Twenty-two. That was the count.
Twenty-two idiots who thought it was a good idea to pick a fight with Varin, and twenty-two bodies left behind because of it. Royal soldiers. Rebels. Even a couple of thugs who apparently decided a civil war was prime time for looting. Varin felt especially nothing about that last group.
He was bleeding even less now. Not by much, but less was still less, and at this point, that counted as progress. Chopper was absolutely going to kill him for this, and that was if the others did not get to him first. He pushed the thought aside for later. Future Varin's problem.
Because then a wall to his left exploded inward. Stone shattered, and dust filled the air. And a very familiar figure skidded across the ground and came to a stop not ten feet from him.
Varin turned his head slowly, eyes unfocused but sharp enough to recognize her.
"…Hey," he slurred, voice rough. "See, you're still alive. That's good."
Nami sucked in a sharp breath at the sound of his voice and spun toward him. Her eyes locked onto him and didn't move.
The blood first. Too much of it. Dark and half dried, streaked down his side and soaking the sand beneath him. His right arm was limp, as if it no longer belonged to him.
"Holy shit, Varin," she blurted. "What the hell happened to you?"
He huffed, something like a laugh that caught halfway through his chest. "Fought a warlord," he said, voice rough and slurred at the edges. "Three times technically. Turns out he really likes stabbin' me in the side." He glanced down at himself, then back at her. "Why? Is it noticeable?"
Nami staggered to her feet despite herself. She was hurt badly, too. Up close, it was obvious. A clean hole punched straight through her left shoulder, neat enough to be terrifying. Smaller cuts tracked across her arms and legs, dirt and grit ground into her skin. When she shifted her weight, he caught the flash of another wound straight through her left heel.
And still, she laughed. It was short and breathless and edged with something sharp, but it was a laugh all the same. "Just a little bit," she said, wiping dust from her face with a shaking hand. Her smile didn't last long. It faded as she took him in properly, eyes dropping to the way he was favoring one side, the way he was standing out of pure stubbornness alone.
"You look like you lost an argument with a meat grinder," she added quietly.
"Yeah," Varin muttered. "That sounds about right."
She stepped closer, then stopped, like she wasn't sure if touching him would make things worse. "You idiot," she said, not even angry, just exhausted. "You can barely stand."
"Still am standin though," he shot back. "That's gotta count for somethin."
Nami's jaw tightened. "You fought Crocodile?"
"Aye."
"And lived?"
"Technically," he said. "He ran. Twice. Third time he tried buryin me alive and suckin me dry." He snorted. "Didn't take."
Her eyes widened. "You're insane."
"Been told."
She let out a slow breath, shoulders sagging, then jabbed a finger into his chest hard enough to make him grunt. "You don't get to die," she snapped. "Not here. Not after all this."
He blinked at her, then gave a crooked grin. "Careful," he rasped. "Sounds like you're worried."
She scoffed, eyes shining despite herself. "Shut up. I'm calculating how much this is going to cost us in medical supplies."
"Add it to my tab," Varin said. "I'll pay it back."
"With what?" she shot back. "You're missing half your blood."
Varin snorted. "I'm sure I get part of the reward for keepin' Vi alive," he said, teeth flashing in a crooked grin. "You can take it from that."
Nami stared at him like she was deciding whether to strangle him or cry. "You are unbelievable."
"Hold that thought," he added, already shifting his weight to straighten up again. The motion made his vision swim, black creeping in at the edges, but he forced it back down through pure spite. He peeled himself off her shoulder despite her grip tightening.
"Varin, don't—"
"Now if you'll excuse me," he said, voice low but iron hard, "I still gotta go for a fourth round."
Nami's hand shot out and grabbed his good arm, yanking him back just enough to make him stumble. "Fourth," she repeated slowly.
"Aye."
"And you're still breathing how, exactly?"
"Stubbornness," he said simply. "And because I told Luffy I wouldn't die."
She searched his face before looking over him again, the blood loss. The tremor he was hiding. The way his eyes were sharp anyway, locked forward like nothing in the world could stop him.
"You're going to get yourself killed," she said, quieter now.
Varin's grin sharpened, something feral creeping into it. "Just the way the Allfather planned it," he said lightly. "I've no quarrel with that. But I've told you before, Nami. Even if the Allfather himself came down to claim my soul for Valhalla, I'd tell him no and fight to stay."
He paused, then added, voice softer but no less certain, "I rather like my group of idiots."
Nami let out a long breath, the tension finally cracking. She laughed, shaking her head. "I guess you're right. Still," she said, pointing at him, "you're gonna have to explain all this someday. Allfather, Valhalla, half the metaphors you throw around. I don't understand a damn thing you say half the time."
She looked at him again, really looked. The blood. The wounds. And yet his eyes were still bright, steady, alive. Whatever fear she'd been holding onto drained away, replaced with something warmer and more stubborn.
"Aye," Varin said, nodding once. "That's something I can promise."
He turned, already moving forward again, lifting his good hand in a rough half wave without looking back. "I'll see you at the after party," he called over his shoulder. "We'll be heroes of a country soon enough."
His walk bled into a jog, boots striking stone harder than they should have. Every step sent a sickening jolt through his ruined arm, the limb swinging uselessly at his side, pain blooming bright and sharp each time it moved. He ignored it. Pain was loud, but it wasn't important. Not now.
The stairs ahead weren't just stairs. Half the royal army stood there in rigid lines, armor scuffed and bloodied, banners drooping. Opposite them, just as dense, the rebels. Between them, a corridor of trampled stone and steel stained dark with old blood. And somehow, impossibly, silence.
Varin slowed despite himself.
White flags fluttered on both sides. Torn cloth, bedsheets, scraps of cloaks, anything that could be raised and waved. Koza stood on a makeshift podium, a broken chunk of wall dragged into place. His voice carried, hoarse but steady, shouting surrender, shouting ceasefire, shouting himself raw to keep the men behind him from moving.
Farther back, on the ramparts near the castle gate, Vivi mirrored him. Small. Easy to miss if you didn't know her. Arms raised, voice cracking as she shouted the same words over and over, begging, commanding, pleading all at once.
For once, it was working.
Varin exhaled, a shaky sound he hadn't realized he'd been holding in. He slipped into the space between the two armies, moving carefully now, shoulders hunched, head down, weaving past spears and rifles and swords that were no longer aimed. Eyes followed him, suspicious, confused, tired. No one stopped him.
Good. Just get Koza and Vivi talking. Let them see each other. Let the last piece click into place.
He was maybe ten steps from Koza when it happened. A sound cracked through the air, sharp and wrong. Varin felt it before he saw it. The shift beside him, the scrape of leather, and the weight of someone making a very bad decision.
"No," he breathed, turning. The man next to him had already raised his pistol. The shot went off. Then another. Then several more in a stuttering burst.
Koza jerked like a puppet with its strings cut. His body snapped backward, blood blooming across his chest in violent bursts. Bullets punched through him, front and back, tearing cloth, tearing flesh, tearing whatever fragile hope had been holding the moment together. He fell off the podium hard, hitting the stone with a sound Varin would hear again later when things were quiet.
For half a heartbeat, no one moved. Then everything broke. Shouts erupted from both sides. Screams. Someone yelled Koza's name. Someone else fired back. A royal soldier went down, throat opened by a rebel blade. Another gunshot rang out, then another, then too many to count.
Vivi screamed from the ramparts, a raw sound that cut straight through Varin's skull. "NO STOP PLEASE STOP"
Varin turned on the shooter. The man was already backing away, panic in his eyes, mouth opening to shout something about orders, about traitors, or lies. He didn't get to finish.
Varin hit him. Not clean or controlled. He slammed into him with his shoulder, drove him into the stone with all the ferocity of a beast, and the pistol clattered away uselessly. Varin's good hand closed around the man's throat and squeezed. Hard enough bones creaked. The man clawed at him, choking, feet kicking.
"You stupid," Varin snarled, voice shaking, "worthless piece of shit." He slammed the man's head into the wall once, twice, and by the third time, there was nothing left resisting.
Varin let the body drop and turned back just in time to see the armies surge.
The truce was gone. Obliterated in seconds by some traitorous bastard. He staggered toward Koza, dropping to one knee beside him. The man was still alive. Blood bubbled at his lips, eyes unfocused, chest shuddering in shallow, uneven pulls.
"Hey," Varin said, gripping his shoulder, careful despite himself. "Stay with me lad. Stay with me." Koza's eyes twitched, barely finding him. His mouth moved, but no sound came out.
Varin looked up toward the ramparts. Vivi had gone still. Hands clutched to the stone, face drained of all color as she watched Koza bleed out below her. The war roared back to life around her, steel on steel, gunfire and screaming, but she looked like she couldn't hear any of it.
A medic dropped beside Koza, hands already slick with blood. Varin barely slowed, lowering Koza into the man's arms with more care than his shaking limbs should have allowed. "Don't let him die," he growled, not a request, eyes already lifting back to the ramparts.
Thirty seconds. Maybe less, but that was all it took. Varin's head snapped up as his gaze swept the wall again. Vivi wasn't where she'd been. His breath hitched, chest tightening as he scanned faster.
Then he saw her. Crocodile stood at the edge of the rampart, one iron hand wrapped around Vivi's arm, holding her out over the open air. The drop below was sheer stone and chaos. A fall like that wouldn't wound her. It would end her. The warlord leaned close to her ear, saying something Varin couldn't hear, savoring it. Slowly, deliberately, Crocodile lifted one finger from her wrist, then another, testing how close she was to slipping.
Something inside Varin cracked. He started running. He shoved through clashing bodies, slamming shoulders into soldiers who barely had time to register him before they were thrown aside. A blade cut his back, but he didn't feel it. A rifle butt struck his ribs; he barely noticed. Instead, there was a pressure building in his chest, hot and violent, like his lungs were filling with fire instead of air.
The pressure rose, twisted, and boiled till it almost hurt. Crocodile laughed.
That was when Varin snarled. It wasn't loud at first. It wasn't even human. A deep, feral sound ripped from his chest, vibrating through bone and blood. The pressure burst outward with it, invisible and overwhelming.
"CROCODILE!"
The roar tore across the battlefield. Something weird happened. Wrong, in a way that made the air feel heavy. Men froze mid-swing. Then they dropped. Rebels and royal soldiers alike fell where they stood, eyes rolling back, mouths foaming as their bodies hit the stone and sand. Closest to Varin, men hit the ground like puppets with their strings cut, weapons clattering uselessly from limp hands. The fighting died in a ripple, spreading outward from him.
Only a few stayed standing. Koza and the medic. Vivi and Crocodile.
Varin didn't slow. With the press of bodies gone, he sprinted unimpeded, boots hammering stone. He used fallen soldiers as stepping stones, bounding over them, pushing himself harder than his shredded body should have allowed. Blood streamed down his side. His useless arm bounced painfully with every stride. He didn't care.
Crocodile looked over his shoulder, scowl twisting into something sharp as Varin closed the distance. The warlord stepped back, releasing Vivi. She dropped to the stone instead of into open air, scrambling back with a sob as Crocodile stepped away further, turning fully to face the charging man.
Varin didn't even look at Vivi. He trusted she was alive. He skidded to a stop a few paces away, chest heaving, eyes burning with something ugly and ancient. His lips peeled back from his teeth in a snarl that promised nothing but violence.
"You don't get her," Varin growled, voice shaking with barely restrained fury. "You don't get my crew. You don't get to walk away from this." He straightened, blood dripping steadily onto the stone between them. "You will not win," he said, taking a step forward. "You will not escape." His gaze locked onto Crocodile, unblinking. "And I don't care how many times I gotta break you to make that happen."
"I don't have time for a feral rabies-infested mutt," Crocodile growled, crouching and slamming his hand into the stone.
Varin felt it before he saw it, something that happened a lot with Crocodiles fruit. The ground shuddered, then gave way. Stone cracked, crumbled, and dissolved into sand in a heartbeat, the very moisture ripped out of it like breath from lungs. The rampart sagged, then collapsed inward as Crocodile's power spread in a widening circle. Dust roared upward, blinding, choking, the air suddenly dry enough to burn.
Varin's footing vanished. His boots slid as the surface beneath him turned to loose sand, sucking at his weight. He dug in, claws tearing through stone that wasn't stone anymore, bracing his stance by instinct alone.
Crocodile didn't waste the opening. A massive arm of sand formed and shot toward Varin, moving fast enough to blur. Varin roared and leaned into it, planting his feet, raising his good arm to take the hit head-on.
Then the punch bent. It curved, impossibly sharp, snapping ninety degrees mid-strike. Varin's eyes widened. "VIVI—"
The blow slammed into her stomach before he could finish the word. The sound was dull and brutal. Vivi's body folded around the impact, breath ripped from her lungs as she was hurled backwards. She didn't even scream. She just went over the edge.
Varin didn't think. He shot Crocodile a look so full of raw, murderous promise it should have scorched the air. The warlord was laughing, sand curling around him like a throne.
Then Varin jumped. The drop was a blur of stone and screaming wind. He twisted midair, body moving on instinct, one arm wrapping around Vivi as he caught her against his chest. She was limp, gasping weakly, eyes wide with shock.
"I've got you," he snarled, more command than comfort.
They hit hard. Varin turned as they fell, taking the impact on his back and shoulder, the force driving the air from his lungs in a painful bark. Stone cracked beneath him as he rolled, arms locked tight around Vivi to keep her from taking the brunt of it.
They skidded to a stop at the base of the wall in a cloud of dust. For a moment, there was nothing but ringing silence.
Varin lay there, chest heaving, blood pooling beneath him, every nerve screaming. His vision swam. His body wanted to stay down. He didn't let it; he refused to stay down. He shifted just enough to check Vivi, hands shaking as he looked her over. She was breathing, shallow and fast, one step away from a panic attack. Her face was pale, but her eyes were open and alive.
Above them, sand continued to pour from the broken ramparts like a cracked hourglass. Varin bared his teeth and forced himself upright, positioning his body between Vivi and the battlefield. He looked back up toward the wall, toward the laughing warlord hidden in dust and sand.
"VARIN! VIVI!"
Multiple voices cut through the dust and chaos. Varin's head snapped toward them, ears flicking before his eyes locked on familiar shapes pushing through the rubble.
The crew. All of them looked like hell. Usopp was wrapped head to toe in bandages, one eye swollen shut, the other wild and alert, looking like a walking mummy. Zoro was upright through pure spite, chest and arms crisscrossed with fresh cuts layered over old scars, blood drying in dark streaks. Sanji was still there too, suit torn, one eye bruised, but sharp. Even the damn cook had survived.
Varin huffed a breath that might have been a laugh. "Took you lot long enough." He shifted his grip on Vivi and held her out toward them, arms trembling but steady enough. Offering her to them like she was a gift.
Sanji moved instantly, catching her before she could protest, easing her back like she was made of glass.
"Varin, you can't be serious!" Vivi cried, twisting in Sanji's arms to face him. "You're in no state to stand, let alone fight! The others are here now. Luffy can handle it from here on!"
She turned desperately toward the rest of them. "Please. Tell him."
No one spoke. Luffy stepped forward instead, and he wasn't smiling. His hat shadowed his eyes, jaw set in a way Vivi had only seen when things were dire. "Varin," Luffy said, voice tight and low. "I ordered you not to die. I didn't think I needed to order you to win."
Varin straightened at that, spine cracking as he forced himself fully upright. Blood ran freely again, soaking into the sand at his feet. "Aye, captain," he said simply. "Warlord's a slippery bastard. Prioritised Vi over the snake." He rolled his good shoulder, grimaced, then cracked his neck like he was loosening up for a spar. "I'll get right to it." Before anyone could react, he turned and started back toward the stairs.
"VARIN!" Vivi screamed. She tried to break free, to chase him, but Sanji's hand closed gently but firmly on her shoulder, stopping her cold. "Luffy, Zoro, Sanji, someone…please," she begged, voice breaking. "Stop him. He'll kill himself." When no one moved, she turned on them slowly, eyes wide and wet. "Why… why are you letting him die?"
Zoro exhaled and stepped forward just enough to be heard over the distant roar of the battlefield. His hand brushed over a massive scar across his torso, old and ugly and earned. "It's a warrior's pride," he said seriously. "This is something he has to do."
"That doesn't make sense!" Vivi shot back. "Surely pride isn't worth your life!" She struggled again, panic bleeding into anger. "How can you just let him go?"
"Because for him," Nami said softly, stepping beside her, "it's not just pride."
Vivi turned to her.
Nami's gaze followed Varin's retreating back, shoulders squared, steps unsteady but unyielding. "He's said it before. More than once, I think. He doesn't think he's useful."
"That's not true," Vivi whispered.
"I know," Nami said. "We know. But he doesn't."
She swallowed. "He looks at Luffy, Zoro, Sanji… monsters who can tear through the world and keep smiling. And he thinks we don't need him. That if he falls, buying us time, then at least he was worth something in the end."
Sanji's grip tightened slightly on Vivi's shoulder. "If we stop him now," he said quietly, "we take that choice away from him."
"And he'd never forgive us for it," Zoro added.
Vivi looked back at Varin, already halfway up the stairs, blood marking every step he took.
"If we step in," Luffy said quietly, never looking away, "it's like saying we don't trust him."
"But we do," Vivi pushed back, voice shaking now. "All of you do. I know you do. Why can't you tell him that?" She struggled again, but there was no real force left in it. Sanji's hand stayed on her shoulder, firm but gentle, like he was holding someone back from stepping into traffic.
Sanji exhaled slowly and lit a cigarette with his free hand, shielding the flame from the wind. He took a drag before speaking, eyes following Varin the same way the others were.
"You've noticed how protective he is, yeah?" Sanji said. "Of you. Nami. Usopp. Chopper. Hell, even the idiot captain. Excluding Luffy, and no offence, but the weak ones."
Vivi didn't answer, but her silence was enough.
"I call him a dog," Sanji continued, smoke curling from his lips, "and I stand by that. But not the stupid kind. A guard dog. The kind that plants itself between the wolves and its flock, even when it's already half dead." He flicked ash away. "You heard him the other night. He lost his original family."
Vivi's breath caught.
"If I had to guess," Sanji went on, "It was because he wasn't enough. Maybe he was too slow, maybe he was too weak."
"That's not true, for us," Vivi said again, but it sounded smaller this time, like she was trying to convince herself as much as anyone else.
"I know," Sanji said. "But he doesn't."
Zoro shifted, leaning on one sword like a cane. "People like him don't measure trust by words," he added. "They measure it by whether you let them fight."
Nami crossed her arms, nails biting into her sleeves. "Every time things go bad, he's the one who steps forward first. Takes the first hit. Buys the most time. He thinks that's his role."
Usopp swallowed hard, bandages creaking as he moved. "He jokes about it, but… I think he's scared that if he stops doing that, we'll realize we don't need him."
Luffy's hands clenched into fists at his sides. "He's wrong," he said, low and firm.
"Yeah," Sanji agreed. "But this fight? This is how he proves it to himself."
Vivi's gaze dropped to the blood-streaked steps again. "So you're just… letting him go die?"
"No," Nami said softly. "We're letting him believe he can win."
Sanji took another drag, eyes hard now. "If we stop him, we tell him he's replaceable. That he's a liability. That his strength isn't enough." He looked down at Vivi. "And that would break him worse than Crocodile ever could."
Vivi's hands trembled, then slowly fell still at her sides.
"…He's doing this for us," she whispered.
"For you," Sanji corrected gently. "And because if he doesn't walk back up those stairs, he'll spend the rest of his life thinking he failed another family. And ff we intervene with that, even if he survives, he might leave us."
Varin was pissed.
Not the sharp, focused kind either. This was the deep, bone-level kind of anger that settled in after too little rest, too much blood on the ground, and one problem that just refused to stay dead. The last twenty-four hours had been a parade of bad decisions, worse outcomes, and one very smug warlord who kept slipping through his claws. On top of that, everything hurt. His arm throbbed in time with his heartbeat, his ribs screamed every time he breathed too deeply, and his legs felt like they were being held together by spite alone.
And he was going down more fucking stairs. "Unbelievable," he muttered under his breath, boots scraping stone as he descended. "Whole kingdom, an' they build it like they're tryin to punish knees." He filed that away for later. If Vivi survived this, and he survived this, he was absolutely telling her to fix this. There was no excuse for this many stairs. None.
The air changed as he went lower, cooler, Stale and dusty in a way that irritated his nose. The sounds of battle above dulled, replaced by the faint echo of his own footsteps and the slow drip of water somewhere in the dark. Torchlight along the walls cast warped shadows that stretched and twisted with every step, making the place feel narrower than it was.
Then he saw it. The stairs didn't end at a chamber or a hall. They opened into something that wasn't meant to be seen at all. A wide, hidden entrance carved into the stone, half-buried and deliberately obscured, like the palace itself was trying to forget it existed. Ancient markings crawled along the walls, worn down by time but still heavy with intent. This wasn't part of the palace. This was something older than the palace that had been built on top of.
Varin slowed, jaw tightening. "Tomb," he muttered.
All Sunday's words from earlier clicked into place, sliding together in a way he didn't like. Catacombs, buried chambers. Somewhere deep enough that no one would hear screaming, and no one would interfere. Of course, Crocodile would pick a place like this.
Varin rolled his neck with a hiss and flexed his fingers, claws scraping stone. His reflection flickered in a cracked slab of polished rock. Blood matted his hair; he had more holes than cheese. He looked like hell. But he was still standing.
He stepped forward into the open entrance, the darkness swallowing him whole. "Alright," he growled quietly, voice echoing off ancient stone. "Last fight. I'm not chasing you again."
The catacombs, or whatever the official term was, stretched far to the west beneath the palace. The passages twisted and split, old stone giving way to packed sand and broken masonry. Varin nearly took the wrong turn more than once, but someone had marked the way. An arrow scratched into the sand. Likely All Sunday.
He did not trust it. But it was the only lead he had. So he followed. The walk itself was long and quiet, uncomfortably so. The sound of battle had faded completely, swallowed by distance and stone, leaving only the crunch of his boots through sand and grit. His breathing echoed back at him, steady now. Slower. By this point, most of the bleeding had stopped. The older wounds had sealed enough to no longer drip. Only the newest injuries still wept, the ones earned shielding Vivi from the fall.
Something about that bothered him. Not the pain, but the lack of it. With every step, he felt stronger, like his muscles were more defined, like he could lift a ship and then some. His muscles responded too easily, and his balance was perfect despite exhaustion. His grip tightened without conscious effort, fingers flexing as if they belonged to someone else. He looked down at his hands as he walked, caked in dried blood, knuckles split and raw.
He could barely feel it. Adrenaline, maybe. That was the hope. The other explanations were worse. Too many stories, too many sagas where warriors pushed past the point they should have fallen and never came back the same. Berserker states. Death-trances. Bodies running on borrowed time. Lethal, if not to him, then to anyone close enough when it broke.
There truly was so much about his fruit that he did not understand. The smell hit him before the sound, breaking him from his thoughts. Fresh blood, thick and metallic, heavy enough to make a normal man gag. Then a voice echoed faintly ahead, distorted by the stone corridors.
He recognized it quickly, Crocodile. Boasting, laughing, and talking to someone with so much condescension, it made Varin sick.
Varin slowed as he neared the corner, footsteps silent now. The passage opened into a wider chamber carved deep beneath the earth. Broken pillars, Cracked stone, Sand piled high against the walls like the place itself was being swallowed.
Crocodile stood near the center, laughing, arms spread like a stereotypical villain. Nearby lay another figure, it was All Sunday. She was face down in a spreading pool of blood, dark and glossy against the pale sand. A massive hook-shaped wound tore through her stomach, straight through. The kind of injury that did not leave room for argument. Her fingers were curled weakly into the grit, unmoving.
If not for the angle of her body, the stiffness frozen into her limbs, it would have looked like betrayal. But the signs were there. The direction of the wound. The scattered sand. And on top of that, her open admission earlier of planning to betray Crocodile. It was obvious she had attacked first, taken the initiative, tried to put down a wounded warlord from behind, and failed for it.
"I just have to turn the rocks to sand, and I'll be fine," Crocodile laughed, voice echoing through the chamber. "And then I'll be the new king of Alabasta."
That drew Varin's attention to the third figure. The man slumped against a broken pillar, wrists bound, breathing shallow but steady. Bruised, exhausted, but alive. No obvious puncture wounds. No signs of internal collapse. The deep purple robes, the posture that still carried dignity even while half-conscious. Vivi's father, he assumed. The king.
The tomb shuddered. A low, grinding sound rolled through the stone, as if the place itself were groaning in protest. Sand trickled from the ceiling in thin streams. Cracks spidered along the walls.
Varin didn't like that. At all. If Crocodile finished whatever he was doing, the entire structure was going to come down. Palace. Catacombs. Anyone still inside. Buried alive.
That meant this ended now. He stepped fully into the chamber and slammed his fist into the corner wall. Stone fractured under the blow, a thunderous crack echoing outward as dust and sand rained down in sheets.
"Slippery bastard," Varin snarled. "I think you need to change your name to Snake."
Crocodile turned slowly. "Well," the warlord drawled, eyes flicking over Varin's state with open amusement. The blood. The ruined arm. The way he was still standing through sheer refusal. "You're persistent. I'll give you that. Most men would have died twice over by now."
"Most men aren't me," Varin shot back, shifting his stance, bone grinding unpleasantly. "And most men don't run every time a fight gets inconvenient."
Crocodile smirked and placed his palm flat against the ground. The sand responded instantly, rolling outward in a wide circle, the stone floor beneath turning brittle, crumbling into dry powder.
"You should feel honored," Crocodile said. "You've delayed me longer than anyone else has managed in years." The tomb shook harder. A chunk of ceiling collapsed near the entrance, sealing it off in a roar of debris.
Varin glanced once toward the king, then back at Crocodile. His stance lowered, his boots dug in, ready to push off the ground. "Good," he said. "Means I'm right where I need to be."
The sand surged, coming from all sides this time. Hands, dozens of them, clawing up from the floor, wrapping around his legs, his waist, and chest, trying to drag him down, trying to grind him apart piece by piece.
"You called me feral," Varin snarled, barreling forward anyway. "So I'll show you what a feral mutt can do." He stepped through the sand; some he tore apart, some he simply ripped through with brute force. Sand scraped across his skin, packed into wounds, and tried to choke him as it climbed higher. "I'll add a bonus," he roared, voice echoing through the collapsing tomb. "Show ya what pure spite can do as well, ya arrogant bastard!"
He slammed a fist forward. It caught Crocodile's arm just as the warlord tried to dissolve. The sand stuttered under the layer of blood coating him. Varin didn't hesitate. He opened his fist, clamped down, claws digging deep into Crocodile's forearm before it could fully shift. "I'm endin' this right quick." He yanked the man closer.
Their foreheads collided with a crack like thunder, and Crocodile answered in kind. The hook drove into Varin's side again. A burning sensation ripped through him, sharp and invasive, like something was trying to hollow him out from the inside.
It didn't matter. The pain flared and dulled. And disappeared just as fast, by either Varin, his fruit, or both. Then was forgotten just as Varin slammed his head into Crocodile's again. Once. Twice. Three times.
Each impact was wet, heavy, and brutal beyond what two warriors would inflict upon eachother. More akin to beasts in a struggle to live.
Crocodile retaliated with frantic strikes, hook carving into flesh, sand spikes forming and collapsing, trying to pierce through Varin without impaling himself in the process. But he was drenched. Soaked in blood. Every attempt to disperse failed halfway, sand clumping, and reforming too slowly, if it could become sand at all.
Varin's claws dug deeper the more Crocodile struggled. The warlord tried to pull back, to twist free, but every movement only tore his own arm further open.
Over. And over. And over. Varin drove his skull forward with savage force, teeth bared, eyes wild and bloodshot. Crocodile's nose gave first, with a wet crunch, blood bursting across both their faces. Still, Varin didn't stop. The hook stabbed again. And again. Sand constructs formed jagged spears and swords that snapped uselessly against his ribs, unable to fully solidify or get a proper hit off. The tomb trembled harder. Pillars began to split, and the ceiling sagged further.
Eventually, Crocodile's strikes slowed, his hook wavered first, then his breathing hitched, before Varin slammed his head forward one last time. The sound that followed was duller, and Varin felt the shift immediately. The sand constructs collapsed. No longer trying to fill the places where his blood wasn't. The grinding pull around his legs fell away into loose, harmless drifts.
Crocodile's hook slipped from Varin's side, and the warlord's body went slack.
One of the Seven Warlords of the Sea. Backed by the Navy. Feared across the Grand Line.
Dropped.
Unconscious.
Varin stood there a moment longer, claws still buried in Crocodile's arm, chest heaving, blood running freely down both of them. Then he let go. Crocodile hit the sand face-first. And Varin followed, landing on his knees.
"You… you won," the king said, voice unsteady, disbelief and relief tangled together.
"Nev… never any doubt…" Varin rasped. The words ended in a wet cough. liquid splattered against the sand at his feet. There was no Saliva in it, just blood.
Something clinked near his boot. His head snapped toward the sound, body tensing on instinct, ready for another attack. Instead, he saw All Sunday. Alive. She was propped against a broken slab of stone, one hand pressed to the hook-shaped wound in her abdomen. Blood soaked her clothes, pooled beneath her, and her eyes were dull, like she had already decided to die.
"The antidote," she said quietly, her voice thinner now, lacking its usual smoothness. "Just like I promised." She nudged the small vial toward him with a trembling boot. "If you can, get Cobra out of here."
Varin didn't hesitate. He grabbed the vial, snapped the top off with his teeth, and swallowed it in one motion. The effect was almost immediate. The burning in his side. The slow, creeping dryness that he had only just realised had been eating at him from the inside out disappeared. "…Good," he muttered. The tomb groaned above them in response to his words. Stone cracked. Sand poured from widening holes in the ceiling.
The king, now named Cobra, staggered to his feet, bracing himself against the wall, staring at Crocodile's unconscious form like he expected the man to rise again at any moment.
Varin stepped toward him. The movement almost sent him to his knees. He caught himself on a broken pillar instead, vision swimming for a second before steadying. "You," he said, pointing at the king with his left hand. "You can walk?"
Cobra straightened despite everything. "I can."
"Good," Varin muttered, stepping toward All Sunday.
He stood beside her and took a proper look at the wound. It was bad. Clean through. Crocodile had meant to kill her, not punish her. "You plannin' on dyin'?" he asked, voice flat.
She didn't look at him at first. Her eyes were on the ceiling, on the sand slipping through the cracks. "Nothing else to live for," she said quietly. "He was the closest thing I've had to a friend in twenty years. And you see how that ended." A faint breath left her. "I'd rather it just be over."
Varin stared at her for a long second. Then he sighed, a low growl followed, more irritation than anger. He turned and walked back to the king. "Don't snap your neck."
"What? Woah—!" Cobra yelped as Varin grabbed him by the front of his robe with his good hand and hauled him like he weighed nothing.
Varin braced his ruined arm against a pillar for balance, jaw tightening at the flare of pain.
"I have holes in my arms," the king protested frantically. "Please do not do whatever you're thinking."
"So do I, mate." That was all the warning he gave. Varin stepped into the motion and hurled the king up through the jagged opening in the ceiling that the collapse had made. Stone scraped fabric. There was a heavy thud above, followed by a groan.
He was still alive; that was good enough. Varin turned back to All Sunday.
He bent, slid an arm under her, and dragged her through the sand toward the hole. She was lighter than she looked. He attributed it to dragging a bag of rice.
"I said I wanted to die," she snapped, struggling weakly. The break in her usual calm made her sound younger. "Let me go."
"Too bad," Varin grunted. "I don't like owing people. You saved me. I'm savin' you. You can make bad decisions later." He tightened his grip, crouched slightly, then tossed her up through the opening as well. The startled sound she made on the way up pulled a rough laugh out of him despite everything.
Then he was alone with Crocodile. The warlord lay half buried in falling sand, unconscious, blood crusted along his face, coat torn and stained. Varin stood over him, chest heaving. His fist clenched. Teeth bared. "I should crush your skull," he growled, voice thick and wet in his lungs. "Walk up to Vivi with what's left of you on my boot." The image lingered for half a second; he really, really wanted to do it. Then he exhaled slowly. "If I kill you, the Navy comes down on us harder than we can handle right now. Bounties skyrocket. We get hunted before we're ready."
His hand shot down, grabbing Crocodile by the hair. "You don't get to die by me today." He dragged the man across the crumbling floor, boots leaving streaks of red behind him, and heaved him up through the hole.
"Incoming—" Varin's shout dissolved into another violent cough. Blood splattered against the stone at his feet. He wiped his mouth with the back of his arm, it only smeared it worse.
He looked up at the jagged hole in the ceiling. "…Now, me." Varin drove his good hand into the cracked stone and hauled himself upward; his muscles screamed in protest. His ruined arm hung uselessly, dragging against the wall. His boots scraped, searching for traction that wasn't there.
The tomb groaned beneath him. Sand poured from the ceiling like a waterfall. He trembled. His grip slipped. For a split second, he felt the drop coming. Then hands burst from the stone beneath his boots. Others from the wall at his side. Fingers of flesh forcing their way out of solid rock, straining, shaking.
They shoved under his feet. Grabbed his forearm. Locked around his bicep. On their own, they wouldn't have been enough. All Sunday was barely conscious, her control frayed and weak.
But together, with his last bit of strength and her stubborn refusal to let him fall, they managed.
He was hauled up and over the edge just as the tomb gave out entirely. The floor beneath vanished in a roar of collapsing stone and sand. Varin rolled onto his back, staring up at the open sky, chest rising and falling in harsh pulls. The sun felt too bright. The air too clean after all that dust.
"Guess that means you owe me again, huh?" All Sunday wheezed somewhere to his right.
Varin turned his head slightly, just enough to see her lying there, pale, one arm half-sunk into the sand, a small smile gracing her face.
"Ah, fuck you," he shot back, breathless. There was no heat in it. Just exhaustion. He let his eyes close for a moment, listening to the distant sounds of the war finally dying down, the weight in his limbs settling like lead.
He was alive. And he was going to feel every second of it later.
"I did it, Runa."