"Haa…"
Sengoku lowered the Den Den Mushi and sank onto a crumbling rock, rain sliding down his face unchecked. Exhaustion carved deep lines into his features as he let out a weary sigh.
The downpour rinsed the dried blood from the corner of his mouth, leaving his face pale and raw.
Miracle Island lay under a shroud of rain, its sky a smothering sheet of ink. The world blurred into a gray veil; cold drops drummed against torn earth, toppled trees, and the faces of every Marine.
Their eyes fell on the bodies scattered across the field—pirates laid out in the rain, skin already growing chill.
They'd all escaped.
The captains, core officers, and elite of the three great crews—anyone who could run, had run.
From a distance, the heaps of corpses looked like triumph. Up close, they were a quiet defeat.
"Quite the successful operation, wouldn't you say?" Borsalino quipped from a squat nearby, cigarette tilting at a teasing angle.
Sengoku's lip twitched. That slippery bastard had been the first to bolt when Kaido and Big Mom unleashed their joint technique. Sakazuki and Kuzan had stepped forward on instinct—only for Borsalino to drift ahead of them, all casual, and take point against the blast.
Swish… swish… swish…
Sakazuki pushed out of the shattered treeline, jaw set, breath ragged. Blood darkened one sleeve, adding to the iron chill of his presence. Rain only sharpened the lethal edge he carried.
"Mop-up's nearly complete, Admiral Sengoku," he reported, voice cold. "Aside from core officers and key personnel, the small fry have been eliminated." He let "small fry" sit in the air, contempt plain.
Sengoku heard the resentment beneath the words and felt irritation kindle. "In the end, we accomplished nothing of worth…" he muttered. "If I'd known, I would've gone with Darren to cut off Whitebeard."
A sulky murmur drifted from behind him.
Kuzan lay sprawled in the grass, a blade between his teeth, hands pillowed behind his head. Lifeless eyes watched the rain-streaked sky; he pursed his lips in a childish pout.
Sengoku stared, speechless.
"Enough!" He ground his teeth and surged to his feet, face flushed with anger. He glared at the three young officers arrayed before him, their hands still on their swords. His voice climbed toward a shout. "How was I supposed to know those two brutes, Kaido and Big Mom, had a combined technique like that?!"
He flung a shaking hand toward the horizon, so furious he'd split his palm and drawn blood. "That strike nearly leveled the island! Mountains and forests for hundreds of kilometers, gone in an instant!"
He slashed his arm toward the coast, where hulking warships lay capsized, wreckage bobbing in the surf. "Yes, the four of us barely blocked it with Haki—but look at the bill! We're all hurt, aren't we?"
"That technique—Hakai—its aftershock alone almost wiped out every battleship we brought! How are we supposed to stop their retreat now?!" Sengoku roared, voice trembling with fury. "Well?!"
Marines nearby froze mid-task, eyes wide. They backed away on instinct, peeking from behind fallen trunks, faces lit with scandalized curiosity.
Borsalino's smile died.
Sakazuki said nothing.
Kuzan ducked his head.
Their silence stoked Sengoku's temper. The weight of the debacle sat squarely on his shoulders.
Two theaters. Two commanders.
Darren, with a handful of Shichibukai misfits, had executed perfectly, sealing off Whitebeard's crew with ruthless speed—and by their reports, even injuring Whitebeard severely.
And them?
Headquarters had fielded its near-entire elite. Sengoku trusted his strategy, deployment, and calls.
But who could have predicted a combined technique like Hakai?
The instant it hit, he could smell death.
If he'd tried to face it alone, he would have been killed—or left hanging by a thread.
There was no planning for that.
Even with four of them throwing everything into the block, they came away wounded.
The field had become chaos. Weather turned on them. Most ships were wrecked.
Numbers meant nothing if Kaido and Big Mom were breaking out in a desperate charge.
Sakazuki, Borsalino, Kuzan—stronger than before, but only just over the threshold of admiral-level combat. They still fell short of natural-born monsters like Kaido and Big Mom.
Was the final burden his alone?
Sengoku's chest heaved. He stamped the ground and barked, "If you can handle it, take my chair. I'll hand you the Admiral's post right now!"
Silence.
Dead, absolute silence.
Marines in the distance went rigid, trembling. None of them had ever seen gentle, steady Sengoku—"the honest man"—lose it like this.
"I was making a point… why's he so touchy?" Borsalino grumbled, scratching his head.
To Sengoku's ears, it sounded like cymbals.
His face darkened.
"The post of Marine Admiral…" Sakazuki said flatly, "I'm interested. Just not right now." He turned and strode toward the shore.
"…," Sengoku's jaw ground so hard the sound curdled in his teeth.
Kuzan rose, grinning lazily. "I'm not taking the blame for this."
Thump, thump, thump…
Sengoku staggered, hand to his heart. Before he could erupt again, the three of them were gone like smoke.
"You little brats…"
He was close to splintering his own teeth when the Den Den Mushi shrilled in his pocket. Still seething, he snatched it up and snarled into the receiver:
"I'm not in the mood! If you've got something to say, say it!"
Silence hummed on the line. Then a thin, rasping voice threaded through:
"Sengoku… you've grown bold."
The words hit him like lightning. His face froze mid-rage.
To be continued...