I'm being slaughtered!
Panic clawed at Dolan' throat as he prepared to abandon all pretense of pride and scream for help. His combat experience, years of survival in the treacherous waters of the East Blue, had proven utterly useless against this madman's impossible fighting style.
The wild swordsman moved with a fluidity that defied human anatomy, his massive blade carving through the air as if it weighed nothing at all. Each attack came from angles that shouldn't have been physically possible, following trajectories that Dolan' battle-hardened instincts couldn't predict or counter.
The enormous sword, which should have been unwieldy in any normal warrior's hands, flowed like liquid mercury under this madman's control. Watching him fight was like witnessing a force of nature that had somehow learned to wield steel.
SLASH!
Crimson erupted across Dolan' chest as the massive blade carved a diagonal furrow from shoulder to waist. The sheer impact sent him tumbling backward, his enhanced durability the only thing preventing the strike from cleaving him completely in half. Blood sprayed from his mouth as he crashed to the rocky ground, his vision swimming with pain and shock.
The metallic taste of his own blood filled his mouth as he struggled to remain conscious. Each breath sent fresh waves of agony through his torn chest, while his demonic healing abilities fought desperately to seal wounds that threatened to bleed him dry.
As a veteran pirate, Dolan had always understood the harsh realities of life on the seas. This ocean spawned monsters with terrifying regularity, gifted individuals whose natural talents bordered on the supernatural. Most of these freaks never bothered with traditional piracy, content to remain hidden in remote corners of the world. But when they did emerge to chase their ambitions, they inevitably overshadowed veterans who had spent decades building their reputations through blood and sweat.
Newcomers always surpassed the old guard. That was the immutable law of the pirate world.
Captain Oboro had explained this phenomenon during one of their training sessions. "The sea doesn't lack for genius," he'd said with characteristic insight. "Talent erupts from every corner like mushrooms after rain, as constant as the tides themselves. What the ocean truly lacks are visionaries, individuals who can identify their ultimate goals and pursue them with unwavering determination."
At the time, Dolan hadn't fully grasped the distinction. But facing this wild swordsman, the truth crystallized with brutal clarity. This madman possessed exactly the kind of raw talent that separated legends from footnotes in history. Whether he was technically a pirate or not was irrelevant, he embodied the fundamental unfairness that defined their world.
Despite Oboro's enhancement cards granting him supernatural abilities, despite his demonic transformation elevating him far beyond his original limitations, this bastard was still stronger.
"Help..." Dolan whispered, his voice barely audible as consciousness began slipping away.
He should have swallowed his pride earlier. Should have called for assistance the moment he realized how outclassed he was. Now blood pooled beneath his broken form while his killer loomed overhead like a harbinger of death.
The wild swordsman raised his massive blade high, afternoon sunlight gleaming off its steel edge as gravity prepared to deliver the killing blow. Beneath his tangled hair, the madman's lips curved into a predatory grin that promised a brutal end.
CLANG!
Just as death seemed inevitable, a familiar shadow materialized between them. Dom's Nichirin blade intercepted the descending strike with precise timing, though the tremendous force behind the blow made his arms tremble with strain.
After engaging the enemy directly, Dom immediately understood why Dolan had been so thoroughly overwhelmed. This wild swordsman's physical capabilities exceeded anything they'd encountered during their North Blue campaign. Even blocking a single attack required every ounce of his enhanced strength.
Without hesitation, Dom grabbed the wounded Dolan and vanished from their current position, his spatial manipulation abilities carrying them to safety dozens of meters away. The sudden disappearance caught the madman off-guard, his devastating strike finding only empty air where his victims had been standing.
"No point in running," the wild swordsman called out with mocking laughter, his pupils gleaming with bloodthirsty anticipation beneath his disheveled hair. "Soon enough, you'll be lying right beside him."
But before he could finish his taunt, Dom had already disappeared again.
The madman's expression grew more serious as he scanned left and right, searching for any sign of his elusive opponent. His enhanced senses tracked movement through the battlefield debris, but the bandaged figure seemed capable of materializing from thin air.
A sharp sting across his throat announced Dom's successful approach. The Nichirin blade had found its mark, carving a thin line through skin and drawing first blood from the seemingly invincible warrior.
The madman's reflexes proved extraordinary, his massive hand snapped toward the weapon with inhuman speed, attempting to catch the blade with his bare fingers. But Dom had already anticipated such a response, using his superior mobility to fade back into the shadows before the counterattack could connect.
"You're more worthy prey than that weakling," the swordsman purred, touching the blood that trickled down his neck. His shoulders trembled with excitement as battle-lust consumed his features. "I'm going to enjoy carving you apart."
What followed was a deadly dance between opposing philosophies. Dom relied on the technical prowess that Oboro had drilled into him, precise footwork, calculated strikes, and strategic positioning that maximized his advantages while minimizing risk. His enhanced speed allowed him to dart in and out of the madman's reach, inflicting accumulating damage through surgical precision rather than overwhelming force.
The wild swordsman fought like a primal force given human form. His attacks flowed from pure instinct and murderous intuition, each strike carrying enough power to split boulders. The massive blade swept through the air in devastating arcs that left craters wherever they struck, chasing Dom's afterimages with relentless aggression.
Dom's strategy focused on attrition rather than decisive confrontation. Each engagement left fresh wounds across the madman's body, puncture wounds that wept crimson, slashing cuts that should have slowed any normal opponent. But instead of weakening, the wild swordsman seemed to grow stronger with each injury, his battle-fury transforming pain into fuel for even more ferocious attacks.
This bastard's will is incredible, Dom noted with grudging admiration, watching blood soak through the madman's tattered clothing. He should have collapsed minutes ago, but he's still fighting like a berserker.
Part of Dom wanted to unleash his spatial manipulation abilities and end this confrontation quickly. His dimensional portals could bypass the swordsman's defenses entirely, allowing for a killing strike that no amount of skill or determination could counter.
But revealing such capabilities in front of witnesses would immediately expose his true identity. After maintaining their cover for nearly a year, compromising their operations for the sake of a single battle seemed foolishly short-sighted.
"Enough!"
Oboro's voice cut through the clashing steel, his calm authority bringing both combatants to a momentary halt.
The Hell Pirates' captain had been observing the confrontation with analytical interest, using it as a practical lesson for his subordinates. Dom and Dolan needed to understand that the seas teemed with dangerous individuals whose capabilities defied conventional measurement.
This world bred perverts, monsters, lunatics, and Devil Fruit users with disturbing regularity. Even Oboro's enhancement cards, powerful as they were, primarily raised their lower limits rather than guaranteeing supremacy over every potential opponent.
Many of the legendary figures who currently dominated the Grand Line and New World had originated from these supposedly "peaceful" Four Blues. When Blackbeard Teach eventually formed his crew through recruitment from these waters, those seemingly insignificant pirates would prove capable of establishing themselves among the New World's apex predators.
The "rookie paradise" designation was a convenient simplification, not an absolute truth. As Biscuit had once observed, the best raw materials could be found everywhere, what mattered was having the vision to recognize and cultivate exceptional talent.
As Oboro approached the battlefield, the wild swordsman suddenly shifted targets with predatory instinct. His enhanced senses had identified the true threat among the Hell Pirates, recognizing leadership hierarchy through mechanisms that transcended conscious analysis.
The ground exploded beneath his feet as he launched himself forward with berserker fury. His massive frame moved like a hunting lion, muscles coiling and releasing with devastating efficiency as he closed the distance to his new prey.
The raised sword blocked the afternoon sunlight, casting ominous shadows across Oboro's immaculate form. Beneath his tangled hair, the madman's face twisted into a feral grin that promised swift and brutal death.
In the distance, Dom realized the enemy's intentions and reluctantly sheathed his Nichirin blade. There was no point in continuing their engagement now.
"No wonder your kingdom was losing this war," Oboro observed conversationally, seemingly oblivious to the massive blade descending toward his skull. "Interstate conflicts aren't determined solely by arms shipments and troop numbers. The most crucial factor is 'vanguard power', exceptional individuals who can single-handedly influence battlefield outcomes."
His tone remained casual and academic, as if he were delivering a lecture rather than facing imminent death.
"Most nations lack access to such individuals, either because they can't identify them or because they lack the resources to retain their services. Germa's technological advantages allow them to mass-produce elite warriors while creating true vanguards through artificial enhancement. In conflicts of this scale, even elite soldiers remain minorities."
The massive blade suddenly froze mere inches above Oboro's head, as if caught by invisible chains. Despite the madman's straining muscles and bulging blood vessels, the weapon refused to descend even a hairsbreadth further.
Compressed air, invisible qi drawn from the surrounding atmosphere, held the steel in an unbreakable grip.
Without moving so much as a finger, Oboro met the wild swordsman's gaze with calm assessment. The airflow around the madman's body began compressing with increasing intensity, slowly deforming his limbs and torso as supernatural pressure built toward critical thresholds.
Blood began seeping from the warrior's eyes and nostrils as his circulatory system buckled under forces that transcended normal understanding. Yet even facing inevitable death, the madman's lips curved into that same insane grin, crimson staining his teeth as he stared into oblivion without a trace of fear.
"Impressive," Oboro murmured, stepping closer until their faces were mere inches apart.
The wild swordsman's unflinching courage in the face of overwhelming power reminded him of old acquaintances, specifically, the members of the Phantom Troupe, whose casual relationship with mortality had defined their every interaction.
"What's your name?" Oboro asked with genuine curiosity.
"For someone like you, national allegiance is just another set of shackles," he continued, his enhanced perception reading the warrior's fundamental nature with crystalline clarity. "You're using this war as an excuse to indulge your bloodlust, aren't you? The politics and territorial disputes are irrelevant, you simply want to fight and kill without consequence."
The assessment was delivered without judgment, simple recognition of a kindred spirit who had found purpose through violence.
"The darkness I sense in you reminds me of some old friends," Oboro smiled with genuine warmth. "People who understood that traditional morality was just another weakness to be discarded."
In this wild swordsman's eyes, he glimpsed the same fundamental truth that had driven the Phantom Troupe's greatest members, the recognition that strength was the only law that mattered, and that everything else was simply elaborate self-deception.
"Would you like to join my crew?"