At Darren's command, Magellan immediately turned and swung open the massive gate leading up to Level Five—Freezing Hell.
Rumble…
The heavy, frost-coated gate groaned as it split open, its low rumble rolling through Eternal Hell like the sigh of something ancient and buried.
A bone-chilling blast of air rushed in, carrying swirling snow that whipped through the corridor and momentarily drowned out the damp, putrid stench that clung to the sixth level like a curse. Even Magellan, hardened as he was, couldn't stop his shoulders from tightening.
And the moment that gate opened—
pairs of eyes lit up in the darkness.
Eerie green glows flickered behind iron bars, one after another, like wolves waking in the night.
Even the poor bastards Darren had beaten into a bruised, swollen heap on the floor instinctively stopped groaning. Every gaze locked onto that thin slice of light spilling through the gate.
To Magellan, beyond it was the frozen wasteland of Freezing Hell.
To the prisoners…
That was the road out.
More importantly—
Right now, their Sea Stone shackles were gone.
And their cell doors were unlocked.
Everything that had kept them trapped here… had been stripped away.
All they needed to do was—
The thought sprouted. It pushed. It clawed its way up their throats—
And then Darren, hands still shackled, tilted his head and gave them a half-smile.
He didn't move.
Didn't raise a fist.
Didn't even shift his stance.
Yet that mockery in his eyes, the slight curve of his lips, the blood still crusted on his knuckles, the scars webbing his torso like a map of violence—
Just standing there, silent…
froze them all in place.
Because in that instant, they remembered.
They remembered what happened the last time someone tried to ambush him from behind—after Darren had already shackled himself in Sea Stone.
The stain on the floor still hadn't faded.
Redfield, watching quietly, shook his head with a humorless chuckle.
Just then, the gate opened fully.
A dozen prison guards hurried in, dragging and carrying crates. None of them dared look at the prisoners—none dared even breathe too loudly in Eternal Hell. They dumped the cargo into the corridor and fled like their lives depended on it.
Because they did.
Rumble…
The massive gate slammed shut again.
Under the prisoners' despairing stares, Magellan relocked it, then planted himself in front of it like a boulder and sat down, prepared to guard the entrance with his life.
"You've all worked hard these past few days," Darren said, grinning. "Cooperating with my training… can't have been easy."
Nearly every prisoner's mouth twitched.
Easy?
This had been torture.
Under Redfield's arrangement, ten prisoners were dragged out every hour to "spar" with Darren.
And for the past few days, these so-called world-class criminals—names that once made nations tremble—had experienced the most humiliating beatings of their entire lives.
Not "sparring."
Not "practice."
Beatdowns.
Darren's Indestructible Body made most of their attacks meaningless. Even with shackles removed, few of them could break his defenses. And even when someone managed to—when they finally drew blood—
it only made Darren's eyes turn colder.
The reward was always the same:
They got beaten even worse.
"Though I'm not a pirate," Darren went on lazily, "in the World Government's eyes, I'm just as guilty as all of you. So… to thank you for your help, I prepared a little something."
He spread his arms with theatrical flair.
The prisoners stared.
Then someone scoffed.
"Tch. Little brat Darren—you think that changes anything?"
"This is Impel Down! What could you possibly find in this damn hellhole?"
One voice opened the floodgates, and the others piled on immediately:
"Yeah! At best, it'll be some ancient salted meat they forgot in a freezer!"
"And liquor that tastes like horse piss!"
"If you can get me a box of premium cigars, then we can talk."
"I want South Blue whiskey!"
"..."
Even battered and bloodied, the Eternal Hell inmates still clung to their arrogance like religion.
Darren shrugged. "Looks like you still don't understand what I'm capable of."
"As everyone knows… I, Bruce Wayne—no, Rogers Darren—have power beyond your imagination."
That made them pause.
Eyes narrowed. Teeth bared.
"What do you mean?"
"You're saying besides your indestructible body, your monstrous strength, and that thunder speed… you have other abilities?"
"Bullshit!"
"Little brat—stop lying!"
Darren smiled mildly. "I'm not lying."
The prisoners almost shouted as one:
"Then what's your special ability?!"
Darren's smile deepened.
"I'm very wealthy."
Silence.
They couldn't even argue.
Because the man standing in front of them wasn't just a monster in combat—he controlled the entire North Blue, commanded an invincible Flying Fleet, and carried a bounty so large it made their old pride look like a child's joke.
The operating expenses of that fleet alone were numbers they couldn't even picture.
Darren strolled to the pile of cargo and casually pried open the nearest crate.
"Vildo cigars from the West Blue," he said. "Nobles-only stock."
Eyes immediately lit up in the darkness.
He opened another.
"Fish-Man Island seafood sashimi," Darren continued. "Chilled oysters. Cheese lobster."
In that moment, several prisoners visibly froze—not from the cold, but from disbelief.
Another crate.
"South Blue whisky, vodka, wheat beer." Darren tapped the lid with a knuckle. "And East Blue grilled meat, of course."
Crate after crate split open.
With every reveal, the prisoners' breathing grew heavier, rougher—like starving animals scenting food for the first time in years.
They'd been trapped in this hell for who knew how long.
They hadn't seen luxuries like this in a lifetime.
To be continued...