Whitebeard's bloodshot eyes stayed unreadable as Darren's taunt drifted away on the wind. His men didn't share his calm; faces flushed, rage simmered.
Before they could move, Darren lifted a hand and beckoned. The shattered wreckage of the Metallic Ark Ship whipped toward him, metal shrieking as it twisted back into form and hovered in the air.
Darren and the Shichibukai sprang aboard. The Ark rose fast, and from that height they looked down with cool contempt at the furious men below.
"Kishishishi… why not wipe them all out right here?" Moria cackled, licking his dry lips as he hefted his jagged greatsword.
The looks he got in return could have cut steel. Crocodile and the others stared as if he were a fool.
"Did you hit your head too hard?" Mihawk said, voice flat.
"You—!" Moria's face froze, then flushed, anger choking him.
He started to argue—and shut his mouth again, Darren's earlier swordsmanship flashing through his mind. After a beat of sulking silence, he snorted and turned away.
Darren ignored him. Arms loose at his sides, he looked straight ahead, gaze indifferent as the Whitebeard Pirates dwindled beneath them.
Whitebeard wouldn't be easy to kill. Darren didn't know how deep the old man's wounds ran, but his own were critical; he could barely stand. Bullet was worse—his body hadn't reached that unbreakable realm. And with Marco and the others guarding Whitebeard with their lives, there was almost no chance to finish the job.
More importantly, if Whitebeard unleashed a last, berserk counterattack like at the Summit War, Darren doubted his battered frame could endure even a handful of those blows.
This was Whitebeard at his peak, golden hair still blazing.
Headquarters' mission was accomplished. The Whitebeard Pirates had been completely intercepted. In their state, there was no reaching Miracle Island.
What an exhilarating battle, Whitebeard, Darren thought, an arrogant smile tugging at his mouth.
Seeing the pirates' battered ranks, the others couldn't help but laugh.
The World's Strongest Pirate Crew—penned in and humiliated.
And the sweetest part: Crocodile and the rest were practically newcomers, and they'd helped pull off a minor miracle.
Elation surged through them, sharp and heady.
Moria and Crocodile, who'd hesitated to join the Shichibukai at first, now drank in Marco's murderous glare and felt a dark thrill ripple through their chests.
Maybe becoming a Shichibukai isn't so bad after all…
"You bastards!" Marco roared, eyes red as he glared up at the sneering faces. Azure fire licked his hands; he bent to launch, phoenix wings a thought away.
Blades rasped free all along the line. They were the Whitebeard Pirates. They would not swallow this shame.
A large, bloodstained hand settled on Marco's shoulder.
"Let them go," Whitebeard rasped.
Marco froze and turned.
Pops stood there, mountain-still, watching the Ark climb into the sky.
"Another pack of troublesome brats on this sea…" Whitebeard sighed as the ship vanished into cloud, weariness flickering across his face.
"But Pops, why didn't we—" Marco began. He never finished. Whitebeard staggered, dropped to one knee, and vomited a surge of scalding blood.
His face went chalk white. The blood spread like a dark tide, and for a heartbeat all of them were frozen by fear.
"Pops!"
"Get the doctor!"
"Damn it—!"
"Pops is hurt!"
Marco thrust his hands forward, phoenix flames blooming cerulean around Whitebeard's chest. The crew closed in, worry carving deep lines into their faces.
"I'm fine…" Whitebeard said hoarsely, as if his throat had been charred. He waved a trembling hand and forced a smile. "Don't forget—your old man is still the World's Strongest Man."
Marco's eyes shone red. As the crew's doctor, he felt the truth of the damage as his flames took hold. Outwardly, Pops looked intact—but inside, organs were bruised and battered in ways that made his stomach twist. None of it was immediately fatal, and yet Marco had never seen him this injured.
Not even against Roger or Golden Lion.
He couldn't know those old clashes had been tempered—testing blows between titans who respected the limits. Whitebeard never sought to rule, and few were foolish enough to force him into a death match.
Only madmen like Darren and Bullet could turn a measured trial of strength into a no-holds-barred slaughter.
"Move! Get Pops to the ship to rest!" Marco barked, voice raw. "Prepare a nutrient IV—start it now!"
Executives rushed in, bracing Whitebeard and carrying him aboard the Moby Dick, straight to the medical bay.
The rest exhaled shakily and scattered to tend the wounded and patch the ships.
"Hey, Teach, you good?" a crewmate asked, clapping a dazed youth on the shoulder.
Teach didn't move. His dark skin glistened with sweat; unruly curls escaped his hat. Thick lips pressed into a hard line. Steel claws, wet with fresh blood, gripped both his hands.
"N-no problem," he managed, forcing a smile. "Do you think Pops… he'll be alright?"
The crewmate paused, then chuckled. "What are you worrying for? Pops is the World's Strongest. Don't let it get to you." He gave Teach another pat and headed up the gangplank.
Teach stayed where he was, eyes following the steady stream of bloodied bandages carried below deck. Deep in that darkness, a faint glint stirred.
A single bead of blood swelled at the tip of a claw and fell to the boards with a soft pat.
To be continued...