The Berserker and the Sea of Madness

Guts turned slowly, his crimson gaze, sharpened by the Berserker Armor's influence, locking onto Sakazuki still perched atop the towering crab chariot. Around them, the mismatched army of Alabastan soldiers and Baroque Works impostors had begun to stir, a ripple of unease turning into a readiness for conflict as weapons rose, hands tightening around hilts and rifles.

With deliberate, almost serene calm, Guts reached for the Dragon Slayer, still buried in the scorched sand where he had plunged it moments before. He pulled it free with a soft, grating hiss. Then, without a word, he walked forward—past Bullet, who stood grinning, anticipation in his eyes. As Guts passed, he tapped Bullet twice on the arm in a silent, utterly clear signal: Wait.

Robin, still atop a dune, watched him, her brow furrowed with concern and confusion. Guts tilted his helmet slightly back, his voice gravelly but firm, cutting through the sudden silence.

"Back to the ship. You're grounded," Guts paused, his gaze briefly flicking to the enormous phantom leg of the Gigantesco Manos still pressing against Crocodile, before continuing, "for using indecent techniques."

Robin's jaw dropped, a comical sight amidst the terror-stricken battlefield. Then, a shriek of utter exasperation tore from her throat. "What?! WHY!? Seriously?!"

But Guts just ignored her, his heavy steps sending faint tremors through the sand. He kept walking, his form becoming a singular, unyielding force.

And then—like a single stone cast into a vast, still lake, his Executioner Haki began to ripple outwards.

The oppressive desert heat vanished. In its place came a profound, bone-deep cold. Not the chill of wind or shadow, but the frigid, crushing weight of mortality itself. It rolled outward from Guts in slow, inexorable waves, expanding with every deliberate step he took.

Soldiers, standing defiant just moments ago, dropped to their knees as if struck by an invisible hammer. Rifles slipped from numb fingers, clattering uselessly onto the sand.

No one screamed; they couldn't. It was death. Not metaphorical, not imagined—but absolute, undeniable death.

So real that the body forgot to breathe. So real that the mind surrendered before thought could catch up. The weak-willed simply collapsed, their hearts giving out under the sheer, unendurable pressure. The stronger ones could only kneel, trembling violently, their bodies spasming, convinced they had already died and were only waiting for the final, sweet release.

Guts walked through them, a living manifestation of judgment. He passed a man in an absurd Marine uniform—his ridiculous boots shaped like swan heads. The man was gagging, tears streaming from his eyes, utterly incapable of even raising his head.

Guts passed another bald-headed fake Marine, chest bared, a bold tattoo of the kanji "Ichi" scrawled across it. That man sobbed silently, his eyes rolling back in his head as the aura of inevitable doom washed over him.

The colossal crab pulling Sakazuki's chariot began to quake violently, its chitinous legs spasming in unadulterated terror.

And then—CRACK—it collapsed to its knees, sending a shower of sand and rock, violently throwing Sakazuki and Igaram from the chariot's height.

They both landed hard, rolling across the ground, but recovered quickly, their training kicking in.

Igaram was the first to act. His hands flew to his saxophone, pulling it up to his lips, the ridiculous curls of his wig parting to reveal the hidden gun barrels aimed squarely at Guts. His fingers trembled as he blew the first note—a shot.

But before the blast ever left the instrument, Igaram saw it—not Guts, but his own body, already severed into dozens of pieces, falling like confetti. The vision froze him in place, a cold, paralyzing terror locking his limbs.

Bullet grinned, a dark, impressed gleam in his eyes. He started to clap, a slow, deliberate sound amidst the silence of fear.

But then he noticed something.

His hands were shaking.

Douglas Bullet. A monster. A war freak. The Demon Heir. He felt fear.

And still, Guts walked.

Sakazuki, his pride unraveling under the terrifying weight of Guts's Haki, barked a command through clenched teeth, trying to sound firm, trying to reclaim control. "You'll make an enemy of the World Government! And the Marines! If you strike me and—!"

But his words faltered. His body—shaking uncontrollably, independent of his will.

Guts didn't stop.

With a primal roar of defiance, Sakazuki's body erupted into magma, pure, molten heat boiling the very sand beneath his feet.

"DAI FUNKA!!" he bellowed, raising his molten fist, ready to unleash a devastating inferno.

But just before he could swing—

—a hand caught his arm.

Not Guts'.

A woman's hand—charred and broken, her entire body scorched black. Her stomach was hollow, a grotesque hole through which writhing baby hands reached out, clawing, clutching at him.

Then came more.

A little girl, clutching a melted plastic doll, wrapped her tiny, spectral arms around his leg.

A five-year-old, her face burned beyond recognition, wrapped her tiny arms around his neck.

Dozens.

Hundreds.

Thousands.

All clinging.

All dragging him down.

They were his victims. The countless souls he had slaughtered in the name of "Absolute Justice." Children. Women. Men. Commoners. Revolutionaries. Pirates. His deceased subordinates.

All those who had no voice left—now screaming through the very fabric of his flesh, their touch a searing, icy agony.

Sakazuki shrieked.

Not in rage.

Not in pride.

In pure terror.

"NO—NO, THIS ISN'T POSSIBLE!? I AM STILL AWAKE?!"

Their hands covered his face. Tore at his flesh. Entered his mouth. Crawled inside his chest, filling him with their unending anguish.

And then—

SLASH.

Guts's blade moved once.

Sakazuki's body split cleanly down the center, erupting in a final, silent, internal explosion of magma and the chilling cold of death.

And the Brand of Sacrifice on Guts's neck, which had bled like a river, finally stopped.

As Sakazuki's body fell in two grotesque halves, erupting into a silent, internal explosion of magma and death, his soul—blackened, molten, screaming—tore itself free in a soundless shriek, only to freeze mid-air.

A dozen shadowy hands, forged from obsidian black, spectral energy, erupted from the Dragon Slayer's blade. These hands, shaped from sorrow, injustice, and divine rage, clutched his soul, wrapping around it like unbreakable chains. He tried to resist, thrashing in desperate panic, but the hands held tight, their grip absolute.

Then, slowly, inexorably, they began to drag him inward.

Into the blade.

Into the eternal maw of torment.

"NO! NO—WAIT!" Sakazuki screamed, his voice now stripped of command, pride, and power, reduced to a raw, pathetic wail. "Guts! Stop! PLEASE STOP!"

But Guts couldn't hear him. He didn't even see him. He stood silent, unmoved—his eyes cast across the scarred battlefield, his presence an eerie calm in the aftermath of carnage.

Sakazuki, still screaming, watched the dark blade pull him deeper into its abyss... when something changed.

Then, a blinding, ethereal light bloomed on the scorched desert, cutting through the haze of dust and death. He turned his head, his ethereal vision piercing the veil, and saw them—his victims.

The burned woman with the hollow in her stomach, who had clutched at him, was now whole, impossibly beautiful, and radiant, gently holding a newborn child, her eyes filled with serene joy.

The scorched girl clutching the melted plastic doll now stood in a lovely, pristine dress, smiling, her doll perfectly restored in her arms.

The five-year-old who once clung to his neck, charred and sobbing, now stood hand in hand with her mother, their eyes shining with innocent joy, completely at peace.

They were restored.

They were at peace.

And they were laughing at him.

Not with kindness.

With profound, chilling cruelty.

With mockery that tasted of ashes.

With scorn forged by a thousand screams that had never reached justice.

They waved.

"No—no—NO!" Sakazaki wailed, his eyes wide in absolute horror, his soul convulsing in terror.

But the hands dragged him faster now, along with a swirling black fog that detached alongside his soul. It followed him, pulled into the hungry void of the sword.

And as his soul vanished—

The Dragon Slayer burped.

Just a small, hollow urp that echoed strangely, incongruously across the silent battlefield, a sound of grotesque satisfaction.

Guts blinked. Looked down at the massive blade on his back, a faint tremor running through its hilt.

"…Did you just burp?" he muttered, a flicker of genuine confusion in his crimson eyes.

But the blade only hissed softly, a low, satisfied whisper.

The air was still. The deathly silence broken only by the moaning wind over the dunes, carrying the scent of sand and something else... something ended.

With a grunt, Guts let the Berserker Armor recede, the beast-like form hissing and cracking as it folded inward, receding into its dormant state. His armor returned to its more human, skeletal form—still monstrous, but now imbued with a chilling calm.

He turned toward the motionless figure of Igaram, still on the ground, eyes wide, mouth gaping in frozen madness, utterly unresponsive to the world.

Guts stepped over to him and gave him a sharp kick in the ribs.

"Wake up," he growled.

Igaram jolted upright with a choking gasp, eyes darting wildly, the ridiculous curls of his wig twitching violently as he scrambled back.

Before he could sputter anything, Guts reached into his waist bag and slammed a bounty poster across Igaram's face. It was a fresh print of Sakazuki's bounty, his face now marked "DEAD OR ALIVE," a courtesy of Borsalino.

"If Alabasta still wants to play games," Guts growled, his voice low and rumbling, laced with a chilling promise, "I'll be happy to finish what you started."

He grinned.

It wasn't kind.

It was the grin of a man who had nothing left to lose, who had severed the last of his chains, who was ready to burn whatever stood in his way to protect what little he still held dear.

He remembered Madam Shyarly's prophecy. Her words had burned into his mind, etched into the very core of his being:

"If you set foot on that ship...

If you venture above now...

Hell will unleash!"

He had thought she was warning them.

Warning him and Robin.

But now, standing amidst this ruined, blood-soaked battlefield, the sand settling over Sakazuki's scattered remains.

He realized the truth.

The calamity hadn't come for them.

It had come with them.

And he had brought it.

Guts turned his back on the battlefield, his sword heavy on his shoulder, the blood on the sand already beginning to dry into dark crusts beneath his feet. He walked without a word, each step like a drumbeat of finality.

Beside him, Bullet's gravel-rough voice cut through the eerie silence like the cracking of stone. "You done?"

Guts didn't stop walking. He just nodded once.

The two men made their way side by side toward the nearby coastline, leaving the scattered, trembling soldiers in their wake.

There, in the stillness, they stood, the vast, shimmering ocean stretching before them. Guts reached into a pouch hanging from his belt and pulled out a single gold coin—weathered and dented, its surface bearing the marks of countless forgotten hands. It was a very old coin. He held it up between two fingers, staring at it for a long, quiet moment, as if reading its history.

Then, without a word, he flicked it high into the air.

The coin caught the harsh Alabastan sunlight as it spun, twirling like fate itself, a tiny, glittering speck against the immense blue. It arced and landed in the sea with a soft, distant plop—swallowed by the vast, hungry ocean, disappearing beneath the gentle swells.

A silence followed. Not reverence, not born of superstition. But respect. Respect for the sea god that watches all pirates, all sinners, and all those who invoke the old rites. A coin for Davy Jones. A symbolic vow: whoever betrays the fight, whoever breaks the rules of this sacred pirate game, betrays the very soul of piracy—and their soul belongs to the deep.

Behind them, Crocodile and Igaram caught up slowly, picking their way through the still-paralyzed soldiers. Crocodile's expression was one of constant annoyance, his golden hook twitching with restrained irritation.

Igaram, dusting off his royal jacket and adjusting his ridiculous wig, coughed awkwardly and spoke first. "So… what now?" he asked, glancing nervously between the two silent giants and the decimated battlefield. "Are we… abandoning the execution order?"

Crocodile lit a fresh cigar, the tip glowing crimson, his face a mask of cold calculation. "Tch. That mad dog," he growled, exhaling a plume of smoke, "might've tricked us."

He didn't admit fault, not directly—but the implication hung heavy in the air, a sour taste of a plan gone awry. "Either way, let's just watch." He took a long drag and exhaled the smoke with disdain, watching Guts.

"Oi." Bullet cracked his neck, the sound like dry bones shifting. "We don't have a cannon, right?"

Crocodile raised an eyebrow, a flicker of confusion crossing his face. "What?"

Bullet, with a speed that belied his bulk, suddenly snatched one of the Baroque Works agents from the still-frozen crowd—a trembling man with flaming, number 3-shaped hair.

"W-WAIT! WAIT NO NO NO—!" the agent shrieked, flailing wildly in Bullet's grasp.

"Perfect," Bullet grinned, a wide, terrifying smile. "We'll use him instead." He began to spin, holding the screaming man like a hammer thrower preparing for launch, building momentum with effortless power.

"STOOOPPPP!" The agent's terrified scream became a desperate wail.

Bullet let go.

Mr. 3 flew screaming through the air—arms flailing wildly—soaring like a doomed comet against the blue sky, a tiny, shrieking projectile.

There was a distant splash.

Silence.

Everyone, even the recovering Marine remnants, stared at the spot where he vanished into the waves.

"...He landed in the sea." Crocodile deadpanned, his usual smirk twitching into a grimace of pure exasperation. "You did that on purpose, didn't you, you bastard!"

"Nope," Bullet shrugged, cracking his knuckles with a loud pop. "Just bad aim."

"Tch. Someone retrieve that idiot before he drowns!" Crocodile barked, signaling a few agents to rush toward the coast, ignoring Bullet's insouciance.

But Bullet wasn't done.

He turned to the crowd again, a glint of wild glee in his eyes, grabbed another unlucky soul—this one flailing even harder, having witnessed Mr. 3's flight—and, with another effortless heave, hurled him into the air.

This time, the man landed inland with a harsh THUD, bouncing against the hard sand like a ragdoll.

Bullet grinned, wiping his hands on his pants. "There. That's the spot."

The impromptu battlefield was marked—rough, uneven, and sunlit by the high blaze of Alabasta's sky. A ring of chaos had been drawn.

The Davy Back Fight had begun.