The fight had gone well enough at the start, but as it dragged on, Shirakawa was now getting thoroughly beaten down by Sengoku.
That said, Sengoku wasn't in great shape either. Maintaining his Great Buddha form was clearly an enormous drain on his stamina—cold sweat beaded his forehead, and his breathing had grown ragged, though nowhere near as badly as Shirakawa's. His body bore several sword wounds, including two very deep gashes, but to Sengoku, those probably didn't amount to much.
"Damn it... am I really destined to fall here?"
Shirakawa's face had twisted into something savage, his heart seething with unwillingness. He looked nothing like the man he usually was.
One could say his voyage across the Grand Line had only just begun. He had no desire to go down this soon.
"You'll be spending the rest of your days in Impel Down."
Sengoku seemed ready to deliver the final blow.
This time, he brought both hands together, then slowly spread them apart. A golden circle materialized between his palms, and then—he thrust it straight at Shirakawa.
The speed was immense. Shirakawa had no time to react. In an instant, the golden light engulfed him once more.
"Captain!"
Seeing this, the crew of the Silver Pirates all cried out in alarm—and that cry was exactly what exposed their own openings.
The Marines here were all elite. They wouldn't miss a chance like this.
Kurokam's arm took a direct hit from Sakazuki's fist—at a weak point in his Armament Haki, the blow scorched a massive burn across his skin.
Yulistin had several holes punched clean through his body by Borsalino's lasers.
Abro and Salar each gained two fresh sword wounds in that single moment. Riddle and Mute were likewise struck multiple times by Marine attacks.
All of it happened in the span of a breath.
"Am I... really finished this time?"
Shirakawa lay on the ground, no longer possessing the strength to rise. His hollow eyes stared up at the Sword of Damocles suspended above him.
Sengoku, now reverted to human form, walked slowly to Shirakawa's side. Watching his opponent's body gradually regenerate, a ruthless glint surfaced in Sengoku's eyes.
"A troublesome ability like this—I absolutely cannot allow it to remain."
Sengoku's intent to kill was plain.
"Giving up already?"
A voice suddenly resounded within Shirakawa's mind.
"Who's there?!"
Then, a translucent figure appeared face-to-face with Shirakawa. By the looks of it, only Shirakawa himself could see this apparition.
"The Silver King?!" Shirakawa cried out in shock—though only in his mind, of course. He wasn't about to waste energy speaking out loud right now.
Indeed, what stood before Shirakawa was a phantom image of the Silver King. And the figure that had manifested was not the body belonging to Shiro—it was the true Silver King, the body of Adolf K. Weismann himself.
It was then that Shirakawa suddenly noticed: the world around him seemed frozen in place. No one moved—even the magma flowing from Sakazuki's attack hung motionless.
"Are you truly prepared to end things like this?"
Weismann asked him the question once more, his gaze fixed squarely on Shirakawa's eyes. The look was deeply penetrating, as though he could see straight into a man's soul. No surprise there—he was an old monster who had lived for decades.
Under that gaze, a flicker of timidity stirred in Shirakawa's heart—the kind of unease a counterfeit feels in the presence of the genuine article, mingled with a hint of self-loathing.
"What else can I do? I'm simply no match for him."
Shirakawa's voice was feeble. He'd originally figured that even if he couldn't go fifty-fifty with Sengoku, it should at least be seventy-thirty. But the way things looked now, it was more like ninety-ten.
"The Silver King may not possess the raw destructive power of the other Kings, but it still granted you a unique ability, did it not?"
"I know. Immutability—basically agelessness and immortality. But that means nothing against Sengoku."
"Yet you've forgotten one ability that all Kings possess."
"What ability?"
"That's something you'll need to figure out on your own."
Hearing Weismann's words, Shirakawa sank into thought. Kings... Kings... Kings... Suddenly, his eyes lit up.
"That's right—the Clan."
Before Shirakawa could voice it, Weismann had already answered for him.
"But... I have no idea how to turn my crew into my Clan."
Shirakawa's voice was tinged with despair.
"The method lies within your heart."
Weismann tapped a finger against the spot over Shirakawa's heart.
"Within my heart?" Shirakawa fell into confusion once again.
"Haven't you always held a sense of detachment toward this world and the Silver King's power?"
Weismann's words struck like a bolt of clarity. It was a question Shirakawa had buried in the deepest recesses of his heart—and yet it had been unearthed all the same.
Yes. Even after all this time, after countless battles, Shirakawa had never quite shaken the feeling of unreality—the lingering sense that this might all be an incredibly vivid dream.
"I understand now."
With Weismann's guidance, a sudden clarity washed over Shirakawa. So what if this was an illusory world? His consciousness was here. He was living here. That made this the real world.
"Who are you, really? Are you truly Weismann?"
Shirakawa abruptly questioned the identity of the figure before him.
"No. I am you."
The Weismann facing him grinned slyly—then shifted back into Shirakawa's own form.
"Knew it."
Shirakawa let out a rueful, bitter smile. Who else could possibly know him this well but himself?
Then, the phantom dissolved into faint silvery-white motes of light and flowed into Shirakawa's body.
In that instant, Shirakawa felt as though his entire being had been elevated. A profound comfort spread through him, as if shackles that had imprisoned him for years had suddenly been unlocked. The outside world resumed its normal flow.
"Hmm?"
Sengoku frowned, puzzled. Something about Shirakawa's bearing had changed. That defeated, listless air had vanished completely—replaced by the same brimming confidence he'd exuded when they first met.
"What just happened?"
"Sorry, everyone. I made you worry."
Shirakawa suddenly shouted. The moment his crew heard that voice, a wave of calm settled over their hearts.
"You still have a trick up your sleeve, Shirakawa? As things stand, there's no way you're slipping out of my grasp."
"Who knows?"
Shirakawa smiled mysteriously. Silvery-white light erupted from his entire body, resonating with the Sword of Damocles hanging in the sky above.
And in that same moment, white light suddenly enveloped the bodies of his crewmates—including Mol and the other two who hadn't even been fighting.
"What is this?"
Every Marine stared in astonishment. Even the crew of the Silver Pirates themselves wore expressions of sheer disbelief.
/-\
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