst of sparks and steel. Each impact rippled through the air, sending shockwaves that blasted apart boulders and uprooted trees.

The swordsman countered, his blade dancing through the air like a whisper, aiming for precise, deadly strikes—but Garp was a force of nature.

A right hook crashed against the swordsman's side, sending him flying through a line of jagged cliffs. Stone shattered like glass, and the cliffs collapsed into rubble.

But before the dust could settle—

Garp was already there. He lunged forward, an upward punch rocketing toward the old man's chest, the sheer speed of it setting the very air ablaze. The swordsman twisted at the last possible second—his blade met the fist head-on.

BOOOOOOOOM!

The ground beneath them erupted—a geyser of rock and debris shooting skyward, the sheer force of their clash sending hurricane-like winds screaming outward.

The ocean parted.

A massive tidal wave, born from the sheer pressure of their battle, rose into the sky, as if the sea itself had recoiled from the power unleashed. The sky cracked with lightning. The island itself was changing.

The swordsman coughed, blood dripping from his lips. His arms shook.

Garp, still grinning, cracked his knuckles. "What, already feeling it?" The old man's gaze was steady. He breathed deeply, resetting his stance. His blade gleamed under the crackling sky, its edge coated in a pressure so sharp it made the very air hum.

Then—he moved. This time, it was the swordsman who attacked. His katana flickered, the slash so fast that it left afterimages in the air, as if multiple blades had been swung at once.

WHOOSH! WHOOSH! WHOOSH!

A storm of sword slashes rained down upon Garp, each one carving deep trenches into the battlefield, each one capable of bisecting an entire warship in half. Garp didn't dodge. He tanked the storm.

BOOOOM!

The first slash struck his chest, sending a burst of wind howling outward. The second collided with his shoulder, sending cracks splintering through the rocky terrain.

But the third? Garp caught it. With one bare hand, fingers wrapped in an obsidian layer of Haki so dense it warped the very air, he caught the descending blade mid-swing. The ground beneath them gave way.

A second later—

CRACK!

Garp's headbutt landed. It struck the old swordsman like a wrecking ball, launching him like a shooting star through three mountains before his body finally crashed into the ocean, the impact creating a massive water crater that took seconds to fill.

Garp exhaled, rolling his shoulders. The silence that followed was brief. Then—a tremor. A pulse of energy. The ocean boiled.

And then, from the depths, a pillar of golden light erupted—the swordsman ascending from the sea, his blade now radiating an overwhelming pressure, as if it had just awoken from slumber.

The real clash was coming. Garp grinned. "Now we're talking!" And then, they charged.

The old man's blade descended, carrying the weight of a lifetime of swordsmanship.

Garp's fist rose, the sheer density of his Haki making the very air scream in protest.

The moment they collided—

The island ceased to exist.

The sheer force of their impact shattered the land beneath them, sending a shockwave so powerful it parted the clouds in the heavens above.

The ocean roared back in defiance, waves hundreds of meters high rolling outward from the epicenter.

For miles, the seas churned violently, as if the very world had acknowledged the clash of monsters.