Rubble rained down. And Pica's comically sharp, squeaky voice echoed through the ruined town like a bad joke from a very large man.
The massive rock giant loomed behind the Marine officer, casting a shadow that could engulf a warship. But Darren was unfazed. As if he'd been expecting it all along, he ground his boot into the earth beneath him and spun around with a sharp grin, snow-white cigar clamped between his teeth.
If it's power you want to measure, he thought, then let's measure it properly.
Only raw force could do justice to a brute like Pica.
Only a collision of monsters could satisfy his fists.
Darren's punch met the rocky titan's enormous arm mid-air, the impact so intense it rang like a bell forged in hell.
BOOM!
The air around them distorted into trembling waves, rippling like heat off scorched stone. But the clash lasted barely a second.
Cracks bloomed outward from Darren's fist like spiderwebs over glass, rapidly spreading through Pica's stone arm, then his shoulder, then his entire giant frame.
CRACK—BOOM!
The stone giant shattered with a thunderous roar, his hulking form bursting apart into a rain of debris. In the storm of crumbling boulders, Pica floated momentarily mid-air—stunned, dazed, and utterly disbelieving.
Then Darren appeared above him, like a specter of war descending.
Boot raised. Aura surging. The black leather sole hurtled down like a divine judgment.
CRACK!
Pica's armored body slammed into the earth below like a meteor, the sheer impact shaking the entire town square. The crater it left caved in the ground in a hundred-meter radius, sending up a fountain of dust and rubble.
And just as that dust was still rising—
"Overheat Whip!"
A raspy voice split the air, followed by a shriek of wire slicing through wind.
A massive string lash, glowing with compressed force, lashed down from the sky like a blade of light. It slammed Darren into the broken street with enough power to split a ship in two.
The street cracked and crumbled.
Buildings collapsed in a chain reaction.
And from the distance, bloodied and barely standing, Donquixote Doflamingo crawled from the wreckage.
He gasped, watching the carnage unfold, clutching at his ribs where a crater now caved in his chest. Mud, sweat, and blood caked his golden hair. His sunglasses were cracked like eggshells. His breath came in ragged gasps.
"Did that... land?"
"Overheat Whip" was his strongest attack. A slicing whip of reinforced string that could cleave stone, steel—flesh.
Even that monster wouldn't—
His thoughts froze.
The dust began to thin.
And through it, a silhouette emerged.
A tall figure exhaled smoke, calm and composed, as if stepping out from a dream—no, from a nightmare.
Boots.
Legs.
A blood-slick torso.
That face, sharp and unyielding.
A cigar flaring at his lips.
One of Doflamingo's strings had dug deep into the man's chest. Blood trickled down in crimson trails. And yet—
He was still walking.
Still smiling.
"Hmph... Now that was interesting," Darren muttered, glancing down at the thick, razor-edged string stuck in his chest. He plucked it out casually, licking the blood off his finger like it was wine.
Doflamingo's entire body froze in fear.
This man was enjoying it.
He was enjoying the pain.
"I think I've played enough," Darren said with a grin. He cracked his neck and flexed his legs.
BOOM!
The ground exploded behind him as he launched forward like a cannonball.
Doflamingo barely registered the blur before—
CRACK!
A fist slammed into his gut.
CRACK!
Another uppercut shattered his jaw. His feet left the ground.
Darren followed him into the air.
BAM! A kick.
THUD! A knee to the spine.
SLAM! An elbow to the ribs.
Over and over again, like a ball bouncing between walls, Doflamingo's body was battered from every direction. Bones snapped. Blood sprayed. His eyes rolled.
From the coastline, Momonga watched through his scope—and winced.
It was like watching a grown man discipline a child.
A very violent child.
Doflamingo, the "noble-blooded" celestial dragon, was being treated like a sack of meat.
A minute passed.
Finally, one last kick sent Doflamingo plummeting into the earth.
THOOM!
The ground cracked again. Silence followed.
Darren landed softly, brushing dust from his shoulder. He adjusted his cigar and strolled through the rubble toward the broken figure.
Doflamingo was barely conscious, blood pouring from a dozen wounds, his limbs twitching.
Darren crouched and grabbed him by the head—lifting him until their eyes were level.
The sun pierced the clouds overhead, casting a pale, reddish glow across the ruins. Smoke curled between the ruined buildings like ghosts.
The towering Marine held the broken boy in one hand like a sack of flour, blood dripping onto the cracked concrete below.
He gave him a smile that wasn't unkind—just terrifying.
"So," he said quietly, "can we talk now?"
Then, as if remembering something, he added with a smirk:
"Ah—where are my manners?"
He blew out a puff of smoke.
"Name's Rogers Daren. Supreme Commander of the North Blue Marines. People call me the King of the North Blue…"
"…but I prefer my other title—
'The Disgrace of the Marines.'"
---
To be continued...