CHAPTER 11: RETALIATION

A/N: HELLO, SINCE I DID NOT POST YESTERDAY, HERE, ENJOY 2 CHAPTERS FROM ME, TO APOLOGIZE.

---------------

As Michael reached the God's Knight Palace, he noticed Saint Ju Peter exiting through the main doors. Michael approached him, while Ju Peter, already aware of his presence, waited silently.

"What are you doing here? Aren't you supposed to be busy as a Warrior God?" Michael asked, genuinely curious—this was the first time he had seen his grandfather near the quarters of the God's Knights.

"Mind your tone," Ju Peter replied sharply. "I may be your grandfather, but outside of private matters, I am your Elder. Do not forget that."

"Forgive me then, Elder. What brings you to our humble quarters, Warrior God of Agriculture?" Michael responded with a faint smirk and a touch of sarcasm in his voice—something he only allowed himself with those he considered closest, though even that list was sparse. Michael remained aloof, having formed no real friendships within the training batch of the God's Knights.

"It's about your future," Ju Peter said flatly, unfazed by the tone. Michael, hearing this, raised an eyebrow, curious.

"Would you care to provide the details? Since it concerns my future," Michael asked, wondering whether Ju Peter intended to share anything substantial. To his surprise, Ju Peter seemed willing.

"We are planning for you to complete your training and officially join the God's Knights," Saint Ju Peter declared, informing Michael of the recent discussion with Garling.

"Do I have any say in this?" Michael asked, his expression darkening. He stared directly at Ju Peter, his demeanor shifting into the aloof and intimidating presence he was known for. His gaze, cold and sharp, felt lethal enough to unnerve an ordinary man.

"Why? I thought you would welcome it. You'd no longer be wasting your time," Ju Peter replied, unfazed by Michael's glare as he met his eyes without hesitation.

"I do," Michael said calmly, "but I don't like it when others make decisions for me. You know me well enough to realize that, Elder."

Without waiting for a response, Michael turned and walked away. Ju Peter simply watched his back, smirking slightly—this was the expected reaction.

--------------

After his conversation with Saint Ju Peter, Michael arrived at the room where he usually trained—one that bore the Abyss Mark of Shamrock Island, the place where their intense spars were often held. Upon entering, he saw Garling already inside, standing silently, as if he had been waiting.

"Ah, you're finally here. Let's go," Garling said, masking the seething rage he felt inside. His mind was clouded with thoughts of vengeance. He couldn't act directly against the Five Elders, not yet, but he could use Michael as a proxy to vent his frustration, even though Michael was his own son and entirely innocent in the matter.

Michael, unaware of Garling's hidden intentions, was eager for the spar. The last time they had clashed, it had pushed him to new limits—and led to a significant boost in his strength.

They both teleported to a different island this time—one without a castle or any surveillance Den Den Mushi to monitor them. Without warning, Garling launched an attack on Michael, not even announcing the start of the spar. Michael, relying on his Advanced Observation Haki, detected the incoming strike, but Garling abruptly unleashed his Conqueror's Haki, disrupting Michael's focus and canceling his Observation. In the next instant, Garling's blade struck Michael in the chest, leaving a deep wound dangerously close to his heart.

Just moments earlier, Michael had been contemplating asking Garling and Ju Peter for permission to travel the world—to test himself against true life-and-death opponents. But now, Garling's killing intent was unmistakable. Michael realized, with a cold clarity, that this was no spar. Garling wasn't merely training him—he was trying to break him, to push him so close to death. While Garling didn't truly intend to kill him, his actions spoke of a ruthless desire to shatter Michael's limits, regardless of the cost.

"It seems I was getting too comfortable around the Celestial Dragons, forgetting how deeply unreasonable their nature can be," Michael muttered, rising to his feet as his body began healing rapidly thanks to the Hercules Method.

Garling, watching Michael stand, immediately lunged at him—no warning, no words—his sword already crackling with Conqueror's Haki. His mind was blank, filled only with rage and wounded pride.

Michael, however, viewed this ambush differently. This was no longer a spar—it was a lesson. A moment to grow. As Garling came at him, Michael instinctively reached for his Observation Haki, but once again, Garling's pressure was suppressing it.

So instead, Michael tapped into the deeper instincts passed on from Cain—his inherited battle precognition. His mind sharpened as he watched the telltale blue trail of danger sweep toward him, a spectral premonition of Garling's attack.

With calm precision, Michael shifted and swung his sword early, intercepting Garling's strike before it could fully reach him. The clash landed clean, his blade biting into Garling.

But Garling didn't flinch. The injury barely slowed him. His body was already healing the moment the blow struck, undeterred, as if pain were a mere formality.

Ruthless to oneself, merciless toward others.Garling lived by that mantra. He didn't flinch at injury—he knew his body would recover, no matter how deep the wound. Michael, on the other hand, had no such luxury. His healing was strong, but not absolute.

Michael understood this brutal truth. That's why he moved without hesitation. He attacked with everything he had—no restraint, no buildup. Conqueror's Haki erupted violently from his body, clashing with the world around him like crashing thunder. His Devil Fruit powers surged in tandem, twisting the battlefield in a display of raw force.

There was no warm-up, no testing the waters. Michael had to win.Because now, he was fighting for his life.

A flash of black lightning tore across the island.

Garling struck first—his blade a streak of obsidian force, crashing down like judgment. Michael sidestepped, the edge kissing his shoulder and tearing cloth and skin, blood arcing in the air.

Before his feet even touched the ground, Michael retaliated. His sword spun with deadly precision, cloaked in Ryuo and lined with the crackling filaments of Advanced Conqueror's Haki. The impact shattered the air, sending shockwaves across the cracked battlefield.

Garling didn't retreat. He pushed through the pressure, blade meeting blade with a thunderclap. Dust and stone shot into the air. Every clash split the ground further, creating fissures that radiated outward like spiderwebs.

Michael blurred—teleportation. He reappeared behind Garling mid-swing.

Garling twisted, parrying with one hand and slamming an elbow into Michael's ribs with the other, lifting him off the ground. Michael tumbled, rebounded mid-air, and landed in a crouch, coughing blood.

The next moment, Garling was on him again. No wasted motion. No restraint.

Their swords met again and again. Neither touched the other's weapon directly. The space between them sizzled with the invisible collision of Supreme Haki, bursting in ripples that blasted debris in all directions. Rocks floated. The sky above them darkened.

Michael launched himself upward. At the peak, he twisted and dove—momentum and gravity aligning behind his blade. Garling raised his sword two-handed, intercepting the strike just as Michael crashed down.

The island buckled.

A crater formed beneath their feet. The force leveled trees miles away. Birds fled from the shockwave. Black lightning surged from their weapons into the sky, crackling through the clouds.

Michael surged forward—his Devil Fruit active now. Tremors pulsed beneath his feet, the earth rising in jagged spikes as he channeled seismic force through his blows.

Garling's blade cut through them like silk. He advanced unrelenting, exchanging blows at a rhythm beyond mortal eyes. For each step Michael gained, Garling pushed him back two.

Blood flowed freely now from both. Each attack scarred the island. Each block shaved seconds off their endurance.

Then, Michael vanished again.

He reappeared above Garling, blade high, spinning.

A roar of impact.

Garling caught the strike, feet digging into stone. He countered immediately, swinging upward with brutal simplicity. Michael crossed his blades to block—but was sent flying, crashing through a rock pillar, then skidding across the broken land.

He rose.

Garling was already there.

Their blades met once more—

—and the sky split open.