Shanks' expression darkened—but not because of Gern's biting insult about being a "hypocritical bastard."
No…
What truly shook him to his core—what sent a chill sharp enough to pierce bone straight through his spine—
Was the overwhelming, suffocating aura crashing toward him… an aura so monstrous that it was beginning to push back against his own Conqueror's Haki.
"…His Conqueror's… has reached this level?!"
The last time Shanks had felt Gern Reginald Sigmar's Haki up close, it had been powerful—wild, defiant, brimming with destructive pressure and savage dominance.
But it had still remained within the realm of "top-tier monsters."
There had been a gap.
A clear one.
Not in quantity… but in quality.
The kind of difference born from something deeper—the purity of one's conviction, and the absolute, unwavering certainty in one's chosen path.
That was what defined a true king.
Back then, Gern hadn't fully reached that point.
But now—
Now, the storm of dark-purple Haki erupting from him was something entirely different.
It was still violent. Still savage. Still filled with that tearing, quaking will to dominate—
But beneath that surface brutality…
Shanks could feel something far more terrifying.
A conviction.
Not just belief—but something approaching truth itself.
A will so absolute that it began to manifest physically… invading, eroding, and suppressing Shanks' own kingly aura.
The dark-purple lightning clashed against the blood-red tide of Shanks' Conqueror's Haki, splitting the heavens above.
For several seconds, the two forces remained locked in a dead heat.
Then—
Slowly.
Almost imperceptibly at first…
The purple began to advance.
Toward the Red Force.
Shanks' gaze sharpened. Instinctively, he flicked his eyes sideways, glancing at his crew.
And what he saw made his heart sink even further.
On the deck—
Only Benn Beckman still stood upright, cigarette between his lips, posture steady, though his expression had turned grave.
The others—
Yasopp. Lucky Roux. Bonk Punch. Limejuice. Monster. Hongo. Building Snake. Howling Gab…
Nearly all of them had shifted into braced stances.
Arms crossed tight. Fists clenched. Feet planted wide.
Bodies leaning forward.
Sweat beading across their foreheads.
They weren't collapsing like weaklings…
But they were resisting.
Struggling.
Fighting with everything they had—just to stand.
This—
This was a defensive posture.
And for the Red Hair Pirates…
That was almost unheard of.
Because the essence of Conqueror's Haki was never about raw stamina or Devil Fruit power.
It was—
The physical manifestation of one's will.
Its strength did not come from training in the traditional sense.
Observation Haki could be honed.
Armament Haki could be tempered.
But Conqueror's Haki…
Could not be "trained."
It could only evolve.
Through transformation of the self.
Through confronting one's limits.
Through clashing with fate itself—
Until the will became sharper, purer… unbreakable.
If one were to describe it—
Each wielder possessed a different "spectrum of spirit."
Monkey D. Luffy's core was freedom—pure and untainted. That was why his Haki grew explosively, with unmatched potential.
Whitebeard's core was family—vast and heavy, protection and destruction intertwined.
Rocks' core was challenge—fearless defiance against all.
Roger's core was fate—a man who knew his end, and thus saw through everything.
And Gern Reginald Sigmar—
His core was confrontation.
To face.
To not turn away.
To reject fear, reject illusion, and cut straight through reality itself.
That was why his will pierced so cleanly.
So mercilessly.
As for Shanks…
His core was guidance… and waiting.
Wisdom. Responsibility. Restraint.
But also—
The burden of not acting.
And therein lay the true gap between them.
Gern…
Had already faced the essence of the world itself.
Though the exact details remained unclear, the retreat of Saint Nasujuro…
The panicked withdrawal of Imu's manifested form…
And the World Government's eerie silence afterward—
All pointed to one terrifying truth.
Gern had not only stood before that ultimate existence…
He had drawn his blade against it.
That strike had not been merely physical.
It had been spiritual.
A severing.
A cut that sliced through the unknown fear of supreme authority.
His inner realization—
"Next time, I won't hesitate. I know what I'm facing now."
—was not arrogance.
It was understanding.
He had measured that abyss.
Touched it.
And found a way to wound it.
That knowledge—
That certainty—
Forged an unshakable foundation beneath his will.
It sharpened his conviction to a lethal edge.
Made it absolute.
Unbreakable.
And Shanks…?
Shanks, son of Figarland Garling, Supreme Commander of the God's Knights—
A man with Celestial Dragon blood flowing through his veins.
A man who had once been taken back to the Holy Land…
Who had been forced to receive "that thing."
He had stood closer to Imu than almost anyone else alive.
He knew.
Knew, better than most, the terror of that existence.
The suffocating weight of eight hundred years of rule.
That fear—
Had etched itself into his very soul.
And so…
He ran.
Not just physically, by leaving Mary Geoise—
But spiritually.
In his conviction.
He rejected that "blessing."
Rejected the role that came with it.
He went to sea.
Became a pirate.
Inherited a will.
For years, he played the part of a free spirit.
A balancer.
A guide to the new era.
Placing his hopes… on someone else.
On Luffy.
But deep within—
There had always been a whisper.
"Not me…"
"The one who defeats Imu… it won't be me."
"I'm not the chosen one… I don't carry that destiny…"
He wrapped that hesitation in noble ideals.
Turned it into "protecting the flow of fate."
Into "waiting for the right person."
But strip all that away…
And what remained?
A deeper truth.
A quiet, hidden retreat.
An unwillingness to face the final terror himself.
A decision to entrust that burden entirely to another.
And that—
That faint impurity at the very core of his conviction—
Now stood exposed.
Because when confronted by Gern's Haki—
A will that had faced, resisted, and resolved to win—
It showed.
Clearly.
Painfully.
Conqueror's Haki users were not rare.
But those who could refine it to absolute purity…
Were one in ten thousand.
Because at its peak—
This was never a battle of strength.
It was a reflection of the soul.
Only those without doubt…
Without shadow…
With a will laid bare and unclouded—
Could unleash a Conqueror's Haki that pierced all illusion…
And shone with the most primal, undeniable brilliance.
That—
Was why Joy Boy had once possessed the strongest Haki of all.