No blood. No wounds. Not even… pain.
And yet, an icy, hollow terror—like his very existence was being erased, peeled away piece by piece—surged violently along those black tendrils, flooding deep into his soul.
Gern Reginald Sigmar hung there in midair, pinned in place, his entire body rigid and unmoving.
The ceaseless shockwaves that had ravaged the island moments before came to an abrupt halt. Silence fell—absolute and suffocating.
Below, the battered skeletal horse ceased its struggle, collapsing and reverting once more into the robed human form of Saint Nasujuro.
And before Gern…
Imu advanced.
Following the path of those pitch-black tendrils that pierced through Gern's body, Imu "walked" forward step by step—until it stood directly before him, so close their faces were nearly touching, its gaze calm, indifferent, and absolute.
From Imu's form, two more black tendrils unfurled.
One of them curled downward, lifting the black blade Bahuang from where it lay embedded among the shattered rocks, and slowly raised it… presenting it before the immobilized Gern.
But Gern could not move.
Not even a finger.
As if amused, Imu loosened its grip ever so slightly.
Clang.
Bahuang slipped free and fell once more, stabbing into the rubble below, its blade trembling faintly as it let out a low, lonely hum.
Then, a voice—tinged with faint disdain and quiet boredom—echoed directly within Gern's mind.
That inhuman, layered tone now carried the slightest trace of mockery.
"Heh… not a 'D.' Not a descendant of 'Davy,' either…"
"Wielding the relic of a failure…"
"And daring to challenge me."
"How… laughable."
Imu spoke as though appraising a flawed piece of art.
Then, its tone shifted—subtly, almost imperceptibly—gaining the faintest hint of intrigue.
"However… your Devil Fruit ability…"
"…does surprise me."
"No wonder you've managed to reach this far."
The voice turned cold once more.
"But your choice…"
"…has cost you everything."
Gern remained suspended, unable to move even his eyes. Yet deep within, the remnants of his consciousness raged in defiance against that creeping annihilation.
He could feel it clearly.
These black tendrils weren't merely piercing him—they were erasing him.
Dissolving his sense of self.
Devouring his emotions.
Stripping away his identity, as if someone were erasing words from paper with a merciless hand.
You're trying to manipulate my emotions…
With the last fragments of his will, Gern forced a response into existence—barely more than a thought pressed through crushing darkness.
…or rather… erase "me."
Even now, his Conqueror's Haki—though heavily suppressed—flickered like a dying flame in a storm, stubbornly resisting this absolute intrusion.
"A commendable 'Haki,'" Imu acknowledged flatly.
"But still… nothing more than a slightly resilient ant."
The moment those words fell—
A black tendril rose, aligning itself with Gern's forehead.
"Because I… can simply be… forceful."
Then—
It moved forward.
Pop.
A faint, almost inaudible sound—like a bubble bursting.
The tendril pierced through Gern's forehead.
Still no wound.
No blood.
No physical damage.
But in that instant—
The light within his mind—the fragile flame of self-awareness that had endured through sheer will—was extinguished by an endless, freezing darkness.
Every thought.
Every memory.
Every emotion.
Every sensation.
Every shred of resistance.
Everything that defined Gern Reginald Sigmar—
Vanished.
His eyes lost all light, becoming hollow… lifeless.
The world disappeared.
Island. Ocean. Sky. Enemies. Allies. The path he had walked—all of it erased like chalk wiped clean from a board.
What remained was not even darkness—
But an infinite, boundless void where even the concept of darkness did not exist.
Silence.
Absolute nothingness.
…
Imu withdrew all of its tendrils.
Gern's body fell like a puppet with severed strings, dropping straight from the sky—
Crash.
He struck the rubble below, dust rising softly around him.
No movement.
No response.
The wind continued to howl across the ruined island.
The fractured earth.
The black blade Bahuang embedded in stone.
And a body lying among the debris—
Its vital signs perhaps still present…
But its soul and consciousness seemingly wiped clean—formatted into nothingness.
"Skyquake" Gern…
Had, it seemed…
Reached his end.
Not of the body—
But of existence itself.
"Perfect."
Imu had no intention of killing him.
That would be wasteful.
A being capable of defeating one of the Five Elders… of touching the higher realms of Conqueror's Haki… of developing his Devil Fruit to a level that could threaten even immortality—
Such an existence held far greater value than a corpse.
Perhaps even comparable to Harald of old.
And so—
Imu would reshape him.
Erase his will, preserve his strength, his instincts, his combat ability—
And turn him into something more perfect.
A vessel.
A puppet through which it could descend.
A fate far worse than death.
…
As if guided by that will, dark crimson markings—like the patterns of an abyssal contract—began to spread across Gern's body.
His form trembled faintly, as though something deep within still resisted.
But Imu's will suppressed everything.
Slowly.
Relentlessly.
The transformation continued…
Until—
Just as those markings reached his heart—
BOOM!!!
A violent, discordant tremor erupted from the deepest core of Gern's being.
Not Haki.
Not the power of the Tremor-Tremor Fruit.
But something more primal.
More fundamental.
Something tied to the very concept of vibration itself—
As if the origin of "tremor" was awakening from within him.
With a thunderous pulse—
His heart beat.
His entire body jolted violently.
The five black tendrils trembled, struck by an unseen force!
For the first time—
A flicker of unmistakable surprise appeared in Imu's eyes.
The next instant—
CRACK—!
Centered on Gern's heart, a ring of pale fractures burst into existence, spreading outward like shattered ice across a frozen surface.
Wherever those cracks passed—
The dark crimson "blessing" markings disintegrated instantly, vanishing like frost thrown into boiling oil.
"This is…?"
Imu's voice wavered—just slightly.
This was not resistance from will.
Nor Haki.
But something deeper.
Something closer to the very foundation of rules themselves—
Rejecting its influence.