Steel Bone Kong instinctively pulled Armament Haki over his shoulder—
—but Patrick Redfield's blade was honed beyond reason.
The moment the crimson parasol-sword thrust forward, its razor edge shattered the black Haki plating as if it were glass.
With a sickening shlick, the blade pierced straight through Kong's right shoulder.
Blood ran freely down the silver edge, dripping in tiny crimson blossoms across the stone floor.
Redfield leaned on his parasol-sword, his body swaying, breath ragged.
Each inhale scraped against his aching ribs like splintered wood.
Kong's earlier knee strike—coated in Conqueror's Haki—still felt like it had cracked something inside him.
Even breathing sent needles of pain down his side.
This old titan's strength… had far surpassed Redfield's expectations.
And after this prolonged clash, his own stamina was nearly spent.
He couldn't linger here.
Not another second.
"Hold it! Don't come any closer—fall back immediately!"
Steel Bone Kong clutched his bleeding shoulder and roared, forcing back the Marines rushing toward them.
He knew better than anyone what Patrick Redfield was capable of.
Sending young soldiers at that monster now would only create a meaningless pile of corpses.
Better to retreat and reassess… than die pointlessly.
Redfield steadied his breath, preparing to leap into the air and leave the plaza behind—
But before he could take off, a familiar presence tore across Marineford from the distant harbor.
Garp had just returned from a mission.
The moment he set foot on the island, his eyes widened at the sight of the devastated plaza…
and the lone figure standing amidst the rubble.
"REDFIELD!"
Garp's roar detonated across the plaza.
His speed surged violently, fist whistling through the air like a cannonball aimed straight at Redfield's skull.
Running on fumes, Redfield barely had time to lift his parasol-sword to intercept.
CLANG!
The blow struck the blade head-on.
A monstrous shock crashed through Redfield's arms.
He staggered back seven, eight steps before he could plant his feet again.
His hands trembled uncontrollably.
Even the intricate bat-wing carving on the parasol handle creaked from the pressure.
And then—
A three-hour chase began.
Their battlefield tore from the plaza to the harbor, then from the harbor to the vast Marineford training grounds.
Garp was relentless—a wild beast that did not tire.
His fists fell like a torrential downpour, each punch carrying the weight to shatter mountains.
Redfield could only dodge, evade, twist, leap—never able to counter, never able to breathe.
His stamina dwindled with every passing minute.
His steps grew heavy.
His cloak—once a regal dark red—was now soaked through with blood.
Finally, on his last breath of strength…
Garp seized him by the ankle.
With a single mighty swing, he hurled Patrick Redfield straight into the iron cell ahead.
CRAAAAASH!
The gate slammed shut with a metallic clang—
a sharp, cold sound that echoed across the quiet dawn.
Patrick Redfield—
the legendary pirate who once stood side-by-side in fame with Roger and Whitebeard—
was locked away in the sixth level of Impel Down.
Infinite Hell.
And with that, Garp "the Fists's" record earned yet another feat worthy of echoing across all four seas.
Two mornings later—
A gentle breeze skimmed across the deck of the Virtue.
Shiro leaned against the railing, a freshly delivered newspaper pinched between his fingers.
His thumb brushed the grain of the paper as he stared at the bold headline:
"Red Earl Patrick Redfield Breaks Into Marine Headquarters — Captured by Marine Hero Garp!"
The title consumed nearly the entire front page.
Beside it was a large photograph of Garp beaming under his Justice coat.
And in a corner—almost an afterthought—was a blurry image of Redfield being escorted by Marines.
Shiro raised a brow, lips curling with a faint, amused smirk.
"So Garp gets the credit after all."
With a flick of his wrist, the newspaper traced a lazy arc and floated onto the deck.
Jinbe, seated nearby, lifted his head at the soft rustle.
He stood, bent over, and picked up the paper.
His eyes moved steadily across the fragmented report of Redfield's battle against the Marines.
His brow furrowed deeper and deeper until he let out a quiet, heavy sigh.
"Patrick Redfield is indeed formidable…
To once stand alongside Roger and Whitebeard… such fame was no exaggeration.
That a man of his power should end up like this—it's a true pity."
He looked toward Shiro.
"For a warrior so strong to join us would be a tremendous boon for our journeys across these seas."
Shiro turned toward him, expression curious.
"Jinbe… you really think Redfield would make a good crewmate for the Virtue Pirates?"
He knew Jinbe valued both strength and character—
but hadn't expected such high praise.
Jinbe shook his head slowly.
He folded the paper and set it aside, eyes drifting toward the endless horizon.
"It is not that I expect him to join us.
I simply believe… a man of such strength wasting away in a dark prison, stripped of freedom for life—
that is a waste."
His voice softened, tinged with genuine regret.
"Redfield was not born twisted or solitary.
It was witnessing the ugliness in people—the betrayals, greed, and lies—that caused him to abandon the idea of 'companions.'
But if he met us… truly saw the trust and loyalty within our crew…,perhaps something in him might change."
Shiro tapped his chin thoughtfully.
Flashes of their earlier clash surfaced in his mind:
Redfield's lonely eyes, sharp blade, fierce pride…
and the solitude buried beneath all that strength.
After a moment of silence, Shiro's eyes brightened.
A confident grin stretched across his face.
"You make a good point, Jinbe.
If that's the case…"
He stepped away from the railing.
"As captain—
I'll go try recruiting him myself."
"You don't mean—!"
Jinbe spun toward him, pupils shrinking.
But he never finished the sentence.
Shiro's figure blurred—
—and vanished.
Carried upon the sea breeze was his final message:
"Jinbe, don't move the ship.
Wait for me to get back!"
And in the next heartbeat—
Shiro appeared in the depths of Impel Down's sixth level.
Infinite Hell.
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