A sudden chill ran down Darren's spine, sharp as a blade of ice.
He could feel it—an unseen gaze, ancient and cold, peeling through the shadows of the Chamber of Flowers. Somewhere in that suffocating darkness, a pair of eyes had opened, silently watching him.
The air thickened. Cold climbed from his feet to his skull, freezing every muscle.
He'd faced monsters before—Byrnndi World, the "World Destroyer" who could annihilate continents; Golden Lion Shiki, whose twin blades and unmatched Haki had once carved a path through Marineford; Whitebeard, the "Strongest Man in the World"; Kaido, "the Strongest Creature Alive"; Big Mom, the "Born Destroyer" who ruled Totto Land; Rayleigh, the "Dark King"; and Gol D. Roger himself.
Yet never—not once—had he felt dread like this.
It wasn't power. It was presence.
The feeling of being studied by something vast and merciless—like a viper coiled in silence, or a god gazing down from the void.
So that's… the Master of the Empty Throne.
Darren exhaled quietly, his hand loosening. His heartbeat slowed, but the weight didn't lift.
Saint Saturn watched him, leaning on his cane, his wrinkled lips curling into a thin smile. "Darren… this is your final test."
Saint Warcury spoke next, his tone patient but cold.
"Your strength and potential are extraordinary—even by the standards of this world. In the CP agencies' secret archives, you're named the Marines' greatest genius in eight hundred years."
"We cannot allow talent like that to wander from the path."
Darren said nothing.
Then, calmly, "What if I refuse?" His voice was steady, eyes fixed on them. "I'll abandon the Admiral promotion."
The five elders didn't move, but the air grew heavy—thick with invisible menace.
He knew their kind of power couldn't be measured. Even at his peak, he wouldn't survive a reckless move against all five. And somewhere beyond them, unseen yet suffocatingly close, was Imu—the presence that had frozen his blood moments ago.
Saint Nusjuro tilted his head, his katana gleaming faintly. "This isn't a negotiation," he said with a faint smile. "It's an order."
Darren's eyes narrowed.
Saint Warcury sighed, disappointment seeping into his voice. "We had such high hopes for you, Darren. But you've truly let us down." His gaze hardened. "Did you think we were ignorant of your little secrets?"
Darren's pupils constricted.
From within his robes, Saint Warcury produced a Visual Den Den Mushi and pressed its switch.
The air fell deathly silent.
A projection flickered into being—casting a scene soaked in crimson.
A dark room. Bloodstained walls. Two figures chained to the floor—one man, one child. A father and daughter.
The man's gardener's overalls were caked with dirt and blood. The girl's once-white dress was drenched scarlet, her small fingers clinging desperately to her father's torn sleeve.
Both faces were hollow, their eyes gouged out, blood drying in streaks like tears.
Darren's breath caught. His fingers twitched.
He recognized them.
The man had once begged him, sobbing, to save his child. The girl had once tried to take her own life—too proud to burden others.
They had escaped. Lived quietly. Safely.
And now—this.
Father and daughter, broken and blind, waiting for death in some forgotten cell.
"They're still alive, of course," Saint Saturn said pleasantly. "You covered your tracks well, Darren. Even we were impressed."
Saint Warcury's tone was bone-dry. "The CP agencies found nothing. Not even the most advanced surveillance unearthed a trace."
Saint Peter, golden-haired, added with a faint smirk, "Even Saint Shaldes' father has abandoned the search for his son's killer."
Saint Mars stroked his long gray beard, sneering. "But perfection doesn't exist. It only takes one loose thread."
Saint Saturn chuckled. "We simply never imagined the motive behind it would be so…"
"…foolish," Saint Warcury finished.
Their eyes gleamed with mock disappointment.
"We thought you were different," Warcury said softly.
"Greedy. Ambitious. Lustful. Pragmatic. Unmoved by morality," Saturn listed with ease.
"Willing to twist right and wrong to serve your purpose," Warcury continued.
"Brilliant beyond compare," Saturn added.
"Untainted by sentiment—unlike Zephyr or Garp," Warcury said, shaking his head.
"It was because of those very qualities," Saturn said, voice rising, "that we trusted you with such authority!"
"But you… disappointed us." Warcury's eyes narrowed. "Did you really think we were so blind?"
He gave a faint, chilling smile. "You should have killed them. All of them."
Saint Saturn's grin widened. "Because now, we've found your weakness."
Warcury's voice fell to a whisper. "You should have left no witnesses, Darren. No attachments."
The words hung like a noose.
Still, Darren said nothing. His face was unreadable, his silence deeper than any denial.
Warcury sighed. "Yet, despite it all… we're merciful."
"Talent deserves a second chance," Saturn said.
"If you complete the escort mission," Warcury went on, "your past will be erased."
He spread his hands. "Consider this divine generosity. The gods of this world forgive."
"Raise your sights," Saturn murmured. "You were born for more than these meaningless lives of insects. Serve the divine."
"All your struggle, your rise from the dirt—will you really throw it all away?" Warcury asked. "Finish the mission, and everything you want is yours."
"Power. Prestige. Wealth. The Admiral's coat," Saturn said, smiling faintly. "You'll command fleets, shape history itself."
Warcury's tone softened, almost kind. "You've always loved a good deal, Darren. Here's your best one yet."
Silence stretched, taut as wire.
One second.
Two.
Three.
Then Darren laughed. Low, easy, controlled. "I understand."
A calm smile spread across his face—genuine, almost serene. "I will do my utmost to fulfill Your Excellencies' expectations."
The Gorosei exchanged knowing smiles. "We look forward to your success, future Marine Admiral."
Without another word, Darren turned to leave.
Just as he reached the doorway, Saint Saturn's voice followed him, dry and mocking. "One more thing."
Darren paused.
"The North Blue never belonged to you," Saturn said, his tone dripping with disdain. "You were never its king."
He leaned back, savoring the words. "Not in the past… and even less so in the future."
The heavy doors closed with a slow, echoing thud—sealing the five elders behind them, their ancient faces twisted in satisfied, poisonous smiles.
To be continued...