One crate after another was pried open, spilling a dazzling spread of goods into the corridor until the piles looked less like prison rations and more like a noble's banquet laid out on the floor.
Aged liquor with a rich, throat-burning bite. Savory cured hams glistening with oil. Wooden casks of unpasteurized beer. Chilled seafood sashimi packed in ice. Gold-leafed premium cigars nestled in lacquered boxes—each item absurdly out of place in Eternal Hell, as if someone had dragged an entire high-end harbor market straight into the deepest level of Impel Down.
For a heartbeat, the vast corridor went silent.
The prisoners stood rigid, motionless, eyes locked on the food and drink. Their pupils gleamed a hungry green in the lamplight.
Gulp.
Somebody swallowed hard. Others exchanged furtive glances, temptation flickering across brutal faces that hadn't softened in decades.
"Damn… this little brat suddenly feels a lot more tolerable."
"Maybe getting beaten up by him isn't that bad after all."
"My ribs don't even hurt as much anymore."
"Whiskey… I want whiskey…"
Darren watched their expressions shift and curl, and his mouth tugged into a faint smile.
"As you can see," he said lightly, "I'm being perfectly sincere."
A scoff snapped the silence.
"You think you can bribe us with this?"
"Yeah! I still want to twist your head off, you bastard!"
"If I ever get the chance, I'll slaughter you without hesitation!"
The jeers rose from all sides—stubborn, spiteful, and automatic, like a reflex the prisoners didn't know how to shut off.
Darren raised his shackled hands, smile unchanged. "Relax. I'm not delusional enough to think this changes who you are."
He gestured toward the crates. "My point is simple: the supplies are here. Whether you eat or not… you're still getting a beating."
The corridor fell quiet again, faces turning unreadable.
Then—
"Damn it!"
"Bastard!"
"The whiskey's mine!"
"Grilled meat! Move!"
"Lobster! Give me the lobster!"
Like starving dogs loosed from chains, the prisoners surged forward, trampling and shoving as they threw themselves at the crates.
---
Ten minutes later…
"Hahaha! Come on, Darren—drink!"
"Here, I'll toast you!"
"My god—those muscles… an indestructible body!"
"Too strong! Hahahahaha!"
A bonfire crackled in the corridor, its heat pushing back the damp chill. The smell of grilled meat and spilled liquor seeped into every corner of Eternal Hell, drowning out the rot for the first time in years.
Convicts in black-and-white stripes sat shoulder to shoulder around the flames, cheeks flushed, cigars and cigarettes jammed between their teeth, howling with drunken laughter. Some leaned into Darren like old comrades, slinging arms over his shoulders and clinking cups with him, while Magellan sat nearby, staring as if his mind had short-circuited.
If he hadn't seen it with his own eyes, he'd never have believed it: Darren-sensei hosting a bonfire party with Level Six monsters.
And worse—Darren looked completely at ease.
Not forced. Not strained. Not pretending.
As though he'd stepped into the underworld and simply… clicked into place.
"Hahaha… Darren," Saka slurred, face red from drink, nostrils puffing twin plumes of hot breath. His eyes glittered with eager curiosity. "So the rumors are true, huh? About those five old undying bastards… the World Government's highest authority…"
He leaned forward. "Tell me—do they really have that 'Undying Body'?"
At once, the entire circle tilted in. Even the men sprawled half-broken along the walls lifted their heads. The newspapers had screamed names and headlines, but details were always thin, always vague—especially when it came to the Gorosei.
They were too distant. Too untouchable. More myth than flesh.
And yet the man sitting beside their fire had fought them with his own hands.
Darren clinked cups with Saka and took a long swig before answering.
"To be honest… I'm not completely sure whether it's truly an 'Undying Body.'"
A ripple of disappointment flickered—then Darren continued, still smiling.
"But during the fight on Felsek Island, I threw everything I had at those five old bastards… and none of it worked the way it should. Even Haki-infused attacks couldn't put them down."
He spoke casually, like he was recounting bad weather.
"I pierced hearts. Tore off arms. Twisted heads clean off…"
A hush fell.
"…and in less than half a minute, their bodies reassembled under that eerie black flame."
The prisoners stared as if their spines had turned to ice.
Not even beheading?
If that wasn't "undying," what was?
"Then how the hell did you survive?" someone demanded.
Darren chuckled. "Speed. Timing. And a bit of luck."
He shrugged. "Among them, Saint Nusjuro of Bakotsu has the nastiest burst speed over short distances. But only Saint Mars of Itsumade can fly…"
"…And their speed couldn't keep up with yours," a hoarse voice rasped from the shadows.
Ghost Shadow Kake sat apart from the firelight, drinking quietly, his gaze sharp even through exhaustion.
Darren glanced over and nodded. "That's about right."
He took another drink. "Honestly? Those five geezers didn't really put me under that much pressure."
A few prisoners snorted in disbelief, but nobody argued. Not after the last few days. Not after they'd learned what it meant to attack Darren and realize—too late—that you weren't fighting a man, you were punching a wall that punched back.
No wonder the World Government had slapped five billion berries on his head.
"So," someone asked carefully, almost afraid of the answer, "you've found a way to counter that ability yet? That 'Undying Body'?"
A calm, raspy voice cut through the crackle of fire.
Redfield sat impeccably upright, prison uniform hanging loose on his lean frame as he swirled a glass of crimson wine with elegant fingers. Even here, even in filth and iron, he carried himself like a man seated in a noble's hall.
Darren paused, then shook his head with a crooked smile.
"If I had," he said, "I'd have stormed Mary Geoise already."
To be continued...