The sun was dead, swallowed by low clouds and the distant smoke of a burning forest. Somewhere on the rocky cliffs above the Ashina coast, two men stood facing each other.
No weapons.
No devil fruits.
Only fists.
Ace exhaled smoke from his nose. His knuckles cracked like firecrackers. Gunnar stood across, shirtless, his granite-like muscles twitching like they were breathing. His eyes were low, unreadable. The storm inside him was coiled.
Between them, boulders lay scattered—some cracked from earlier punches, others still untouched.
"You ready?" Ace asked, smirking.
"No," Gunnar growled. "But we start anyway."
---
CRACK.
Fists collided. A shockwave burst through the cliffs, and birds erupted from the trees below.
Ace's fist drove straight into Gunnar's ribs — a blow that would've broken stone — but Gunnar grunted and returned a right hook to Ace's jaw, sending him skidding through gravel.
Ace spat blood, laughed, and lunged again.
---
They didn't hold back.
Ace ducked low, sweeping Gunnar's legs. Gunnar leapt, twisting in the air and landing a knee to Ace's chest that made the air thunder. Ace crashed into a boulder, shattered it with his back, and stood up laughing.
"You call that a knee?" he spat.
Gunnar responded by lifting the entire half-boulder and hurling it.
Ace didn't flinch.
He clenched his fist, coiled his body—
BOOM.
The boulder exploded mid-air from the punch, shards whistling past his face.
But still, no black glow, no spark of Armament Haki. Their fists were flesh, blood, bone—and yet their strikes were already collapsing the world around them.
---
Hours Passed
Their hands were torn.
Their eyes were wild.
And still, no Observation, no instinct. Every punch was guessed, every dodge raw reflex.
"You feel anything?" Ace asked, chest heaving.
"No," Gunnar said. "Just pain."
They stood panting, smoke and dust rising around them. Dozens of broken rocks, cracked trees, and gouged cliffs. A crater-like dip had formed from their back-and-forth.
Ace clenched his fist, holding it up to the setting sun.
"No black," he said. "No shine."
"We're missing something," Gunnar muttered, eyes narrowed. "The old man said haki is will… but I've got will."
Ace sat down on a boulder, blood dripping from his lip.
"Maybe it's not will… maybe it's something else, I don't know."
Gunnar punched the ground hard enough to dent it.
"But I want this war more than anyone."
"Yeah," Ace said. "Me too."
They both stared into the distance. The castle, far off, glowing faintly.
"Still…" Ace grinned. "We wrecked half the cliffside without fruit."
Gunnar let out a snort.
"Let the next bastard try to stop us."
They sat in silence.
***
The wind carried the scent of ash and pine as banners were raised once again across the ruins of Ashina's shattered dominion.
Outside the Cliff Outpost – Two Days Later
The straw hat ronins rode through ancient trails.
Each stop brought faces from the shadows.
Men with one eye.
Women with old blades.
Children too young for swords, holding them anyway.
The outposts—hidden across valleys, behind waterfalls, buried in broken temples—saw fires reignite, armor dusted off, oaths renewed.
By the third day, over a hundred samurai and ronin stood outside the Ashina cliffs. Scarred, ragged, but standing.
In the practice fields built hastily of logs and rock, they trained—
Steel against steel.
Sweat flew with each swing.
Men roared kiai from their gut.
A blind swordsman corrected form by touch.
A young girl cried as her blade cut for the first time.
Inside the old castle courtyard, Isshin Ashina, wrapped in bandages, leaned on his crutch. His body trembled, but his eyes held fire.
"Raise your swords," he ordered.
One hundred swords rose in unison.
He smiled, faintly.
"Then let Ashina burn through them."
---
Meanwhile — Inside the Seized Ashina Castle
Thick clouds of cigar smoke coiled around Crocodile, standing on the broken throne of Isshin Ashina.
The once-pristine floor of the war hall was now littered with bones from roasted beasts, spilled wine, and discarded blades. In the corners, pirate flags swayed in place of Ashina's sigil.
A massive army stretched across the inner courtyard and castle walls.
Humans, Fishmen, Giants, Zoans.
Even tamed beasts: sea-lions in armor, war rhinos chained to spikes, and flying gull-wolves with metal talons.
Crocodile's cloak fluttered behind him. He stood unmoving, gazing down at the map scorched into the table before him.
"Is it confirmed?" he asked.
A scout kneeled, eyes low. "Yes, Lord Crocodile. Isshin Ashina survived. He's gathering warriors across the coast."
"Hmph." Crocodile clenched his golden hook. "Let them. Let them crawl out from their holes and walk to their deaths."
He turned.
Behind him stood Byrnndi World, devouring a haunch of meat larger than his head, laughing between bites.
"Hoohoohoo! I love desperate men. They hit harder when they've got nothing."
And reclining against the wall, legs crossed, sipping wine—
Stussy.
Calm. Eyes half-lidded. A knowing smirk on her lips.
"Do you think they'll reach us, Crocodile?" she said lazily.
"They won't have the chance," he replied. "We'll drown the mountain in blood before they climb it."
Castle Courtyard Below
Edward Weevil, monstrous and slow-eyed, wrestled three war beasts at once in training. His fists crushed boulders. His roars shook dust from the walls.
He didn't speak much. He only screamed when someone mentioned "Whitebeard."
Inside the command tent nearby, hundreds of mercenary pirates were sharpening weapons, loading cannons, and stringing nets. Fishmen soldiers discussed strategies to sink cliffs.
---
A pale dawn stretched across Ashina's foothills. The wind carried the smell of smoke, charred wood, and something fouler: despair.
Beyond the cliffs, tucked in a narrow valley, lay Hino Village—once a modest farming settlement, now a scattering of half-collapsed huts and scorched rice paddies. Crows circled above, cawing at the bodies of burnt husks that had once fed families.
Gunnar and Ace rode in on two wounded horses—led by a handful of straw hat ronins who'd been dispatched to gather supplies and recruit any willing samurai. Every few paces, the ronins halted to help a collapsing villager or check on a wounded protective wall.
At the village entrance, a dozen villagers huddled behind broken beams, wide-eyed. Many were children or the elderly—too frail to flee when Crocodile's mercenaries swept through. They stared at Gunnar's looming form first, then Ace's flaming-knuckle grin, as if seeing ghosts from distant nightmares.
One bent-over villager—a woman whose kimono was stained black with soot—stepped forward. Her lips trembled.
"W-Who are you?" she whispered. "The monsters… they took everything. Our home… our daughters…"
She raised a shaking hand to reveal a worn crest embroidered on her sleeve: the Crescent Moon over a Flaming Tower, the old Ashina emblem.
Gunnar dismounted slowly. His shoulders were broad enough to blot out the sky. He knelt to meet the woman at eye level, though his colossal frame dwarfed her.
"We're not your enemies," he said quietly, voice like distant thunder. "We came to help Ashina survive."
The woman's lips quivered. Tears fell. "Ashina… we thought it was gone forever."
From the corner, a young samurai boy—no more than fifteen, hair tied messily, wooden sword strapped across his back—pushed through the crowd. His eyes burned with a mixture of fear and anger. He clutched a battered straw hat.
"Stop lying!" he shouted, voice cracking. "My uncle died protecting our fields. My sister… she was taken as a slave. Ashina is gone!"
Gunnar looked down at him, expression unreadable. Ace placed a hand on Gunnar's arm to hold him back, knowing his friend's temper.
"Do you carry the Ashina crest?" Gunnar asked softly.
The boy's fist clenched. He shoved forward the sleeve of his torn robe—yes, the crescent-and-flame still gleamed under the mud.
The boy swallowed hard, eyes wide, but he didn't turn away.
---
Further down the main road, near the twisted remains of the old Ashina Shrine, a hundred samurai and ronins had gathered on damp, moss-covered tiles. The courtyard—once a place of silent meditation—now shook with harsh training rhythms.
A line of young samurai paraded back and forth, practicing sword swings with wooden bokkens. Each swing was punctuated by a piercing "_Hyaah!_" that echoed off the broken walls. Older ronins corrected their stances: feet placement, the angle of the wrists, the tightness of the grip. The smoke of burning embers from a small cooking fire drifted through the rising mist.
Ace watched from a low platform of fallen stone, flipping a piece of dried meat in his hand. He'd already eaten dozens of alloys of roasted grains and fish—his appetite undiminished by the sullen atmosphere.
"How many trained?" he asked Takeshi, who stood at his side. Takeshi—scarred across one cheek—num-bered off on his fingers.
"One hundred and twenty—sixty in the inner courtyard, forty here, and thirty who volunteered to ride south to alert the Hidden Blade Tribe." Takeshi's voice was firm, but his eyes betrayed exhaustion.
Ace's smirk flickered. "They look... ready."
Gunnar, leaning against a cracked pillar, crossed his arms. His eyes remained on the training samurai, but his mind churned.
"They have courage, but not all have true resolve," A samurai said. "A blade is only as strong as the will behind it."
At that moment, a young samurai in black-and-white armor hesitated in his swing. His bokken rattled as his legs shook. A ronin yelled at him, stepping forward.
"Focus, Akito! If you can't hold your ground, you're dead before you stand!"
Akito's face went pale. He staggered backward, nearly dropping the wooden blade. Tears welled in his eyes.
Gunnar pushed off the pillar and strode to the line of trainees. His voice cut through the courtyard like a gale.
"Stop!"
The samurai froze. Akito trembled at the center of the courtyard.
Isshin stepped forward, every man's breath catching in his throat. He stood tall—muscles coiled like steel springs.
"Why do you shake?" Isshin asked, voice low but unyielding. "Is it fear? Or is it grief?"
Akito's eyes flicked to a pair of severed black-and-white banners tied to a stake. Those had belonged to Akito's older brother, taken by Weevil's men.
Akito swallowed. "I… I can't control my sword when I see those banners. My brother died pretending to stand for Ashina. I can't—"
Isshin's gaze hardened. He grabbed the broken bokken from Akito's trembling hands.
"Then don't stand for my keyword."
In one fluid motion, Isshin snapped the bokken in half with a piercing crack that echoed like a gunshot. Splinters flew through the smoke. The other samurai flinched; even Takeshi's hand hovered near his sword hilt.
Isshin held the two halves together—showing Akito the broken wood and its jagged grain.
"Your brother died once," Isshin said, voice bursting with power. "But his spirit remains. Your tears will not bring him back. Vengeance will not honor his blade. Balance your rage. Let it refine you, not break you."
Akito swallowed, tears rolling down his dusty cheeks. He forced himself to stand straighter. Gunnar dropped the bokken halves to the ground—they fell like limp banners.
"Now," Isshin continued, "pick up that broken first. Practice with it. Show me that you can stand when the world demands you kneel."
Akito bent and picked up one half—grain whorled like the crest on his sleeve. He raised it in a shaky stance.
Akito inhaled, braced himself, and swung. The half-broken bokken cut the air with a bright whoosh. He struck a training post—just a gentle thud, but it was enough.
---
The next morning, the village of Hino gathered in a small clearing at the valley's edge. Over a hundred samurai under cracked helmets stood in formation, their eyes directed toward Isshin's banner: a half-burned crescent moon blazing over a blackened fortress.
At their head walked Gunnar, his scarred fist still bandaged. Walls of muscle bore wounds from yesterday's drills. His eyes were red-rimmed, and for a moment, he looked as fragile as any man.
But he tapped his fist into his other palm—solid—like a mountain standing against storm.
Isshin Ashina, leaning heavily on his cane, ascended the steps to a makeshift dais. Smoke still threaded from his bandages, and his voice came hoarse, fractured by pain.
"My warriors," he said, eyes sweeping the gathered faces, young and old. "You carry the last flame of Ashina in your swords. Tonight, we march upon an army ten times our size. Yet, our righteousness is our shield."
A hush fell. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
Isshin continued, "Look around you. These fields, these huts—they provided life once. Now they whisper death. But we—we create legend with our resolve."
His gaze fell on Gunnar first—then Ace—then the young Akito, kneeling with his broken bokken. Then Haruka, holding her practice sword with trembling pride.
"If you falter, remember why you stand. Remember the mothers who weep for sons fallen. Remember the children who carry your crests as their only inheritance. We reclaim our land tonight. Or we die trying, as warriors of Ashina."
At that, the assembled samurai raised their swords in a deafening roar that shook the valley.
***
Gunnar echoed, raising his own fist high. Oak-like veins stood out beneath his skin. "Ashina…" he roared. "Lives!" The ground trembled in response.
Ace lit his knuckles in a sudden flame that flared even under the rising sun. He shouted back, voice rough with promise:
"We will burn the wicked from these lands!"
The villagers—elderly and wounded—stepped forward to line the ranks, holding pikes and farming tools sharpened into crude spears. Faces that once brimmed with fear now glowed with defiance.
A heavy gray dawn hung over Ashina Castle. Mist coiled through shattered ramparts, swirling like ghostly serpents. In the distance, the banners of Crocodile's forces—black and crimson—flapped ominously in the breeze. The time had come.
At the fringe of the outer courtyard, beneath the broken walls of the first gate, Isshin Ashina steadied himself with his cane. His body was battered, but his eyes—sharp with Observation Haki—spoke of unyielding resolve. Beside him stood Gunnar, immovable as a mountain, frost and lava pulsing beneath his skin. And to Isshin's other side, Ace leaned on a sword-hilt, fire coiling in his palm.
Behind them, a hundred straw hat ronins and young samurai crouched in the low mist. Each wore the Crescent Moon over Flame crest on their robes. They would serve as the vanguard—moving fast to seize gates and hold critical choke points, enabling Isshin, Gunnar, and Ace to slip past the bulk of Crocodile's forces.
Isshin raised a hand.
"Strike quickly. Hold them at the gates. Then fall back. Our target is beyond every wall: Crocodile, Byrnndi World, and Weevil. We cannot be delayed."
A chorus of nods and murmured oaths answered him. The young samurai tightened their grips on their katanas. They had but one command: fight only at gates, keep the bulk of the enemy occupied, and let the three champions press toward the inner courtyard.
Ace cracked his knuckles. "Let's burn a path."
Gunnar exhaled clouds of frosty steam. "We move as wolves."
Isshin stepped off, limbs steady. He used his Delicate Step—vanishing from sight behind a fallen turret, reappearing at the base of the first gate. Beside him, Gunnar and Ace flowed like shadows through broken masonry.
The samurai vanguard slipped forward, blades sheathed until night. They reached the battered wooden gate of the outer wall and ignited hidden oil flasks—flames roared up, creating a funnel of fire that blocked the guards' line of sight. In that moment, the lead ronins fired arrows tipped with ash-burning powders, sending plumes of choking smoke into the archers' ranks on the battlements. Panic rippled through Crocodile's lookouts.
A single command echoed from Yutaka, one of Takeshi's most trusted lieutenants:
"Now. Strike the gate."
Ten samurai charged, each hefting a half-broken battering ram reinforced with magma-forged iron—thanks to Gunnar's earlier workshop in the valley. They rammed the gate three times:
THUD–THUD–CRASH.
Wood splintered. Iron hinges shattered.
A group of half-dozen pirates—armed with cutlasses and smoke bombs—rushed to defend, but the samurai struck with blinding speed. One precise slice severed the pirate captain's wrist; another thrust opened a gap in the defenders' flank. In less than twenty heartbeats, the outer gate lay in ruins and the first samurai detachment poured through, establishing a defensive line to hold against Crocodile's reinforcements.
---
As soon as the gate gave way, Isshin, Gunnar, and Ace darted through the smoke and chaos. Beyond, the courtyard was already filling with smoke from small fires lit by the vanguard. A dozen samurai held the broken gate with bamboo barriers and ash bombs, forcing the first wave of pirates to swarm left and right into the courtyard's lateral passages.
Isshin moved like a wisp of wind—his Observation Haki guiding him past hidden tripwires and fallen traps. When a pirate stumbled into his path, Isshin used a Shura Strike: a swift, brutal slash that cut through leather and bone, leaving no time for alarm. The pirate fell, and Isshin slid past without breaking stride.
Gunnar pressed close, every step leaving a fine frost on the cobblestones. When a patrol of four fishmen blockaded a side corridor, Gunnar let his **magma-and-frost gauntlets** form. He plunged through them like an avalanche:
First punch, turned a fishman's arm to obsidian, shattering the joint on impact.
Second. compressed frozen magma into a spike that drove through another guard's chest in a single, shattering blow.
Third, a seismic elbow that cracked the floor beneath the last two, sending them into the earth where they lay crumpled.
Within heartbeats, the corridor was clear. Gunnar moved forward, leaving a fine mist of ice and steam in his wake.
Ace danced between shadow and flame. A group of eight pirates armed with black-powder pistols emerged, forming a semi-circle in the open. Ducks and sidesteps were useless against shotgun blasts—Ace closed the distance in three leaps.
Leap, into the center of their formation, weaving through bullets—his skin scorching with heat.
Left spin, he caught a pirate's arm mid-shot, twisting the pistol so it discharged into the ground.
Right strike, a burning elbow to the jaw sent another flying into a stack of crates, igniting them.
Final blow, a Rising Flame Fist into the group's leader, igniting his coat so fiercely that the man collapsed in a molten heap.
Smoke and embers swirled as Ace turned—only to find Isshin and Gunnar at his side. The three had bypassed most of the enemy through precise, silent eliminations. Behind them, the courtyard's main road yawned open, leading to the inner gate.
---
By the time they reached the inner gate, the samurai vanguard had already engaged Crocodile's second line of defense. The gate itself—reinforced with thick iron plating—was watched by two monstrous fishmen wielding giant harpoon rifles aimed at any approach.
Isshin studied the guards' pattern. He raised a hand. Moments later, a small release of ash-embedded smoke from the vanguard's barrage drifted into the courtyard, cloaking the main gate in a hazy blur. In that instant, Takeshi's group ignited smoke pots carved from ceramic—dense, corrosive fumes that blinded the fishmen. Coughing and blinded, the guards faltered.
Isshin's feet moved like water across the stone. He slipped through a narrow gap in the gate's iron studs, driven by Armament Haki. His blade flashed once in the dim light, opening a ghostly arc that severed a harpoon rifle's barrel. The fishman stumbled, blood gushing from a shoulder wound. Another pirate charged with a cutlass—Isshin used Mikiri Counter, stepping the sword's blow aside, and then sank his steel into the pirate's collarbone. The guard slumped, and Isshin pressed on.
Meanwhile, Gunnar and Ace pivoted around the gate's flanking walls, forgoing a direct assault to avoid drawing all defenders' attention. Gunnar's hyōri hyōketsu crystallized the ground beneath the gate's foundation. With a punishing roar, he drove a fist into the earth, splintering stone and causing the massive iron door to shift on its hinges. Ace seized the moment, launching a fireball that superheated the iron frame until it buckled and bent. The gate swung inward, dropping with a thunderous clang that echoed off distant halls.
The samurai vanguard—emboldened—surged through the breach and sealed the gap behind them with hastily erected ash-soaked barricades. Icicles had formed along the edges of the iron, remnants of Gunnar's earlier assault, freezing the gate's frame to prevent it from shutting completely. The courtyard beyond lay open.
---
A grand stone staircase led upward to the final gate. Flanked by battered statues of ancient Ashina lords, the steps were slick with spilled blood and ash. The samurai vanguard held position on the stairwell's landings, cutting off any enemy reinforcements from descending. Their role was not to fight through every corridor, but to hold key positions—so Isshin, Gunnar, and Ace could press forward unimpeded.
Isshin strode up first, blade at the ready. He sensed—through Observation Haki—a pair of hidden sentries in the alcoves. As he ascended a step, he feinted a thrust at the lantern to his left. In that heartbeat, he pivoted and delivered a wind-slice that cut through the pirate's neck before the second could exhale a warning cry. Without pause, Isshin pressed on.
Gunnar followed, the frost on the steps cracking beneath his boots. On the mid-landing, five Harpoon riflemen took aim. Gunnar exploded forward, fists sealed in magma and frost. He threw a frostquake punch into the wall behind them—stone shattered, harpoons flew askew—and then crushed the first pirate's skull with a merciless iron gauntlet blow. Another darted sideways; Gunnar's magmatic fist caught him in the abdomen, sending him through a broken railing to the courtyard twenty feet below. The remaining three fled down the staircase, only to collide with a second wave of samurai archers who swiftly knocked them out.
Ace closed the final distance to the ultimate gate—a massive iron barrier etched with crocodile patterns—his flames rippling across his arms. A pair of elite pirates blocked the entrance, each with a smokebomb-tipped dagger. They lunged in unison:
First pirate spun to the left; Ace sidestepped and caught the man's wrist, igniting it in flame until the pirate dropped the dagger, screaming.
When the smoke cleared, only smoldering debris marked their struggle.
Ace planted his boots beside Isshin and Gunnar at the final gate. Flames and frost swirled around them, a triad of elemental fury. Isshin pressed his hand to his blade's guard, summoning a spectral glow of Armament Haki. In unified silence, they prepared for one last strike.
---
The Final Door
All else fell silent. Even the crackling fires in the courtyard beyond dimmed as if held breath awaited the outcome.
Isshin leaned on his cane for a heartbeat, then raised his blade overhead. A hush, then—
"For Ashina!" he roared.
He plunged the blade into the iron door with the force of a hammer strike, reinforced by Armament Haki. Sparks flew as steel met steel. The door trembled but held.
Gunnar stepped forward. Frost crept along the metal, cracking the surface. Ice formed around the handle. With a guttural roar, he brought his magmatic gauntlet down—crushing a section of the iron so fiercely that molten steel dripped and hissed. A radial fracture splintered outward.
Ace moved in tandem, channeling flames into a bright conflagration sphere. He slammed it against the door. The iron glowed white, then warped and buckled inward. The combined force of ice, magma, and flame—tempered by Armament Haki—shredded the final barrier.
With a resounding clang, the door burst open.
Beyond the door lay the Great Courtyard—a vast, black-stone expanse ringed by scorched marble walls. Towers loomed like severed limbs, and in the center, a raised dais still flickered with torches.
Upon that dais stood the warlords:
Crocodile, sand swirling at his feet, eyes alight with cruel triumph. He brushed flecks of ash from his tattered cloak. "You have reached me at last."
Byrnndi World, monstrous and gnarled, bones jutting from his back in cruel spikes. He cradled half of a roasted beast's thigh in one hand, as though savoring the final course before a banquet of war.
Edward Weevil, colossal and silent, his broad back curled forward. At his side, Stussy watched with an amused flicker in her eyes. Weevil's fists were balled, veins bulging.
Around them, three hundred elite pirates formed a crescent—tridents bristling, fishmen hissing, Zoan warriors snarling. Cannons—still loaded—were ready to unleash barrages on any who tried to advance.
The sun had broken through the ashen clouds, illuminating the courtyard with a pale, grim light. The stage was set.
Isshin's blade flickered with spectral glow. "Ashina will not bow."
Ace's arms ignited in blazing fire. "Get ready to burn, crook!"
Gunnar's fists pulsed with icy magma. "I end you all."
Crocodile laughed, a dry sound like shifting dunes. "So be it." He raised a hand, conjuring a swirling sand cyclotron at his feet. "Let us end this war."
Byrnndi World's roar followed—a sound of ancient beasts. He smacked his own thigh, sending a shudder through the courtyard. "Crush them."
Weevil took one lumbering stride forward. At his command, the surrounding Lake trembled; distant rumblings hinted that the Sea Monkeys themselves stirred at his beckoning.
And there, at the threshold of destiny, stood the three champions—Isshin Ashina, Ace "Fire Fist," and Gunnar "Titan"—ready to carve their legend into history or be consumed in the attempt.