Four legendary Meito—peerless in edge and malice—hung in the air, their auras locking onto the pirate ship. Current crackled across their steel; hilts thrummed with a dangerous hum. At any moment they could scream forward and turn the Oro Jackson to splinters.
"Those four swords!"
"Damn it!"
"He's pulling that trick again?!"
"Despicable!"
Throats worked. Knuckles whitened around hilts. The crew held themselves rigid, afraid even to breathe wrong.
They were elite among pirates, their collective strength towering over most fleets. And yet, before those four gleaming blades driven by the Marine brat's magnetic power, confidence thinned. Even stripped of Armament Haki, those hypersonic spears of steel promised certain death. Outside of Roger, Rayleigh, and Gaban—their three pillars—no one could swear they'd stop a sudden strike.
Silence crawled out over the sea.
Their skin prickled, as if flayed by invisible edges.
The Oro Jackson bled speed until it drifted to a halt.
Doflamingo stared, jaw slack. He could hardly believe it.
A stalemate—forced by one man.
That brat Darren—no, his Godfather—had frozen the Roger Pirates in place and made them think twice about moving.
"Doffy…"
Darren's voice cut cold through the air.
"When the fight starts, I'll need you to do something."
The Vice Admiral's detached tone sent a chill through Doflamingo's spine. He looked up—and met eyes like ice and iron.
"Y-yes, sir," he managed, teeth grinding under the crush of Haki.
A cruel smile ghosted across Darren's mouth as he gave the order without a quiver of doubt.
"Scopper Gaban," he said. "He's yours."
Doflamingo's pupils pinpricked behind his shades. He was sure he'd misheard. Scopper Gaban—founding member, third in command of Roger's crew—his power whispered to rival even the Dark King's? That assignment was a death warrant.
Punishment for earlier insolence?
His eyes reddened. Fists clenched. "Godfather, are you sending me to die?"
"If I wanted you dead," Darren said, face unreadable, "I'd have you fight the Dark King Rayleigh."
Doflamingo faltered.
"As my godson, if you don't even have the courage to face the third-strongest of the Roger Pirates," Darren added, turning away to face the sea, "you're better off dead."
Opportunities are earned, not given.
Doflamingo's strength had been climbing, yes—but without the furnace of real blood-duels, he'd never reach Gold Tier.
He stared at Darren's tall, unbending back, his expression warping between ferocity and pain.
"Hahahaha! You said it yourself, little brat Darren! The Poneglyph is mine!"
Roger could hold himself no longer. His Conqueror's Haki detonated.
A greater wave answered, divine and demonic will colliding, black-red thunder clawing across the sky.
Roger sprang from the prow, body a fired shot. When Ace cleared its sheath, a torrent of crimson-black lightning ripped behind the blade.
The world shook. The Captain was a demon god descending.
"Darren!!"
Darren's grin turned feral. He didn't hesitate—he surged to meet him.
He hadn't yet mastered coating himself in Conqueror's Haki, but raw will crackled over his frame like stormlight. A blackness, deep as a pit, bled from his brow and swallowed him whole.
Demon Form.
No going back.
After more than a month of gut-twisting misery, he was starving to see how close he'd crept to the world's summit.
Boom!
They met midair, meteor to meteor—fist to blade—shockwaves rippling across kilometers. The sea groaned under the weight; the sky screamed; a gash yawned where force had struck force.
Splat.
Blood spattered from Darren's knuckles. Even with Roger's guard shattered, a flicker of shock crossed the pirate king's face.
The feel of that blow—the depth of that cut—something was wrong.
"Your body… it's stronger?!" Roger roared, eyes wide.
Darren showed his teeth, the smear of blood only sharpening the savagery. His gaze reddened. "What do you think?"
The crew iced over. Their bones seemed to rattle.
He was tougher than at Fish-Man Island—clearly tougher.
Impossible.
No, we can't let it happen again…
Rayleigh's face went grave. If this brat fed on Roger's pressure like last time, using the duel to leap in strength, they'd all pay. Unlike Garp, this one didn't play by any Marine rulebook—and he could fly.
If they could crush him outright, fine. But if he rose to their level, there would be no peace for them.
Rayleigh and Gaban traded a look and, in the same breath, chose. Reputation be damned—better to dogpile and end this than let him grow.
Step.
Step.
They launched, one after the other, cutting skyward—
VZZZZZZZ!
A spear of sound tore the air, closing like death.
Shanks, mid-argument with Buggy, went rigid. A suffocating chill folded around him. His mind blanked. A killing gleam raced for his heart.
I'm going to die…
Images flashed—childhood fragments, sea-salt days—then steel filled his world.
Clang!
Sparks fountained.
A golden-haired figure blurred into being. Rayleigh's blade caught Kogarashi by a hair's breadth.
"Mr. Rayleigh?!"
Boom!
The impact twisted Rayleigh's features. The single stroke shoved the Oro Jackson ten meters sideways, hull skidding across frothing waves.
The deck bucked and split, fractures spiderwebbing under their feet.
Men sprawled and scrambled, finally grasping the truth with horror: all this from one blade.
"Everyone—fall back!" Rayleigh snarled, sweat beading as he barely leveraged the sword away.
Cold washed through him. If he'd been a heartbeat slower, Kogarashi would have pinned Shanks to the deck.
And it wasn't over. The other three blades that had been hovering by the coast were gone.
Including the slowly receding Kogarashi…
All four Meito—
One ahead.
One behind.
One to port.
One to starboard.
A killing lattice, tips leveled at the Oro Jackson's heart.
"We're… surrounded by four blades," Buggy choked, face bleached of color. Eyelids twitched across the crew as a collective shiver ran their spines.
Above, the Vice Admiral's voice fell, cool and flat: "Don't move, Rayleigh."
"Or else…"
Locked with Roger mid-clash, Darren flicked a glance down at the deck. A cruel grin creased his face. "They all die."
To be continued...