Mist sheeted the sea, thrashed by a hard wind.
The Metallic Ark Ship knifed through the clouds at staggering speed, its flight unnervingly smooth.
The Shichibukai were scattered across the deck—some standing, some seated—binding wounds and catching their breath.
Doflamingo curled his fingers. Threads whispered into being and began stitching the jagged gashes that mapped Darren's body.
Under Darren's guidance, Doflamingo had found a hundred uses for the String-String Fruit. Suturing flesh and forcing clotting were long since routine. Even so, as his lenses reflected the Vice Admiral's bone-deep wounds, a chill crept up his spine.
By any sane measure, Darren should have been dead.
The longer Doflamingo worked, the colder his sweat ran.
Part of it was Whitebeard—the inhuman power it took to carve wounds like these. Part of it was Darren—the monstrous body that could endure them.
His threads should slice steel. Rock. Buildings. Yet pushing them through Darren's flesh felt like forcing wire through wet concrete. Every stitch demanded full focus and maximum pull.
The meticulous work weighed heavier than crossing blades with the Whitebeard Pirates.
And this was only possible because Darren was willfully relaxing the hardness of his muscles and defense. Otherwise, those ever-sharp threads might not have even marked the skin.
Doflamingo's gaze flickered behind the shades. He forced the unease down and kept sewing.
"That's enough," Darren said at last, a thin smile cutting across his pallid face. He waved weakly. "Thanks, Doflamingo. See to Douglas Bullet next."
Doflamingo paused. The bleeding had mostly stopped. A tremor ran through him; he gave a curt nod.
"I don't need your help," Bullet snarled, eyes burning as he glared at Doflamingo. "Blond brat—keep those filthy threads off me or I'll kill you."
"Even Whitebeard, the 'World's Strongest,' isn't so impressive," Bullet spat. "This trifling fatal wound—"
"If it leaves sequelae," Darren cut in with a crooked smile, "you won't be fit to fight me later."
"My back and stomach took the worst of it," Bullet declared, rolling onto his side and baring his injuries without a trace of shame.
Silence fell.
They watched the battle maniac who had slammed headlong into Whitebeard yield to a single line from Darren. Doflamingo's mouth twitched.
He shot Darren a sidelong look. Darren, unbothered, drew a bloodstained cigar, bit down, and lit it.
Doflamingo said nothing and set to work on Bullet.
His silk pierced easily this time, flitting over flesh like fine embroidery as the bleeding slowed.
And again, Doflamingo grasped something of Darren's inhumanity—by contrast.
"Where to next, Darren-san?" Mihawk asked, striding over and kneeling with immaculate posture. No visible wounds marked him, but his eyes still gleamed with unfinished battle. His duel with 'Flower Sword' Vista had not satisfied him.
Darren exhaled a dragon-like ribbon of smoke and fixed his gaze on the hazy line where sea met sky. A faint smile touched his mouth. "We wait for news," he murmured. "The fighting on Miracle Island should be winding down."
He stilled, then turned toward the rail.
Crocodile sat there, slouched against the gunwale. His slicked-back hair had come slightly undone. A crimson claw mark slashed his throat—close enough to have taken it. He stared into the distance, eyes dark and sharp.
Darren narrowed his own. The scar stirred a tug of recognition. "Crocodile. That wound…"
Crocodile looked up, murder glinting. "A treacherous brat," he said, voice rough. "Struck me while I was tangled up with that Phoenix."
Shame and fury rasped in his tone. He'd traded with Marco without taking a mark like this—yet some black-haired nobody had slipped a blade to his throat.
A cunning little brat?
Darren frowned, then understanding flickered, and he smiled. "You're not badly hurt, but it stings, doesn't it?"
Crocodile's eyes widened, the look saying plainly, How did you know?
Darren's smile stayed unreadable. Red Hair said the same thing, and he prefers to remain anonymous.
Purupuru…
The warbling ring of a Military Den Den Mushi cut through the air. Heads turned.
Darren drew it from his pocket and answered. "Admiral Sengoku. Darren."
Heavy breathing hissed over the line, then a hoarse voice after a beat. "Young Darren, well done. The Whitebeard Pirates didn't join the battle."
Darren smiled faintly. "My duty, Admiral."
"But… the situation on Miracle Island? Any progress?"
Crocodile and the others fixed on the Den Den Mushi.
Miracle Island was chaos—a vast naval engagement like none before. Headquarters had sent almost all its elite. Three great pirate crews were locked in a free-for-all. The outcome would reshape the New World's balance and everyone's future with it.
Sengoku hesitated, then stumbled over his words. "Well, ah… overall, we achieved some results."
Darren's brow twitched. A bad feeling settled. "The Roger Pirates?"
A sullen mutter: "They got away."
Darren's lip curved; he shook his head. Hardly a surprise. Roger was the protagonist of his own legend—the so-called Child of Prophecy.
Sending Garp after him was as good as letting him go. Those two were closer to rivals than enemies. God Valley bound them. Years of chasing and fleeing had forged a bond too deep for a true kill-or-be-killed end.
More often than not, one would give chase and the other would lead him on, both savoring the hunt. The real surprise would have been Garp bringing Roger in.
To be continued...