The Berserker and the Sea of Madness

The wind, now a cool whisper across the dunes, carried the sounds of a battle that seemed both endless and absurd. Teach, his massive frame hidden in the shadows of a nearby rock formation, looked out at the scene. 

His eyes, sharp and calculating, were not focused on the fighters, but on the Dragon Slayer, which now lay dropped on the sand, a cold, sinister gleam emanating from its surface under the clear moonlight of Alabasta.

He watched the group that was still fighting, his fellow crewmates, locked in a brutal, confusing dance with the single armored figure. He saw Vista, the swordmaster, his legendary swordsmanship abandoned; he was now using his blades like a bludgeoning weapon, desperately trying to land a solid hit on Guts. 

He saw Marco, a blur of blue fire, sneaking in from the sky to deliver powerful kicks that sent Guts bouncing around like a pinball. Ace, his body a beacon of fire, looked as if he were there to grill lobster instead of fighting, his powerful flames barely affecting the armored monster.

And Thatch... Guts was currently using him as a shield.

They no longer attacked in turns. They had all realized the futility of a one-on-one approach and were now attacking together, a chaotic, desperate storm of blows. 

And Guts... what the fuck was he actually? After so many deaths, so many times his body had been shattered into mist, he kept standing up again and again.

Teach looked back at the Dragon Slayer on the ground, and he gulped, a bead of sweat tracing a line down his face. 

Teach was not a fool; he knew better than anyone that there was no Devil Fruit with the same ability—similar, yes, but not the same. 

But this sword, the sword that had been his own brother's bane, a weapon with the power to steal a Devil Fruit's ability from its wielder, the very same Devil Fruit ability he had sought for so long... a dark smile spread across his face. 

He'd never heard anything about Guts using an ability like the Yami Yami no Mi, except for the dark red mist that had come out of Guts's wounds before regenerating. The resemblance was too uncanny to ignore. Teach's hand began to shake, not from the cold wind of the desert, but from raw, unadulterated excitement.

His hand slowly reached for the sword handle, his heart beating harder in his chest.

But when his fingers finally wrapped around the cold metal, Teach froze.

He heard the screams, the wailing of a countless tortured souls, all coming from within the Dragon Slayer. Then, he felt a horrific sensation: his own soul being gnawed at by millions of unseen bugs, a gnawing agony that went beyond physical pain.

Teach let go of the sword as if it were a burning coal. He screamed, a guttural shriek of pure, instinctual terror, and rolled on the ground, clutching at his head.

But when he looked up, a dark shadow was looming over him. Guts, having appeared seemingly out of nowhere, was mid-air, dropping and stomping on Teach's stomach with all the force of a falling meteor. The ground caved in with a sickening crunch, burying Teach deep in the sand. The immense pain, mixed with the trauma from the sword, was too much. Teach passed out with foam on his mouth.

"You dirty sword-napper," Guts said, his voice flat with irritation. He grabbed Teach by the hair and, with a casual heave, threw his unconscious body far into the distance.

"TEACH!" the other Whitebeard crewmates shouted in unison, turning their attention from Guts to their fallen comrade. "Catch him!"

Ace, his frustration boiling over, struck Guts's helmeted head with a burning fist, the flames of his Mera Mera no Mi power a testament to his fury. "Eat this!" he yelled. The impact rang out with a deafening CLANG! of metal on fire-hardened skin. 

Ace, until now, had not been able to even make the Berserker Armor bend. He kept punching, kicking, and striking with all his strength, but Guts's Haki-covered armor was so hard, and he was regenerating so fast, that the attacks felt like a futile exercise.

Guts, in a lull between Ace's relentless attacks, delivered a swift punch to Ace's gut, a blow that made the fiery young man gasp. Guts then grabbed his head and slammed it on the ground.

Guts, for his part, felt that Ace's attacks were kinda weak compared to the other Whitebeard commanders. 

Maybe he lacked vitamins? he thought, his mind processing the information in a very Guts-like fashion, that his daughter, Robin, could hit harder than him. So the vitamins must be it.

"You need more vitamins, kid," Guts said to Ace, his voice flat and unconcerned.

"I am not lacking vitamins, you bastard!" Ace shot back, annoyed at being treated like a patient with a vitamin deficiency. "Your armor is so damn hard!"

Thatch, who was helped to his feet by his fellow crewmates, immediately pushed them away and grabbed his sword that had fallen to the ground. His face, still bruised from Guts's earlier kick, was a mask of fierce determination.

"Just take a rest for a while, Thatch-san," one of his crewmates pleaded.

"No, I must not!" Thatch roared, his voice full of passion. "The woman I love has already given birth to a son!"

His fellow crewmates looked at him, their eyes wide with admiration, seeing him as a determined soldier ready for his last, glorious stand.

"Her husband said that in his telegraph," Thatch added, a tone of deep, lingering longing in his voice.

The crewmates' admired gaze turned to one of profound sympathy. "That's so sad, Thatch-san!"

"We can't fall here!" Thatch declared, his voice a passionate and trembling shout. "We are the last beacon of humanity! We are the last shield that protects our beloved ones from the demon we are facing now! So we can't fall here!"

His fellow crewmates, inspired by his speech, clenched their fists in solidarity, their resolve hardening.

"Please tell Pops that I am grateful for raising me until now..." Thatch began, his voice choked with emotion. But before he could finish his dramatic words, Guts, who had been watching the whole spectacle with irritation, drop-kicked him in the face.

"Don't make me a demon," Guts said flatly, his voice devoid of emotion as Thatch's body flew. "I hate demons."

"THATCH-SAN!"

The Whitebeard crewmates scrambled to catch Thatch, who had been sent flying by Guts's dropkick. The dramatic moment was over, replaced once again by the frenetic chaos of the battle.

Vista thrust one of his swords forward, the blade stabbing hard, going right through the gap in Guts's helm and out his back. Guts didn't even flinch. He simply caught Vista's hand with an iron grip and kneed him hard in the chest with his Haki-covered knee. A sickening CRACK! Rang out as the blow shattered Vista's Armament Haki and cracked his sternum.

Guts then noticed Marco incoming, a blur of blue flame descending with a powerful kick to his side. In a split-second decision, Guts released the Armament Haki from the part of his armor that Marco was about to hit. 

Marco's sharp, burning talon pierced Guts's armored stomach, unprotected by Haki, and went clean through. Marco's leg was stuck.

"Gotcha," Guts smirked, his voice a low growl from within the helm. He grabbed the phoenix's stuck leg with an iron grip. Then, with a roar of effort, he pulled Marco back, using him like a bludgeoning weapon. Guts swung him around, a fiery blur, and slammed him hard into Vista, whose chest was still aching.

"Let's go, bird slayer," Guts said, swinging Marco around for another brutal smash.

Ace, his face a mix of concern and determination, ran toward Vista and helped him back up to his feet. "You alright, Vista-san?" he asked.

Vista, wheezing and clutching at his side, a low groan escaping his lips, looked at the chaotic battle and the sight of a screaming Marco still being swung around by Guts, pleading, "Help me-yoi!" 

Many of his ribs and bones were cracked from the earlier blow, but he gritted his teeth and said, "I am fine." 

He looked at Guts, his sword still stuck in his helmet, and a moment of genuine pity crossed his face. "I'm starting to feel bad to keep killing Guts," he said, the words barely a rasp. "The guy has nothing to do with this."

Before he could finish his thought, Guts threw Marco's flying body directly at him. Marco's form, a blur of blue fire, collided with Vista, making him roll on the ground with a grunt. 

Vista slowly got back to his feet, a throbbing vein visible on his forehead. The pity was gone, replaced by incandescent rage. "I'll kill you, you bastard!" he roared, drawing his second sword and running back toward Guts again.

Not far from the chaos, Crocodile sat beside the still-sleeping Bullet, with a quivering Igaram next to him. "Sir Crocodile, what should we do? What if their war affects our country?" Igaram asked, his voice trembling with fear.

Crocodile shouted at him, "Go away, you stink!" then looked at Bullet with a look of genuine amazement. 

How could Bullet still be sleeping with all this chaos and noise?

Unbeknownst to Crocodile, Bullet's body was internally fighting against the corrosive corruption Guts had inflicted upon him. 

Crocodile let out a long sigh and leaned back against the nearest rock formation. He glanced sideways at Igaram.

"There's nothing we can do," he muttered. "Don't get involved. Let them settle it."

His eyes wandered across the battered field—toward the disorganized, trembling Baroque Works agents still clumsily pretending to be Marines.

They had no idea he was their boss.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, a flicker of regret passing through his mind.

What was I thinking, keeping these idiots? Maybe it's time to disband the entire operation. Everything seems pointless.

Vista stood beside Marco, his body bruised and battered, his breathing ragged. His swollen eyes looked at the distant horizon of Nanohana Port, where the sun had just begun to go up. They had been fighting Guts all night.

"Marco, Guts seems to keep getting stronger," Vista said, looking at the twin swords he held. "My sword can't even scratch his armor now."

"No, you're wrong, Vista-yoi," Marco replied, his own body bruised and his flames flickering weakly. He looked at Guts, still full of energy, and continued, "It's not that Guts is getting stronger, it's us getting weaker." 

Marco noticed the strange corruption inside his body, a corrosive energy that his flames were constantly working to burn and cleanse, a side effect of fighting Guts that he'd never experienced before. 

"Hm?"

Suddenly, Marco's attention was drawn to a Marine ship that was barely visible under the morning mirage, and the sight of an old man who flew toward them at incredible speed. An old man with a shock of almost-white hair, laughing a booming GAHAHAHA with a woman on his shoulder, whom he carried like a sack of potatoes.

"Crap! It's Garp!" Marco shouted, his eyes wide. They had fought Guts all night; their energy was spent. They didn't have any left to fight the legendary Marine hero. "Tell everyone we are leaving!"

"Crap! It's Gramps!" Ace shouted with eyes wide as he recognized the old man.

In an instant, the Whitebeard pirates scattered like cockroaches.

"Guts, I'll remember this, you bastard!" one of them yelled while running at full speed.

"I'll pee on your ship if I ever find it docked anywhere!" another screamed over his shoulder.

"I'll fill your ship with garbage if you sail past us, you freak!"

Then, one more chimed in, dead serious, his voice cutting through the other threats. "I'll eat shark soup and takoyaki at the same time in front of your Sea King, you bastard!"

The others gasped, their feet skidding to a halt.

They all turned to him in horror—then immediately kicked him.

"LEAVE THE POOR SEA KING ALONE, YOU DEMON!"

Guts noticed the sudden commotion and turned his head toward the source of their panic.

An old Marine with broad shoulders and a wide grin ran toward him, with Robin resting gently on his shoulder.

Guts's eyes narrowed behind his visor.

Robin...? Did she call them? The Den Den Mushi they had left aboard the ship—maybe she used it to call for help.

But as the old man approached, he bent slightly and set Robin down with great care, patting her head like a cherished granddaughter.

Then, before Guts could say a word, the old man turned and ran, his booming laughter echoing across the desert. "Stop running, Ace! Or you'll taste my FIST OF LOVE!"

Ace shrieked and ran even faster. "Leave me alone, Gramps!"

Behind the elderly man, Marines in immaculate white and blue uniforms poured in, their strides orderly. They were the real Marines this time, no question about it.

Guts noticed a man among them who drew his attention. A cool-headed Vice Admiral stepped forward. A tall man wearing a brown suit, a wide-brimmed hat half covering his face, a Marine coat slung over his shoulders. At his hip, a sword hung idly.

Then Guts saw someone he knew better. He had met the Vice Admiral with the ice ability both at the conference a few weeks ago and over ten years prior.

Guts's Berserker Armor, sensing the absence of an immediate, all-consuming threat, began to recede, the plates hissing and unlatching.

Guts was mentally fatigued, the constant pressure of the armor and the regeneration bringing him to the very edge of his sanity. He took a deep, shuddering breath, the cool air feeling like a shock to his system. He then walked toward Robin, after picking up his partner, the Dragon Slayer, which lay not far on the ground, and slung it on his back.

"Why did you come back?" Guts asked, his voice a low, tired rasp. "And where are the rest of the Shell Islanders?"

Robin, a pout on her face, put her hands on her hips. "I was worried," she said simply. She then explained that she had taken all the Shell Islanders to a nearby Drum Kingdom before calling the Marines and sailing back to Alabasta with Gargar.

Guts looked at Robin. She was hesitating about something, her eyes fixed on the distant Alabasta Kingdom. He knew what she was thinking. Even with everything that had happened, the chaos, she still wanted to help the people of Alabasta. He sighed, a tired, heavy sound that seemed to carry the weight of his endless battle.

"Must you do this?" he asked, his voice low, a genuine note of concern in it. He wanted to keep her safe, to keep her out of the way of the endless bloodshed, but he knew her resolve.

"Please... father," Robin said, her voice soft but unwavering, her gaze pleading.

Guts sighed again, the sound now more of resignation than of frustration. He nodded, a small, almost imperceptible gesture of acceptance. "Fine," he said. "I'll talk to the Marines first."