Saint Saturn spared the corpse not a glance. His gaze slid past the trembling girls and pinned itself to the blood-streaked Devil Fruit in Darren's hand.
"The Float-Float Fruit must not fall into your possession."
Darren's grin widened. "That isn't your call."
He flicked his wrist. A pistol tore free from the dead noble's belt, liquefying midair and folding in on itself until it became a palm-sized steel box. Before Saturn's scowl could deepen, Darren set the Fruit inside and waved.
The box sealed with a clean snap, smoothed into a metal sphere, and—caught in a magnetic grip—shot away like lightning. It vanished into the sky, then plunged into the Deep Sea.
"If you want it back, feel free to dive," he said, amused.
Blood surged in Saturn's eyes. For longer than he could remember, no one had mocked him like this.
"Very well," he rasped. "Your growth has exceeded our projections. But this ends now."
He inhaled. His monstrous bulk cinched down into the gaunt, imperious elder in the black, flat-brimmed hat.
"You think you've won? You know nothing of the World Government's foundations—eight centuries of rule."
Chin lifted, he spoke as if reciting to himself. "I miscalculated. Summon them. The brat does not leave alive."
The world dimmed.
Black lightning cracked from the snowbound earth, sketching pentagrams across ice and stone. The arrays writhed with heatless flame; a foul, oppressive force spilled outward.
The sisters staggered back, faces blanching. A hard gale struck Darren's cheek; he squinted into it as shapes rose from the sigils one by one.
A bald elder in white robes with a katana at his hip—Saint Ethanbaron V. Nusjuro, the Warrior God of Finance.
A silver-haired elder in a crimson suit, hands buried in his pockets—Saint Shepherd Ju Peter, the Warrior God of Agriculture.
A barrel-chested elder in a dark green suit with a walrus mustache—Saint Topman Warcury, the Warrior God of Justice.
A long-haired, silver-bearded elder in deep blue—Saint Marcus Mars, the Warrior God of Environment.
And at their fore, Saint Jaygarcia Saturn, the Warrior God of Science and Defense.
Five ancients in a line, presence like tide and mountain. Colossal, twisted shadows rose behind them, the air turning thin beneath the weight.
Darren's eyes narrowed; then he chuckled. "So it isn't just you who can ride the array, Saint Saturn. The other Excellencies can piggyback too?"
The premonition of death prickled his skin; his smile only turned more reckless. "All five? I'm honored, Your Excellencies."
Warcury's brows knit. "You have disappointed us, Darren."
Peter's tone was cool. "We meant to cultivate you into an Admiral. You're better suited than Sengoku."
Mars snorted. "Insects remain insects—crawling in their little dirt, never seeing far."
Nusjuro's fingers brushed his demon blade. He smiled without warmth. "You'll learn what despair is."
Saturn's cane creaked under his grip. "Enough. Do not let him escape."
Murder flared in five pairs of eyes—then flickered. A crimson light pulsed in their pupils; all five stepped back in the same heartbeat.
BOOM.
A dragon-wind slammed down and ripped the land apart. Ice, trees, and stone went to powder beneath the howling surge. When the gale peeled away, an abyssal fissure split the plain from horizon to horizon, carving Darren off from the Gorosei.
Three hooded silhouettes now stood at his side, silent as shadows. Different heights, one pressure: heavy, controlled, lethal.
"I thought you'd gotten lost," Darren said lightly.
"Not lost," rumbled the first, voice thick with Haki, as if he looked down on the whole sea. "But you pulled a dirty one, Darren. We signed on to kill a few Celestial Dragons—since when are we brawling the Gorosei?"
"Aren't they Celestial Dragons too?" Darren asked, bland.
A beat. Then a growl: "As if the difficulty's the same. Those old monsters have lived longer than empires."
"What do you want, then?"
"More money."
"I'll add five billion."
A stunned silence. The cloak quivered. Then:
"So what if it's the Gorosei?!"
He ripped back his hood—long black hair, eyes like blades, a blood-red tattoo burning on his cheek.
The other two sighed and revealed themselves as well: a bespectacled giant with a gentle, bookish face—and a towering figure in fishnets and a plunging bodysuit, lashes and lips painted loud enough to start a riot.
The Gorosei's expressions curdled.
"Monkey D. Dragon, leader of the Freedom Fighters."
"Executive Bartholomew Kuma."
"Executive Emporio Ivankov."
Saturn's glare cut to Darren. "So that's why the Freedom Fighters swell by the day. You've been bankrolling them."
"'Bankrolling' is strong," Darren said. "I'm making friends."
He inclined his head, smile polite.
"Since Your Excellencies have graced us, it's only right I offer proper hospitality."
He swept an arm toward the torn sky and the frozen sea beyond and bowed, courtly as a host at his own table.
"Welcome to the North Blue, Your Excellencies."
To be continued...