Chapter 35: Desolation
### Chapter 35: Desolation
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The aftermath of the battle at Marineford was nothing short of apocalyptic. The once proud stronghold of the Marines now lay in ruins, reduced to a smoldering wasteland. Smoke billowed from every corner, rising from the debris-strewn battlefield like the last breaths of a dying giant. The pungent stench of burning metal and wood filled the air, mingling with the icy chill left behind by Aokiji's frozen battlefield, creating a sharp, acrid atmosphere that clung to the lungs.
Among the destruction, the twisted remains of the mighty Susanoo lay encased in solid ice. Massive shards of frozen chakra and steel jutted out of the ground, trapping unfortunate Marines beneath them. Their anguished cries reverberated through the silence, a haunting melody of pain and despair. Some fought desperately to free themselves from the icy prison, while others, too weak to move, simply waited for help that seemed impossibly far away. The ground itself groaned as soldiers tried in vain to shift the weight of the ice, the cracks and splinters a grim reminder of the overwhelming power that had been unleashed.
Admiral Aokiji, his breath visible in the frigid air, stood at the heart of this desolate scene, his face betraying a rare glimpse of sorrow. The usual stoicism that defined him faltered, giving way to a deep, gnawing guilt. His eyes swept across the battlefield, lingering on the frozen figures of his comrades, their faces locked in expressions of terror. Each one a life he had sworn to protect, now silenced by the very ice he had wielded to stop the Susanoo. The weight of his decision pressed down on him, cold and unrelenting.
He bent down beside one of the trapped Marines, the faint whisper of their plea barely audible. "Help... please... it hurts..." The words clawed at his heart, but there was no time for hesitation.
"Bring me hot water. Large quantities," Aokiji ordered in a voice that cut through the chaos. "We need to thaw them out—now."
The remaining able-bodied soldiers scrambled to obey, their movements frantic as they fetched buckets of boiling water, carefully pouring it over the icy prisons. Steam rose in plumes as the ice slowly melted, revealing the pale, frostbitten faces of the Marines within. Aokiji knelt by each one, his cold gaze softening momentarily as he oversaw the painstaking process of freeing his comrades. Every crack of the ice, every groan of the thawing battlefield, seemed to deepen the chill in his bones.
Meanwhile, not far from this scene of quiet sorrow, Admiral Akainu stood like a volcano ready to erupt. His fist smashed into the frozen ground with a force that sent tremors through the earth, causing molten magma to bubble up from beneath. His fury was palpable, the seething anger of a man who had been denied the victory he so desperately craved. He could not accept this defeat.
Sengoku approached Akainu, his voice steady yet laced with the weight of responsibility. "This isn't the end, Akainu," he said, his hand resting firmly on the admiral's shoulder. "You are the future of the Marines. Under Aokiji's leadership, you will restore our honor and rebuild from this defeat."
Akainu spun around, his eyes blazing with indignation. "Under Aokiji's leadership? Do you think a man like him, soft and merciful, is fit to lead? This defeat happened because we weren't ruthless enough! When you retire, Sengoku, I'll purge every traitor in our ranks!"
His words echoed across the battlefield, cutting through the thick air like a blade. The tension was electric, and before anyone could respond, Mihawk appeared beside them, his presence calm yet imposing. He spoke with cold, deliberate precision. "Traitors? If you're referring to me or the other Shichibukai, I suggest you choose your words carefully. We don't answer to you."
Akainu's rage reached a boiling point. He grabbed Mihawk by the collar, his grip like iron. "You... Hancock, Garp, all of you stood by and did nothing! Why did we even bring you here if you weren't going to fight?"
The figures Akainu accused—Garp, Hancock, Doflamingo, and the others—turned their attention to the confrontation, their expressions a mix of shock and contempt. It was clear that this battlefield was not just one of broken bodies, but fractured alliances as well.
In a heartbeat, Mihawk's blade flashed through the air, severing Akainu's arm clean off. The limb fell to the ground with a dull thud, instantly dissolving into molten lava. But Akainu's rage was not so easily silenced; his arm began to regenerate, the heat of his magma roaring back to life as his face twisted in fury.
Mihawk, his sword now sheathed, spoke with chilling clarity. "If you had done your job properly, you'd have known the real enemy wore prison garb. He escaped right under your nose. Has Impel Down become such a joke? And what of Crocodile, Straw Hat, and Jinbe? Our mission was Whitebeard, nothing more. Don't lay the blame for your failures on us."
The cold truth of Mihawk's words hung in the air, heavy and unshakable. Even Garp, who had remained silent throughout, could not argue. Akainu's accusations, while rooted in frustration, rang hollow.
Sengoku, sensing the mounting tension, clapped his hands together sharply. "Enough," he commanded, his voice booming over the noise of the battlefield. "This is not the time for blame. We need to clean up the wreckage, tend to our wounded, and regroup. In one week, we'll convene at Mariejois. The Shichibukai and all Marine officers will be present."
His words brought a semblance of order back to the chaos. The Marines, battered but not broken, began the arduous task of salvaging what remained of their stronghold. They moved with grim determination, pulling their comrades from the rubble and setting about the first steps of reconstruction.
Kizaru, the ever-lazy but effective admiral, knelt down amid the debris, retrieving his shattered sunglasses from the ground. He examined the broken lenses with a sigh before slipping them into his pocket, a rare sign of quiet frustration from the otherwise aloof warrior.
Aokiji, true to his promise, continued directing the thawing of the frozen Marines. Bucket after bucket of hot water was poured onto the icy prisons, and slowly, the figures trapped within began to stir. His focus was unshakable, his guilt driving him to save as many as possible.
And yet, despite the ruin and the loss, a flicker of hope remained. The Marines, though defeated, were united in their resolve. They would rebuild, stronger and more prepared for the future. The scars of Marineford would never fade, but they would serve as a reminder—a testament to the price of war and the unbreakable spirit of those who fought for justice.
In the cold, desolate heart of the battlefield, new determination was forged.
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