"You're messing with me, aren't you?"
Zephyr gave Daren a long look, a vein bulging on his forehead.
"Ahem, well, Zephyr-sensei, the Shichibukai system definitely has its flaws... but it's not entirely without merit."
Noticing Zephyr's clenched fists, Daren's eye twitched. He hurried to explain—given the shape he was in, getting beaten up by the old man would be a nightmare.
"What possible value could there be in granting pirates the legal right to plunder?"
Zephyr shot him a sharp glare, clearly furious.
"It's an insult to justice itself!"
"What will the world think of us Marines?"
"Crimes that should've been eradicated are now being swept clean, as if their bloodshed never happened. What are the people supposed to think of us then?"
Daren replied calmly, "You're absolutely right. But if you look at it from another angle, the implementation of the Shichibukai system does help ease the burden we face in fighting pirates."
"And more importantly, we can't stop it—right, Zephyr-sensei?"
Zephyr fell silent.
He couldn't say a word.
It was the truth.
The Shichibukai system wasn't born from the Marines—it came straight from the World Government. Sengoku had confirmed that much himself.
This was the tide of the times. Even Kong couldn't go against the World Government's orders, let alone a retired Admiral like him.
Seeing Zephyr's face twisted in frustration, Daren sighed and went on.
"But that doesn't mean we Marines are completely powerless."
Zephyr blinked in surprise, then looked at Daren with a spark of anticipation.
"You got something up your sleeve, brat?"
This kid was sharp—maybe even more cunning than Sengoku. If anyone had a plan, it'd be him.
Daren grinned.
"We can't stop the Shichibukai system from being enforced, but we can make sure every last one of them obeys the Marines."
Well—obeys me, to be exact.
"'Desert King' Crocodile is the perfect example."
"You know how dangerous that guy is, Zephyr-sensei, but haven't you noticed? That little croc's been a lot tamer lately."
Zephyr paused, quickly flipping through Crocodile's intel file in his mind. Sure enough, he was shocked to realize that in the last two or three months, Crocodile's attacks on towns and nations had dropped significantly. And he hadn't attacked a single Marine warship.
"What did you do to him, Daren!?"
Zephyr locked eyes with him, demanding answers.
Daren gave a mild smile.
"Nothing much. I just made him understand that he didn't become a Shichibukai because he was strong."
"He got the title because the Marines chose him. That's all."
"Oh—and I took one of his arms, too."
He added it like he was mentioning the weather, casual and calm, as if it were no big deal.
Zephyr: ...
"Don't worry, Zephyr-sensei."
Daren's smile turned sly.
"The Shichibukai might all be ferocious beasts—but I'll make sure they wear tight enough chains."
...
At the same time…
New World, somewhere at sea.
Yellow sand howled through the air like a swirling tornado.
What was once a thriving town had been reduced to desert. Building after building crumbled into flowing sand, scattered by the relentless wind.
A black pirate flag bearing the symbol of a white mustache and curved saber drifted from the sky, only to be consumed by flames and turned to ash in the chaos of battle.
"So this is one of the crews under Whitebeard? Pathetic..."
Standing amidst the ruins, Crocodile—with his slicked-back hair and a gold-trimmed cigar clamped between his teeth—watched the devastation around him. His black fur coat billowed in the wind, giving him an imposing silhouette atop the town-turned-wasteland.
In his right hand, he held a man aloft—bloodied and barely conscious.
The pirate's chest had been torn open by a brutal slash, deep enough to expose bone, nearly severing him in two. Bright red blood poured from the wound, pooling beneath Crocodile's feet.
Around him lay hundreds of corpses, pirates strewn in every direction. Their bodies were grotesquely shriveled, skin sunken and tight, their flesh dry and lifeless. They looked like mummified husks, the very moisture sucked from their forms—an eerie and horrifying sight.
"Oyaji... won't let you get away with this..."
The pirate glared up at the man before him—cold-eyed, reeking of mafia menace. His bloodshot eyes burned with defiance, though his face had already turned a sickly purple hue.
"You're digging your own grave, Crocodile!"
"Kuahahaha..."
Crocodile let out a chilling, guttural laugh.
"Looks like I still haven't perfected that poison. You can still talk."
His severed left arm had been replaced with a golden hook. A faint, purplish liquid coated its tip—clearly a deadly toxin.
Blowing out a long plume of smoke, Crocodile sneered.
"As for that old man Whitebeard, don't worry. He doesn't need to come find me... I'll be paying him a visit myself."
With those words, Crocodile tightened his grip on the pirate's arm.
A grotesque scene followed.
The pirate convulsed. Terror burst into his eyes.
His flesh and skin shriveled rapidly, collapsing inward as if being drained from the inside. His pupils dilated, then faded into nothing. In less than three seconds, his body was reduced to a dry husk.
Crocodile tossed the corpse aside like trash and snorted in disdain.
He glanced coldly at a group of civilians trembling in fear, huddled in a corner nearby.
"Well? Not going to run?"
Only then did the civilians snap out of their frozen panic, scrambling to their feet and stumbling away as fast as they could.
"Tch! What a bore! There's no thrill in killing like this..."
Crocodile growled, watching their panicked retreat with visible frustration.
He looked down at the golden hook on his left hand. A flicker of complex emotion flashed in his ruthless gaze.
Hatred. Rage. Resentment... and a shadow of something deeper—fear.
"If you're not getting your fill, how about I keep you company?"
A hoarse, mocking voice rang out from behind.
Crocodile arched a brow and turned.
At the edge of the ruined coastline, a small submarine had surfaced at some point, now bobbing gently on the waves.
A young man with long blond hair stood atop it, eyes blazing with battle lust and a twisted grin on his face.
Black military uniform. Polished boots. Bloodthirsty eyes... and that overwhelming stench of war and blood.
Crocodile's pupils narrowed slightly.
This guy... was dangerous.
But then he laughed.
"Kuahahaha... Now this is interesting. So it's the 'Demon Heir' of the Roger Pirates—Douglas Bullet."
"I've heard your name before."
Bullet jumped from the submarine, cracking his neck and flexing his fingers with loud, popping snaps as he walked forward.
His aura surged wildly.
"Is that so? I've heard you've been stirring up quite a storm in the New World too, 'Desert King' Crocodile!"
His eyes gleamed with violent intent as he sneered.
"But with only one arm... are you really going to entertain me?"
Crocodile's face darkened. Killing intent surged in his eyes as he raised his hand, summoning a massive blade of desert sand that shrieked toward Bullet.
The fight was on!
"You're one to talk—you've only got one arm too!"
...
(40 Chapters Ahead)
p@treon com / PinkSnake