"Even you don't know where Darren-san went…"
Hearing Crocodile's answer, Mihawk didn't so much as glance at the storm gathering on the man's face. He only frowned, a rare trace of confusion settling between his brows.
By now, every pirate in the tavern had fled. Only the owner remained—cowering behind the counter, clutching his head with both hands, trembling so hard the glasses on the shelves rattled.
"Hold on," Crocodile said, catching the wording at last. His eyes narrowed as he stared at Mihawk. "What do you mean, 'even' me?"
Mihawk shook his head calmly. "I went to see Moria earlier as well. At first, he refused to answer."
Crocodile opened his mouth to ask what happened next—then immediately shut it again.
He didn't need to hear the rest.
With that massive black blade strapped to Mihawk's back, there were only two possible outcomes to "refusing to answer," and neither of them involved Moria keeping his dignity.
Crocodile's gaze flicked to the oversized sword and he suddenly lost all interest in drinking.
When the World Government and the Marines had founded the Shichibukai system, they'd claimed the selection process was "rigorous."
Crocodile understood what that really meant.
It meant surviving a visit from that bastard Darren.
It meant taking a beating you weren't meant to die from—and, if you were unlucky, paying an arm as the admission fee.
That was the rule.
And yet two names had always sat outside it like exceptions carved with a knife: Doflamingo, and Fisher Tiger.
Fisher Tiger made sense. After the Mary Geoise incident, even a fool could tell Darren had been close to him.
But Doflamingo…
Crocodile's eyes drifted to the Visual Den Den Mushi screen again, lingering on the arrogant, golden-haired figure bathed in ceremony and applause.
Could Darren have known Doflamingo's identity during the Shichibukai selection? Had he held back out of caution?
…It wasn't impossible.
Then again, "Shichibukai" didn't mean equal.
Strength was the entry requirement, not the great equalizer.
As far as Crocodile was concerned, aside from Fisher Tiger—already stripped of his title—he had no fear of facing any of the others.
Only the man sitting across from him gave him that constant prickle under the skin, like invisible thorns pressing into his back.
Hawk-Eyes Mihawk wasn't just strong among the Shichibukai.
He was in a different world.
"So," Mihawk said, lifting his gaze, his eyes landing on the centipede-like scar running almost perfectly horizontal across Crocodile's face, "the rumor is true. You challenged Whitebeard?"
Though the wound had long since healed, the scar still held a faint, dark red sheen—as if it refused to fade, as if it wanted to stay angry.
"You could say that," Crocodile replied through his teeth. Something bitter flashed in his eyes, like a memory that still tasted of blood.
"How strong is he?" Mihawk asked, voice as flat as steel.
Crocodile was silent for a long moment.
Then, at last, he muttered, "…Monstrously strong."
Mihawk considered that, expression unreadable.
Crocodile poured a harsh mouthful of liquor down his throat, swallowed like it was medicine, then glanced up and said with a sneer, "If you're that desperate for an opponent, Whitebeard would suit you just fine."
Mihawk shot him a sidelong look. "I'm obsessed with mastering swordsmanship. I'm not an idiot."
Crocodile stared at him, momentarily speechless. Then his face twisted with rage.
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?!" he snapped.
Mihawk leaned back slightly, arms crossing over his chest, calm as ever. "Isn't it obvious? You challenged him before your strength was fully mature, made a spectacle of yourself, and humiliated yourself."
Crocodile's face flushed hot. Fine grains of sand began to bleed from his body, writhing in the air like something alive.
"Relax," Mihawk said evenly, gaze unwavering, making no move to draw his blade. "Remember our positions. A war between Shichibukai would be nothing but trouble."
"You don't want the Government or the Marines sniffing around your neck again, do you?"
Crocodile's jaw clenched. He exhaled slowly, swallowing the surge of anger with visible effort. Then he snorted, lifted his glass, and said with a sharp edge, "I thought you'd be more interested in Whitebeard. His Murakumogiri is one of the Supreme Grade Blades."
Mihawk shook his head once. "Whitebeard doesn't use swordsmanship."
Crocodile nearly spat out his drink.
What kind of logic was that?
Both of them swung legendary blades with terrifying power—so why was Darren's style "swordsmanship," while Whitebeard's wasn't?
The tavern owner whimpered softly behind the counter.
Crocodile didn't even notice.
His eyes had narrowed into slits, as if he'd just realized something far more unsettling.
If Mihawk was this stubborn about classification…
Then whatever Darren was doing with a blade must be something Mihawk genuinely acknowledged.
And that was the part that made Crocodile's stomach tighten.
Because if a man like Mihawk called it swordsmanship…
Then it was probably a kind of swordsmanship Crocodile didn't want to see up close.
…
Inside Pangaea Castle, Chamber of Authority.
"Long time no see, Fleet Admiral Kong."
Darren drew his gaze away from the corridor and turned slowly.
A towering figure stood there, imposing enough to make the chamber feel smaller—someone who had appeared without a sound, as if he had stepped straight out of empty air.
A mohawk cut through bronze skin. A stern, unyielding face. Arms crossed over a chest like stone, muscles packed with the density of iron.
A wide Marine cloak draped over his shoulders. Golden wheat stalk epaulettes swayed faintly in the light pouring through the window, lending him a solemn, almost sacred authority.
Just standing there, he felt like an unbreakable wall.
Marine Headquarters Fleet Admiral.
"Steel Bone" Kong.
"It has been a long time," Kong said, voice grave, eyes locked onto Darren without the slightest wavering. "Darren."
Darren smiled faintly, as if they were old acquaintances meeting over tea.
"If I remember correctly, our last meeting was also here in Mary Geoise, wasn't it?" he said.
He tilted his head, speaking lightly—almost lazily—yet every word carried the weight of old grievances.
"Let's see… I'd just finished dealing with the Golden Lion. I covered Marine Headquarters' operation to wipe out the remnants of the Roger Pirates. I led the Shichibukai in the New World to intercept the Whitebeard Pirates."
Darren's smile didn't change.
"I remember thinking at the time… 'What kind of reward do I get for perfectly executing every mission the Government and Headquarters throw at me?'"
He spread his hands slightly, sardonic.
"And then the reward I received was this: the Gorosei decided to hold a Celestial Dragon genocide competition in my North Blue."
Kong was silent for several seconds.
Then he spoke slowly.
"That was a test," he said, tone heavy. "A trial the Government set for you."
"And everything that followed proved it was necessary."
Darren's eyes narrowed just a fraction.
Kong continued, every word measured, like a judge reading a sentence.
"With the North Blue detached from the World Government's Member State system, instability spread. Nations fell into chaos. The entire world was dragged into terror by the existence of your North Blue Fleet."
He stared at Darren, gaze like a hammer.
"Do you know how the Government's historians describe this era?"
Kong's voice sank lower, as if he were reciting something carved into stone.
"'A world that once knew peace was plunged into silent dread by the ambition of one man—Rogers Darren.'"
"'From that day forward, the people of the world lowered their heads, afraid to look up at the sky… because they never knew when that ghostlike fleet might descend, bringing death and destruction.'"
Kong paused.
And then, with deliberate emphasis, he said:
"'From that day forward, the world entered a unique and sinister age… an age that might be called—'"
His eyes drilled into Darren's.
"'The Threat Era.'"
To be continued...