This felt good.
Watching the Gorosei's faces twist, Kong felt years of pent-up fury pour out of him, leaving behind a clean, bracing clarity. If not for the room and the moment, he might have thrown his head back and laughed.
Then something stranger still stirred inside him.
A flicker—his Conqueror's Haki, dormant for decades, loosening as if a locked gate had shifted on its hinges. At his age? He kept his body in fighting shape, but eighty was still eighty. Mind and muscle both had their limits. And yet… his spirit felt as if it might surge again.
Absurd.
Elation gave way to unease. He realized, belatedly, where he stood—and whom he had just shouted down.
Silence settled over the chamber.
"Kong… you've grown quite bold," Saint Nusjuro said at last, stroking the black demon blade at his side, a thin smile cutting across his withered face. "I didn't expect you to show such courage before us."
Saint Saturn sipped his tea. "You've outstripped Sengoku in merit. We were wise to place you over all the Government's forces."
Saint Peter shook his golden head. "We'll overlook it, this once. Anxiety breeds indiscretion."
"If anyone else spoke like that," Saint Mars added, voice flat, "he'd be a corpse already. You get another chance."
Saint Warcury rasped, "We won't hear such words again. You know our patience is limited. Only you are afforded this much."
Kong took that in, breath steadying, eyes moving from one cold mask to the next. "Thank you, Excellencies. But my judgment stands. This war needs to end—now. Dragging it on benefits neither the Marines nor the Government."
He stepped forward, resolve laid bare.
The Gorosei laughed.
"You're right, Kong," one of them said. "The war should end."
"Continuing this tedium bores even us."
"The CP and the Holy Land Guard have already sailed. They should be nearing the North Blue as we speak."
"And from New World G1," another added, "a CP0 squad is on its way. They'll slip through Fish-Man Island."
Kong's pupils tightened to points. Cold climbed his spine. He could see it plainly: a wide, indiscriminate retaliation—any sea, any island with a tie to Darren—to break him by breaking everything around him.
"The people of the North Blue are innocent," Kong said, voice roughening. "Those nations, those towns—whatever crimes Rogers Darren has committed, they are not his accomplices."
"You worry too much," Saint Saturn sneered. "Most of the North Blue are non-members. The Member States won't weep over them."
"And Fish-Man Island?" Kong pressed. "They are a Member State. With how deep the hatred runs between Fish-Men and humans… if the Government moves against them—"
"We don't intend to destroy Fish-Man Island," Saint Mars replied mildly. "Have Ryugu Palace hand over Fisher Tiger, and the matter ends."
Understanding landed like a hammer. Of course. They would lean on the Government's overwhelming force, smash Darren's pillars, and force the North Blue Fleet to kneel. Ruthless, calculated—and it would grind thousands of innocents beneath it.
Not justice. Not rule. Just a boot.
Marine Headquarters, Marineford.
Cigar smoke curled lazily into the bright air.
"Who wants to go first?"
Darren's grin was wicked, the light in his eyes reckless and bright. The silence that answered him was taut as a drawn bow.
A golden streak split the ground, a blur that resolved in a heartbeat beside him—white leather shoe suspended midair in a perfect hooked kick.
"Well then, I won't hold back."
Borsalino's tall frame shimmered into being, fingers idly stroking his stubble, smile languid. "Tell me, Darren… have you ever been kicked at the speed of light?"
Light flared. Heat roared. The golden hook scythed down toward Darren's skull.
To be continued...