The vast ocean stretched endlessly, where for the truly elite, Admiral-level strength was merely the threshold of entry into the world's highest stage.
Darren knew well that within the World Government's inner circle—the CP0 and the Knights of God—there were surely several individuals of Admiral-level combat power.
Even so, that realm remained a distant dream for countless souls across the seas.
To reach the level of an Admiral was to gain the foundation to stand tall in this world—to command one's destiny rather than be swept along by it.
In Darren's estimation, Momonga already possessed the potential to reach that realm. With steady growth and focused training, his advancement was inevitable.
Blessed with the Rumble–Rumble Fruit's speed and versatility, Momonga would be virtually untouchable in aerial combat—so long as he avoided ambushes from equals or reckless battles against those of legendary class.
That realization eased Darren's mind.
To challenge the World Government, he had too many irons in the fire. He couldn't remain tethered to the North Blue Fleet, overseeing drills, logistics, and defense day and night.
Most of the time, Darren was out there stirring up chaos, while Momonga—steady and capable—handled the fleet's internal command, ensuring that the North Blue's greatest weapon never faltered.
Aside from his ability to recharge the fleet's power, this separation was also the most rational and secure strategy.
The further Darren ranged from the fleet, the more havoc he caused, the safer the fleet became, hidden high above the clouds.
And the reverse held true as well: the more invisible the fleet's movements remained, the greater its deterrence.
Their mere existence would keep the Government and other factions in check, fearing a strike that could come from anywhere, anytime.
That balance allowed Darren to act more boldly, to drag the world into deeper disarray.
For both him and the North Blue Fleet, operating separately was ideal.
But it wasn't without risk. The fleet might serve as a symbol of absolute deterrence, yet it had no proper defense against enemies capable of flight. Once located, even a single Admiral-level fighter could wreak devastation across its ranks.
That had always been Darren's greatest concern.
Now, though, things were different.
With Momonga's strength nearing Admiral class—and paired with the Rumble–Rumble Fruit's aerial dominance—only a handful of beings on the Grand Line could threaten him.
At last, Darren could breathe easy.
"Only a madman like you could think like that," Momonga said, shaking his head with a faint smile.
"The Celestial Dragons—those gods the world trembles before—you see them as nothing more than grindstones for your own blade."
"You don't fear authority, or even systems themselves. Sometimes I wonder if you're from this world at all."
Darren smiled lightly. "I just refuse to let anyone stand on my neck."
"The will to be free will never die."
Something flickered in Momonga's expression. "Including me, nearly seventy officers in our twenty thousand-strong fleet have awakened Conqueror's Haki," he said.
Darren frowned. "Less than one percent? Hmph… so few born with the qualifications for a king's will."
The North Blue Fleet's recruitment standards were harsher than the Marines' own. Only those who survived multiple screenings and the brutal trials of the 321st Branch were admitted into the Flying Fleet's elite corps.
Each member was already one in a hundred.
And yet, even among these prodigies, fewer than a hundred had awakened their Haki—even after enduring the trauma of striking down Celestial Dragons.
The ratio was startlingly low.
"That's already insane!" Momonga shot back. "Awakening Conqueror's Haki is one in a million!"
Darren chuckled. "Maybe elsewhere. But in the New World, kings are as common as carp swimming upstream."
Momonga sighed. "You really don't know when to stop."
"I've already placed them in key positions and set their training schedules," Darren said. "Now it's just a matter of waiting."
Cultivation took time. To shape a true powerhouse often required three to five years at minimum—sometimes decades.
Most great figures reached their peak between thirty and forty, maintaining their might until age or death claimed them.
Roger, Whitebeard, Golden Lion… even Sengoku, Zephyr, and Garp—each followed the same pattern.
Of course, there were exceptions—like the Sun God Nika, who reached the summit after just two and a half years of training.
"By the way," Darren asked, "did you notice anything unusual inside Pangaea Castle?"
At once, Momonga's expression darkened.
"Deep inside that place," he said quietly, "I sensed something…"
The memory alone brought a sheen of sweat to his brow—a suffocating, godlike presence that seemed to peer into his soul.
"That place holds a power beyond imagination."
Darren's eyes narrowed. "So, you attacked it?"
"I did," Momonga admitted grimly. "I unleashed my strongest strike… but it was useless."
"Useless?"
"Kong intercepted it." Momonga's voice was low. "With a single punch, he shattered my lightning and sent me flying. I was injured."
Darren paused, realization dawning. Slowly, he exhaled. "I see… Then we owe that old man our thanks."
Momonga nodded silently.
He knew full well—had Kong not stopped him, whatever lurked in that abyss beneath Pangaea Castle would have ended his life without a trace.
Even with the Rumble–Rumble Fruit's speed, Momonga had no doubt: if that being had acted, escape would have been impossible.
To be continued...