"So they've finally decided to move?"
Darren's bloodshot eyes sharpened as he stared at the figure on the Den Den Mushi feed.
The Knights of God—one of the World Government's most enigmatic and formidable orders—were Celestial Dragons to the last. Their charge was to uphold the royal dignity, protect the Dragons' lives, and preserve their dominion.
Even as a transmigrator, Darren knew little about this elite corps. How many were there? What was their true ceiling? Did each one possess strength and Haki to rival Figarland Garling's overwhelming might?
If he intended to wage total war against the World Government, he needed answers. Garling's astonishing Conqueror's Haki during their clash at Mary Geoise had exceeded every expectation. If every Knight stood on that level, this would get ugly fast.
The feed shifted.
Slender figures in immaculate suits slipped from the smoke and swept across the burning city with breathtaking speed. Flames writhed beneath the night; the Knights of God moved like graceful demons dancing through Hell, faces serene as they harvested lives.
Their swordsmanship was exquisite and precise—more like Western fencing than the world's samurai styles—thrusts and lunges that pierced cleanly instead of hewing. Slaves didn't realize anyone had passed until a thin red line opened on the neck; a few swaying heartbeats later, they fell.
Darren had never seen swordsmanship quite like it. He wasn't a swordsman—his few "techniques" were really Devil Fruit–boosted throws the Golden Lion had mocked as half-baked, tricks that only fools obsessing over the art, like Mihawk, would bother parsing. But a lack of polish was not a lack of understanding. Oden, the Golden Lion, Roger, Rayleigh, Big Mom—their blades had taught him enough to know that what he watched now was different, and deadly.
The small mercy was that, from what he could see, the Knights' combat power wasn't as exaggerated as he'd feared. Most were not truly at Admiral level—some treading its edges, perhaps, but not beyond.
"Do you see, Darren…?"
Black flames knitted Saint Warcury's wounds as he looked down, haughty, at the battered Vice Admiral, whose aura was thinning by the breath.
"They've already surrounded Fisher Tiger. This farce ends soon."
"A frog at the bottom of a well remains a frog. How could a fish-man who's lived his life in a sewer comprehend the power of gods?"
His body surged, reshaping in an instant into Fengxi—a colossal wild boar that blotted out the sky. Its tusks gleamed; the charge thundered.
"Die! Be proud—no one has caused us more trouble!"
The Vice Admiral was spent. Even if those two fools used their tricks again, they couldn't restore what he'd lost.
Fengxi roared. The earth split.
"Rage of the Storm: Dragon's Roar!"
A hoarse bellow ripped across the field. A jet-black hurricane coiled from nothing, a storm dragon twisting to life. It wrapped Fengxi and sank fangs into the boar's neck. The two leviathans slammed and ground the land to rubble.
"I thought you were dead," Darren said, smirking as Dragon strode from the gale.
Dragon's face was a mask of bruises; claw marks bled slowly down his arms and ribs. "Those old bastards… their powers defy reason." He wasn't in the mood for jokes. His eyes cut toward Saint Mars's Itsumade with a flicker of apprehension.
In their brief clash, Dragon had learned why even Darren had been mauled: immortality. Not even the Dragon Claw Fist—meant to shatter tyrannical force—had left a mark. Every exchange only carved more into him until he'd been pushed to the brink.
"Darren, do you have a plan?" Kuma and Ivankov flanked him, wary. Dragon ignored the blood on his lips; urgency roughened his voice. "If there's no way to kill them, we'll have to fall back."
Five monstrous shadows stirred, eyes glinting like predators. Sweat slid cold down Dragon's spine. Their physical power was terrifying, but not absolute. It was the regeneration that crushed hope.
The Gorosei watched with cool amusement, like gods gazing down at the last, useless writhing of ants. They waited for despair to bloom.
The world quieted. The noose tightened.
On the projection, slaves fell one after another, their silent screams echoing. Fisher Tiger was already engaged by two Knights of God; bone-deep wounds scored his chest and back.
Dragon's eyes locked onto Darren's, pleading for an answer.
"I never planned to kill them," Darren said.
His voice was raw. He exhaled, long and ragged.
"They really do seem unkillable," he rasped. "For now, I see no way."
The Gorosei chuckled together.
Before they could speak, Darren cut in. "You've forgotten something, Excellencies."
They paused.
"What is it?"
A cold premonition slid under their skins.
Darren's mouth tilted into an arrogant smile that made their hearts lurch.
"Tiger-san is a compassionate man. He doesn't wish to stain the Holy Land with blood—only to free the suffering. I'm different."
"You know me. I repay every slight tenfold."
"You raid my home? I'll raid yours."
"What I demand is blood for blood."
He drew a blood-smeared Military Den Den Mushi, connected, and grinned as he spoke into it—then looked the Gorosei in the eye:
"What I demand… is the Celestial Dragon Holy Land, Mary Geoise, drowned in rivers of blood!!"
To be continued...