Enma...
Mihawk's pupils narrowed, his hawk-like eyes fixing on the black Demon Blade hovering before the Marine Vice Admiral. Even from a distance, the weapon radiated an oppressive, bone-deep chill that seemed to gnaw at his soul. Every hair on his body stood on end.
This was the very same Demon Blade—the one Darren had once used to destroy the island hurled toward Marineford by Golden Lion Shiki, saving Marine Headquarters from annihilation in a storm of fire and stone.
"This blade devours its wielder's Haki to the utmost," Darren said quietly. His voice was calm, but the air itself trembled around him. "In the instant of attack, it releases both that Haki—and its own fiendish aura."
The moment his fingers wrapped around Enma's hilt—
BOOM!!
The world erupted.
An overwhelming force burst from Darren's body, like a volcano unleashing centuries of pent-up wrath. Waves of violet-black energy poured from him in violent torrents, twisting and coiling through the air like living flames.
Those flames weren't mere light—they were tangible, alive, and hungry. They raced down Darren's arm, feeding into the Demon Blade with insatiable greed.
The air howled. The sky itself seemed to convulse under the weight of the unleashed Haki.
Gecko Moria raised his only arm to shield himself, his face ashen.
That Haki... this pressure... it's monstrous!
If Darren had unleashed this kind of power during their fight, Moria realized grimly, he wouldn't have just lost an arm—he'd have been erased completely, body and soul.
Momonga stood rooted in place, eyes wide, watching in horrified fascination. Darren's form seemed to fluctuate, his frame shrinking as the blade siphoned his Haki, then swelling again as he fed it more. The grotesque rhythm of expansion and contraction sent a chill racing down his spine.
The entire island was drowned in violet-black fire. The flames licked the ground, devouring oxygen and sound alike. And still, Enma pulsed greedily—its black steel trembling, vibrating with an almost ecstatic hum as it drank deep.
"It's been a while since you've really fed, hasn't it?" Darren murmured, his tone almost affectionate beneath the storm's roar.
As the blade's master, he could feel it—Enma's excitement, its hunger, its dark joy.
"Enma isn't like other Meito," he said softly, his eyes glinting. "It's a true Demon Blade."
A Demon Blade's nature was simple and cruel: to wound one's enemy, it demanded that the wielder first wound themselves. Its nourishment was Haki; its price, the user's life force. If your will or power were lacking, it would drain you dry without hesitation, leaving nothing behind.
"And it carries the power of the More-More Fruit—once eaten by Byrnndi World, the 'World Destroyer.' When awakened, it can double its speed, its size, and its power in an instant."
The words hung heavy in the scorched air.
As the last syllable left his mouth, Darren lifted his head. The Demon Blade had changed.
Purplish-black flames crawled along its length, seeping into every groove of the metal. The blade's surface seemed to ripple like a living thing, exhaling a suffocating aura of death and madness.
A pressure like the breath of Hell itself descended on the island.
"Fiend Aura…" Mihawk whispered, eyes widening in disbelief.
He'd read about such things only in ancient texts—the power of those who had walked the Path of Asura. He never dreamed he would witness it himself.
A blade forged in Hell… to cleave the very flames of Purgatory.
"Mihawk," Darren said quietly, his voice now carrying the weight of command. "Don't die too quickly."
A tendril of smoke slipped from his lips as Enma blazed to life in his hand. Then, with deliberate ease, he let go.
The blade floated before him, trembling with bloodlust, the air around it distorting with heat and fury.
And then—it moved.
Enma turned on its own, locking onto the young swordsman standing a hundred meters away.
The instant that hellish aura fixed upon him, cold sweat trickled down Mihawk's spine. His instincts screamed that he was being targeted by a beast from the abyss.
There would be no evading this. No retreat.
And yet—his heart burned brighter than ever.
He lifted his longsword high, blood-soaked hands tightening around Yoru's hilt. His amber eyes sharpened, focusing on the distant black blade as if it were the only thing that existed in the world.
"Come," he breathed.
In that instant—
Both swordsmen moved.
"Shoot him down, Enma!"
BOOM!
The magnetic field screamed to its apex, the charged energy propelling Enma forward like a thunderbolt. A streak of black light tore through the world, faster than sight, silent as death.
The earth split beneath its path. Ruined walls sheared cleanly in two. Gun turrets disintegrated to dust.
Even the air itself was cleaved apart.
A line of darkness stretched across the sky, dividing heaven and sea.
At that same moment, Mihawk's eyes snapped open.
He stepped forward, every muscle surging with power, and roared—bringing his great blade crashing down with everything he had.
Whoosh!
A blinding emerald arc burst forth, soaring like a hawk taking flight, crying out in defiance as it dove to meet the oncoming abyssal strike.
The two lights collided.
BOOOOOOM!
The explosion tore the heavens asunder.
Under Momonga's horrified gaze—and Moria's slack-jawed disbelief—a white-hot conflagration engulfed the island. The sound was indescribable, like the earth itself shattering.
Then came silence.
And blinding white light.
---
Time seemed to fracture—an eternity compressed into a heartbeat.
When the world finally righted itself, when sight and sound returned, countless Marines stumbled from trenches and shattered bunkers, faces ashen with the memory of death brushing past.
Momonga and Moria squinted through the swirling haze, coughing as they brushed away the settling dust.
At the heart of the battlefield, a lone figure flickered through the fog.
"Did… did he block it?" Momonga muttered, voice hushed, uncertain.
Somehow, now that the battle's climax had passed, he found himself praying the boy had survived.
Such talent, such ferocity—this youth had the makings of a legend. Given time, he could carve his name into history, claim the throne of "World's Strongest."
A streak of black light sliced back through the haze—Enma, returning obediently to Darren's side.
The Vice Admiral exhaled slowly. His tone was even, unreadable. "Congratulations. You blocked my third sword."
As the dust settled, the young swordsman emerged from the smoke.
A collective gasp rippled through the survivors.
Mihawk stood there—barely. His figure was a ruin of blood and ash, his body trembling under the weight of his own exhaustion. His hands were mangled beyond recognition, raw flesh wrapped around the hilt of his sword.
And yet, he still stood.
He still held Yoru upright.
But then—
Crack…
A jagged fissure crawled across Yoru's blade.
Momonga's breath caught.
With a sharp metallic clang, the tip of the sword snapped clean off, tumbling to the ground where it buried itself deep in the scorched earth.
The blade had broken.
To be continued...