"He didn't forget! He did it on purpose!"
No one dared say it aloud. With Darren—this madman whose strength mocked reason and whose whims broke rules—logic didn't apply.
The proof stood before them.
The demon blade towered like a skyscraper—thirty, forty stories at least. Standing at its base and craning up made a man feel like an ant, swallowed by scale.
And they all knew what it could do. Even if Darren didn't lift a finger, one strike from that sword aimed at Fish-Man Island would be ruin beyond imagining.
The Marine Vice Admiral raised his hand. Blue arcs crackled in his palm. In the distance, the sky-piercing blade answered with a thunderclap.
The ground and nearby buildings shivered as tremors rolled outward.
Under their horrified gaze, the colossal sword collapsed in on itself, shrinking to its original size before streaking back as a lance of black light.
Clang.
Cold flooded the Ryugu Palace banquet hall.
Enma hung in the air before Darren—followed by three more streaks that resolved into steel and came to a silent halt.
To his left floated Golden Lion's treasured blades, Oto and Kogarashi.
To his right hovered Enma… and a new sword.
This one gleamed silver-white, honed to a peerless edge with the meticulous grace of a Great Grade blade. Its guard opened like a three-petaled flower; subtle cloud patterns rippled across its steel.
Set beside Enma, the black and white contrast was striking.
Oddly, as the newcomer drifted close, Enma trembled and gave a soft, joyful hum.
Like lovers reunited after years apart; like old friends finding each other at last, spirits ringing in harmony.
Darren studied the blade, a satisfied smile lifting his mouth.
Its nature was the inverse of Enma's arrogant, otherworldly chill. Gentle, tranquil—yet the sharpness was undeniable.
Sharpness, in fact, was its defining essence—an edge meant to cut through any defense.
Where Enma devoured Haki and transmuted it into fiendish aura, Ame no Habakiri existed for one thing only: to embody the pinnacle of the cut.
Forged by Wano's renowned smiths as one of the Twenty-One Great Grade, it stood in deliberate counterpoint to Enma—the blade said to rend even Hell—while Ame no Habakiri was the Meito rumored to cleave the very sky.
Darren reached out and brushed the hilt, savoring the fine texture.
Unlike Enma's initial ferocity, Ame no Habakiri did not rebel. After a brief test, it quieted, and slowly accepted his touch.
Surprised, Darren shot Enma a wry look, then began to feed Armament Haki into Ame no Habakiri.
A stream of Haki flowed from his arm—petals on a wind, a brook over stones. He kept it gentle, careful not to startle the blade, as if soothing a new lover.
Little by little—under the weight of Armament Haki now hardened to 73—the sword trembled, the quiver deepening as he increased the flow.
Darren narrowed his eyes.
This felt different.
Enma was a ravenous whale, swallowing whole. Ame no Habakiri was a vast, patient vessel, able to hold immense power.
Within it, his Haki seemed to grow keener, more refined—its edge honed by the blade's receptivity.
"Internal Destruction" would only grow more vicious under that amplification.
The trembling crested. At a felt threshold, Darren gave a sharp breath and poured more in.
Ame no Habakiri sang—high and clear—as a killing sharpness flared out from the blade. A chill raked every spine in the palace; hair prickled upright.
They stared, stunned, at the Meito that seemed almost… pleased.
Even that instinctive pulse of power made them feel seen and chosen by the blade's intent, a primitive fear rising that the next heartbeat would cut them in two.
Huff…
Darren exhaled and drew his Haki back.
The oppressive edge vanished. Neptune and the ministers sagged in collective relief, cold sweat already soaking their collars.
"Mm. Fine blades," Darren said at last, a curve at the corner of his lips as he regarded Enma and Ame no Habakiri.
Their nature and finish clearly surpassed Golden Lion's Oto and Kogarashi. Not that Oto and Kogarashi were poor—only that Enma and Ame no Habakiri, both among the Great Grade, had been wrought with a deeper, more intentful hand.
A blade's true power lives in its wielder.
Forget Oto and Kogarashi; put ordinary Marine swords in Golden Lion's hands and he could still carve down Kozuki Oden like butter.
Oden had never truly unlocked the blades' potential; in his grip, they were a beautiful waste.
Even so, Darren couldn't help admiring Tenguyama Hitetsu's craft. Two Meito from the same land—and yet how different their souls.
Wano's love of elaborate artistry impressed him. Intricate work, cleanly expressed.
Two swords born of one nation, their characters worlds apart.
He rubbed at the stubble on his chin.
If they were people, Enma was a ravenous dominatrix in black stockings, forever thirsty to drain her master dry.
Ame no Habakiri was the gentle, broad-hearted neighborly aunt, accepting every flaw with a kind, oblivious patience.
Both good—no, great—blades.
Satisfied with his appraisal, Darren's mood lifted.
"But hey, kid—staring like that is a little rude, don't you think?"
He turned. A small figure stood before him.
A round, pale face; short black hair falling over one eye; a hooded cloak…
She cupped her cheeks with both hands and gave him a solemn, grown-up glare while a little shark tail flicked behind her, nervous and quick.
To be continued...