Shiro's roar exploded across the violently shaking deck of the Virtue, the sea wind swirling his fighting spirit into a storm.
"Come on then—let me see what the legendary Red Earl is really made of!"
With that thunderous declaration, the Tetanus Blade at his waist flashed out of its sheath. The black edge sliced through the air with a vicious shriek, a razor-sharp wind screaming straight toward Redfield's face.
The blade hadn't even reached him, yet a murderous cold swept across the deck, dropping the temperature several degrees.
Redfield's hands—covered in dark red matte leather gloves—moved almost the instant the blade left its sheath.
His fingers spun lightly at his side, elegant and swift. A twisted umbrella-sword, its ribs etched with ominous patterns and its canopy covered in bat sigils, appeared neatly in his grasp.
Cling!
The tip of the umbrella-sword intercepted Shiro's long blade with such speed that only a fading afterimage remained under the sunlight.
CLANG!
A crisp, ringing crash of steel burst outward, rattling the rum barrels stacked nearby. Several toppled over, spilling rum across the deck.
The auras of the two powerhouses collided like thunder, unleashing a visible shockwave that blasted outward in all directions. The gathered Virtue Pirates, who had been shouting in excitement moments earlier, were forced to retreat in panic.
Some stumbled back into the railings, shock and fear plastered across their faces.
Shiro's swordplay was wide-open and overwhelming—each strike carrying earth-shaking force. His swings tore through the air with booming detonations, coated in the crushing presence of Conqueror's Haki. Even the deck trembled beneath his feet.
Redfield's swordsmanship, however, was the complete opposite—sinister and elusive.
In his hands, the umbrella-sword transformed unpredictably: one moment a sharp, venomous thrust aimed directly at Shiro's vitals; the next, the canopy snapped open into a pitch-black shield, parrying even the fiercest blows.
He slipped between Shiro's strikes by mere hairs, every movement elegant yet dripping with lethal intent.
In an instant, the Virtue's deck was overtaken by a storm of sword aura. Blades of light wove into a suffocating web, enclosing the entire battlefield.
Every clash sent bright gold sparks flying across the deck, each spark burning tiny char marks into the wood.
The sturdy oak beneath their feet was torn open with countless jagged sword gouges; splinters whirled in the turbulent air like drifting snow.
Within just moments, the two had already exchanged hundreds of moves—faster than lightning. The onlookers couldn't even see their movements anymore, forced to rely on the constant barrage of ringing steel and slicing wind.
At the side, Issho gripped the hilt of his blade tightly, face solemn.
Near him, Crocodile's brow was furrowed into a hard knot, jaw clenched, his golden hook trembling ever so slightly—clearly shaken by the intensity of the duel.
And to everyone's growing unease—despite Shiro possessing power rivaling even Whitebeard, despite having conquered the New World—he wasn't gaining the slightest edge.
The two monsters remained perfectly even.
Their battle raged for an entire day and night.
From the blistering noon sun glinting off the waves…
to the cold wind of a star-strewn night…
to the pale dawn…
to sunrise spilling gold across the sea.
Both fighters were panting heavily now, sweat soaking their clothes, muscles twitching from endless sword swings. And still—neither showed signs of stopping. Their eyes burned hotter than ever.
Redfield's Observation Haki bordered on monstrous—predicting Shiro's moves a full second in advance, letting him seize the initiative again and again.
But Shiro fused his masterful swordsmanship, awakened Haki of all three colors, and the bizarre power of the Paw-Paw Fruit into flawless harmony. Every slash carried enough force to shake the world, forcing Redfield to unleash his full focus, losing his earlier composure.
As exhaustion crept in, both fighters' movements slowed, their footsteps growing unsteady. Yet their gazes never wavered.
"Patrick Redfield… you'll never defeat the Virtue Pirates!"
Issho stepped forward, boots thudding heavily on the deck. His sheathed blade hummed with rising intent.
"Even if you can match our captain—look around you. We've still got plenty of brothers ready to fight."
His voice was steady, firm, carrying both a warning and a threat as he glanced at the gathered crew.
Redfield let out a low, eerie chuckle.
"Oh? And what of it? Numbers mean nothing before the Red Earl. Ants remain ants. I can come and go as I please… heh… hahahahaha!"
A wicked smile curled across his lips. His long tongue slowly licked his cracked lips, eyes gleaming with contemptuous hunger.
Before his laugh even faded, he suddenly slashed toward Shiro. A dark sword wave shot forth like a ravenous beast. Hidden beneath its ferocity was a subtle backward recoil.
Shiro instinctively blocked—CLANG!—but Redfield used the rebound to launch himself backward, boots tapping lightly against the deck.
In one graceful bound, he landed on the ship's rail several dozen meters away, surveying the battlefield with cold, predatory eyes.
"Watch out! He's preparing to attack the crew!"
Issho's warning thundered across the deck, tension skyrocketing.
The Virtue Pirates stiffened in alarm. Weapons were drawn. Stances tightened.
And at that moment, Shiro, Crocodile, and Issho moved as one—forming a triangular assault pattern as they surged toward Redfield, sealing off every possible escape route.
Redfield's gaze swept the deck once more—cold and sharp.
Then he saw her.
Robin.
Huddled in a corner of the cabin, trembling with fear.
His scarlet eyes flared—and a hungry, vicious gleam ignited.
A hostage.
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