The New World, a deserted island.
White lines, like the Reaper's pen-strokes, wove into a vast, sinister birdcage that sealed the island without mercy.
On blood-wet earth, the Moby Dick—colossal as a white whale—lay ringed by clashing figures. The roar of battle smothered the wind.
"Ah, the intoxicating scent of war…" Doflamingo chuckled darkly, his face twitching with manic delight.
He slid aside from a downward slash, pink feathers rippling. A flick of his fingers and a razor-cut split the attacker's chest; blood fanned the air. The man staggered, still reaching forward—until a hand closed on his throat and lifted.
A blond face, bizarre lenses, a sneer.
"Heh heh heh… Tell me—does a weakling like you deserve to choose how he dies?" Doflamingo's voice sank to a chill whisper inches from the pirate's face.
The man's jaw clenched, but his body was clamped in an invisible vise.
"Looks like the answer is no." Doflamingo's grin widened—and his fingers tightened.
Crack.
Bone gave way. The pirate's head lolled; light drained from his eyes.
"Heh heh heh heh heh!!" Doflamingo threw his arms wide, laughter knifing across the field.
Around him, dozens of Whitebeard Pirates turned on one another, blades flashing in a frenzy. Screams knotted with the clangor; blood sprayed and steamed.
---
Clang!!
Sparks leapt as blades crossed, sword-light gouging crisscross scars in the dirt. Roses bloomed and burst in the air—petals drifting like a dream already fading.
"Flower Sword" Vista spun his twin scimitars in a gale, every stroke opening like a deadly rose. His dazzling technique and blistering pace rained strikes across the Hawk-Eyed Youth's guard, upper and lower, a storm no one should catch clean.
But shock crawled up Vista's spine with every exchange. The boy in front of him met it all. Those hawk eyes—cold, penetrating—read lines through steel; his stance never wavered.
The odd, jet-black broken blade in the youth's single hand moved with nimble weight, dancing yet anchored. More unsettling than the weapon was his composure—unnatural for someone so young.
"…How could someone like you lose an arm?!" Vista snarled at last, irritation edging into his breath as he pressed harder.
"To achieve the strongest swordsmanship," Mihawk said, turning aside another flurry. His tone was flat, almost bored.
Steel shifted; he caught and locked Vista's scimitars with a ringing bite.
"Your skill is commendable," Mihawk said, a faint smile touching his lips. "Truly worthy of being the strongest swordsman in the Whitebeard Pirates."
Vista froze for a heartbeat. In the boy's eyes, he saw it—the delighted glint of a hunter who'd sighted proper game.
---
Yellow sand erupted, rising into a towering, razor-edged greatsword.
"Desert Greatsword!"
"Undying Thistle!"
Azure flames converged in a rush and compressed into a blazing shield. Sand and fire met and burst apart. Crocodile and Marco faced each other over the fallout, wary and intent.
"So the rumors were true," Crocodile muttered, sand hissing around him. His gaze darkened on the man aloft. "The Phoenix Fruit—near-invincible defense and regeneration."
Marco's arms had become wings of blue fire. His eyes tracked the shifting ground.
Within hundreds of meters around Crocodile, the earth had become bare desert. Every grain moved like a living thing, each a needle of hidden threat.
"You're no slouch either," Marco shot back. "Pushing your Logia this far… you're close to Awakening, aren't you?"
He cut a glance toward the distant ridgeline, dread gnawing. There, two colossal powers smashed together again and again—black-red lightning flaring with every impact. Each clash blew out like colliding meteors, shockwaves grinding boulders and giant trees to splinters and throwing the debris into the sky. The cloud sea tore apart; ridges sheared down to stumps. Ravines yawned wide and kept going. In the crisscross gale and thunder, that tract of land had become a purgatory.
Marco drew a slow breath, forcing the shock down.
If he hadn't seen it with his own eyes, he'd never believe a Marine could climb that far in a year or two.
He was fighting Pops.
He was trading even with the World's Strongest.
Marco snapped back to the present. "There's one thing I can't figure out, Crocodile," he said, eyes narrowing. "A man as fiercely independent as you—why take orders from that Marine?"
Crocodile's face hardened. He lunged with a snarl.
"I don't take orders from that bastard!"
"My target has always been the Whitebeard Pirates!"
His roar rattled the air. The desert surged and twisted into a titanic crocodile of sand.
---
Holy Land Mary Geoise, Pangaea Castle.
The Chamber of Deliberation felt waterlogged with tension, the air thick enough to choke.
The Gorosei stood or sat in expectant silence. One toyed with a katana; one sipped clear tea; one crossed his legs with idle ease; one watched from under lowered lids, arms folded; one appraised the livid Fleet Admiral with a curling smile.
Arrogance and amusement bled from all five.
"Kong," one said lightly, "the Native Hunting Competition is the Dragons' highest honor. Many of the God's Knights are chosen from its victors.
"For that little brat Rogers Darren to be given security for such a feast? Luck of a lifetime."
"A golden opportunity. He'll learn things most of this sea could never imagine."
"A chance to step straight into the Government's highest rooms."
"You know that better than anyone, don't you?"
Sinister smiles spread across pallid faces, their glee almost uniform.
"After all, that's how you and Sengoku climbed, back in the day."
Thud. Thud.
Kong paled and staggered back two steps.
Memories surged—hot, raw, unbidden. His pupils pinched; red veins crazed his eyes. His expression twisted.
"No… If you do this… you'll ruin him…"
His eyes burned. A low growl slipped between his teeth before he could stop it.
To be continued...