“Borsalino” the Yellow Ape’s cloak of justice had long since vanished, and his striped yellow suit was torn in several places—though no obvious wounds could be seen.

“I can’t just let you all escape like this…” Borsalino formed a hand sign in the air, preparing to unleash his Yasakani no Magatama. “Otherwise, Fleet Admiral Sengoku will blame me for a long time afterward.”

He was still unaware that Sengoku was desperately trying to call him at that very moment.

The tips of Borsalino’s fingers shone with light as a beeping sound rang out, the laser on the verge of firing.

Marco spread the wings of the Undying Bird, soaring upward to intercept.

But just then, from the side, a ship suddenly cut in—sliding perfectly between Borsalino and Marco’s group.

It looked as if a blade had been thrust across the sea.

At first glance, the ship appeared ordinary, but an overwhelming wave of Haki suddenly erupted from it, declaring its fearsome presence to all.

The pirate flag and sails it bore made its identity unmistakable—the emblem of a skull marked by three scars across the left eye.

In the New World, and indeed across the entire Grand Line, there were few who would fail to recognize that symbol.

All movement ceased for a brief moment.

Borsalino lowered his gaze, and when he saw who stood upon the deck—expected yet startling—he arched an eyebrow.

“‘Red-Haired’ Shanks… so you really came.”

Standing on the prow of the ship was Shanks, one of the Four Emperors, an equal to “Whitebeard” Edward Newgate. His crimson hair streamed in the wind, and his scarred face was stern and cold.

With only his right arm, he rested his hand on the sword at his waist, his eyes fixed upon Borsalino.

“This war ends here, Yellow Ape. If you insist on fighting, then fight me instead.”

And not just Shanks—his crewmates revealed themselves one after another.

Benn Beckman, Yasopp, Lucky Roux… the Red Hair Pirates, who relied on no Devil Fruits, radiated sheer, overwhelming Haki from their very bodies.

Borsalino raised his hands with exaggerated surrender, his eyes narrowing mischievously as he muttered:

“If it’s you lot, then there’s nothing I can do. I doubt even Fleet Admiral Sengoku could fault me for this.”

Shanks was about to reply when suddenly, music drifted over from behind them.

The sound of an organ.

Shanks turned to look—its source was the Terror Ghost.

“Organ music,” Benn Beckman remarked, his hand gripping the pistol at his waist. “Didn’t think that ‘Davy Jones, Deep Sea of the King,’ had such refined tastes.”

The melody swelled, shifting into wild and turbulent movements, as though stirring the very heavens and seas.

“There’s something… wrong in that sound,” Shanks muttered, narrowing his eyes.

Beckman’s sharp gaze swept toward the waters and he jerked his chin slightly. “Yeah… very wrong.”

Following his hint, Shanks glanced down at the sea—and his expression instantly hardened.

It wasn’t just him. Borsalino in the sky, the marines aboard the warships, and all nearby combatants were struck with dread at what they saw.

Countless pale-white souls were drifting out from the direction of Marineford, gathering beneath the waves like schools of fish, all swimming together toward a single destination.

The forms of those souls were unmistakable—the fallen marines and pirates of the war.

The most striking among them were the giant figures of Little Oars Jr. and Sanjuan Wolf—impossible to overlook given their massive size.

Their faces bore no emotion, stripped of all desire, guided only by instinct as they drifted farther and farther away.

Where were they going? No one present could say. Perhaps to the legendary afterlife? Or perhaps into Davy Jones’s Locker, the final resting place of souls?

Stories long dismissed as sailor’s superstition—frightening tales to scare children—were taking form before their eyes.

In the storm-wracked darkness, thunder rumbled and rain lashed down like whips across the face. The souls merged seamlessly into the water, drifting past ships. Even hardened men felt their eyelids twitch uncontrollably at the sight.

Rayleigh too was shaken, his sharp eyes narrowing.

Even as the former First Mate of the Roger Pirates, a man who had weathered countless storms, he had never seen such a spectacle.

But the crew of Davy Jones remained calm.

They had witnessed this once before on Fishman Island, and having heard their captain’s words earlier, they were already prepared.

On the marine warship, the Whitebeard Pirates—kneeling around Newgate’s fallen body—suddenly cried out in shock.

For from that battered corpse, another form began to rise.

Whole, unbroken, with no wounds upon his chest—looking as though restored to health.

It was Whitebeard’s very soul.

All present realized it instantly.

Newgate’s spirit slowly sat upright, then stood, his empty gaze turning toward the ship’s edge as he began to walk.

“Oyagi!”

Ace shouted, and others followed.

“Father! Where are you going?”

“Oyagi, stay with us!”

“Don’t leave us, Oyagi!”

Newgate paused, turning back. Recognition flickered in his eyes, and he gave them a faint, knowing smile.

“Live well. That will be the best way to honor me. And… beware of Marshall D. Teach.”

With that, he turned away once more, leapt from the deck, and slipped into the sea. There was no splash—he seemed to merge seamlessly with the waters, joining the other drifting spirits as they vanished from sight.

The Whitebeard Pirates stood frozen at the rail, overcome with tears.

Souls were now proven beyond doubt to exist in this world. And what they had just witnessed—they knew, without question—was truly the spirit of their father.

They could not explain what had happened, but watching his soul depart drove home the reality that they would never see him again.

The organ’s dirge thundered on, the seas growing wilder and more violent. Lightning raged through the clouds, rain beat down harder, stinging the skin.

Borsalino’s smirk was gone; his eyes were cold, fixed on the drifting spirits, before turning toward Marineford itself.

The sea itself quaked as though struck again and again by Newgate’s Tremor-Tremor power. Waves rose higher and higher, mounting into tsunamis that crashed against the island’s walls.

The entire Marineford seemed to rock upon the ocean like a ship in a bottle, on the verge of capsizing.

Borsalino knew Sengoku, Garp, Akainu, and Aokiji remained on the island, and they would never allow it to sink. But even so, unease gnawed at him.

Clicking his tongue, he turned wordlessly into light and departed.

The pursuit had ended.

“Yellow Ape’s retreating!” the pirates aboard the warship shouted, a roar of excitement breaking out.

Ace and Sabo exchanged glances, once again witnessing the eerie might of Davy Jones—power enough to make even the Yellow Ape withdraw.

Meanwhile, aboard the Red Force, Shanks’s expression shifted several times before he finally turned toward the Terror Ghost.

“Heh.” Benn Beckman chuckled beside him, cigarette dangling from his lips. “Looks like both times we picked the wrong moment to arrive. Twice now, we’ve shown up too late—just extras in someone else’s play.”

“As long as the war is over, that’s all that matters.” Shanks laughed heartily. “Don’t fuss over pride and appearances. Davy Jones… in terms of sheer power, he’ll be a figure to reckon with in the future.”

“You’re thinking of allying with him?”

“Not so fast. They have no territory yet, and in the New World, without a base, an alliance means nothing. Out here, strength alone isn’t enough.”

“True enough.”

Shanks then pointed toward the Whitebeard Pirates’ ship. “Bring us alongside. Whatever else, we owe proper respect. Whitebeard deserves nothing less.”

Beckman, cigarette still at his lips, waved his hand, and crewmen immediately set down a boarding plank between the Red Force and the Whitebeard Pirates’ warship.

Elsewhere, aboard his own ship, the spiky-haired captain Eustass Kid gripped the railing, laughing wildly at the storm.

“Magnificent! Now this… this is what makes it worth coming here to see in person!”

The video feed broadcast from Marineford had cut out after Luffy and the Impel Down escapees had descended upon the battlefield.

Clearly, the Marines had no desire for the outside world to see what came next.

Had Kid not come himself, he never would have felt the full terror of Whitebeard.

Yet even from afar, he and his crew had missed the arrival of Davy Jones’s pirates, and whatever it was they had done.

They only knew that this crew had somehow broken through the Marines’ encirclement and carried off the remnants of Whitebeard’s forces—a feat both shocking and incredible.

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Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep