Capítulo 28: Chapter 28: The Battle of the Grand Line
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The wind howled across the seas of the Grand Line, a tempest swirling with chaotic fury. The ocean itself seemed to tremble under the pressure of the war that had escalated to its climax, a naval battle unlike any the world had ever seen. The skies were bruised, storm clouds hanging low, charged with the electric tension of impending doom. On the horizon, a fleet of ships sailed toward each other like two opposing tides, destined to crash with the force of titans.
At the heart of this chaos loomed the Flying Dutchman, Davy Jones' infamous ghost ship. It cut through the waves like a harbinger of death, its dark hull carved from ancient wood and bristling with cannons. Tendrils of dark energy slithered around the ship, rippling through the sails, which seemed to catch the wind from some otherworldly plane. From the helm, Davy Jones stood tall, eyes locked on the enemy fleet ahead.
His crew scurried across the deck, battle-hardened and grim. Their loyalty was unwavering, but even they could feel the weight of the moment pressing down on them like a heavy shroud. This wasn't just another skirmish. This was the culmination of everything. The Yonko's forces had come in full, led by their most fearsome commanders. Kaido, Big Mom, and Shanks had each sent legions to destroy him, but Davy Jones had no intention of going down easily.
Jones' fingers tightened around the hilt of Poseidon's Trident, its silver surface gleaming with a power older than the seas themselves. The weapon pulsed in his hands, sending a thrum of energy through his body. He could feel the ocean bending to his will, answering his unspoken commands. But the power came with a price, a price he had been paying for far too long. Every time he tapped into the raw might of the trident, it gnawed at his soul, pulling him closer to the abyss. And today, he intended to unleash it fully, consequences be damned.
"Prepare the cannons!" Jones' voice boomed across the deck, carried on the wind like a thunderclap.
His first mate, a hulking man named Cragg, grunted in response. The cannons were already loaded, and the crew was in position. Jones didn't need to give orders anymore; they knew the dance of war. But still, there was a weight in his chest. He had fought hundreds of battles, defeated admirals, warlords, and even kings. But something about this fight felt different, final. The weight of destiny hung in the air, as palpable as the salt on the wind.
Across the water, the enemy fleet loomed. Dozens of ships, each flying the flags of the Yonko. Kaido's ships were ironclad monsters, designed for destruction. Big Mom's fleet glittered with the bizarre, colorful shapes of her candy-coated horrors, while Shanks' vessels bore the proud red banners of his pirate armada. And at the center of it all was a ship larger and more menacing than the rest—The Behemoth, Kaido's flagship. From its deck, Jones could see Kaido himself, the hulking dragon-man glaring across the waters, waiting for blood.
A cannonball whistled through the air, the first shot fired. It slammed into the ocean beside the Flying Dutchman, sending up a plume of water, and then the battle began.
BOOM!
The Dutchman's cannons roared, belching fire and smoke as they unleashed a barrage of iron toward the enemy fleet. Explosions rocked the waters, ships splintering and burning as the projectiles tore through wood and metal alike. The sea was a cacophony of chaos—shouts, screams, the crashing of waves, and the relentless booming of cannonfire.
Davy Jones, standing at the helm, raised his trident, and the seas answered.
"Rise!" he bellowed.
The ocean surged around him, massive waves erupting from the depths, towering above the ships like watery giants. With a flick of the trident, Jones sent the waves crashing down on the enemy fleet, capsizing smaller ships instantly and sending even the mightiest vessels reeling. The power was intoxicating, but it was draining him. He could feel it, the trident pulling on the last threads of his soul, but he pushed through. There was no turning back now.
Through the chaos of the battle, one ship cut a direct path toward the Dutchman—The Behemoth. Kaido had come for him, and he wasn't coming alone. Beside him flew Charlotte Smoothie, her massive sword raised high, and behind them, Ben Beckman, Shanks' deadly right-hand man, with a rifle aimed directly at Jones' head.
Jones snarled and leaped from the helm, landing on the deck with a crash. "Man the ship! Defend her with your lives!" he commanded his crew, then stalked to the edge of the ship. He wouldn't wait for Kaido to come to him.
With a surge of power, Jones leaped into the air, launching himself across the gap between the ships, Poseidon's trident crackling with energy in his hands. Kaido roared in response, his massive form shifting into a hybrid state, dragon scales gleaming in the dim light as he braced for the clash.
Their weapons collided with an earth-shattering boom. The force of their blows sent shockwaves through the air, pushing back the ocean itself as the two titans clashed. Jones fought with a savagery born of desperation, knowing that this battle would determine the future of his empire. Kaido was relentless, his monstrous strength overwhelming, but Jones had the sea itself at his command.
As they battled, the Flying Dutchman and the Behemoth continued to exchange cannon fire. Ships all around them were sinking, men screaming as they were dragged into the depths. It was chaos, pure and unforgiving. And in the midst of it all, the fate of empires hung in the balance.
Suddenly, a scream pierced the air—a scream that cut through the noise of battle and struck deep into Jones' heart. He turned, eyes wide, searching for the source.
Cragg.
The massive first mate had been struck down, a blade buried deep in his chest. He collapsed to the deck of the Dutchman, blood pooling beneath him. Smoothie stood over him, her face twisted into a cruel smile.
"No!" Jones roared, his voice breaking.
For the first time in years, real pain surged through him. Cragg had been with him since the beginning, the one man who had never faltered, never questioned him. And now, he was gone.
Jones' grip on the trident tightened, and a surge of dark energy exploded from him. He shoved Kaido back with a violent wave of water, then hurled the trident with all his might. It flew through the air like a bolt of lightning, striking Smoothie in the chest and sending her flying off the ship, her body consumed by the raging seas below.
But the damage was done. Cragg was dead. His crew was falling apart around him.
The power of the Flying Dutchman surged one last time, but Davy Jones could feel it—this was the cost. The full might of his ship, his crew, his empire—it was all crumbling, slipping through his fingers like sand. He had gained unimaginable power, but the price had always been there, waiting in the shadows.
Kaido, bloodied but unbroken, lunged at him again, roaring in fury. Jones met his attack, their weapons clashing with bone-rattling force. But now, Jones was faltering. The weight of Cragg's death, the strain of the trident, the endless war—it was all too much.
And then, it happened.
BANG!
A single gunshot echoed across the battlefield, and Jones staggered. Beckman's bullet had found its mark. Blood trickled from a wound in his side, but he refused to fall.
With a final surge of strength, Jones raised the trident one last time. The sea answered him, the waves rising higher and higher, until they blotted out the sky. He sent them crashing down upon the enemy fleet, sinking ship after ship. But it wasn't enough. He had nothing left.
Kaido's fist slammed into him, sending him sprawling across the deck. Jones tried to rise, but his body wouldn't respond. He looked up, eyes blurry, as Kaido loomed over him, ready to deliver the final blow.
But before Kaido could strike, the sea itself seemed to scream. A vortex of water erupted around the Flying Dutchman, engulfing the ship and pulling it—and Davy Jones—into the depths. The last thing he saw before the water swallowed him was the sky, dark and endless, and the faces of his crew, watching as their captain was taken by the very sea he commanded.
The battle was over, but the war had only just begun.
On the surface, the remnants of the fleets drifted in silence, the battle won but at an unimaginable cost. The Grand Line had witnessed the fall of a legend, but Davy Jones' legacy, his empire, would haunt the seas for generations to come.
Beneath the waves, in the darkness of the abyss, the sea whispered a new name to the souls it claimed. Davy Jones, the ferryman, had finally been consumed by the power he wielded.
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