Darren stopped dead in his tracks.
The wind swept across the crimson earth of the Red Line, whirling sand into clouds the color of blood.
He stared at the Military Den Den Mushi in his hand—its tiny mimic face frozen in Momonga's grim expression—and a smile began to twist across his lips, growing wider, wilder.
"Heh… hahahaha… HAHAHAHAHA!!"
He threw back his head and laughed until tears streaked his face, the sound sharp and reckless against the howling wind.
"Didn't they say my reputation meant nothing?" he barked. "Mobilizing the entire Marine elite just for me? Now that's dedication!"
His laughter echoed, raw and bright.
He had fought the Whitebeard Pirates alone and stopped their entire fleet, while Sengoku's main force had accomplished nothing.
And now, the Gorosei sent Sengoku himself—his weary fleet—to Darren's own sea? A warning, perhaps, against defiance. Or maybe simply a show of control. Either way, the irony nearly made him laugh again.
"This just keeps getting better…"
The laughter faded. Darren sighed, shaking his head. "So… what's the situation?"
Momonga's voice rasped through the Den Den Mushi, tense and low. "It's highly irregular. Headquarters deployed a full fleet into North Blue without even notifying me—the Supreme Commander of the region."
"Besides the Marine ships," Darren asked, "any others?"
Momonga paused, checking reports. When he spoke again, his voice was grim. "Several unmarked vessels flying the World Government flag. Likely slave transports."
"Figures." Darren relit his cigar and took a long drag.
Felsek Island's population alone wouldn't sate the Celestial Dragons' appetites. For a 'spectacle' of this scale, the Government would need to bring in slaves—thousands from across the seas—to serve as prey for the so-called Hunting Competition.
That was the true purpose of the event.
On the other end, Momonga's voice trembled. "Darren, what's happening?"
"Do you remember what I told you about God Valley?"
"Of course," Momonga replied. "But that was twelve years ago! After that massacre, the Celestial Dragons vowed—"
He stopped mid-sentence. The realization struck like lightning.
"Darren… no. They wouldn't…"
"I'm in Mary Geoise," Darren said flatly. "Just met the Gorosei. They've ordered me to escort the Celestial Dragons to the North Blue."
Momonga went still.
The same horror as God Valley—all over again.
"But… why?"
"Because this is my 'final test' before becoming Admiral," Darren said, voice dripping with venom. "I'm to keep them safe while they hunt humans for sport."
Momonga exhaled sharply, stunned. He understood at once: the Gorosei weren't testing Darren's loyalty—they were breaking him. They wanted him on his knees.
The silence between them was heavy, electric.
"Can't you refuse?" Momonga asked. "Abandon the promotion?"
"They already know," Darren said quietly. "They know I killed Saint Shaldes."
For a long moment, neither spoke.
Then Momonga's voice came back, steady now—calm, deadly calm. "Understood."
Darren's grin returned. "Ready, my comrade?"
"Just awaiting your command."
"Good."
He snapped the receiver shut, exhaled smoke like a dragon, and immediately dialed another number.
Before the other side could speak, he said, "Want to kill some Celestial Dragons?"
A pause. Then a cautious, shaken voice: "You… want me to help you?"
"No." Darren's grin widened. "This time, I'm leading."
He gave the time and coordinates, ended the call, and made several more.
When the last line went dead, he stood motionless for a moment, then let out a long, ragged breath.
His scarred frame straightened. His aura sharpened into steel.
He looked back at the gleaming Holy Land behind him—its towers, its arrogance, its lies.
The images of the Gorosei's cold, mocking smiles flashed through his mind.
Rage welled up, thick and volcanic.
A rage long buried.
A rage ready to burn the sky.
"…Fine," he said softly, lips curling into a savage smile. "Let's play their game."
---
North Blue.
A colossal steel dockyard sprawled across the coast like a sleeping giant. Cables sparked with blue light, feeding power into the bellies of monstrous battleships.
On a high platform, Momonga gripped the railing, wind tugging at his coat. His eyes were hard, his face unreadable.
Below him, over ten thousand elite Marines stood in formation—rigid, silent, unflinching.
"An unprecedented war is about to begin," Momonga announced. His voice carried through the air like the toll of iron.
"I cannot tell you when, where, or who we fight. Your only duty is obedience."
He scanned the ranks. "But hear me well: after this battle, we may all die. If any wish to withdraw, leave now. I swear—there will be no punishment."
Seconds passed.
Not a single soldier moved.
They stood like stone, their eyes blazing with quiet resolve.
"Good," Momonga said.
He lifted his arm in a crisp salute.
"Fleet—take to the skies!"
In a single, thunderous motion, ten thousand blades flashed from their sheaths, ringing out like the roar of a thousand storms.
"North Blue Fleet—will prevail!"
Engines rumbled. Blue-white light ignited beneath the warships as the anti-gravity drives came alive.
One by one, the steel beasts rose through the clouds, gleaming like predators of the sky.
Momonga watched, eyes burning red. His fists tightened.
The secret he had hidden for years was finally ready to strike.
They were going to war—with the very symbol of the world.
A slow, fierce smile touched his lips. Electricity crackled over his body, bright and wild.
"Bring it on," he whispered.
His figure blurred into lightning and vanished into the horizon.
"This is the North Blue."
To be continued...