Chapter 240

Bogard sat casually on the dog-shaped figurehead of the ship, his eyes half-closed as he observed the distant horizon. It had been days since Garp and Whitebeard had begun their titanic clash, a battle that shook the seas themselves. The waves rippled with the aftershocks of their fierce confrontation, and the air was thick with tension.

The Whitebeard Pirates had been on edge the entire time, their anxiety palpable as they worried for their captain. In contrast, Bogard remained unfazed, his confidence in his mentor's strength unwavering. Garp was a man who had battled Roger, the Pirate King, to a standstill in his prime. Whitebeard, formidable as he was, could not hope to best someone like Garp.

Suddenly, the sea beneath the ship trembled violently, another massive tremor rippling through the waters. This had become the norm over the past few days, as Whitebeard's Tremor-Tremor Fruit unleashed its destructive power. It was no exaggeration to say that Whitebeard had the power to destroy continents; each quake he generated was a reminder of that terrifying potential.

But then, Bogard felt something different—a second tremor, weaker yet distinct, coming from a different direction. He stood up, his eyes narrowing in shock. This tremor wasn't coming from the island where Garp and Whitebeard were locked in combat, but from a completely different direction.

An ominous feeling crept up his spine as he realized the source of the tremor seemed to be coming from the direction of the Sorbet Kingdom, thousands of miles away. His instincts screamed that something was terribly wrong.

As if to confirm his fears, the emergency transponder snail rang out, its shrill tone piercing the tense atmosphere. Bogard's normally neutral expression shifted, his face etched with shock as he listened to the urgent report on the other end. His demeanor changed completely, his calm composure shattered by the gravity of the news.

"What...?" Bogard's voice, usually steady, quivered with disbelief. The words he heard left no room for doubt—the situation was dire. Without a moment's hesitation, he dropped the receiver and launched himself in the direction of the island where Garp and Whitebeard were battling. If the news was true, they couldn't afford even a second of delay.

On the deck of the Whitebeard Pirates' ship, Marco and the others watched in shock as the previously composed Bogard suddenly sprang into action, his aura skyrocketing as he moved with unprecedented urgency towards the battlefield.

The abrupt change in atmosphere sent a wave of anxiety through the crew. Something serious had happened, something that even Bogard, who had been so calm, could not ignore.

"Jozu! Stay back on the ship and prepare the fleet... Vista, follow me! We need to check on Pops!" Marco commanded, his voice laced with concern. He had no idea what had triggered such an adverse reaction from Bogard, but he knew it couldn't be good.

Meanwhile, on the island, Garp and Whitebeard stood locked in a fierce struggle. Garp's fist, coated with black Busoshoku Haki, collided with Whitebeard's fist, wrapped in the destructive white halo of his Devil Fruit. The clash of their auras created a ripple in reality itself, the very air around them distorting under the sheer force of their blows.

But then, a subtle tremor coursed through the battlefield, different from the quakes that had been caused by their ongoing battle. Both fighters, their senses heightened to superhuman levels by the relentless combat, felt the disturbance. As the remnants of the island cracked and split beneath them, Garp and Whitebeard instinctively retreated, their eyes locking onto the distant horizon.

"Was that one of yours?" Garp's voice was grave, his usual bravado replaced by a deep concern. He knew Whitebeard's power well—he had been fighting against it for days now. But this tremor was different. Though it was weaker, it was unmistakably powerful, and it had traveled an incredible distance to reach them.

Garp's mind raced, momentarily considering a terrifying possibility, but he quickly dismissed it. Surely, the World Government wouldn't go that far... would they?

Just as the thought crossed his mind, both Garp and Whitebeard detected a rapidly approaching figure. The speed and precision of the movement left no doubt—whoever it was, they were coming directly for them.

It took Bogard only minutes to cross the dozens of miles separating the ship from the battlefield. As he arrived, landing with a thud next to Garp, the old Marine felt a sinking feeling in his gut. Something was very wrong. He had known Bogard for years, had trained him, and he had never seen his protégé so shaken.

Garp turned to Bogard, his expression darkening. The fact that Bogard had come himself, interrupting their battle, spoke volumes. There was an ominous weight in the air, a silent dread that neither Garp nor Whitebeard could ignore.

"What is it, Bogard?" Garp asked, his voice low and steady, though his heart pounded in his chest. The silence that followed was deafening, as if the world itself was holding its breath.

Bogard met Garp's gaze, his eyes filled with urgency. "The Sorbet Kingdom... it's gone," he said, his voice barely above a whisper, yet the words hit like a hammer. "An entire kingdom... obliterated."

For a moment, neither Garp nor Whitebeard spoke. The significance of those words hung in the air, heavy and foreboding. An entire kingdom, wiped off the map. The tremor they had felt, the one that had reached them even from thousands of miles away, was the aftermath of a cataclysmic event—something far beyond the scope of any battle, even one between two of the strongest men in the world.

Garp clenched his fists, his knuckles turning white. There was only one thing in this world that could cause such devastation from such a distance. He had dismissed the thought earlier, but now it was impossible to ignore.

The Ancient Weapons... had one been unleashed?

"What of the Marines on the island...?" Garp's voice, usually steady and unyielding, trembled with a mix of dread and urgency. His eyes bore into Bogard, seeking even the faintest glimmer of hope. But Bogard simply shook his head, his expression grim.

The truth was unbearable—there was no way to know how many Marines had perished. The attack had just occurred, and it would take days, perhaps even weeks, to fully grasp the extent of the devastation. The silence that followed was thick with unspoken despair.

A storm of rage began to brew within Garp, raw and uncontainable. His blood boiled, and his pulse thundered in his ears. He had always known the Elders to be ruthless, but never had he imagined they would sink to such depths.

Destroying God's Valley all those years ago had been justified under the pretense of eradicating the legacy of Rocks, but this—this was nothing short of a power play, a demonstration of their willingness to annihilate anything or anyone that stood in their way. It was senseless, monstrous.

As the realization settled in, Garp's fury reached its boiling point. A torrent of Conqueror's Haki exploded from him, surging like a tidal wave of wrath. The very air seemed to crackle with its intensity, the ground beneath his feet quaking as if in fear.

Even Whitebeard, a man who had stared death in the face countless times, found himself momentarily unbalanced by the sheer force of Garp's rage. He took a few steps back, instinctively bracing himself.

The fight was over—Whitebeard knew that all too well. Even he, the strongest man in the world, would think twice before confronting Garp in such a state unless he was truly prepared to wager his life.

The island itself seemed to groan under the weight of Garp's anger, the skies darkening as if the world responded to his fury. Just then, Marco appeared on the horizon, his majestic phoenix form blazing as he carried Vista on his back. But as they neared the battlefield, the overwhelming force of Garp's Conqueror's Haki hit them like a sledgehammer.

Marco's transformation faltered, his phoenix form flickering as if the very power of his Devil Fruit was being denied by the sheer willpower emanating from Garp. With a sudden lurch, Marco plummeted toward the ground, but he managed to land safely, though not without a jarring impact.

Marco and Vista, both shaken but unharmed, quickly rose to their feet. They were veterans of countless battles, but the scene before them was unlike anything they had ever encountered. Garp, a man who had always been a pillar of strength and composure, now stood like a titan consumed by wrath, his fury palpable in the very air they breathed.

It was a sight that made even the fiercest warriors hesitate. But as their eyes found Whitebeard, who stood tall and unharmed, their initial fear was replaced by relief. Their captain was safe, and that was all that mattered.

They cautiously approached Whitebeard's side, their eyes flickering between their captain and the enraged Marine hero. But before they could say anything, Bogard's emergency transponder snail rang out again, its shrill tone cutting through the tension. He picked it up immediately, his expression darkening with each passing second as more reports flooded in about the Sorbet Kingdom.

The news was dire—no survivors had been confirmed, and the scale of the destruction was incomprehensible. The kingdom, once a thriving realm, had been reduced to nothing more than ash and ruin in an instant.

The wrath of an Ancient Weapon had been unleashed, and the consequences were catastrophic. Garp's fists clenched tighter, his knuckles turning white as he listened to the grim updates. Every word was like a dagger twisting in his gut, fueling the inferno of anger within him.

********

About a hundred miles away from the Sorbet Kingdom, on a secluded, uninhabited island, a lone man stood at the shore, his eyes fixed on the distant horizon. The once serene sky had been marred by a monstrous mushroom cloud that towered ominously into the heavens, visible even from such a vast distance.

It was as if the sky itself had been torn apart, a grim testament to the unimaginable destruction that had just unfolded. The dark plume stretched high, curling at the top, and from beneath it, the remnants of an unfathomable force continued to surge outward, a stark reminder of the devastation that had wiped the Sorbet Kingdom from existence.

This man, with his long black hair swept back and his sharp, determined features, was none other than Monkey D. Dragon. The usual calm resolve in his eyes was now tinged with something more—a deep, unshakable sorrow.

Earlier, he had witnessed the massive tsunami that had threatened to engulf the entire archipelago to which this island belonged. The sheer size of the wave had been enough to darken the sky, and its approach was as inevitable as death itself.

Dragon had acted swiftly, his power surging as he fought against the tide. He alone had stood between the towering wall of water and the islands it sought to swallow. His hands had cut through the air, his will shaping the winds, forcing the ocean back with all the might he could muster. Even so, many islands had not been so fortunate.

Those that housed more than a hundred thousand souls had been consumed, vanishing beneath the sea in a matter of moments.

As Dragon watched the distant cloud, a silent tear slid down the side of his face. It was a tear for the lives lost, for the innocent souls he couldn't save. The normally stoic man felt the weight of his failure pressing heavily on his heart.

For all his strength, for all his resolve, he had not been able to save them all. The agony of that realization cut deeper than any physical wound could, and for a moment, Dragon allowed himself to feel that pain, to acknowledge the raw, searing grief that came with knowing that despite his efforts, he had failed.

But even as the tear fell, it was as if a new fire ignited within him. His sorrow gave way to something stronger—a resolve forged in the crucible of his grief. Dragon's eyes, once filled with pain, now hardened with determination. His will, unbreakable before, now seemed to have been tempered to an even sharper edge.

He swore silently, on the souls of all those innocent lives lost, that he would liberate this world from the clutches of the monsters who ruled it. The World Government, the Elders, all those who had allowed such atrocities to occur—they would be brought to justice, no matter the cost.

Taking a deep breath, Dragon composed himself. He turned to face Livia, his most trusted subordinate, who had been standing nearby, respectfully waiting. Livia was a tall woman with a strong, commanding presence. Her sharp eyes and firm demeanor spoke of countless battles and unyielding loyalty. In her hands, she held a specialized ink, prepared meticulously for this moment.

Dragon nodded to her, and without a word, he removed the upper part of his cloak, baring his back. Livia stepped forward, her expression solemn as she dipped the needle into the ink. This was no ordinary ink—it had been crafted with care, infused with the essence of the ashes of martyrs. It would mark him with a symbol that would forever remind him of this day, of the lives lost and the responsibility he bore.

As Livia began the process, the needle pricking his skin with each deliberate stroke, Dragon's mind remained focused on the promise he had just made to himself. The pain of the needle was nothing compared to the pain in his heart, and with each mark that Livia etched onto his skin, that pain was transformed into resolve.

The tattoo would be a reminder—a permanent, visible scar of his failure, but also a symbol of his unyielding resolve to overthrow the tyranny of the World Government.

"Send the Revolutionaries into the surrounding seas," Dragon commanded, his voice steady but filled with underlying fury.

"We must search for survivors. The World Government and Marines will conduct their own search, but we cannot trust those who caused this tragedy to truly care for the people. We will find any who remain and protect them."

Livia paused briefly, her hand steady as she continued her work, but she looked up at Dragon with a mixture of respect and understanding. "As you wish, Commander. We will not rest until every corner of the seas has been searched."

The exchange was brief but powerful. Livia's hands moved with precision as she completed the tattoo, the ink now permanently embedded in Dragon's skin, symbolizing both his burden and his commitment. When she finally stepped back, the tattoo was complete—a dark, pattern mark that seemed to capture the very essence of the storm that raged within him.

Dragon looked at Livia, his eyes softened with a rare glimpse of gratitude. "This mark… it will be a constant reminder of what we've lost today, and of what we must do to ensure it never happens again."

Livia nodded, her voice steady as she replied, "We will make them pay, Commander. For every life lost today, we will make them pay tenfold."

Dragon turned back to the shore, his gaze once again fixed on the distant, monstrous cloud that loomed on the horizon. The Revolution had truly been born on this day—not from a desire for power, but from the ashes of a tragedy, from the loss of countless innocent lives.

It was a revolution fueled by pain, by anger, and by an unwavering commitment to bring justice to a world ruled by monsters. And Dragon would lead it, with the mark on his face as both his reminder and his vow.

*******

The waves lapped gently at the shore, their soft rhythm a cruel contrast to the chaos that had swallowed the man whole. Ryuji lay sprawled on the wet sand, his body broken, battered, and torn—yet, inexplicably, still alive.

His ragged breaths were labored, every inhale a painful reminder that fate had denied him even the release of death. Above him, the sky was a deep, indifferent blue, stretching endlessly, as if mocking the smallness of his suffering.

The island was a lush, green paradise, untouched by the devastation that had razed the Sorbet Kingdom. Tall trees swayed gently in the breeze, their leaves whispering secrets to one another, oblivious to the man lying at their feet. The vibrant foliage, the chirping of birds, the serene beauty of it all—it felt like a joke, a twisted illusion designed to torment him further.

"So even now you don't want to grant me the mercy of death , huh?" He chuckled, his voice hoarse and desperate, his cry swallowed by the vastness of the ocean and the sky. His face was caked with sand and blood, his eyes wild and unseeing, fixed on the infinite horizon.

"WHY... WHY DO YOU NOT TAKE MY LIFE AWAY? I HAVE NOTHING MORE TO GIVE!"

Tears streamed down his face, mingling with the saltwater that continued to lap at his wounds. His body was a canvas of pain, yet the agony of his flesh was nothing compared to the torment of his soul.

He had watched as everything he loved was torn from him, his family slaughtered by his own hand in a desperate bid to spare them from a worse fate. The faces of his wife, his children—he had held them close, whispering apologies as he ended their lives.

And then, just as he had turned the blade on himself, desperate to follow them into the void, they had come.

The Celestial Dragons, those monstrous gods in human form, had snatched him away, denying him even the mercy of death. They had made him their plaything, a rabbit in their cruel hunt, forcing him to flee through the forests and across the cliffs, laughing as they chased him down like an animal.

He had been numb then, the grief and guilt too overwhelming for any other emotion to surface. He had thought it would end when the Sorbet Kingdom was obliterated, that he would finally find peace in the annihilation that swept across the land. But now, here he was, still breathing, still alive, still suffering.

"Am I even unworthy of death?" he whispered, his voice breaking as he stared up at the heavens. "What more do you want from me? You stopped me when I wanted to end it all... What do you expect from a simple farmer? I'm no hero, no warrior. I have nothing left—no reason to live, no strength to fight. I'm just a man… a man who's lost everything."

The sky remained silent, offering no answers. The world had taken everything from him, leaving him hollow and broken, a shell of the man he once was. The grief that had consumed him now simmered into something darker, more dangerous. Rage.

Pure, unadulterated rage. Not the fiery wrath of a warrior, but the cold, calculated fury of a man who had been stripped of all hope. He wanted to destroy everything—to raze this world to the ground so that no one would ever have to suffer as he had. This world, with all its cruelty and indifference, did not deserve to exist.

He clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms, the pain a reminder that he was still here, still alive. He loathed himself for it, loathed the weakness that kept him tethered to this miserable existence.

His rage was not just for the Celestial Dragons or the Marines who stood by and did nothing. It was for everyone—the rulers, the common folk, the bystanders. Even those who suffered, just like he did, because they were part of this world, this system that allowed such horrors to happen. And his hatred extended to himself, for not being strong enough, for not saving his family, for surviving when he should have died.

As his thoughts spiraled deeper into darkness, his body trembled with the intensity of his emotions. He had wanted nothing more than to be a simple man, to live a quiet life with his family, to grow old and die in peace. But the world had taken that dream and shattered it, leaving him with nothing but his rage.

He screamed again, a raw, primal sound that tore through the silence of the island.

"WHAT DO YOU EXPECT OF ME?!" His voice cracked as he pounded the ground with his fists, the sand beneath him turning crimson as his wounds reopened.

"I'm just a farmer! I wanted to be a swordsman once... But I wasn't good enough! I wasn't strong enough! I'm just a man—so why?! Why do you keep me alive?!"

His scream faded into the wind, and for a moment, the island was silent again, save for the soft lapping of the waves against the shore. Then, as if in answer to his desperate cries, something brushed against his face. He blinked, his tear-streaked eyes focusing on a strange object that had washed ashore beside him.

It was a fruit, unlike any he had ever seen before—its surface was black, covered in swirling patterns and strange contours. It glistened in the sunlight, almost glowing with an otherworldly light. The man stared at it, his mind unable to process what he was seeing. It was as if fate itself was mocking him, offering him something when he had nothing left to lose.

He reached out, his hand trembling as he touched the fruit. The moment his fingers made contact, he felt a surge of power—a dark, sinister energy that seemed to resonate with the fury burning within him.

It was as if the fruit had been waiting for him, drawn to his hatred, to his desire for destruction. His thoughts became clearer, more focused, as if the fruit was whispering to him, urging him to take it, to claim the power it offered.

"Is this what you want from me?" he whispered, his voice barely audible as he stared at the fruit.

"Do you want me to destroy everything? Is that why you spared me? To turn me into a monster?"

He felt a twisted sense of purpose as he lifted the fruit to his lips. He had nothing left to live for, no reason to hold back.

If this world was going to deny him peace, then he would take everything from it. He would become the monster that this world deserved—the harbinger of its end.

With a final, defiant glare at the sky, he bit into the fruit. Its taste was bitter, vile, but he didn't care. Power flooded his veins, filling the void within him, feeding his rage, his wrath. He could feel it changing him, reshaping him into something new, something terrible.

The man who had washed ashore was gone, consumed by the darkness that now coursed through him. In his place stood a being with only one purpose—to erase this world so that no one else would ever suffer again.

As the last of the fruit disappeared into his mouth, the man threw back his head and roared, a sound that echoed across the island, through the forest, and into the sea. It was the birth cry of a true monster, one born from pain, grief, and unrelenting fury. And with it, the world would soon come to know the wrath of a man who had lost everything.

*****

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