The battlefield roared with chaos. Ice cracked beneath the fury of combat, cannon fire echoed across the bay, and the cries of wounded men mingled with the clash of steel. Amidst it all, the Sakazuki remained seated — silent sentinels beneath the execution platform.
Then.
Admiral Akainu stood.
The motion was slow, deliberate. His chair creaked as he rose, the sound barely audible over the din of war, yet somehow it carried. Marines nearby straightened instinctively, as if the very act of his rising demanded order.
He stepped forward, boots striking the stone with a heavy rhythm. His crimson coat billowed behind him, the Justice insignia etched across his back like a brand. His face was carved from granite — stern, unyielding, and utterly devoid of mercy.
The air around him began to shimmer.
Heat radiated from his body, subtle at first, then growing. The stone beneath his feet hissed. Tiny cracks formed, steam curling upward. His right arm began to bubble, magma seeping from his skin like blood from a wound. It coated his fist, dripping in slow, deliberate globs that hissed as they struck the ground.
He paused at the edge of the platform, looking out over the frozen bay.
Pirates were advancing. Marines were holding the line. And in the distance, Whitebeard stood like a mountain, his bisento gleaming in the light.
Akainu's eyes narrowed.
He raised his magma-coated fist.
"You cling to a dying age," he said, voice low and sharp. "But justice… justice is eternal."
He stepped off the platform.
Each footfall melted the ice beneath him. Steam erupted with every step, forming a trail of boiling water and scorched stone. Marines parted instinctively, giving him space. Even among the Admirals, Akainu's presence was suffocating.
He walked toward the front lines, toward the clash of pirates and soldiers. His gaze swept the battlefield, calculating, merciless.
A group of Whitebeard pirates broke through the Marine line, charging toward the plaza.
Akainu didn't slow.
He raised his arm.
"Ryusei Kazan."
The sky above him darkened as molten fists of magma erupted upward, then arced down like falling stars. The impact was catastrophic. Explosions tore through the ice, sending bodies flying, melting frozen terrain into bubbling craters. The pirates screamed, some incinerated before they could react.
The battlefield paused — just for a moment — as the scale of destruction settled in.
Akainu lowered his arm, his face unchanged.
"Those who defy justice," he said, "will be erased."
He continued forward, the ice melting in his wake, the war parting around him like a tide before a volcano.
The battlefield was a storm of fire and ice, but Ace saw only one figure.
From the rear of the frozen bay, a shadow rose — vast, unmistakable. Little Oars Jr. was moving. His pale skin was streaked with blood, his eyes wide with desperation. He wasn't just charging. He was reaching.
"Ace-brooo!"
The cry tore through the air, louder than cannon fire, heavier than the quake of battle. Ace's head snapped up, eyes locking onto the giant.
"No… Oars…"
Oars Jr. lumbered forward, his massive katana dragging behind him like a fallen tower. Cannonballs struck his body and bounced off. Marines scattered before him, powerless to stop the advance of a creature driven by love.
"I'm coming to save you!"
Ace strained against his chains, his voice hoarse.
"Don't! You'll be killed!"
But Oars Jr. didn't slow. His strides crushed ice beneath him. His tears fell like rain. He wasn't fighting for glory. He was fighting for a promise.
Then came the first blow.
A compressed bubble of air — Kuma's Ursus Shock — struck him square in the chest. The impact rippled through his body, and for a moment, he faltered. His breath hitched. Blood sprayed from his mouth.
But he kept moving.
Ace's voice cracked.
"Please! Turn back!"
Oars Jr. roared, louder than before.
"I promised you, Ace-bro! I said I'd come!"
From above, Doflamingo's strings lashed out. They wrapped around Oars Jr.'s leg — and with a flick, severed it clean.
Slash.
The scream that followed was not just pain. It was heartbreak. Oars Jr. collapsed to one knee, blood pouring from the stump. His body trembled, but his hand reached forward.
Ace's eyes filled with tears.
"Stop! You've done enough!"
But Oars Jr. dragged himself forward, one arm pulling his massive frame across the ice.
"I just… wanted to see you…"
Then Moria struck.
His shadow detached, slithering beneath the giant. It began to pull, to tear, to steal.
Ace screamed.
"No! Don't take him!"
Oars Jr. groaned, his voice fading.
"I'm sorry… Ace-bro…"
His hand stretched forward one last time.
Then he fell.
The crash was deafening. His body skidded across the ice, carving a path through the battlefield. When he stopped, his outstretched hand lay just short of the plaza wall. His fingers twitched once, then stilled.
Silence.
Ace stared, frozen. Marines watched in awe. Pirates cried out in anguish.
But then — someone saw it.
"Oars… he made us a path!"
The realization spread like fire.
His body, massive and broken, had formed a bridge. A way across the shattered ice. A direct route to the execution platform.
"For Oars! For Ace!"
The pirates surged forward, climbing over the fallen giant, their grief turning to fury. Ace watched them come, his heart breaking.
"Thank you… brother."
Ace bit his lip until it bled.
"Oars… you idiot… Why…?"
His voice was barely audible, a whisper choked by grief. His knuckles were white against the chains that bound him. He could do nothing but watch.
Then — a sound.
A low groan, deep and grinding, like tectonic plates shifting beneath the earth. Oars Jr.'s body stirred. His one visible eye flickered open, clouded with pain but burning with something deeper. He looked toward the scaffold.
"Ace… bro…"
The words were a tremor, weak but unmistakable.
"I… I can still… fight…"
On the Moby Dick, Whitebeard watched in silence. His expression was unreadable, but a muscle twitched in his jaw.
Ace cried out, voice hoarse.
"Stop it! You've done enough! You'll die!"
But Oars Jr. didn't stop.
He began to move.
It was slow, agonizing. His remaining leg strained. His arms, slick with blood, trembled as they pushed against the ice. The frozen bay groaned beneath him. His katana, chipped and massive, was dragged forward and used as a crutch.
Doflamingo laughed from his perch.
"Fuffuffuffu! Still got some fight left in him? How entertaining!"
Moria frowned.
"Kishishishi… My shadow extraction was incomplete… He's still conscious!"
Oars Jr. rose.
He was a horror — bleeding, broken, but burning with resolve. He turned his head toward the Moby Dick.
"Whitebeard-ossan… Please… let me clear the way… Let me reach Ace-bro…"
Whitebeard's gaze met his.
For a long moment, nothing moved. The battlefield held its breath.
Then, Whitebeard nodded.
"Gurarara… Do as you will, my son. Show them the strength of our family."
Oars Jr.'s eyes blazed.
"Thank you… Pops!"
He roared — a sound of pure, primal fury — and exploded into motion.
His earlier lumbering advance was gone. Now he rampaged. He swung his katana with reckless abandon, each sweep sending ice and bodies flying. Marines screamed and scattered. Cannonballs struck him, but he didn't flinch. Each impact seemed to fuel him further.
"He's… he's gone berserk!" a Marine officer stammered.
On the Warlords' dais, Mihawk stirred.
He had watched the carnage with detached interest, his eyes sharp and calculating. But now, as the giant tore through formations, his gaze narrowed.
"This is becoming… unsightly."
His hand moved to the hilt of Yoru.
The air around him sharpened.
He stepped forward.
There was no anger in his movement, no cruelty — only precision. Mihawk was not a man who struck out of emotion. He struck to restore order. To measure strength. To eliminate chaos.
And Little Oars Jr., in his final blaze, had become chaos incarnate.
Before Mihawk could draw his blade, a voice cut through the din — deep, calm, and unmistakably firm.
"Hold, Hawkeye."
The words weren't shouted, but they carried. The battlefield seemed to pause. Eyes turned toward the Warlords' dais.
Ragnar had stepped forward.
He wasn't loud. He didn't posture. But the way he moved — slow, deliberate — made people watch. His golden eyes were fixed on Little Oars Jr., who was still rampaging across the ice, blood pouring from his wounds, his katana carving through Marine formations like a scythe through wheat.
Ragnar's usual relaxed demeanor was gone. In its place was something sharper. Not pity— something fierce, Rage, Anger, frustration.
"This one…" he said, voice low but clear, "this warrior's last stand… it's not for you to end."
Mihawk didn't respond immediately. His hand remained on Yoru's hilt, his gaze still locked on the giant.
Ragnar took another step forward, placing himself in Mihawk's path. His posture was loose, almost casual, but there was no mistaking the intent.
"If you insist on cutting down a man burning through the last of his soul," Ragnar said, "you'll find your path… inconvenient."
There was no threat in his tone. Just a statement.
Mihawk's eyes narrowed. He studied Ragnar for a long moment — the relaxed stance, the unassuming presence, the quiet certainty. A duel here would be messy. Unnecessary. And perhaps, beneath it all, Mihawk understood.
After a beat, he released Yoru's hilt.
"As you wish," he said, voice flat. "Let the beast burn out."
He turned away, returning to his pillar, his interest in Oars Jr. fading.
Ragnar gave a small nod, then looked back toward the battlefield. His eyes softened, just slightly.
"May you find peace," he murmured.
Freed from Mihawk's looming blade, Oars Jr. continued his rampage.
He was no longer a soldier. He was a force. His katana swung wide, tearing through barricades. Marines screamed and scattered. Cannonballs struck him, but he didn't flinch. Each impact seemed to fuel him further.
His blood painted the ice red. His breath came in ragged gasps. But he kept moving.
Toward the wall.
Toward Ace.
On the execution platform, Ace watched in horror.
"Oars… please… stop…"
But Oars Jr. didn't hear. Or he didn't care.
"ACE-BROOOO!"
His voice was hoarse now, broken. But it still carried.
Sengoku's voice rang out, sharp and strained.
"Stop him! He's going to breach the wall!"
Marines redoubled their efforts. Gunfire, cannons, even close-range assaults — nothing slowed the giant. He was burning through the last of his life, and he was determined to make it count.
He reached the inner wall.
His katana slammed into it, cracking stone and ice alike. Marines were flung aside. The wall groaned under the pressure.
Oars Jr. roared again, louder than before.