"What happens to that kid Darren in the end doesn't matter to me… and it won't change the situation we're in," Sengoku said after a long pause, voice steady.
"Red the Aloof," Balorick Redfield, was a master swordsman—and an even more terrifying master of Observation Haki.
His Observation Haki, in particular, was monstrous: glimpses of the future, and even—at times—an eerie ability to sense what was in a person's heart.
That combination gave Redfield a near-unfair tactical edge. He could read an opponent's intent, anticipate their trajectory, and dismantle their rhythm before the first exchange was even finished.
Even when facing enemies whose raw power exceeded his, Redfield could still remain composed.
Unfortunately, that heart-sensing ability wasn't something anyone could cultivate. It was innate.
And as for Future Sight…
Even if that brat Darren somehow seized that tiny chance and truly mastered it, so what?
The balance of power across the Sea wouldn't tilt.
An eight-hundred-year foundation like the World Government's wasn't something that could be shaken by something as "small" as Observation Haki.
Borsalino's eyes flickered behind his sunglasses, but he didn't speak.
After another stretch of silence, Sengoku finally turned back to him, expression severe.
"Borsalino. This matter stays sealed. Not a word to anyone."
"Relax, Admiral Sengoku," Borsalino said with a smile. "Of course I understand how serious this is…"
He paused, as if remembering something trivial.
"Oh, right. The Marine Special Science Group is still short on funding. They need the latest research equipment."
Sengoku's eyelid twitched.
His voice went stiff. "And if I refuse?"
Borsalino shrugged, sighing theatrically. "If you refuse, I'll understand. Budgets are tight, after all."
He spread his hands.
"In that case, I'll simply submit the application to the World Government."
"And you know how they are… they'll probably send auditors to Headquarters. An investigation. A full accounting."
His smile didn't change.
"Admiral Sengoku… you wouldn't want them to notice a sudden, substantial increase in our military expenditures, would you?"
Sengoku stared at him, speechless.
Is this a threat…?
No. It's not "is."
It is.
"Borsalino," Sengoku growled, teeth clenched, "are you threatening me?"
Borsalino looked genuinely startled, hands raised in mock fright.
"How could you say that, Admiral Sengoku? I'm just looking out for you. This could affect your entire political career."
Sengoku's face went blank for several heartbeats.
Then—suddenly—a dazzling smile bloomed across it.
"You truly are my perfect adjutant!"
He thumped his chest, beaming, voice warm enough to melt steel.
"Submit the request to Administration. I'll approve it immediately. It's just an internal budget allocation—no need to trouble the Government over something so trivial!"
"Then I thank you for your unwavering support of scientific research," Borsalino said pleasantly.
He sauntered away, unfolded a beach chair right there on the deck, and leaned back as if enjoying the sun.
Sengoku's bright smile stayed frozen in place. He took several deep breaths, then turned and strode into the ship's cabin.
The moment the door shut, he stood in the dim room for a long, silent moment.
Then the roar of a Marine Admiral shook the cabin walls.
"DAMN IT ALL TO HELL!!"
Impel Down. The great deep-sea prison.
First level—platform above the sea.
"Come on, give me a hand!"
"So much cargo—what is all this!?"
"Wait… is that top-shelf liquor and tobacco?"
"Frozen fresh meat—ham and bacon too!?"
"I knew Headquarters hadn't forgotten us!!"
"That can't be right—look at how we've been living for years!"
"Then why are they sending this much—huh!? Watermelons? Bananas!?"
"Fresh fruit…? Am I dreaming?"
The prison guards stared as crate after crate rolled off the supply ship. For a moment, no one moved.
Some were ecstatic. Some were stunned. Some narrowed their eyes in suspicion.
A few—humiliated by years of deprivation—actually teared up.
Impel Down staff were paid well, with hardship allowances on top. But isolation was isolation. You couldn't buy luxury when you couldn't leave the ocean's deepest cage.
And to maintain security, supplies were always strictly controlled.
All resupply depended on dedicated transport ships—limited capacity, limited priority. Beyond essentials, "comfort" was never on the list.
So when they watched tobacco, alcohol, sugar, tea, coffee, and fresh fruit being unloaded like it was a holiday…
Everyone looked like they'd forgotten how to breathe.
"Stop gawking!"
Warden Borgess strode forward, steel trident in hand, barking orders with both hands on his hips.
"Get all of it to Level Five immediately!"
Level Six—Eternal Hell.
The corridors still reeked of decay and blood.
Oil lamps flickered stubbornly along the walls, throwing restless shadows across iron bars and black stone.
A dozen convicts lay scattered across the floor—black eyes, swollen faces, groaning pitifully as they writhed.
Darren stood among them, shirtless, scarred torso bare. Blood ran down his arms, dripping from the Sea Stone shackles around his wrists and pattering onto the ground.
A black cloth covered his eyes. Each breath he exhaled puffed into mist in the cold air.
In the cells lining the corridor, eerie green eyes glimmered in the darkness, watching him like beasts at the edge of a hunt.
"Your progress has become… increasingly obvious," a voice chuckled from the shadows.
The light shifted, and Redfield emerged from the gloom.
Still in his prison uniform. Still composed. Sitting on the floor like an aristocrat at tea, not a monster in Hell.
"You little brats from Marine Headquarters," Redfield said, amused. "These so-called 'Monsters'… one more astonishing than the last."
Darren's breathing stopped mid-exhale.
He frowned, tore the blindfold off in one sharp motion, and squinted at Redfield.
"You mean… before me, others came to find you too?"
To be continued...