Flames roared across the sky. Smoke blackened the heavens, and a searing wave of heat crashed down from above.
Beneath their feet, the Oro Jackson trembled under the relentless storm of cannon fire, its sturdy hull groaning as if ready to split apart.
"Damn it! Their firepower is insane!" Gaban bellowed, rain cascading down his face as he swung his twin silver axes in a fierce arc, cleaving through a barrage of cannonballs before they could reach the mainmast.
All across the deck, the Roger Pirates sprang into action. Each crew member wielded their strength with ruthless precision, intercepting every threat that dared approach their ship.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
The sea exploded in geysers around them. Cannonballs slammed into the waves, sending white water surging into the air. The Oro Jackson rocked violently, the timbers creaking beneath the onslaught.
"We're doomed! This barrage is endless!" Buggy wailed, trembling like a leaf, tears mingling with the rain.
But even as panic gripped his voice, his hands moved with uncanny speed. Dozens of throwing knives appeared in his grasp, launched in rapid succession with eerie precision—striking down cannonballs midair like it was second nature.
"Shut up, Buggy! You're too damn loud!" Shanks snapped, breath ragged, his face pale and rain-soaked.
A monstrous roar suddenly tore through the storm behind them. Shanks turned on instinct, drew his compact half-meter blade—and struck!
Shing!
The cannonball—pitch-black and screeching like a banshee—split clean in two. The halves whistled past his shoulders and vanished into the sea.
BOOM!
The explosion lit the sky behind him, yet Shanks stood firm, blade steady, chest heaving.
If Darren were here... he'd have seen it right away.
Shanks and Buggy had come a long way since that day.
Especially Shanks—this twelve-year-old boy with the battered straw hat. That one strike just now had cut through iron like butter.
At twelve.
Swordmaster-level talent... in a child barely into adolescence.
Rayleigh's eyes flicked to the two boys—one shouting, one steady. A rare smile tugged at his lips.
They've grown...
Good.
When this final voyage ended, they'd be ready. Ready to face the seas on their own.
He tightened his grip.
And slashed.
A spiraling vortex of sword energy rose like a cyclone, spiriting away dozens of cannonballs. High above, the sky ignited in a roaring firestorm.
"This is endless," Crocus muttered, drenched and grim, his signature floral hair plastered flat against his head. He clutched his harpoon like a lifeline. "That Golden Lion bastard still won't fight us head-on!"
The mood darkened.
Beyond the flames and rain, the pirate fleet of the Flying Pirates encircled them—ships flying the skull-and-crossbones of Shiki's banner. They didn't close in. Instead, they held their formation and rained death from a distance, leveraging superior firepower to grind the Roger Pirates into exhaustion.
Under that merciless hailstorm, the legendary Oro Jackson pitched and groaned—less a ship now, more a splintered shell caught in a maelstrom, its glory burning away with every blast.
"We can't hold out," Rayleigh said lowly, his gaze cutting toward the midair duel between Roger and Shiki. Rain streaked down his face. "We're breaking through."
The helmsman reacted instantly.
The sails snapped open, wind screaming through them. The Oro Jackson surged forward like a beast unleashed, charging straight toward the encircling fleet with reckless fury.
"I'll clear the path!" Rayleigh vanished from the deck, reappearing at the prow in a blur.
He raised his sword—
CHIIING!
A blinding crescent of sword energy burst forth. A phantom blade of moonlight cleaved the sea itself, howling across the waves.
A colossal ship in their path shuddered—then split clean down the middle.
BOOM!
Flames engulfed the wreck as the broken halves sank, dragging screaming pirates into the depths like flailing dolls.
Chaos erupted.
The Oro Jackson plunged into the breach, a furious breaker carving through the heart of the Flying Pirates' fleet.
"Kill them all!"
A guttural war cry rose above the storm.
Hemp ropes lashed across the decks. With savage glee, Shiki's men surged forward, swarming over the rigging like spiders—grinning, shouting, eyes wild with bloodlust.
"They're boarding!"
The Roger Pirates drew their weapons, eyes blazing.
They took one last breath.
And charged.
No hesitation. No fear.
This was their final voyage.
There was no turning back.
The battle for the deck had begun.
---
"Darren, it's time."
Sakazuki leapt from the Marine flagship, his gaze sharp as a blade. "The pirates are locked in close combat. If we strike now, we can't be sure about Golden Lion—but we can take down Roger."
Even Sakazuki—ruthless, composed Sakazuki—sounded impatient now, his voice tight with urgency.
Sengoku watched Darren carefully. One command. That's all it would take. One order, and this whole war could end.
"No," Darren said, frowning as he scanned the battlefield. His fists clenched at his sides.
Sengoku ground his teeth. Damn it!
"What the hell are you waiting for?" Sakazuki growled. Black smoke rose from his arms, his eyes smoldering with frustration.
Darren turned slowly to face him.
"Sakazuki… we served together in North Blue for years. You know what kind of man I am."
He stepped forward, voice calm but firm.
"I have just one question."
His eyes narrowed.
"Do you trust me?"
Sakazuki froze.
His fists trembled, then slowly unclenched. The black smoke faded.
"…I hope you don't regret this, Darren."
A faint smile played on Darren's lips. "I won't."
He turned back to the storm.
At that moment, the Roger Pirates were cornered.
Outnumbered. Surrounded.
Shiki's fleet stretched across the sea—dozens of warships, tens of thousands of pirates.
It wasn't a battle anymore. It was a slow execution.
The Oro Jackson was their lifeline. If it fell—if it sank—they'd all drown. Most of the crew weren't Devil Fruit users, but in seas like these, a broken hull meant death.
They had to survive. At any cost.
"Get ready," Darren said quietly.
Sengoku and Sakazuki exchanged a glance.
Behind them, Borsalino lay sprawled, lazily sipping watermelon juice. His grin widened. Something dangerous flickered behind his shades.
"What are you planning?" Sengoku pressed. "What the hell are you waiting for?"
Darren's eyes glinted.
"I'm waiting for the wind to rise."
Sengoku frowned.
Then his eyes widened.
His breath caught.
"You… you didn't…"
A voice rang out across the flagship—deep, controlled, laced with power.
"I've prepared a little gift for Golden Lion."
Darren's grin spread like wildfire. "One he'll never forget."
He laughed—a quiet, reckless sound.
And raised his arms to the sky.
The wind shifted.
A breeze at first.
Then a howl.
The sea churned. The clouds twisted.
And then—on the edge of the horizon—a small boat emerged from the storm. A fragile silhouette, barely visible.
Two figures stood at the bow, cloaked in dark green robes that masked their forms completely.
They radiated something primal. Ancient.
CRACK!
A blinding bolt of lightning slashed the sky.
In that instant, one figure's hood slipped just enough.
Sengoku caught a glimpse of his face.
Strikingly handsome. And monstrous.
Crimson tattoos curled like fire across his skin.
"…That's—"
Sengoku's voice caught in his throat.
Sakazuki stared, thunderstruck.
Borsalino's smirk deepened.
The figure at the bow slowly lifted his hands.
And the sea obeyed.
A screaming gale erupted.
The rain twisted sideways.
Waves surged skyward, monstrous and black.
The wind turned green—deep, twisted, living. It roared like a beast, howling against the storm with otherworldly fury.
It surged upward and spiraled, carving into the sky, anchoring sea to stormclouds like a divine column of rage.
A storm unlike any other.
A storm that chose its master.
At the bow of the battleship, Darren lit a cigar.
A smirk tugged at his lips.
"The show's about to begin," he whispered.
This was no ordinary wind.
This was the storm of fate.
To be continued...