The silence that followed Garp's fall lasted exactly three heartbeats.
Then the battlefield exploded back into chaos, as if the legendary confrontation had been holding back a dam of violence.
Across the plaza, the systematic extermination of Whitebeard's forces continued with mechanical precision. The Pacifistas moved like harbingers of death, their beams cutting through formations of pirates who had sailed the New World's most treacherous waters, only to find their end in this carefully planned trap.
A beam sliced through three warriors of the New World at once, cauterizing the wounds even as it killed. The smell of burned flesh mixed with gunpowder and blood, creating a nauseating cocktail that hung heavy in the air. Another Pacifista grabbed a fleeing messenger, crushing his skull with a single squeeze before discarding the body and scanning for its next target.
"Hold the line!" a commander screamed, trying to rally the remnants of the Decalvan Brothers' fleet. Blood streaked his weathered face, and his left arm hung useless at his side, bone protruding through torn fabric. "Form up! We can still.."
He didn't finish the sentence.
A beam lanced through his back, emerging from his chest in a spray of blood and bone fragments. He looked down at the smoldering hole with mild surprise, as if puzzled by this sudden inconvenience, before collapsing face-first onto the blood-soaked stone.
Behind him, a Pacifista lowered its palm with mechanical indifference, already scanning for its next target with those cold, emotionless eyes.
Near the center plaza, Vista stood panting among the carnage, one arm hanging limp at his side, his elegant blades chipped and damaged, steel that had once been works of art, now reduced to little more than sharp scrap. Blood matted his signature mustache, and his once-pristine cape had been reduced to smoldering tatters that barely clung to his shoulders.
Around him, only twelve men of the Fifth Division still stood. Formerly sixty strong. The rest lay scattered across the plaza in grotesque poses, some still moving weakly, clutching wounds that would never heal, many more lying perfectly still in pools of their own blood.
He stared at the encroaching wall of Pacifistas, their mechanical forms advancing with inhuman coordination, Admiral Kizaru floating in the sky like a golden specter of death, and Marines flanking both sides with weapons raised. The reality of their situation was truly brutal in its clarity. They had walked into a meticulously planned slaughter.
This wasn't war. It was extermination.
"Cowards," he spat, blood flecking his lips and staining his once-pristine teeth. "This isn't a battle. It's a trap."
A younger pirate beside him, barely out of his teens with smooth skin now marred by ash and terror, trembled. "Commander... what do we do?"
Vista looked at the boy, someone's son, someone's brother, someone who should have been learning to sail under peaceful skies instead of dying on this blood-soaked plaza, and felt the weight of command more heavily than ever before. He had promised Whitebeard he would bring these men home. He had sworn an oath to the man who had given them all family when the world had given them nothing.
That promise was about to be broken.
Then he smiled, the expression transforming his battered face with a final, defiant dignity that spoke of a life lived without regret.
"We do what pirates do, boy," he said, his voice carrying despite the chaos around them. "We sail into the storm with our heads held high."
He raised his remaining sword, the broken steel catching sunlight for perhaps the last time, its edge still sharp enough to cut through despair.
"For Pops!" he roared, his voice echoing across the plaza with the force of absolute conviction.
"FOR POPS!" his men echoed, raising their weapons, swords, guns, even broken pieces of debris, anything that could serve as a final testament to their loyalty.
They charged across the broken plaza, boots splashing through puddles of blood, each step carrying them closer to their inevitable end, and each step taken without hesitation, without doubt, without fear.
Above them, Kizaru observed with detached interest, light gathering at his fingertip like a miniature sun. "Oh my," he drawled in that maddeningly casual tone. "How troublesome~"
The light descended like divine judgment.
From his perch atop a half-collapsed Marine barracks, Doflamingo watched the slaughter unfold with the rapt attention similar to appreciating fine art. His laughter rang out across the battlefield, hysterical, unhinged, the sound of a man who had long ago abandoned any pretense of sanity.
"Fufufufu! This is better than any opera!" he cackled, head thrown back in ecstasy, veins bulging in his neck as his body shook with manic glee. His trademark grin stretched wider than seemed humanly possible, teeth gleaming like a predator.
His fingers danced through the air, pulling at unseen threads that glinted occasionally in the sunlight. Beneath him, ten pirates, men who had once been enemies, now united in horror, twitched and danced like marionettes.
They moved with mechanical precision, attacking their allies with weapons and fists, their bodies betraying everything their minds screamed against. They begged their friends to run, to understand that they couldn't control their movements, that this wasn't their choice. The horror in their eyes contrasted grotesquely with their efficient, deadly actions.
"Betrayal! Panic! Fear!" Doflamingo sang to the sky, his voice cracking with delight. "Sengoku... you're making an artist out of me!"
He wiggled his fingers with theatrical flourish, causing one controlled pirate to drive his sword through his own captain's chest. The puppet's face streamed with tears even as his hands twisted the blade deeper, his mouth moving in silent apologies that would never be heard.
The Den Den Mushi on his wrist crackled to life, Tsuru's voice cutting through his revelry with disapproval.
"Doflamingo. You are not here to enjoy the slaughter."
"Too late, old woman," he giggled, fingers continuing their deadly dance. "I'm having the time of my life. This chaos, this beautiful destruction, it's everything I've ever dreamed of!"
"Then make yourself useful. Vista is resisting."
Doflamingo's grin faltered for just a moment, his manic expression replaced by something approaching genuine consideration. Even he had a measure of respect for Whitebeard's Fifth Division Commander. The man was an artist with a blade, a person of steel and blood who had earned his reputation through skill rather than brutality.
But then the smile returned, more predatory than before, hungrier.
"Ooooh~ my cue at last!"
He released his current puppets with a casual gesture, letting them collapse like discarded toys. Several immediately drew their own weapons, choosing death over the memory of what they had been forced to do. Their final screams mixed with the greater symphony of battle.
Doflamingo didn't notice their despair. He was already airborne, leaping from his perch with the inhuman grace, his flamingo coat billowing around him.
Vista felt the approaching danger before he saw it, that unmistakable sensation of a predator focusing its full attention on him. He turned, bloodied but still upright, still defiant, as pink threads descended from above like a storm of razor wire.
Doflamingo dropped from the sky with arms spread wide, his coat creating dark shadows that seemed to swallow the light around him.
"You should've died when Whitebeard fell, flower-boy," he called out, voice dripping with mock sympathy. "Would've been so much more exciting that way. Now you're just... lingering."
Vista didn't respond with words. Words were for peacetime, for sake shared, for trading tales of adventure and glory on calm seas. This moment required only steel, only the pure language of combat.
He raised his remaining blade, its broken edge still deadly, still proud.
Around them, the battlefield seemed to hold its breath. Even in the midst of systematic slaughter, something about this confrontation commanded attention. Two artists of violence, each a master of their craft, meeting in what might be the final act.
Doflamingo's grin widened impossibly further.
"Let's make this beautiful."
The strings descended like falling stars, and Vista moved to meet them with the grace of a man who had never known fear.