For the three veteran Vice Admirals stationed on the flagship, this was supposed to be a once-in-a-lifetime honor.
After more than twenty years of service, after countless deployments and battles, they had finally been granted the privilege of executing a Buster Call—a moment of glory every Marine dreamed of.
Yet here they were, sitting under parasols on the deck, barbecue grills sizzling and porcelain teacups steaming gently in the salty breeze.
Beyond the horizon, the island was being torn apart by cataclysmic explosions. The earth itself shuddered, and the sky burned red with fire and smoke. And on the deck of the flagship, three Vice Admirals sat drinking tea, the scene before them reflected calmly in their cups.
"...Um, Vice Admiral Borsalino," one of them began awkwardly, "is this really… appropriate?"
"Yes, something feels a little... off," another admitted.
"The battle over there—it's far too intense. Shouldn't we fire a few rounds at least? It'll look bad if Headquarters hears we just stood here watching..."
Their unease grew with every distant detonation. They had expected to lead a bombardment of world-shaking scale—not to hold a tea party while the island erupted like the gates of hell.
Borsalino didn't even glance up. Reclining comfortably in his chair, he swirled his glass of watermelon juice, golden sunlight glinting off his mirrored lenses.
"Relax," he said, drawling the word like it was the easiest thing in the world. "The battle won't last much longer. Have a little faith in Vice Admiral Darren's capabilities."
The three men exchanged looks—half skepticism, half resignation—and fell silent.
---
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
The island trembled under the storm of artillery fire.
Shells rained down in endless waves, explosions blooming like fiery flowers across the landscape. The roar was deafening, the ground itself split open beneath the onslaught.
Thick smoke rolled across the island, blotting out the sun.
"Kahahaha! How do you like that, Darren?!" Bullet's hoarse laughter thundered from inside his monstrous War Giant, his voice echoing with savage delight.
And then—amid the flames and thunder—a calm voice broke through the chaos.
"I thought your time under Roger might've taught you something," Darren's deep voice rang out, steady as bedrock. "But you're still just a brute, swinging wildly at shadows. You've truly disappointed me, Bullet."
The laughter stopped.
Bullet froze, his smirk vanishing as his eyes narrowed. Inside the War Giant, his breath hitched.
The smoke parted—and from the blazing inferno emerged a lone figure.
Black, polished boots struck the charred ground. Flames licked at a white coat embroidered with gold. His uniform was torn and scorched, but his posture—straight-backed, unyielding—was untouched.
Darren walked through the fire as if it were nothing more than a warm breeze. His short black hair whipped in the wind, and between his teeth, his cigar glowed like a small ember in the dark. His sharp eyes gleamed with a dangerous calm, the kind that made men hesitate to breathe.
He didn't look like a man returning from battle. He looked like the victor, already bored with the outcome.
For a split second, Bullet's heart skipped. The oppressive pressure radiating from Darren was suffocating—so reminiscent of the time he'd stood before Roger himself that his muscles locked instinctively.
"Impossible..." Bullet hissed.
That can't be—he's supposed to be weaker than me!
The memory stung. Once, in the Beasts Pirates' cells, Darren had been the lesser fighter. Now, he walked unscathed through a bombardment that could level nations.
How?!
He'd tested his new weaponry against fleets, against New World monsters. Even Whitebeard's allied captains couldn't survive a minute under his barrage. But this man… this Marine…
He hadn't even raised his guard.
And worse—he'd used Armament Haki not to protect himself, but to keep his cigar from going out.
It was beyond arrogance. It was mockery.
"You bastard!" Bullet roared, his veins bulging, face flushed crimson with rage. "You think your body can withstand everything?! I'll show you the true scale of destruction!"
The War Giant rumbled as every cannon and missile port opened once more. Hundreds—no, thousands—of shells screamed into the sky, raining down on Darren like a steel storm.
Darren only sighed, shaking his head. "Haven't you learned your lesson yet?"
He didn't move.
A strange, invisible pressure rippled outward from him—a distortion that bent the air itself. The missiles froze mid-flight, suspended as though trapped in glass. The sudden silence was suffocating.
Every Marine aboard the ten battleships went still, jaws slack, eyes wide.
The rain of destruction hung motionless above the battlefield, an entire storm arrested by one man's will.
Then, Darren raised his hand.
With a flick of his wrist—no more force than brushing away cigar smoke—the sky turned.
The suspended shells began to shift, their tips rotating as though obeying a silent command. Slowly, deliberately, they turned—back toward the towering War Giant that had fired them.
Darren grinned, cigar clenched between his teeth. "Go."
The missiles screamed downward.
BOOOOOOOM!
The island lit up in blinding fire. The explosions cascaded one after another, a chain of thunder tearing through the War Giant's armor. Plates of steel and rock were flung skyward, molten fragments raining down like fiery snow.
In an instant, the once-mighty fortress was engulfed in a blazing inferno.
From the ten Buster Call battleships, thousands of Marines stood rooted to the decks, too stunned to speak. Even the three Vice Admirals—men who had seen the worst horrors of the sea—were silent, unable to form words.
And in that silence, realization dawned.
This wasn't a man who needed a Buster Call.
This man was the Buster Call.
To be continued...