Shanks couldn't believe his eyes.
In the distance, the very world seemed to change. A crimson vortex storm, visible to the naked eye, spun out from the Marine's body, hurling concentric shockwaves that cracked buildings and pulverized the ground.
Boulders skittered and bounced; geysers and inland rivers across Fish-Man Island surged in violent fits.
Conqueror's Haki—so potent it was bending the physical world.
The spectacle scorched itself into Shanks's young mind. Staring at that demon-shaped figure, a wild thought surfaced:
Could I… ever grow that strong?
Nearby, Kozuki Oden sat dazed as they tended his wounds, his gaze drifting.
Powerlessness washed over him.
His remaining fist clenched until bloody crescents marked his palm.
He's gotten stronger.
But me…?
His eyes dropped to his lone arm, vision swimming red.
Could I beat him again?
The hope he held flickered.
Rayleigh and the others stood wide-eyed, shock etched into their faces.
"Advanced Conqueror's Haki."
There was no doubt. With their seasoned eyes, they saw it at once: the Marine brat's will had climbed to the realm of Advanced Conqueror's Haki.
By sheer presence, he was pouring his Haki out in every direction, keeping it constantly active.
The telltale sign: it was physically battering the world—warping air, shuddering stone, even shaking ships. Veterans could be thrown to the ground by a brush of that pressure.
"How is this possible…? He's getting stronger as they fight?" Crocus blurted, stunned, instinctively adjusting his glasses.
As the crew's physician, personally invited by Roger and Rayleigh, Crocus's skill and insight were second to none. With a glance he could tell Darren's condition was critical. A normal man would have gone down long ago.
But this monster moved as if pain were an afterthought—acceptable, perhaps, for a physique that could rival the "strongest creature on land, sea, and air."
Growing stronger with every blow, though? Absurd.
"He's adapting to Roger's pressure," Crocus murmured, face set, a thread of dread in his voice.
The words chilled the crew. They knew what he meant.
Everything alive strives to grow stronger. The key is adaptation—bending to the pressure of the world.
Cold breeds fat and insulation. Heat brings deeper sweat and better cooling.
Humans are no different. Training is simply controlled pressure—more load, longer strain, harder impacts—so the body must adapt.
The hard part is dosage.
A master sets the perfect weight. A hack either coddles or kills.
So is Roger some master teacher?
Nonsense.
That Marine brat was surviving Roger's excess purely on monstrous physique.
That's the edge of a strong body: if he were glass, a single stroke would have ended him. You can't adapt when you break.
"So if this keeps up, that Marine will keep getting stronger—maybe even…" Fish-Man Sunbell rasped, knuckles whitening around his trident as his hand began to tremble.
He didn't finish. He didn't need to. They all felt it: if not today, one day that Marine would rise to stand even with their captain.
We can't let this continue, Rayleigh thought as the Vice Admiral, bloodied and grinning, hurled himself back into the fray fiercer than before. The decision flashed through him.
"Hahahaha! Your aura's rising! This is exhilarating!" Roger exulted, battle lust blazing hotter with every surge of Darren's power.
Darren, a blood-black beast now, appeared overhead in a blur. His Three-Fingered Dragon Claw shrieked through the air as he dove with a savage grin.
"I owe it all to you!"
BOOM!
Claw met blade. The collision blew the world apart.
In that deadlock, Roger's expression flicked.
A golden-haired figure cut across the battlefield in a streak, appearing behind the Vice Admiral and cutting down in a clean, swift arc.
SNIKT!
Caught off guard, Darren's back split open to the bone. Blood geysered.
His face drained as he smashed into the ground, leaving a crater that belched dust and stone.
"Rayleigh! What the hell are you doing?!" Roger roared.
"Shut up, Roger! Can't you see? He's using you for training!" Rayleigh snapped, teeth grinding.
"So what?! I'm having the time of my life!" Roger shot back, defiant.
Rayleigh nearly ground his molars to powder.
Idiot.
"We're leaving. Now," he barked. "We've got the intel. Headquarters reinforcements could drop any minute."
"Reinforcements?" Roger frowned.
Seeing that sink in, Rayleigh exhaled. Not completely brainless, then.
"So… Garp's coming?" Roger brightened, eyes gleaming with fresh excitement. He looked almost eager.
Rayleigh saw stars. …
The rest of the crew froze in helpless silence. …
Woooong…
A low, resonant rumble rolled from the inner harbor.
"Time to go."
Rayleigh's eyes narrowed. He hooked an arm around Roger's neck, grabbed his collar, and bolted toward the sound.
Gaban's signal—the ship was ready to sail.
The Roger Pirates scattered.
They were old hands at slipping Marine nets, veterans of the retreat.
To be continued...