The Berserker and the Sea of Madness

The last echo of Bullet's surrender had faded, and now only the moaning wind over the dunes broke the vast silence. Guts looked up at the night sky of Alabasta, and found it to be completely clear, without a single cloud in sight. 

The stars, countless and brilliant, shone brightly, a stark difference from the often-cloudy, humid skies he remembered in Amazon Lily. The wind, now a cool, refreshing breeze, felt like a balm against the memory of the day's scorching heat.

Guts took a deep breath, the air filling his lungs, feeling oddly refreshed. His thoughts, which had been on pause during the relentless chaos, now began to surface. He started to think of everything that had happened today, the ambush, the captives, the confrontation with Sakazuki, and the Davy Back Fight.

Then, suddenly, he moved. Without a moment's hesitation, his instincts screaming, he covered his right hand with Armament Haki. A dark, metallic sheen coated his fist just as an unseen attack, a blur of motion and steel, came streaking toward the spot where he stood. Or, more accurately, toward the still-snoring form of Douglas Bullet, who lay face-down in the sand.

CLANG!

The impact of Guts's Haki-reinforced hand against the attacker's weapon was like a bell tolling, a sound that ripped through the quiet night.

The Berserker Wolf, which had still been trying to gnaw on the now-ruined golden hook of a terrified Crocodile, suddenly let it go. The Warlord grunted as he fell onto his butt, then he shouted angrily. "OI! Your damn dog ruins my hook, you bastard! YOU'RE PAYING FOR THAT!"

The Berserker Wolf dashed toward the Dragon Slayer, clamped its jaws around the hilt, spun the colossal blade with ease, and hurled it through the air. Guts caught it mid-flight and, without a second's hesitation, swung it in a brutal arc toward the source of the attack on Bullet.

Whether Bullet realized it or not, his arrival back at noon had shifted the tide—creating the opening Robin needed to save the captives. Guts hadn't forgotten that.

But before Guts's slash could connect, a brilliant flash of blue fire erupted, exploding right in front of him. The heat seared his skin, and the blinding light forced him to squint, momentarily obscuring his vision. When the fire dissipated, the attacker was gone, taken back by the mysterious blue flame.

The Berserker Wolf, sensing the new, dangerous presence, immediately leapt onto Guts's body and, with a shriek of scraping metal, reformed into its armored state, covering Guts from head to toe in the cursed steel.

Guts, now fully encased in the menacing armor, settled into a ready stance, his crimson eyes gleaming from the helm. He looked at the intruders who had finally decided to reveal themselves. He saw familiar faces—faces Sengoku had specifically told him to be wary of.

The man who had just attacked Bullet, now standing to the side with a mischievous grin, was Thatch, the Fourth Division Commander of the Whitebeard Pirates. He was a striking figure, with a meticulously slicked-back pompadour of dark auburn hair, a thin, neatly groomed beard, and a cheerful but sharp glint in his eyes. He wore a colorful, checkered shirt and held a long, gleaming chef's knife, the hilt of which he now toyed with, while a longsword rested at his waist.

And at the forefront, the man who had saved Thatch, stood Marco, the First Division Commander. He was tall and lean, with spiky blond hair and a calm, almost sleepy-looking face that belied his immense power. The brilliant, phoenix-like blue flames of his Devil Fruit ability still flickered faintly around his shoulders and hands, casting an eerie, cool light over the scene. Unlike ordinary fire, these flames didn't seem to generate heat, but pulsed with a serene, otherworldly energy. Marco's expression was grave, his eyes narrowed as he assessed the situation.

Behind them, more of the Whitebeard Pirates' formidable commanders stood silently, their forms massive and imposing in the moonlight.

"What do you want, pirates?" Guts asked, his voice a low, unamused rumble from within the helm of his Berserker Armor. The crimson glow of his eyes was a sharp point of light in the dark.

Marco, his flame-tipped wings fading to a gentle flicker, raised a hand in quiet deference.

"Apologies for the sudden entrance—yoi," he said, his voice calm and steady. "We didn't come here to pick a fight with you. But that man—" he gestured lightly toward Bullet, still snoring in the sand—"took the life of one of our brothers."

His eyes, though kind, held the weight of duty. "We owe it to him to see this through. I hope you can understand."

"Just wait," Guts growled, his voice low and menacing. 

He could see it in Marco's steadfast gaze and Thatch's twitching hand—an eagerness to finish Bullet off right then and there. 

A swift execution while the man lay utterly defenseless. But Guts wouldn't permit it. 

Not out of any concern for Bullet's fate, but because a memory stirred deep within him. 

He recalled Pippin—the gentle giant of the Band of the Hawk. 

A man who, despite possessing formidable strength, would never lay a hand on the helpless. 

A resolute fool who stood fast even as demons ravaged his flesh, refusing to yield while his comrades still fought for their lives. 

A cherished friend. One of the rare few who had never betrayed him, who faced death standing tall. 

Since that fateful day, Guts vowed never to strike down a man who cannot stand, or at least, to wait until they are ready to fight.

Marco's expression hardened. "I can't do that, Devil Swordsman-yoi!" he said, his tone no longer conciliatory. His hand shot out and grabbed Thatch's shoulder as he began to unsheathe the long sword at his waist, struggling to hold back his frustration. "If he wakes up, he will run-yoi."

Guts didn't listen. He took a few slow steps closer, his heavy footfalls crunching on the sand. Then, with a low, scraping sound, he drew a line in the sandy ground with the tip of his Dragon Slayer, a stark, undeniable warning.

Noticing the perilous situation, Crocodile decided to get closer to Guts. 

He understood his position in this conflict as a fellow Shichibukai and still felt the bitter sting of his lost arm from his last confrontation with Whitebeard. 

Forming an alliance, even a temporary one, seemed logical.

However, when Crocodile attempted to step over the line Guts had drawn, the massive Dragon Slayer swung down with incredible speed. 

The blade sliced through the air and, with surgical precision, cut the cigar right out of Crocodile's mouth, splitting it cleanly in half. "I'm on your side, you bastard!" 

Crocodile shouted in anger, a vein throbbing on his temple, his face contorted in a mix of fury and shock. 

 "You kidnap my people," Guts replied, his voice cold and chilling, a simple truth that shattered any possibility of an alliance. 

Crocodile snarled and moved a few steps back from the line, a vein visibly pulsating in his forehead.

The calm of the cold night was suddenly broken by a new voice, a shout that rang with fiery passion. It came from a boy in his late teens, striding forward with an aura of immense, youthful confidence. He had a mop of spiky black hair, freckles dusting his cheeks, and a wide-brimmed orange hat perched on his head. 

On one of his arms, a vibrant tattoo read "ASCE," with the 'S' crossed out. As he spoke, his body began to burn with the hot, licking flames of the Mera Mera no Mi, a furious aura of heat and light.

"You wanna go to war with Pops?!" the boy, Ace, demanded, his voice cracking with the heat of his anger.

"No," Guts answered, with a flat, unamused tone.

Ace tilted his head slightly, his flaming aura receding with a soft hiss. He seemed genuinely confused by the simple answer. Then, his face softened, and he asked again, this time with a surprising politeness. "Then... can we get Bullet?"

Guts didn't even pause. "No," he said again.

Ace's frustration boiled over. His flames flared once more, burning brighter this time, the heat pushing back the night's chill. "What do you want, then?!" he shouted, taking a step closer, his feet scorching the sand.

But before he could take another, Marco's hand shot out and grabbed his arm. Ace's fiery body didn't burn Marco's grip.

Marco leaned in close, his voice dropping to a low whisper that only Ace and Guts could hear. "He's dangerous, Ace-yoi," he murmured, his face grim. "The rumors of the curse he carries... "

The curse that guts carry, spread across the ocean and has already reached their ears. 

He took a quick glance at the still-snoring Bullet. "We all saw it. Even our Pops... not even he could make Bullet roll around shouting like that."

Thatch, unable to hold back, drew his sword. The blade, long and sharp, was instantly covered in a thick layer of Armament Haki, turning it obsidian black. 

With a fierce shout, he attacked, coming in with a fast, powerful overhead slash. 

Guts swung his massive Dragon Slayer to meet it, the two blades clashing with a deafening CLANG that sent a shockwave of sound across the dunes. Thatch's haki-infused sword bounced back violently, the force so immense he almost lost his grip.

Before he could recover, Guts delivered a roundhouse kick to his stomach, the blow sending Thatch flying back faster than he had come.

Then, a flurry of rose petals filled Guts's sight, a beautiful and deadly distraction. 

The legendary swordmaster Vista, another Whitebeard commander, appeared in a blur of motion, his twin swords flashing in a cross-slash intended to bisect Guts's armor. Instantly, Guts coated his cursed steel with a layer of Armament Haki, the black metal ringing as it deflected the attack. 

Guts, with a speed that defied his size, slashed back with a massive overhead strike.

Vista froze, his eyes widening in horror, not at the blow, but at the vision that flashed in his mind's eye. He saw himself split in half, not by steel, but by a sword burning with the power of molten rock—a fiery, magma sword that left nothing but ash in its wake.

"VISTA!" 

Marco roared, his voice laced with urgency. He pulled the frozen swordmaster to the side just as he kicked Guts in the head with his burning, sharp talon. The kick connected with a thunderous impact, sending a shockwave through the ground.

Guts's Dragon Slayer, now glowing with the ominous red of molten rock and dripping with liquid flame, fell to the ground, creating a small but violent explosion like a volcanic eruption. 

The Whitebeard cadres, who had been advancing, fell back, instantly repositioning themselves, their faces a mixture of confusion and shock. They had never heard anything about the Devil Swordsman's sword having a power like that—a power terrifyingly similar to one of the Marine Vice Admirals.

Guts, too, was shocked. The sword that had followed him since his previous life, that had been his companion against monsters, had never possessed an ability like this. Then, a thought struck him, and a slow, wide grin spread across his face beneath his helm. 

He remembered the strange, hollow "burp" after he had finally slashed Sakazuki in two. Its had absorbed something. The sword had devoured Sakazuki's power.

"Very neat," he thought, a dark humor lighting up his crimson eyes. 

If the Dragon Slayer had this ability before, he could have burned Griffith like a lump of coal. 

As if understanding his intent, the magma covering the Dragon Slayer vanished, and the massive blade returned to its normal, unadorned form.

"Devil Swordsman-yoi," Marco began, his voice low and cautious as he eyed Guts, "are you perhaps a Devil Fruit user?"

Vista, still pale, swallowed hard, his eyes glued to the devastation of Guts's magma attack. The air around the impact zone still felt unnaturally hot.

"Nope," Guts replied flatly. "My daughter said it tastes like shit."

A collective beat of silence fell over the Whitebeard cadres. The very idea of someone voluntarily eating something so vile, and Guts's matter-of-fact tone, was unsettling.

"Then is it perhaps..." Marco hesitated, trying to categorize the immense lump of iron Guts swung like a sword, "your sword?"

"Cool, eh?" Guts said with a hint of genuine enthusiasm, like a boy who'd just discovered a new toy. "So, continue?"

Marco's face was grim. 

The power of Guts' sword could turn a fight into a massacre. "Then, can we continue without you using that sword?" he asked, with a pleading note in his voice. 

Dealing with Guts's raw strength and cursed regeneration already looked troublesome enough; if Guts used that corrosive, magma-spitting technique again, Marco knew it was foolish to think they'd come back with a bone left, let alone alive.

Guts thought for a while, his crimson eyes scanning the determined faces of the Whitebeard commanders. 

He didn't want to make any more enemies today, and he found the challenge interesting enough without the new sword ability. With a quiet grunt, he took the Dragon Slayer off his shoulder and, with deliberate care, hung it back on his back, its massive form settling into place.

"Sure," Guts said. He was confident that his current power, boosted by the Berserker Armor, was enough to hold all of them back.

"You sound pretty confident, Devil Swordsman-san," Ace said, flames dancing along his arm as he stepped forward. "You ready to burn?"

"No worries," Guts replied flatly, taking a relaxed boxing stance in the middle of the impromptu ring. "I assure you—someone's gonna die today."

Marco's brows furrowed, his body burning with bluish flame as he began to turn himself into a massive, flaming phoenix. "Let's see how many of us you can take down, Devil Swordsman-yoi."

"Nope," Guts said, tilting his head slightly. "It's me." He has already died many times today; what more for him?

All the Whitebeard commanders fell to the ground like dominoes.

All the built-up tension—the fear, the animosity, the readiness for a bloody fight—was gone, deflated in an instant. They all screamed in unison, their voices echoing across the silent dunes.

"DON'T SAY IT LIKE THAT, DAMMIT!"