Charlotte Katakuri wasn't the only one crushed by helplessness.
Across the battlefield, similar scenes repeated. The mighty pirates of the Worst Generation and the New World were being systematically dismantled by the Marine Admirals.
Take the Whitebeard Pirates' First Division Commander, Marco the Phoenix.
"The Eight-Span Mirror!"
Borsalino crossed his arms, golden light gathering at his fingertips.
Whoosh—whoosh—whoosh
A torrent of golden laser beams erupted, bathing Marco in blinding light. The Phoenix moved to deflect them, only to realize none struck him directly. Instead, they froze mid-air, then warped into shimmering light clones—dozens of Borsalinos surrounding him.
"Same old trick," Marco scoffed, though his breathing grew heavy. "You're out of ideas, Kizaru."
His Mythical Zoan's blue flames had kept him fighting the Admiral for hours, but the cracks were showing. The Phoenix form lacked the raw power of the Azure Dragon or the Buddha. Its offense was modest, its defense situational. What it had was regeneration—but that regeneration consumed stamina.
Marco had taken countless lasers, light-speed kicks, and Yasakani no Magatama barrages. He was still standing, but his exhaustion was palpable.
"Your breathing is disordered," Borsalino observed, his usual lazy tone replaced by cold analysis.
Marco's jaw tightened. He knows.
The blue flames healed his wounds, yes, but each regeneration drained his stamina reserves. Against anyone else, he could recover mid-fight. But against a Marine Admiral—one of the top tier in history—every second of delay was a step toward collapse.
"Admiral Sakazuki's almost done with his opponent," Borsalino continued, his Observation Haki scanning the battlefield. "Admiral Kuzan as well. It's time for you to accept defeat."
"Save the speech for after you beat me!" Marco snapped, covertly regulating his breathing, squeezing every drop of stamina from his reserves.
"As you wish."
Borsalino raised his right hand. Fifty light clones raised their arms in unison, surrounding Marco in a perfect circle.
Is it the Kusanagi Sword again? Marco braced himself, but the clones didn't draw blades. Instead, they each extended a single index finger, pointing directly at him.
That gesture...
Marco's eyes widened. He'd been played.
"Let me guess," Borsalino's voice echoed from all clones simultaneously. "You thought my light clones could only use the Ame-no-Murakumo Sword? That was the point."
He'd deliberately limited his clones' abilities, letting Marco adapt, building a false sense of security. Now, with Marco's stamina critical, he'd reveal the truth.
The index fingers blossomed with cross-shaped halos.
Whoosh—whoosh—whoosh—whoosh
A storm of lasers tore through the air from every direction. Marco's Observation Haki flared, but there was no gap to dodge. He ignited his blue flames, sacrificing defense for desperate offense, charging straight through the barrage.
His body erupted with holes—dozens of golden wounds bleeding through the flames.
"Damn it!"
Marco twisted mid-air, using the momentum to flee toward the far side of the island.
Crack
Borsalino materialized ahead, Yata Mirror in hand, blocking the path. The light clones parted like water, letting their main body through.
"Go back where you came from."
A light-speed kick slammed into Marco's chest, sending him careening back into the laser storm.
Bang—bang—bang—bang
More holes. More blood. The blue flames that once covered his entire body now barely flickered over his torso, their healing rate falling behind the destruction.
"One minute," Borsalino noted, as if timing a workout. "Your flames are dying."
Marco gritted his teeth, forcing himself to maneuver, weaving through the laser grid. Every attempt to break through was met by Borsalino's interception—a kick, a slash from Ame-no-Murakumo, or simply a wall of light clones that herded him back into the kill zone.
The clones' lasers were weaker than the Admiral's main body, but volume compensated for power. A thousand beams pierced him in sixty seconds.
His body hung suspended, riddled with over thirty unhealed wounds. Blood soaked his suit, pooling at his feet. The blue flames—once his trademark—were completely extinguished. Not a single spark remained.
Borsalino floated before him, sunglasses reflecting the carnage. He raised his hand, eight Magatama swirling around his fingers.
"Farewell, Phoenix."
The beads of light pulsed, then erupted into a final, blinding barrage that consumed Marco completely.
—-