At the same time…
Grand Line — waters near Alabasta.
Jaya Island.
The tavern, usually drowned in curses and drunken laughter, had become a tomb.
Every pirate inside stood rigid, eyes wide, throats tight—faces caught between terror and disbelief as they stared at the two figures seated in the corner.
They didn't even spare a glance for the Visual Den Den Mushi image of that laughing, golden-haired "saint" being broadcast worldwide.
Not when those two were here.
"Those… aren't they…?"
"H-how could they be in a place like this…?!"
"This isn't the New World!"
"Why would monsters like that come to Paradise…?"
"..."
One man lounged with the languid arrogance of a kingpin—slicked-back hair, a Mafia-style vest under a black fur coat. His right sleeve hung empty, and the hook on his severed arm gleamed dully whenever the lanternlight caught it. A cigar smoldered between his lips, smoke curling around the sharp scar now carved across his face.
Opposite him sat a taller man in a black top hat and long trench coat, posture straight despite the casual setting. A massive black sword—extravagant to the point of absurdity—rested against the wall at his back like a silent threat.
Two Shichibukai.
'Sand Crocodile' Crocodile.
And 'Hawk-Eyes' Dracule Mihawk.
The pirates' legs felt ready to give out at any moment. Yet not one of them dared take a step. Even breathing felt reckless, as if a stray exhale might offend the wrong person and earn a death sentence.
They'd all heard the stories.
A month ago, Crocodile had challenged Whitebeard—Whitebeard—and the shockwaves had reached Marine Headquarters. Preparations for war had flared and then cooled, the truth swallowed by rumor and silence. All anyone really knew was this:
Crocodile had left the New World afterward…
…and a fresh scar now marked his face like a reminder.
But even Crocodile's madness didn't compare to what Hawk-Eyes inspired.
There were legends—too many, and all of them unpleasant—about crews hunted for days, ships split like paper, and entire fleets reduced to drifting wreckage because someone had said something stupid.
Now both men had appeared in a backwater tavern on Jaya.
It was impossible not to feel the air turn poisonous.
"Are they here to duel…?"
"No way—Crocodile just fought Whitebeard!"
"Maybe he's trying to redeem himself against Hawk-Eyes!"
"Shut up! Do you want to die?!"
"I'm leaving. I'm leaving right now…"
"This island suddenly feels cursed…"
The whispers died as Crocodile leaned back, exhaling smoke with open irritation.
"Tch… I've been played," he muttered, eyes flicking to the Den Den Mushi screen for half a second. Doflamingo's face flashed there—smiling beneath sunlight, crowned with a title.
"A Celestial Dragon. That brat."
A cold smirk tugged at Crocodile's mouth. He shook his head, then turned his gaze back to Mihawk.
"But seriously," Crocodile said, voice rough with disbelief, "what did you come all the way back from the New World for? To find me?"
Mihawk lifted his head.
Those hawk-like eyes speared straight through Crocodile, sharp enough that Crocodile felt dazzled for a breath.
"Do you know anything about Darren-san?" Mihawk asked coolly.
"..."
Crocodile stared at him like he'd just heard the dumbest sentence in the world.
Then he barked out a laugh—short, incredulous, and ugly.
"You crossed half the sea just to ask about that?"
Mihawk nodded, perfectly serious.
"My swordsmanship has reached a wall," he said. "I want Darren-san's guidance."
Cough—cough—cough!
Crocodile choked so violently he nearly swallowed his cigar. He slapped his chest once, glare blazing when he finally caught his breath.
"You actually believe he knows swordsmanship?!"
Mihawk's eyebrows dipped. "You doubt Darren-san's strength."
Crocodile bristled, voice snapping automatically. "That guy doesn't know a damn thing about swordsmanship! He's just relying on—"
"Can you take a single strike from Darren-san?" Mihawk cut in, quiet as a blade.
Crocodile's mouth opened.
Closed.
A twitch ran along his jaw.
He wanted to scoff. He wanted to sneer. He wanted to spit out a dozen insults and make it sound like confidence.
But then the newspaper headlines flickered through his mind—Darren tearing through the Gorosei, suppressing Marine Headquarters, walking through impossible battles like the world owed him a path.
And worse than the papers…
Whitebeard.
That crushing, absolute force that made pride feel like a joke.
Even now, a month later, Crocodile's face scar had healed—but the phantom ache still returned sometimes, like his body refusing to forget the difference between ambition and reality.
There was no doubt in Crocodile's mind: Darren had reached that level.
The only question was how far beyond it he'd already climbed.
"…Anyway," Crocodile said stubbornly at last, forcing the words out like nails, "whatever that bastard does, it definitely isn't swordsmanship."
Mihawk's eyes narrowed—just slightly.
"I don't want to hear that kind of talk again," he said, voice dropping colder. "If you do… I won't let you off."
Crocodile froze.
A beat passed.
Then Crocodile's eyes widened as realization punched him in the face.
"Wait," he blurted, staring hard at Mihawk. "That pirate crew you hunted down… you did it because their captain said something about…?"
Mihawk didn't deny it. He only raised his glass and took a slow sip.
Crocodile: "..."
The tavern grew even quieter—if that was possible.
---
Holy Land Mary Geoise.
From within Pangaea Castle, the thunderous applause from the plaza below the Stairway to Heaven still drifted faintly through the stone—like distant waves, like the world clapping for a mask.
The castle itself towered over everything, perched at the top of the Stairway like a sanctuary carved from arrogance.
From the foot of the stairs, the castle was barely visible—just endless white steps vanishing into cloud. But from inside the Chamber of Authority, one could look down upon the entire Holy Land and watch the world kneel in miniature.
Darren didn't spare any of it a second glance.
Cigar smoke coiled around his face as his eyes fixed on the corridor at the far end of the chamber.
From that direction drifted a sweet, intoxicating floral scent—fresh enough to feel wrong in a place like this. Calm. Gentle. Almost hypnotic.
There was no mistake.
That passage led to the Chamber of Flowers.
And yet Darren didn't move.
He remained where he was, one hand loose at his side, the other holding the cigar, lips curving into a knowing smirk—like a man who'd walked into a trap and found it disappointing.
Then he spoke softly into the quiet.
"Long time no see…"
His gaze sharpened, the smile turning razor-thin.
"…Fleet Admiral Kong."
To be continued...