"Who are they?"
The question rippled through the enemy ranks like wildfire as the tide of battle shifted dramatically with the arrival of three new combatants. What had moments before been a balanced engagement between two armies suddenly transformed into a nightmarish display of one-sided slaughter.
The soldiers of the opposing kingdom watched in mounting horror as three distinct zones of devastation carved through their carefully maintained formations. Each area told its own story of supernatural violence that defied everything they understood about conventional warfare.
On the left flank, a ghostly figure weaved through their ranks with inhuman speed, his form flickering between positions like smoke given deadly purpose. Every soldier touched by his passage collapsed with identical wounds, throats opened by cuts so precise they seemed almost surgical in their execution. The mysterious warrior moved with the fluid grace of a phantom, his Nichirin blade catching the battlefield's fires as it traced deadly arcs through armor and flesh with equal ease.
The right side presented a different nightmare entirely. There, a towering figure with pale features and unnaturally sharp teeth carved through their forces with the raw brutality of a force of nature. Adults weighing hundreds of pounds, seasoned warriors built like fortress walls, were lifted and manipulated like children's toys in his massive hands. With savage laughter echoing across the battlefield, he would seize the nearest soldier and hurl the body like a projectile, bowling over entire squads of twenty or thirty men with each gruesome throw.
Bullets that found their mark barely slowed his advance, while sword cuts that should have been crippling merely drew thin lines of blood that seemed to close almost as quickly as they appeared. His demonic transformation had granted him capabilities that transcended human limitations, turning what should have been desperate combat into a predator's feast.
But the most terrifying spectacle unfolded in the center, where a figure in an immaculate black suit strolled through the chaos with the casual confidence of someone taking an evening walk through peaceful gardens. Oboro's appearance was so incongruous with the surrounding violence that witnessing it created a kind of cognitive dissonance that paralyzed rational thought.
Countless soldiers converged on his position with drawn weapons and murder in their hearts, but before they could close even half the distance, they simply collapsed unconscious, as if some invisible force had drained the strength from their bodies. His Conqueror's Haki washed over the weaker-willed combatants in controlled waves, leaving trails of senseless forms in his wake.
When he raised his hand in a casual pistol gesture, reality itself seemed to bend around his fingertip. The extremely compressed air that gathered there created visible distortions in the atmosphere, pressure differentials so intense that nearby soldiers struggled to breathe. When he released each technique with motions as casual as firing an actual weapon, rapid streams of concentrated force carved through enemy formations like invisible artillery shells.
Bodies dismembered by the dozens as his air-based attacks exploded among the packed ranks, spraying blood and viscera across the battlefield in patterns that painted the earth crimson. The compressed gas detonated with enough force to send entire squads flying, their broken forms scattered like leaves in a hurricane.
To call him a "war machine" would have been inadequate, Oboro represented something closer to a natural disaster given human form.
"They are not mercenaries," one enemy officer gasped, studying the carnage with the desperate analysis of someone seeking any tactical advantage. "There are numerous criminal organizations that sell their services throughout the North Blue's conflicts. Most maintain standardized uniforms or insignia for identification purposes..."
His voice trailed off as the implications crystallized in his mind.
"Besides, there are only three of them!"
"They are pirates," another confirmed with dawning horror.
The realization sent ice through the veins of every surviving leader. Pirates of this caliber didn't simply appear on random battlefields, their presence here suggested forces at work that transcended simple territorial disputes. Whoever had hired these monsters possessed resources and connections that dwarfed anything their own kingdom could field.
"No, retreat immediately! If this continues, everyone will die here!" the senior commander shouted, his voice cracking with barely controlled panic.
"Yurivich!"
But even as the retreat order was being given, one of the subordinate officers broke ranks entirely. The man charged directly toward the nearest Hell Pirate with his sword raised high, completely ignoring his comrades' desperate attempts to restrain him.
This warrior possessed the distinctive build of a career soldier, disheveled hair framing features marked by countless battles, muscular arms that spoke to years of weapons training, and eyes that burned with the kind of fanatical excitement that marked men who had nothing left to lose.
"Damn it, leave him!" the other leaders cursed, recognizing that delay would only increase their casualties.
They immediately issued general retreat signals, the distinctive sound of military horns cutting through the battlefield's din as organized formations began collapsing into desperate flight.
Every passing moment brought fresh waves of death as the Hell Pirates continued their systematic destruction of anything within reach. Panic spread through the enemy ranks like a plague, transforming disciplined soldiers into a mob of terrified individuals seeking any path to safety.
Soon, thousands of surviving troops streamed toward the coastline where their transport vessels waited at anchor. The exodus resembled a rout more than a tactical withdrawal, though the distinction mattered little to those fleeing for their lives.
"Want to leave? Hehe!"
On the battlefield's eastern edge, Dolan reveled in the intoxicating rush of supernatural power flowing through his transformed physiology. His enhanced senses tracked every fleeing figure with predatory precision, while his demonic strength made conventional resistance meaningless.
He understood his position within the Hell Pirates' hierarchy perfectly, the newest member, barely tolerated by their enigmatic captain, holding status far below Dom's trusted role. But this represented opportunity rather than limitation. The crew remained in its formative stages, and veteran members who proved their worth now would inevitably claim high-ranking positions as the organization expanded.
Even though he'd been nothing more than an insignificant East Blue pirate before his transformation, the power coursing through his veins demanded that he demonstrate his value at every opportunity. Glory on the battlefield would translate directly into respect aboard their ship, provided he could survive to enjoy the benefits.
Spotting a fleeing enemy officer whose ornate armor marked him as valuable prey, Dolan burst forward with inhuman speed. His massive hand closed around the man's head like a vice, powerful fingers beginning to apply pressure that would crush bone and brain matter with equal ease.
But in that moment of anticipated triumph, cold steel flashed before his eyes with deadly precision.
Combat instincts saved his life, forcing him to release his victim and throw himself backward just as a massive blade carved through the space his head had occupied mere milliseconds before. Even with his supernatural reflexes, the weapon's edge managed to score the back of his hand, nearly severing several fingers in a spray of crimson.
Dolan retreated rapidly, his enhanced vision finally processing the threat that had materialized from nowhere.
The figure standing before him defied easy categorization. Tattered clothing hung from a frame that suggested both malnutrition and extraordinary conditioning, while long hair that hadn't seen soap in weeks created a wild mane around features twisted by some internal madness.
But what truly captured Dolan' attention was the weapon in his opponent's grasp, a blade that seemed to mock conventional understanding of swordsmanship. Nearly two meters in length and thick enough to serve as a club, the massive sword should have been too unwieldy for any human to wield effectively. Yet this wild man had swung it with the speed and precision of a rapier.
The contradiction between the weapon's brutal appearance and its wielder's obvious skill created a tactical puzzle that set warning bells ringing in Dolan' enhanced mind.
"Interesting," he muttered, recognizing genuine danger when he encountered it.
Retreat wasn't an option. The battlefield around them had largely emptied as the enemy completed their withdrawal, leaving only corpses and the occasional wounded soldier struggling toward safety. This meant both Oboro and Dom would inevitably notice this confrontation, and any display of cowardice would damage his standing within the crew far more than physical injury.
Better to risk death fighting than guarantee irrelevance through retreat.
Swish!
The wild swordsman launched himself forward with the fluid grace of a hunting predator, his massive blade cutting through the air with impossible speed. His movement style bore no resemblance to formal martial arts, instead, he flowed across the battlefield like some primal force given physical form.
Dolan barely managed to duck beneath the horizontal slash that would have decapitated him, his enhanced reflexes pushing his transformed body to its limits. Even so, several locks of hair drifted to the ground as the blade's edge passed mere centimeters from his scalp.
"This guy!" Dolan snarled, shock and rage warring in his voice.
Despite his demonic transformation granting him supernatural speed and reaction time, he had barely perceived the attack until it was already in motion. The realization was profoundly disturbing, if that strike had connected, his enhanced durability might not have been sufficient to prevent serious injury.
His opponent's body slid across the ground with predatory grace, one hand thrust into the earth to control his momentum while maintaining perfect balance. The wild man's posture resembled that of a great cat preparing to pounce, one arm raised high with his massive blade, the other providing leverage as his body coiled for another strike.
Most unsettling was the seamless transition from failed attack to renewed assault. What should have been a moment of vulnerability as inertia carried him past his target instead became preparation for an even more ferocious counter-attack.
The massive sword swept toward Dolan' position with enough force to cleave him in half, its wielder's eyes burning with predatory satisfaction.
Some distance away, Oboro observed the enemy retreat without making any effort to pursue the fleeing soldiers. Such intervention would serve no strategic purpose, the key to victory in this conflict lay in capturing territory rather than maximizing casualties.
These troops represented merely the vanguard of their opponent's forces, sent to probe Scan's defenses and establish forward positions. The real campaign would begin in earnest once Scan stabilized their territorial control and launched counter-invasions against enemy islands.
In the North Blue's complex political landscape, the Kingdom of Scan commanded respectable military resources. Across the Four Blues, countless nations possessed far smaller armies or weaker defensive capabilities. Some territories could be conquered by even modest pirate crews through simple application of overwhelming force.
Of course, this assessment applied only to smaller countries and isolated territories. Established kingdoms with deep historical roots or significant backing from major powers represented entirely different categories of challenge.
The soldiers of Scan cheered their unexpected salvation, though most remained fixated on Oboro's casual display of devastating power. The scope of destruction he'd accomplished through simple gestures exceeded anything in their military experience.
"Hmm?"
Oboro's enhanced perception detected the ongoing confrontation between Dolan and the wild swordsman, his analytical mind immediately assessing the tactical situation.
"King," Dom appeared beside him in a blur of motion, his clothing splattered with enemy blood but his breathing steady despite the extended combat.
Both Hell Pirates studied the fierce engagement unfolding nearby. Dolan was clearly losing ground, his wounds accumulating faster than his enhanced healing could compensate. The pattern suggested he would be overwhelmed within minutes unless circumstances changed dramatically.
"What do you sense from that opponent?" Oboro asked, his tone carrying genuine curiosity.
"Very powerful," Dom replied without hesitation, his enhanced perception cataloguing details that ordinary observers would miss.
The wild swordsman's physical capabilities were extraordinary, his massive weapon moved as if it weighed nothing, while his body flowed through combat positions with the grace of a natural predator. More significantly, his fighting style bore no resemblance to formal martial arts traditions. Instead, he moved like a humanoid lion or leopard that had somehow learned to wield a blade.
His limbs coordinated with supernatural precision, executing movements that seemed to defy human anatomical limitations. The overall impression was of a predator hunting prey rather than a warrior engaging in combat.
Additionally, the man wore nothing but tattered rags, his feet bare despite the rocky battlefield. Everything about his appearance suggested a refugee or vagrant rather than a professional soldier.
"Save him," Oboro commanded, his decision made after brief consideration.
"Yes," Dom acknowledged, already moving toward the confrontation with lethal intent.
The Hell Pirates had claimed their first victory in the Kingdom of Scan's war, but the battle had also revealed new variables that would complicate their future operations. In the North Blue's chaotic environment, every conflict seemed to spawn additional challenges that tested their growing organization's capabilities.
The wild swordsman represented exactly the kind of unpredictable element that could either strengthen their crew or destroy everything they'd worked to build. Only time would reveal which outcome awaited them in the bloody crucible of the North Blue's endless warfare.