Dragon suddenly realized that Redfield was holding back, and it hit him like a bolt of lightning.
In an instant, Redfield disappeared.
Dragon's Observation Haki blared a warning, but his body just couldn't keep up.
The curved handle of the umbrella struck Dragon squarely on the jaw, sending him spiraling into the air. Just as he was about to regain his balance, Redfield appeared above him, driving a brutal heel into his back!
BOOM!
Dragon crashed down, creating a crater that plunged five meters deep.
As Redfield descended like a deadly blade, Dragon thrust his palm upward. "GALE BURST!"
A violent pillar of wind erupted from the crater, hurling Redfield back into the sky. Dragon pulled himself out of the crater, blood spilling from his mouth, his hands rising to command the tempest above.
The gale swirling around Redfield twisted and compressed, collapsing inward into a powerful implosion.
BOOOOOOM!
The sphere of pressurized air exploded, leveling the surrounding forest for fifty yards.
Breathing heavily, Dragon's chest heaved as he focused on the smoke cloud above.
A shadow emerged from the dust. Redfield's coat was slightly torn, and a thin trickle of blood ran down his forehead. That was all.
Redfield raised a finger, wiped the blood away, and examined it with mild interest. "Hm. Not bad."
In the blink of an eye, he was right back in front of Dragon.
Dragon braced himself, but Redfield shattered his defenses with terrifying ease.
One strike! Two! Three!
Dragon managed to block the fourth, but the steel shaft of the umbrella slammed brutally into his ribs.
CRACK.
Dragon grunted in pain, using a burst of localized wind to push Redfield back before he could land a finishing blow. He staggered, clutching his side.
Redfield stepped forward, completely unhurried. "You have incredible power, Dragon. But power without the experience of battle is just wasted potential. You lean too much on your Fruit. Your intent is clear through your wind."
Redfield was at it again. Dragon barely managed to dodge, feeling the wind whip past and slice into his shoulder.
"You really should think before you act," Redfield said coldly, jabbing the umbrella forward. Dragon tried to block it, but the force sent him skidding back. "And when you're up against a master who can hear the very voice of your heart… that hesitation could cost you everything."
With a swift motion, Redfield brought the umbrella down like a guillotine. Dragon rolled to the side just in time as the weapon crashed into the ground, unleashing a massive shockwave that rippled through the landscape.
Pushing himself up, Dragon felt blood trickling steadily from his chin, his left arm hanging uselessly at his side. It finally clicked for him. This man wasn't just a survivor from Roger's time; he was one of the titans who had shaped it.
Not far off, under the shade of a crumbling tree, Red's trembling fingers were at work.
Gibbs noticed. "Red…"
There was no response. The old artist's eyes were vacant, staring blankly up at the canopy.
His mind had retreated from the chaos surrounding him. In his thoughts, he could hear the sounds of Trans Town. Children laughing as they dashed through the cobblestone streets. A woman scolding him for splattering yellow paint on her porch. The warm aroma of fresh bread wafting from the bakery.
It all felt so real once…
Red's hand brushed the dirt. Where his blood soaked into the leaves, vibrant colors began to seep outward. A streak of crimson. A wash of cerulean blue. A hint of gold. The paint flowed across the ground like liquid light.
Gibbs watched, a mix of awe and horror on his face. "What… what are you doing, mate?"
Red didn't respond. For just a moment, the forest faded away. He found himself in a sunlit plaza in Trans Town, young again. His friends waved at him, and his family beamed with smiles.
Then, just like that, the illusion shattered.
The sun vanished. The laughter faded into silence. All that remained was Gibbs—broken, bloodied, and dying in the dirt.
"Live for those who are still breathing," Gibbs' words echoed in his mind.
There was no one who was still breathing.
Red let out a wet, broken laugh. "Damn you, pirate…"
Gibbs winced slightly. "What…?"
"You ruined my dream," Red murmured.
Gibbs managed a faint, blood-streaked grin. "Aye… I hear that a lot."
Red pressed his palms against Gibbs' shattered chest. Bright, otherworldly ink streamed from his fingertips, wrapping around Gibbs' bandages like glowing threads. The bleeding began to slow. The bone in Gibbs' shoulder creaked as the magic attempted to mend the flesh.
Gibbs gasped, a scream of agony escaping him. "What in blazes—?!"
"Stay still, you old fool!" Red gritted his teeth, pouring every ounce of his remaining life force into the spell.
For three brief seconds, Gibbs' breathing steadied. His chest rose.
And then… the ink faded. The light extinguished.
Red stared at his trembling hands, despair washing over him. The damage was too extensive. The bones were shattered, the internal organs wrecked. His fruit could create, mimic, and shape memories—but it couldn't reverse fate. It couldn't bring back the dead.
Red's hands fell limply to the dirt. "No…"
Gibbs noticed the crushing sorrow in the artist's eyes. He let out a weak, raspy sigh. "Can't fix me, eh?"
Red stayed silent, tears carving paths through the dirt on his cheeks.
Gibbs forced out a weak laugh. "Figures. Always was a stubborn old bastard."
Red's gaze slowly drifted to the side, peering deeper into the woods where the dark, pulsing aura of the Batto Batto no Mi lay hidden—the fruit he had protected, the fruit Redfield sought.
A realization hit Red like a physical blow. There was one way. A dark, terrible way. It would demand everything he had left… but it would save the man who had taught him how to truly live.
BOOM!
Dragon hit the ground again, rolling once before steadying himself on one knee. His left arm hung uselessly at his side, blood streaming freely down his torso.
Redfield moved closer, his face a picture of calm disappointment. "You're not living up to your heritage, Dragon."
Dragon spat a mouthful of dark blood onto the ground. "I hear that a lot from old men."
"Your father would find this amusing."
"My father laughs at funerals," Dragon grunted, pushing himself up from the ground.
Redfield hesitated, a brief flicker of amusement crossing his features. But before he could respond—
SWOOSH!
A blinding silver flash sliced through the mist!
Redfield's gaze snapped to the side as he raised his umbrella just in time—
CLANG!
The sharp edge of Wado Ichimonji struck the steel umbrella with such force that sparks flew into the night!
Jack Sparrow stood there, his boots firmly planted in the dirt. His coat was tattered, his shirt stained with blood from his fierce duel with Mihawk, fresh bandages tightly wrapped around his waist.
But the usual drunken sway was absent. The playful, theatrical grin was nowhere to be found. His face was a mask of cold, deadly rage.
Redfield held the blade at bay, sizing up the newcomer.
Jack didn't even glance at Redfield. His dark eyes swept right past the legendary pirate, locking onto the broken form of Joshua Gibbs lying in the mud.
For a chilling moment, it felt like all the air had been sucked from Jack's lungs.
A gust of sand swirled behind him, forming into Crocodile. Her golden hook was drawn, her eyes scanning the battlefield—taking in Dragon's injuries, Red's pool of blood, and Gibbs' mangled body.
"…Damn," Crocodile muttered softly.
Dragon slowly pushed himself up, leaning against his good leg, wiping blood from his eyes. "You took your sweet time."
Jack didn't respond to Dragon. He stepped past Redfield, his gaze fixed on his first mate.
Gibbs lifted his head slightly, his vision hazy. "Cap'n…?"
Jack's jaw clenched, his teeth grinding so hard that the muscles in his cheek twitched. "What," Jack said, his voice dangerously quiet, "did you do to yourself, Joshua?"
Redfield arched an eyebrow, adjusting his grip on the umbrella. "He decided to stand in my way."
Finally, Jack turned his head, his dark eyes locking onto Redfield's.
There was no bravado, no clever quips—just a menacing darkness that Crocodile had never witnessed in him before.
Redfield held his gaze, completely unfazed. "He fought recklessly for a cause that wasn't even his."
Jack's fingers clenched around the hilt of Wado Ichimonji, his knuckles turning ghostly white. "He's my First Mate."
Gibbs let out a pitiful, bloody wheeze. "Learned it from… the best… Cap'n…"
Jack's eye twitched in irritation. "Keep quiet, Gibbs. You're already in enough trouble."
Crocodile stepped up beside Jack, sand swirling around her shoulders like a living shroud. She glanced at Dragon, then back at Jack. "We take him on together."
Dragon raised his right fist, wind swirling around him once more despite his battered body. "I'm in."
Jack lowered his stance, holding Wado Ichimonji low, the blade glinting in the moonlight.
Patrick Redfield surveyed the three figures before him—the Revolutionary, the Desert King, and the Pirate. A slow, dark smile crept across the Red Count's face.
"So," Redfield purred, lifting his umbrella. "The new era dares to challenge the old."