Chapter 102: The Battle is OverSoutheast Coast of Green Bit
The distant thunder of destruction from the uninhabited island echoed across the water, a sound that would make any seasoned warrior pause. Law heard it clearly—the unmistakable crash of titanic forces colliding, the kind of noise that reshaped landscapes.
But right now, he couldn't afford to think about Itachi.
His sharp gaze remained fixed on the man before him, the one whose very existence made the world tremble.
"At this moment," Law said, his voice low and deliberate, "I can only think of one type of person who could release world-shattering news like that—twice in a row—and then tamper with it as if it were nothing."
His eyes narrowed, pupils sharp as scalpels.
"A Celestial Dragon."
The final three words fell from his lips like a death sentence.
Doflamingo's grin stretched wider, his pink feathered coat billowing in the sea breeze. A laugh bubbled up from his chest—not the mocking cackle he usually employed, but something darker, more unhinged.
"Fuffuffuffu! Fuffuffuffuffu!"
His fingers twitched and danced in the air, as though pulling invisible strings attached to the world itself.
"Why trouble yourself with such trivial matters, Law?"
The amusement in his voice curdled into something cold, something ancient and bitter. His face, usually twisted in manic glee, hardened into an expression of absolute certainty.
"My experience—the things I have witnessed, the truths I have learned—" His voice dropped to a dangerous register. "No one else in this world can claim to have seen what I have seen."
His eyes, hidden behind those crimson lenses, seemed to pierce right through Law's soul.
"These are heights you children could never hope to reach!"
The roar tore from his throat as he surged forward, strings coated in dense Armament Haki lashing together into a brutal whip—the Super-Strike Horn Whip. The attack came faster than Law's eyes could track, faster than his mind could process.
Impossible—!
Law's hand moved to activate his Room, to create a force field that could buy him even a fraction of a second—
Too late.
The Corrida Colosseum
The arena floor had become a crater.
Luffy stood at its center, his arm slowly shrinking back from its massive Gear Third form. The Elephant Gun had done more than just shatter the dueling ring—it had shattered something far older.
Don Chinjao lay sprawled in the rubble, his legendary drill-shaped head now... curved. Bent inward exactly where Garp had punched it flat decades ago.
The old pirate touched his skull with trembling fingers, feeling the familiar contour restored. Tears streamed down his weathered face—not of pain, but of release. A weight carried since the days of the Pirate King had finally been lifted.
And it had been lifted by him. By Monkey D. Luffy.
The grandson of the man who had taken everything from him.
"You..." Chinjao's voice cracked. "You actually... fixed it?"
Luffy, meanwhile, had already moved on.
He sat cross-legged on a pile of debris, happily devouring a bento box with the single-minded focus only he could muster. Rice scattered across his cheeks as he chewed.
"The food at this colosseum is actually pretty good," he mumbled through a full mouth, turning to the pink-haired gladiator beside him. "Thanks for the meal, Rebecca. Shishishi!"
Moments earlier, Rebecca had attempted a cunning trap. She had offered Luffy the bento as bait, hoping to catch him off guard while the prisoners locked in the iron cage behind him struck from the shadows. It was a desperate plan—one born of survival in an arena that showed no mercy.
Luffy had caught her wrist mid-strike without even looking.
Now Rebecca sat frozen beside him, her scheme completely unraveled by the sheer, casual absurdity of his strength.
From the iron cage, one of the prisoners stared with wide eyes, sweat beading on his brow.
"The gap in power..." he whispered, voice hollow. "Is it really this vast?"
Luffy tilted his head, finally noticing them properly. "Hey, who are you guys anyway? Why're you all locked up in there?"
Before anyone could answer, a flicker of orange caught his eye. His head snapped toward the eastern horizon, where dark smoke and dancing flames painted the sky.
"What's going on over there?" He squinted, chewing thoughtfully. "Did someone fire a cannon?"
Outside the Corrida Colosseum
Zoro had achieved the impossible.
He had successfully navigated the so-called "Eighteen Bends"—a winding maze of streets that confounded even locals—and emerged on the other side. Not through any actual sense of direction, of course. He had simply kept walking forward until the world gave up and put him where he needed to be.
The little blue man in his arms—a dwarf from the Tontatta Tribe—had been tossed aside at one point in frustration.
"Instead of asking me for directions," Zoro had growled, "you'd be better off asking a stray cat to help you find your friends!"
The dwarf had wept. Genuinely wept. The tiny creature had collapsed in despair, convinced he would never see his companions again.
And then Zoro had come back.
Not out of guilt. Not out of compassion. Purely because he had run "forward" from the spot where he'd abandoned the dwarf, taken exactly three wrong turns, and somehow ended up right back where he started.
The dwarf had wordlessly crawled back into his arms.
Now Zoro stood before the colosseum's towering walls with the dwarf nestled against his chest and Kin'emon at his side. The samurai had also been wandering lost, though he refused to admit it.
Both of them had noticed the flames rising from Dressrosa's eastern quarter.
"It seems this place is far from peaceful," Kin'emon observed grimly.
Zoro grunted in agreement. "The enemy's plan is pretty clear by now. We need to find Luffy first."
Kin'emon nodded vigorously. "I still don't know the fate of my comrades, but we absolutely must inform everyone of Doflamingo's deception!"
Before Sanji had departed on his own mission, he had crossed paths with this directionally challenged swordsman and the half-witted samurai. He'd relayed everything Violet had told him—the truth behind Doflamingo's "resignation," the trap waiting for them all.
Zoro scanned the colosseum's exterior, his hand resting idly on Enma's hilt. Finding a proper entrance would take too long. Fighting through the front gate would draw too much attention.
His gaze settled on the wall itself.
"I'll just cut it open and walk in."
"WHAT?!" Kin'emon's jaw dropped. "Have you no sense of propriety?! You can't just—"
"The gate's closed."
"Even if you intend to cut through, you must first locate the optimal point of entry! You cannot simply—" Kin'emon waved his arms frantically, genuinely alarmed by the sheer audacity of the suggestion.
At that moment, a figure on the colosseum's second-floor balcony froze mid-step.
He had been making his way toward the arena when movement below caught his attention. At first, he dismissed it as more gladiators or guards. But then his eyes landed on the three swords hanging from the green-haired man's waist.
His breath caught.
His heart stopped.
His entire body began to tremble with religious fervor.
"Th-that's... that's...!"
"SENIOR ZORO!!"
Bartolomeo—former underworld kingpin, captain of the Barto Club, and the single most devoted fanboy the Straw Hat Pirates would ever know—pressed his face against the balcony railing, tears streaming freely down his cheeks.
"Such fortune! Such incredible fortune! First I encounter Senior Luffy himself, and now I behold Senior Zoro—the man who has always stood as Senior Luffy's unshakeable right hand! This is truly... this is..."
"SENIOR ZORO!"
His voice cracked with raw emotion.
Down below, Kin'emon glanced up at the wailing figure. "That man appears to be calling your name."
Zoro squinted upward. "Huh? Who the hell is this guy?"
Uninhabited Island — Southeast of Green Bit
The Marines had followed the sound of destruction across the water.
They had expected to find a battlefield. They had expected carnage. They had prepared themselves for the aftermath of a clash between titans.
They had not prepared for this.
"What... what kind of battle could possibly leave behind something like this...?"
"Chief Smile—look at him! He's—!"
"This can't be real. Tell me this isn't real!"
The island's center had been transformed into a hellscape of shattered stone and exposed bedrock. Craters pockmarked the earth like the surface of the moon. Trees had been reduced to splinters, scattered across the ground like matchsticks. The very crust of the island had been torn open in long, jagged fissures that vented steam into the salt-tinged air.
And in the heart of this devastation stood two figures.
Fujitora knelt in the deepest crater, one hand gripping his staff-sword, using it as a crutch to keep himself upright. His purple yukata hung in tatters, revealing the scarred, bleeding flesh beneath. Every breath came labored and wet. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, staining his beard crimson.
Across from him, Itachi stood within the ribcage of his Susanoo's skeletal form. His own clothes were torn, his body bearing the marks of the Admiral's gravity assaults. But compared to Fujitora's condition, his injuries were superficial—bruises and shallow cuts rather than the deep, systemic damage that wracked the Marine's frame.
"Your strength..." Fujitora wheezed, forcing himself upright despite the protest of every muscle and bone. "Your strength has truly astonished this old man."
Itachi's chest heaved with exertion. Sweat matted his dark hair to his forehead. The crimson glow of his Sharingan had dimmed, though the tomoe still spun slowly within his eyes.
"The Admirals of the Navy..." He paused to catch his breath. "Are truly monsters."
The surrounding Marines raised their rifles and swords, their faces pale but determined.
"Brothers! We have to support Chief Smile!"
"Let's go! We can't just stand here!"
"CHARGE—!"
"NO ONE TAKE A SINGLE STEP FORWARD!"
Fujitora's roar cut through their battle cries like a blade. The Marines froze, stunned by the raw authority in their Admiral's voice.
"But sir—Chief Smile—!"
"You are not on his level." Fujitora's blind eyes remained fixed in Itachi's direction, unseeing yet somehow piercing. "Not a single one of you. Do not throw your lives away meaninglessly."
He straightened fully, both hands gripping his staff-sword as he faced his opponent. Though he could not see Itachi's form, he could feel him—the weight of his presence, the density of his chakra, the quiet, patient lethality that radiated from every inch of his being.
"Uchiha Itachi." Fujitora's voice steadied, carrying across the ruined battlefield. "Your opponent is this old man. No one else."
His remaining strength flowed into his limbs, Haki hardening around his blade in a shimmering coat of deep purple-black.
"I ask only this: when the victor is decided..." His grip tightened. "Do not harm my subordinates."
He raised his blade—
And stopped.
Because Itachi had released his stance.
The Susanoo's skeletal form dissolved into motes of fading light. The Totsuka Blade and Yata Mirror, manifested only moments ago, had already been dismissed. Itachi's hands hung loose at his sides, empty of weapons, empty of killing intent.
Fujitora's brow furrowed. "What is the meaning of this?"
Itachi's voice came calm and even. "Do you believe we still need to fight?"
"I don't understand your meaning."
Itachi raised one hand and pointed—not at Fujitora's face, not at his chest, but at the staff-sword clutched in his trembling grip.
"That blade of yours." His Sharingan seemed to pierce straight through the steel, through the Haki, through to something deeper. "It is not a blade meant for killing."
Fujitora went rigid.
"I can feel your strength. It is undeniable. You possess power that could crush islands, that could drag meteors from the heavens." Itachi's gaze did not waver. "But I cannot feel your killing intent. Not a single trace. Not from the moment we began."
Strength.
Killing intent.
Fujitora stood frozen, his scarred eyes wide behind their milky film.
He could not see Itachi. He had never been able to see anyone, not since that day he had blinded himself rather than witness more of the world's cruelty.
But in this moment, he felt as though those crimson eyes were staring directly into his soul.
Peeling back every layer.
Exposing every truth he had tried to bury.
End of Chapter
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