Ice shattered across the battlefield in jagged bursts as Aokiji advanced, his breath fogging in the air thick with gunpowder and screams. The ocean itself seemed to freeze in mourning for the lives it claimed. Around him, Whitebeard’s men shouted in defiance, their attacks meeting walls of frost that glittered cruelly beneath the sun. He moved without haste, expression unreadable, each step deliberate, a ghost of winter weaving through fire and fury.

Then came the disturbance. A tremor in the rhythm of battle, a roar that wasn’t just cannon fire. He turned, eyes narrowing behind the rising smoke. A group of pirates was cutting through the chaos with eerie precision, not charging blindly but moving as though guided by a single will. At their center was a woman, her presence stark against the chaos. The air around her shimmered, wrong somehow, bending like light on water.

Aokiji froze, not from his own power, but from the strange recognition in her gaze. She knew him. He was certain of it. Yet he could not place her, no name, no memory, only that fleeting weight of familiarity that set unease stirring in his chest.

He exhaled, ice creeping over his right arm once more, and muttered quietly into the cold,

“Who are you supposed to be?”