"You're mocking this old man, aren't you?" Zephyr's forehead throbbed, a thick vein pulsing visibly as he glared daggers at Darren.
"Ahem..." Darren gave an awkward cough, glancing warily at Zephyr's clenched fist. "Now, Zephyr-sensei, while the Shichibukai System definitely has its flaws, it's not entirely without... merit."
Given his current physical state, getting punched through a wall by his old teacher wasn't high on his to-do list.
"Merit?" Zephyr barked. "What possible merit could there be in giving pirates the right to plunder legally?!" His voice boomed through the room, brimming with righteous fury. "It's a slap in the face to Justice itself! What do you think the world will see when they look at us, Darren? We're supposed to be the sword that cuts down evil, not the hand that feeds it!"
He slammed his fist into his palm, the sound sharp as gunfire. "Crimes that should be punished are being pardoned with a title and a handshake! What kind of message does that send to the people? What kind of Justice is that?!"
"You're right," Darren admitted evenly. "But from another angle, it also reduces the burden on Marines who are stretched thin fighting pirates across every sea."
Zephyr opened his mouth to protest, but Darren continued quietly, "And even if we disagreed, could we stop it?"
That silenced him.
The question hung heavy between them. Both men knew the answer.
The Shichibukai System wasn't Sengoku's creation—it was the World Government's decree. Even the Fleet Admiral himself couldn't overrule the will of the Celestial Dragons. And a retired instructor like Zephyr? Powerless.
Darren watched the older man's jaw tighten, frustration flashing in his eyes. He sighed softly. "But that doesn't mean the Marines have no power, Zephyr-sensei."
That made Zephyr look up. "You have a plan?"
This brat's mind is sharper than a blade, Zephyr thought. Sometimes I think he could outmaneuver Sengoku himself.
Darren smiled faintly. "We can't prevent the Shichibukai System from being implemented—but we can control how it functions. If the World Government wants to use pirates, then we'll make sure those pirates serve our interests."
He leaned back slightly, smoke curling from his cigar. "Crocodile—the 'Sand Crocodile'—is the first step."
"You know how dangerous that man is. But haven't you noticed? Lately, he's been quieter. More... obedient."
Zephyr blinked, frowning as he sifted through recent reports. True enough, Crocodile's movements had grown strangely subdued. His once-rampant attacks on trade routes and towns had nearly ceased. Not a single Marine ship had been targeted in months.
"What did you do, Young Darren?" Zephyr demanded, eyes narrowing.
Darren exhaled a thin stream of smoke, his smile cool and unreadable. "I simply reminded him that he didn't earn the title of Shichibukai through strength."
He paused, voice dropping to a near whisper. "The Marines gave it to him."
Zephyr's eyes widened.
"And I took one of his arms," Darren added offhandedly, as if discussing the weather.
The room went utterly silent.
Then Zephyr muttered under his breath, "You... took Crocodile's arm?"
"Relax, Zephyr-sensei." Darren's tone was light, but there was an edge behind his smile. "The Shichibukai are wolves—but as long as I hold the leash, they'll never dare bite the hand that feeds them."
...
Far across the New World, a vast desert storm devoured the horizon. The wind screamed, and sand whirled in blinding waves, swallowing everything in its path.
Once, this had been a bustling coastal town. Now, it was a graveyard of sand. Collapsed buildings half-buried in dunes, broken masts protruding like bones.
Crocodile stood at the center of the devastation, his black fur coat billowing in the scorching wind. The cigar between his lips glowed faintly in the gloom.
At his feet lay hundreds of corpses—desiccated husks, skin clinging to bone like parchment. Every drop of moisture had been stolen from their bodies.
He held one pirate by the throat, the man's eyes bulging, face mottled purple.
"Pathetic," Crocodile murmured, his voice low and rasping. "So this is all that remains of Whitebeard's little protégés?"
"Pops... Pops will avenge us..." the dying man gasped, blood bubbling on his lips. "You're... you're digging your own grave, Crocodile..."
"Ah-ah-ah..." Crocodile's laughter rolled like thunder, dry and sharp. "Still got enough life left to curse me? Hmph. Seems my poison needs adjusting."
He raised his left arm. Where his hand should've been, a golden hook gleamed in the sunlight—its tip slick with a faint violet sheen. The venom dripping from it sizzled as it hit the sand.
Crocodile's golden eyes narrowed, and he blew out a lazy stream of smoke. "Don't worry about Whitebeard. I'll go pay him a visit myself soon enough."
Then, with a cruel twist of his right hand, he crushed the life out of the pirate's throat.
The man shriveled instantly—his body collapsing inward as though his soul had been drained through invisible cracks. When Crocodile finally released him, the corpse hit the ground with a hollow thud.
He looked around at the town's few surviving civilians, huddled and trembling behind a broken wall. "Still here?" he hissed. "Run, before I change my mind."
The villagers scrambled in terror, their panicked screams quickly fading into the howling wind.
"Tch... dull." Crocodile spat the word like an insult, glancing down at his gleaming hook. "Not even enough to amuse me."
His gaze darkened. In the reflection of the gold, his face twisted with something uglier than anger—bitterness, humiliation... and a flicker of fear.
That man's shadow still haunted him.
Before he could spiral deeper into memory, a voice rang out behind him—cocky, gravelly, brimming with bloodlust.
"If you're so bored, mind if I join the fun?"
Crocodile's eyes narrowed. Slowly, he turned.
A small submarine bobbed offshore, its hatch open. Standing atop it was a young man with wild golden hair, muscles coiled like steel cables, and a grin that could split the sky.
The aura rolling off him was monstrous—violent and alive.
"Douglas Bullet," Crocodile drawled, lips curling into a smirk. "The Devil's Heir of the Roger Pirates. I've heard plenty about you."
Bullet cracked his neck and flexed his fingers, each motion radiating raw power. "And I've heard about you, 'Sand Crocodile.' Been making waves in the New World lately, haven't you?" His grin widened into a savage leer. "But tell me... can a one-armed cripple really keep me entertained?"
Crocodile's smirk vanished, replaced by a murderous glare. Sand swirled violently around him, rising into a massive, shimmering blade.
"You've only got one arm yourself, brat!"
The air split with a deafening roar as the two monsters clashed—sand and steel colliding in a storm of destruction.
To be continued...