Darren shot through the sky, his figure vanishing into the distance like a streak of black lightning. On the deck of the flagship, three Headquarters Vice Admirals watched, a hint of envy flickering in their eyes.
The power of flight—so rare that even among the world's mightiest, only a handful could claim it. Such ability made its wielders forces of nature unto themselves, rarer even than the vaunted Logia users. But envy was useless; none of them could follow where Darren flew.
"Vice Admiral Borsalino, what are our next orders?" one asked.
"All batteries are primed and ready!" another barked, eyes fixed on the dark mass of land taking shape on the horizon.
All three were veterans—men in their forties and fifties, pillars of Marine Headquarters, each one hardened by decades at sea. Yet even their weathered composure faltered under the crackling excitement of the moment. The chance to participate in a Buster Call was a once-in-a-lifetime event. Some Marines served entire careers without ever witnessing one.
"Why don't we move in and open fire immediately?" one suggested, barely restraining his eagerness.
"Indeed, Vice Admiral Borsalino," another pressed, turning to him. "We could support Vice Admiral Darren with a concentrated artillery strike!"
Normally, as peers in rank, they would defer to Darren's command. But Darren had already surged ahead without issuing any orders, leaving them uncertain. And since Borsalino wasn't just a Vice Admiral—but Sengoku's direct adjutant, carrying the Admiral's implicit authority—they naturally sought his word.
Borsalino gave a long, exaggerated stretch, scratching the back of his head with a lazy sigh. "Ahh... sorry, gentlemen," he said with a shrug. "I'm not the commanding officer here. I don't have the authority to order an attack."
The three Vice Admirals blinked.
Borsalino turned away from them, sauntered over to a reclining chair, and flopped down with his usual unhurried grace. He picked up a chilled glass of watermelon juice, took a leisurely sip, and smirked.
"Let's just circle the island for now," he said. "We've come a long way. No harm in enjoying the view a little."
The three Vice Admirals froze. Enjoy the view? Their mouths twitched in disbelief. Sengoku himself had personally authorized a Buster Call, and here Borsalino was—lounging like he was on vacation.
"Vice Admiral Borsalino, shouldn't we at least assist Vice Admiral Darren?" one protested. "It doesn't seem right to let him face Bullet alone."
"Vice Admiral Darren is powerful, yes," said another, "but this is Douglas Bullet we're talking about—the Devil's Heir of the Roger Pirates!"
"And Darren's still recovering! What if—"
Borsalino cut him off with a smile so lazy it was almost cruel. "If you think you can interfere in that fight," he said softly, "be my guest."
He lifted his glass and took another sip. "Just don't come crying to me when you die."
The three fell silent, uncertainty flickering in their eyes.
Then the world exploded.
BOOOOM!!!
A deafening blast split the sky. The sea heaved like a living thing, waves surging high enough to drench the decks. The battleship trembled under the shockwave, its steel plates groaning in protest.
"What the—?!"
The three Vice Admirals spun toward the source of the explosion—and froze.
The island ahead had become a sea of fire. Geysers of flame and molten debris erupted skyward, painting the sky crimson. Amid the inferno, a colossal silhouette emerged, moving with ponderous, earth-shaking steps.
It was a War Giant—a monstrous fortress of fused metal and machinery, its armor gleaming red from the heat, its frame bristling with hundreds of cannons.
"Douglas Bullet," one of the Vice Admirals whispered, his voice trembling, "the Devil's Heir…"
The bounty posters had never done him justice. Standing before them now, Bullet's monstrous creation looked less like a weapon and more like an angry god.
"Kahahaha!!" Bullet's laughter thundered across the sea, echoing like a hurricane. "Darren! You finally came!"
Behind him, what was once a thriving town now lay in ruins—crushed, burning, smothered beneath ash and twisted iron.
"Come!" Bullet roared, his voice alive with madness and glee. "Let's paint this island red!"
Then the War Giant opened fire.
Hundreds of cannons ignited at once. The sky disappeared under a storm of shells and missiles, their blazing trails crossing like streaks of molten lightning. A torrential barrage rained down upon the island, each detonation shaking the heavens.
The Marines aboard the ships could only stare.
"Incredible firepower!" one gasped.
"This... this is as destructive as a Buster Call!"
"So that's the Devil's Heir…"
Then, through the inferno, they saw him.
Vice Admiral Rogers Darren—walking straight into the barrage.
He moved with unhurried steps, hands in his pockets, as if taking a stroll through the park. The shells exploded around him—earth-shattering blasts that swallowed the horizon in fire—and yet his pace never wavered.
"Is he... insane?!" one Vice Admiral shouted.
"Those shells could level cities!"
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
The bombardment tore the land apart, fireballs rising like miniature suns. The shockwaves rippled across the sea, hammering the ships. Flames consumed everything within a hundred meters of the Marine Vice Admiral.
And yet—
Darren didn't flinch.
He calmly pulled a cigar from his coat, lit it with a spark from one of the explosions, and took a slow drag—smoke curling lazily from his lips.
He was practically on a stroll.
"Gulp…" One of the Vice Admirals swallowed hard, his face frozen in disbelief. The others stood motionless, eyes twitching, unable to process what they were witnessing.
From behind them came Borsalino's voice, smooth and mocking. "Didn't you gentlemen say you were going to offer support?"
The three men turned slowly, faces pale as ghosts.
Then, as if on cue, their expressions hardened into identical masks of discipline.
"Vice Admiral Darren has not issued an order," one declared stiffly. "We shall continue to observe the situation."
"Indeed! That's the official directive!" another agreed hastily.
"I concur!" the third added, standing at attention.
Behind them, Borsalino chuckled and leaned back in his chair, tipping his hat against the sun.
"Smart choice," he murmured, raising his glass. "Very smart."
To be continued...