The Red Line.
This ring-shaped continent, bisecting the Grand Line at a right angle, takes its name from the distinctive crimson soil that blankets its surface.
A thousand meters above the sea, the blood-red landmass rises like an unscalable cliff lost in cloud—an austere wall of majesty and dread.
As the world knows, a mysterious, resplendent city crowns that scarlet spine: the Holy Land Mary Geoise. Sanctified above all else, it shelters the Celestial Dragons—"gods" who dwell among the clouds and look down on the masses like ants.
Untouchable, sacred, grand—this is the Holy Land Mary Geoise.
Beyond its towering outer walls, past those colossal ramparts—
Whoosh.
A figure plunged from the sea of clouds and hit the ground at terrifying speed. The impact boomed through the stone, dust geysering as hairline cracks raced outward. Even the Holy Land's wall took on spider-thin fractures.
Alarms snapped the Holy Land Guard to attention.
"Who's there?!"
"Something fell!"
"On guard!"
"Prepare for combat!"
Men who moments ago had been lounging awake with a start. Poorly maintained spears rattled up; pristine, bloodless sabers scraped free. Shock, suspicion, and fear filled their eyes as they stared into the drifting haze.
Dust churned. Gunpowder stung the air.
A tall, indistinct silhouette lifted a polished black boot and stepped forward.
Wind knifed through the gap as a figure radiating cold arrogance emerged from the grit.
Short black hair whipped in the gusts. His eyes were dark and deep, catching what little light the sky afforded.
The immaculate Marine uniform and coat were gone. Bare-chested, the dark-haired youth showed a body cut like iron.
Grotesque scars crawled across that hardened frame like centipedes, many still raw and bleeding.
Fresh blood streaked his black uniform trousers.
He stood before the walls of Mary Geoise with a cigar between his teeth, hands in his pockets, the iron tang of blood clinging to him.
The raw, feral pressure pouring off him froze the hundred-odd guards who'd tried to encircle him. Gooseflesh prickled up their arms; their hands trembled.
"He's…"
"It's…"
"Rogers Darren!"
"That Marine Vice Admiral!"
"The one who brought down the Golden Lion!"
They swallowed hard. They knew his legend only from papers and gossip—"the King of the North Blue," some had mocked, the Government's best attack dog.
They'd scoffed at Marines as mere pirate hunters and janitors—hardly the equals of the Holy Land's chosen guard.
But now, seeing the black-haired Marine standing calm and indifferent, smoking as if the world weren't watching, dread slid down their spines like ice water.
He hadn't even flared his full aura, and yet the savage weight of it made breathing difficult. He felt less like a man than a beast forged in mountains of corpses and rivers of blood.
"Wasn't he just reported intercepting the Whitebeard Pirates?"
"Those wounds—did he fight Whitebeard himself?"
"He's a monster…"
More guards poured in, white uniforms massing along the wall like a breaking wave.
While they watched him warily, he looked them over with idle curiosity—soft bodies, crooked formations, spears neglected, swords unscarred, eyes wide with fear. A cold smile tugged at his mouth.
"Darren!"
A booming voice rolled over the ranks. The formation stiffened, then parted of its own accord.
Steel Bone Kong, the Fleet Admiral, strode forward, broad shoulders under a heavy coat, the gold wheat insignia of his rank swaying with each step—authority and iron resolve made flesh.
"Fleet Admiral Kong," Darren said, tearing his gaze away from the trembling guards to snap a salute.
"You little brat, this is out of hand," Kong rumbled, gesturing at the crater and the cracked wall with a mixture of exasperation and helplessness. "You couldn't hold back a little?"
Darren chuckled.
"I just fought Whitebeard. I'm not fully recovered. My strength slipped."
Kong's face darkened. He let it pass.
He already knew how Miracle Island had ended: Roger, Kaido, Big Mom—gone. Darren's bitterness was understandable.
Kong waved the guards away and lowered his voice. "This isn't for a Den Den Mushi. I'll take you in. We'll talk on the way—"
"So," Darren cut in, "what conditions did the Gorosei set for my promotion to Admiral?"
Kong stalled. "How did you know…?"
Darren shook his head, a cool smirk crossing his lips. "Why would the Gorosei grant an audience to a mere Vice Admiral like me?"
"If they want to see me, it's to elevate me beyond the usual channels."
"But Marine Admirals sit just under the Fleet Admiral and hold keys to the Government's secrets. So there must be conditions, right, Fleet Admiral?"
Kong met that mocking, unblinking stare and sighed inwardly.
He stood silent for a long moment. Weathered features tightened with words he could not voice.
"Forget it," Darren said, stepping past him. "I'll handle it. Don't worry, Fleet Admiral."
His calm words hung in the air as he walked toward the Holy City's gates, back straight, pace unhurried.
A cold wind swept through, cutting to the bone. Kong turned, eyes fixed on the young man's retreating figure, jaw set, his expression a knot of conflict.
Dusk bled across the sky; a blade of sunset cut the horizon, flinging crimson light over the land. It struck Darren's scarred frame and made him look lonelier, grimmer—bathed in blood.
No white coat billowed. No great "Justice" flared. Only that scarred, unbending back remained—upright as a spear.
The pristine Holy City, the thriving Holy Land, the towering walls—now they resembled the open maw of some vast beast, closing, closing, as if to swallow that proud, bloodstained silhouette whole.
To be continued...