177 : The Ordeal Of Iron! White Barbed Death Ma... Here

"You call this an ordeal?" Zoro grunted, the hilt of Shusui heavy in his hand. He adjusted his bandana, his single eye tracking the slight shimmer of the wires. "Back home, we just call this a bad neighborhood."

Zoro didn't retreat. He couldn't. To move backward was to be shredded by the "White Barbed" perimeter. Instead, he spun, a whirlwind of steel meeting iron. Clang!

He closed his eyes. If Ohm could read his mind, Zoro would stop thinking. He focused on the breath of the iron—the vibration of the barbs, the tension in the whip. He wasn't looking for a gap in the wires; he was looking for the soul of the metal. 177 : The Ordeal of Iron! White Barbed Death Ma...

The compressed air from his blades tore through the mist, colliding with the iron fan. The force didn't just deflect the metal; it shattered the "Mantra" of the priest. For a split second, the predator became the prey.

Zoro landed, the wires sagging behind him, sliced clean. Ohm gasped, a red line appearing across his chest. "You call this an ordeal

Ohm lunged, the Eisen Whip transforming into a massive, jagged fan meant to decapitate. "End of the Ordeal!"

Ohm didn't smile. He raised his hilt, and the Eisen Whip—a blade of shapeshifting iron—extended like a living snake. "The sky is a place of judgment, Blue Sea dweller. Your struggle is merely the sound of a bird flapping its wings before the cage closes." He couldn't

Zoro stood at the center of the Milky Road, his boots crunching on the strange, frozen clouds. Before him stood Ohm, the Sky Breeder, his presence as cold and unyielding as the iron he commanded. Between them lay the "White Barbed Death Match"—a chaotic web of invisible, razor-sharp iron wires that hummed with a low, predatory vibration.