Brook stepped past Jerry, his usual laughing demeanor gone, replaced by a grim seriousness. "I don't know if I can do it," he said, his voice low. "But for years, I have done nothing but train and push myself, all for the sake of defeating you."
Ryoma, however, was unimpressed by Brook's so-called training. He sneered, intent on reopening old wounds. "What's this? You wish to challenge me now?" he taunted. "Are you going to start screaming 'Don't touch my afro!' and beg for mercy again, just like last time?"
Brook flinched. The afro was everything to him—a precious, meaningful link to a past he could never reclaim.
Ryoma pressed his advantage, his voice dripping with contempt. "Haha, as long as you still care about that ridiculous hairstyle, you will never defeat me. A warrior with such an obvious flaw is no warrior at all."
Even knowing it was his greatest weakness, Brook was helpless. He couldn't simply stand by and watch the last remnant of his former life be destroyed. "As my shadow, you should understand the significance of these hairs," he questioned softly, drawing on their shared memories. "How could you have the heart to harm them?"
"As your shadow? That is a thing of the past," Ryoma declared coldly. "My master now is Lord Moria." Once a shadow is bound by a new contract, its loyalty is absolute.
"In that case," Brook said, his resolve hardening, "there is nothing more to say. I will defeat you and take back my shadow."
"Come, then," Ryoma challenged without fear.
In the blink of an eye, the two men drew their swords and clashed, their blades ringing out dozens of times in a flurry of steel. They used the exact same fencing techniques, but Brook was quickly being forced onto the defensive. It wasn't a flaw in his form, but a simple, brutal reality: while his skeleton body was light, it lacked the muscle and raw power of Ryoma's original, legendary physique. Even if Brook parried an attack perfectly, the force behind Ryoma's blows sent him staggering back.
"Yohoho, so you have gotten stronger?" Ryoma mocked. "It's hardly noticeable. I am your shadow, which means I know exactly how your strength has grown. You will never surpass me!"
The samurai zombie dealt with Brook's assault with ease. From the sidelines, Jerry could see the problem clearly. It wasn't just the psychological weakness of the afro; it was the vast difference in their physical attributes. Ryoma's body was that of the legendary dragon-slaying warrior of Wano. Even as a corpse hundreds of years old, it was immensely more powerful than Brook's frame of bare bones.
After another fierce exchange, Brook was sent flying. Ryoma felt the duel was nearing its end. "You are a complete mess. It seems it is time I destroy you for good, so you will never again attempt to reclaim what is mine." He looked down at the fallen skeleton, leisurely waiting for him to rise. "Next, I will use our most prideful technique to finish you: Three-Verse Humming: Arrow-Notch Slash."
"You… you understand nothing!" Brook screamed, his voice filled with a raw, pained fury. "Don't you dare speak the name of that move in front of me! You've forgotten all my feelings, all my past! You have no right!" The move clearly carried immense emotional weight for him. He struggled to his feet and pointed his sword at his foe.
Ryoma simply chuckled, taking the same stance. "Yohohoho. If you wish me to be silent, then come and shatter this technique. Defeat me. Don't say I didn't give you the chance."
Brook fell silent, a look of grim determination hardening his face.
"Three-Verse Humming: Arrow-Notch Slash!"
As Ryoma and Brook charged at each other simultaneously, their ultimate techniques about to collide, Jerry's eyes flashed. He was done being a spectator. Like a phantom, he appeared between the two combatants. At the critical moment, his right hand, coated in the glossy, black sheen of Armament Haki, shot out and effortlessly blocked Ryoma's blade, halting the duel instantly.
"That's enough, Brook," Jerry said gently. "You still can't defeat him right now. The difference in physical power is just too great."
Looking down at the fresh tear in his clothes from where Ryoma's attack had partially broken through his own, Brook knew he had lost. "Yes… I am too weak," he said dejectedly. "Otherwise… I would have been able to fulfill that promise." He looked up at his friend. "Thank you, Mr. Jerry."
Ryoma leaped back, chuckling. "Yohoho, so the oppressive presence I felt from you at the start was no illusion after all."
Jerry helped Brook to the side, letting him rest against the wall. Then he stood, drew the Supreme-Grade Fishing Rod from his back, and faced the samurai. "Brook, you rest up. Leave the rest to me."
Covered in sword wounds, his bones aching, Brook simply nodded, too exhausted to refuse. Jerry turned his full attention to Ryoma.
"Now, your opponent is me."
"Yohoho, coming to the aid of that worthless afro?" Ryoma taunted, but his posture grew more serious. "You seem quite strong. It has been a long time since I have faced a worthy battle. I am truly excited!" With that, he flew forward. "Revolutionary Dance: Forward Dance!"
Facing the rapid thrusting attack, Jerry met the blade with his fishing rod, muttering a nonsensical move name under his breath. The clash of a legendary sword and a fishing rod echoed through the hall, and neither man gave an inch. Seeing he had no advantage in strength, Ryoma quickly changed tactics.
"Night Song: Stab!"
Jerry flicked his rod upward, deflecting the sword tip aimed at his chest. The redirected sword energy blasted a hole in the wall above them.
"Eh? Is my own straight thrust that powerful!?" Brook exclaimed from the sidelines, his eye sockets wide. He'd never seen the move used with such destructive force.
"My, my," Jerry commented, a grin on his face. "Even after being dead for so many years, you've still got some kick."
"Of course," Ryoma replied, taking a few steps back after the powerful deflection. "But you are far more capable than that afro-headed weakling." He didn't miss the chance to throw a verbal jab at the spectating skeleton. Then, he swung his sword, his voice booming. "Come! Let us end this!"
Seeing Ryoma's resolute stance, Jerry's expression grew serious. This was a sign of respect for a legendary swordsman. He would answer in kind.
"Three-Verse Humming: Arrow-Notch Slash!"
Ryoma unleashed his special skill once more. To Brook's wide, empty eyes, the zombie's aura exploded, his figure blurring as he rushed forward in an instant.
Jerry's expression remained unchanged. He took a single step, his own body rocketing toward his opponent like lightning. He held his fishing rod tightly with both hands as a faint, shimmering light coated the pole.
"Water Blade: Sky-Render!"
Combining the principles of the Tempest Kick with a high-pressure water blade, Jerry unleashed a gigantic, 180-degree slash that seemed sharp enough to cleave the world in two. Ryoma's full-power attack, several times stronger than the one he'd used against Brook, was instantly shattered. In a flash, the powerful arc of water sliced through the zombie's rotten corpse and the entire wall behind him, nearly cutting the building in half.
The mansion groaned, threatening to collapse, but stubbornly remained standing, though now with one wall completely sheared off.
Seeing Brook's dumbfounded expression, Jerry stowed his fishing rod, glanced at the precarious roof, and whispered, "Oops… I think I used a little too much force. Oh well."
Before the two halves of Ryoma's body could even hit the floor, Jerry moved like a gust of wind, scooped a handful of salt from Brook's pouch, and stuffed it into the mouth of the bisected corpse.
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