the summit war

(Jinx POV)

I happily skipped down the crumbling halls of Marineford, swinging my arms back and forth without a single care in the world. The walls groaned around me, parts of the ceiling crashed down, but I barely paid attention — just wandering like some aimless tourist waiting to stumble on something fun. I didn't have a destination in mind… until I spotted the jail sector tucked behind a half-destroyed hallway.

Something in my gut told me to check it out.

I shrugged and kept skipping along, humming to myself as I descended the cracked stairwell. Dust clung to the air, and the lights above flickered like they were trying to decide if they wanted to work or not. When I reached the bottom, I found rows of empty cells, iron doors swung open or blown off their hinges — except for one.

Curiosity piqued, I skipped over and leaned against the only cell that seemed occupied. Inside, lounging like the world wasn't falling apart, was a tall black man with dreads tied back into a ponytail, a plain white tank top, and a jacket draped over his shoulders like a cape. A long scar crossed his left eye, and a cigarette dangled lazily between his lips. He barely glanced at me, lifting one eyebrow with bored indifference, like my existence was no more than background noise.

Without breaking eye contact, the man casually reached into his jacket and pulled out a sleek cigarette case, nudging a fresh cigarette up with practiced ease.

A grin tugged at my lips.

I grabbed the iron bars with my right hand, and at my touch, black frost spread like a creeping plague across the metal. With a simple pull, the bars crumbled into icy shards, collapsing like they were made of sand. Stepping into the cell, I strolled up to the man, plucked the cigarette from his fingers, and with a snap of my fingers, summoned a small magenta flame of foxfire. I lit the cigarette, took a long drag, and blew out a perfectly formed smoke ring.

"Now that's high-quality smoke," I muttered, taking another slow, satisfying drag.

The man mirrored me, lazily taking a pull of his own cigarette before glancing over.

"And who the hell are you supposed to be? You sure don't look like a Marine, and you're way too cheerful to be some brat from Whitebeard's crew. No tattoo, no attitude." His voice was deep, calm, unbothered — like he was chatting in a bar, not a collapsing fortress.

I shrugged, conjuring a black ice chair, the surface sleek and glistening as I sat comfortably across from him. Another drag, another smoke ring, the scent of burnt tobacco and foxfire mixing in the stale air.

"Name's Jinx. Just woke up in a lab somewhere under this mess — apparently part of some top-secret government project. Figured I'd stretch my legs. Now, mystery man, I'm curious… why are you here? I'd assume the other prisoners got a one-way ticket to Impel Down."

The man chuckled, quiet and low, before crushing the last of his cigarette against the metal bench, flicking the ashes off his fingers with practiced ease.

"Jaylen," he introduced himself. "Let's just say I walked out on the Marines. Decided their brand of justice wasn't mine anymore. Had plans to disappear… but apparently, I have shit timing." He stretched lazily, cracking his neck. "War broke out before I could make my escape. Only reason I ain't chained up in Impel Down is because my brother's got some pull."

I raised a brow, leaning back, letting the chair creak under my weight. I studied him more carefully this time — the slouch, the blank expression, that lazy, drifting attitude that didn't care if the sky fell.

It clicked almost immediately.

"Kuzan… huh," I mused aloud, a grin spreading. "You've got that same slacker energy."

Jaylen's lips tugged into a crooked smirk.

"Tch. You catch on quick."

Before either of us could speak again, the entire base shook violently beneath our feet, dust raining from the fractured ceiling. My senses prickled. I felt it — a heavy, suffocating wave of divine energy rolling through the air like a thunderclap. I knew immediately who it belonged to. Sengoku had finally joined the battlefield. That also meant Whitebeard's time was running out, and from here on, things were about to get a whole lot messier — and frankly, a whole lot less fun.

I clicked my tongue in mild annoyance, pushing off the ice chair and heading toward the stairwell. But after a few steps, I paused at the edge of the cell, glancing back. With a lazy tilt of my head, I jerked my thumb towards the exit, silently asking if Jaylen was coming along. He let out a quiet sigh, crushed the remainder of his cigarette underfoot, and stood.

I followed as he strolled down the hallway, turning into an adjacent office. Curious, I peeked in just in time to see him strapping a katana around his waist, adjusting it with practiced ease before rolling his shoulders. Without a word, he walked back out, and I trailed behind him.

Jaylen took the lead this time, guiding me through another collapsing corridor. The sounds of distant war drums, roaring flames, and clashing titans echoed through the wreckage. A few minutes later, we arrived at an office with a cracked plaque barely hanging on its hinges: "Storage Department Head."

Jaylen glanced at me and spoke for the first time since leaving the cell.

"Help me look for a large crystal-like Devil Fruit. Should be hidden somewhere in here."

I shrugged, more amused than anything else, and pushed my way into the room. I didn't bother reading through files or checking labels — none of that mattered to me. Instead, I casually tossed papers, shoved boxes aside, and knocked over shelves without a second thought.

After a few minutes of pointless rummaging, something caught my eye — a cabinet with a handle on the top drawer but no matching handle on the bottom. Odd. Too odd to be a coincidence. Smirking, I grabbed the top drawer and ripped it clean off, wood splintering under my grip. Just as I expected, behind it was a hidden compartment embedded into the wall.

Wedged inside was a dusty chest, locked but old enough that it barely resisted when I forced it open. The moment the lid creaked back, I caught sight of it — a large, crystal-like Devil Fruit, its surface shimmering like frozen glass, swirling with a faint inner glow.

"Found it," I called over my shoulder, smirking.

Jaylen gave a satisfied nod, stepping forward, his eyes narrowing on the fruit as if seeing an old friend.

Jaylen didn't hesitate—he took a bite out of the crystal fruit, his jaw tightening the moment the disgusting taste hit his tongue. I watched, mildly entertained, as he visibly fought the instinct to gag. His entire posture tensed, but after a long moment of struggling through pure willpower, he finally managed to swallow the bite. Almost instantly, crystals began forming along his arms and shoulders, faint glowing patterns pulsing beneath his skin. A cocky smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, clearly satisfied with whatever power was now flowing through him.

Good for him, I thought, though I couldn't muster much excitement. If anything, I was more intrigued by the idea of testing his newfound strength against my own—it'd probably make for a fun warm-up.

Just as we were about to leave the office, something prickled at the edge of my senses—an itch in the back of my skull, a quiet pull from instincts honed sharper than any blade. I slowed my steps, narrowed my eyes, and shut out the noise of crumbling stone and distant battle cries. My body moved on its own, guided by pure instinct. I trailed my hand along the walls, letting my fingertips glide until I felt it: something wrong.

Without thinking, I clenched my fist and slammed it into the wall. My knuckles didn't meet solid resistance—instead, they punched straight through, as if the wall were made of smoke. I blinked my eyes open to find my hand buried in a false wall, the surface warping and cracking around my fist.

Grinning, I grabbed a chunk of the wall and ripped it clean away, revealing a hidden chamber tucked behind layers of steel and concrete. Jaylen glanced over, arching a brow but said nothing, letting me do my thing.

Inside, the first thing I noticed was a pile of dusty weapons carelessly stacked under a "For Rookie Recruits" sign. I barely spared them a glance—training scraps, nothing worth my attention. But tucked in the back, beneath a battered "Undiscovered / Do Not Touch" sign, were two chests and a pair of weapons resting on a reinforced rack.

Something in my gut told me these weren't meant for just anyone.

Not in the mood to share, I casually slipped both chests into my dimensional storage, the air around me swirling faintly as they vanished into the pocket space. My attention then shifted to the weapons. One of them immediately caught my eye—a katana that looked eerily similar in build to Enma and Ame no Habakiri, but with a distinct twist: the scabbard and hilt were black and gold, lined with faint, ancient patterns that seemed to pulse with latent energy.

Gripping the handle, I drew the blade in one smooth motion.

The moment the blade left its sheath, a heavy, suffocating aura washed over the room, a mix of void-like emptiness and the ferocity of Conqueror's Haki. The energy wasn't wild—it was alive, studying me, probing me, testing if I was worthy. It felt almost identical to how Enma had judged Zoro in Wano, except this was darker… colder… and yet somehow familiar.

I stood there, letting the aura crawl up my arm, letting it coil around my chest and down my spine. Anyone else would've dropped the sword in terror—but I stayed still, lips curling into a calm grin. I didn't resist, didn't fight it. I let it wrap around me, tighten its grip.

Not because I knew it wouldn't hurt me… but because something deeper told me it wouldn't dare.

No logic—just instinct. And in my experience, instinct was rarely wrong.

And just as I'd suspected, my instincts proved right.

The overwhelming aura that had surged from the katana slowly receded, flowing back into the blade like a tide pulling away from shore. In its absence, I felt something click—a connection, subtle but unmistakable. It wasn't unlike the bond I had formed with the Black Mortal Blade. A thread of recognition. Soul-deep understanding.

"Hmmm... I really should start giving you guys names," I muttered aloud, eyes drifting between the two weapons now resting before me. "What would suit you...?"

My gaze fell to the Black Mortal Blade first—the one that had served me loyally since my awakening.

"Let's see… from my world's language, Kuroshigai no Shōzetsu should translate to something like Black Death Severance. Has a nice ring to it—dramatic, poetic, and just the right amount of threatening."

I nodded to myself, rolling the name on my tongue, and when I looked down at the blade, a faint pulse shimmered along its edge. Not a word, not a sound—just a whisper of acknowledgement. The weapon accepted its name.

Then I turned my attention to the newly bonded katana—the one forged in black steel veined with frozen blue, still humming with remnants of its chilling aura.

"Now you... You're something else," I murmured, running a finger along the scabbard. "If you're the parent of Enma, then your name should reflect something deeper... something from beyond."

I tapped my chin thoughtfully.

"Shugoshiryō," I said finally. "Guardian Spirit of the Underworld. Not exactly what I feel from you, but... 'guardian' has many meanings. God. Goddess. Warden. Gatekeeper. You could be any of them."

As if in agreement, the sword thrummed in my grip, a slow, resonant beat that echoed in my chest. Both blades—Shōzetsu and Shugoshiryō—had accepted the names I'd given them, like old spirits finally spoken to after a long silence.

Satisfied, I slid Shōzetsu into my dimensional space. As much as the thought of dual-wielding sounded cool in theory, I hadn't practiced it seriously in my past life. I wasn't the type to flail around with two swords just to look impressive. No—better to master what I was already good at.

Then my eyes drifted to the last weapon in the room.

A scythe.

Most of it was forged from sleek, black steel, but the blade itself was like frozen crystal, carved from ice so pure it shimmered with ethereal light. Even from a distance, it radiated a cold aura that seeped into the bones, commanding silence and respect. No theatrics. No judgment. Just presence.

"Yeah... I'm definitely taking you," I thought with a smirk. "You're practically made for me."

Without hesitation, I reached out and gripped the scythe's shaft. The cold bit into my palm, but it didn't push me away. If anything, it felt welcoming.

I nodded, and without another word, placed the scythe into my inventory, a mental note already forming:

Train with it soon. This one wasn't just for show.

(Jinx's POV)

Just as I was daydreaming about how many aura points I'd gain from my new scythe—maybe even enough to unlock something broken—a voice snapped me out of it.

"Hey! You done in there yet, or are you stroking your dick in there?!" Jaylen's tired and annoyed voice rang from the other room.

My brow twitched.

This motherf—

Without another word, I marched back toward the office, fists clenched and ready to verbally maul him into another timeline.

(3rd Person POV)

Outside, chaos reigned across the shattered battlefield of Marineford.

The tide had turned, and Whitebeard, bloodied but unbroken, had called for his forces to retreat. But to everyone's shock, the old titan himself remained rooted to the ground.

"Retreat. All of you. Now," he commanded, his voice carrying the weight of gods.

"Pops!" his men cried.

"We don't wanna leave you!"

"You have to come with us!"

"You're our Captain!"

Whitebeard glared at them through blood and pain.

"Do you disobey your Captain's orders?! GO!"

To emphasize his point, he raised a fist and cracked the air itself, the raw power of the Tremor-Tremor Fruit splitting the sky and tearing through the ruined remains of Marineford's foundation. The ground heaved and shuddered—but even so, it was clear:

His strength had waned.

In his prime, one or two punches like that would've sent the entire island sinking beneath the sea. Now, it merely fractured what was already broken.

"Now's our chance! Kill Whitebeard! He's dying!" shouted a coward among the ranks.

"He's too weak to stand!"

"Let's end this!"

"Shut up! We follow his orders!"

"No one wants to leave him behind!"

"But… he's our Pops!"

Before anything more could be said, an explosion erupted from inside Marineford itself, a shockwave ripping through the air. Dust and debris clouded the battlefield as all heads turned toward the source.

A black figure was blasted through a wall, soaring through the air like a meteor before crashing down hard beside Aokiji, sending cracks spidering across the marble courtyard.

The dust cleared—and jaws dropped.

"Jaylen?!" Aokiji shouted in disbelief, eyes wide as he recognized his younger brother crawling out of the crater.

Somehow, Jaylen still had a lit cigarette hanging from his lips as he stood, casually dusting himself off. A bruise bloomed along his cheek, black snowflakes trailing from it before melting into nothing.

"Tch… Damn," he muttered, rubbing his jaw. "Who knew someone so small could hit like a meteor."

Then came the voice—elegant, piercing, and furious.

"JAYLEN, YOU SON OF A BITCH! GET YOUR ASS BACK HERE SO I CAN PUNCH YOU AGAIN!"

Every head snapped toward the massive hole Jaylen had just been launched through.

Standing in the wreckage, framed by smoke and shattered stone, was a gothic vision of wrath.

A beautiful, dark-haired woman clad in a black trench coat, spiked chain choker, joker motif, snowflake-patterned stockings, and leather boots. Her eyes burned with fury, and a black-gold katana shimmered in her right hand.

The Marines and pirates alike stared in confusion and awe.

Jaylen looked up at her, scowling.

"JINX, YOU SON OF A WHORE! COME DOWN HERE AND TRY IT, YOU BITCH!"

That… was a mistake.

The moment the word "mother" left his lips, something snapped.

From the hole above, a violent burst of Conqueror's Haki exploded outward like a storm unleashed. The skies darkened, clouds scattered, and the very air cracked under the weight of it. The shockwave shook all of Marineford, fracturing walls, tilting towers, and forcing the battlefield to a dead stop.

The sheer pressure was suffocating—cold, divine, and absolute.

Even the most hardened warriors felt it crawl down their spines like the kiss of death.

Dozens collapsed instantly—Marines, pirates, soldiers alike—everyone below the rank of Vice Admiral dropped unconscious, eyes rolling back as they were swallowed by the overwhelming force.

Those who remained standing—Whitebeard, Garp, Sengoku, and a few others—watched in stunned silence. They knew this kind of Haki. Not just its scale, but its quality—pure, unfiltered, unnatural.

It was the kind of will that didn't just conquer.

It buried.

Aokiji turned his head slowly toward Jaylen.

"…What the hell kind of monster did you piss off?"

Jaylen took a drag from his cigarette, exhaled slowly, and muttered:

"One that really, really doesn't like your mom jokes."