You ask: Kael could've ended the fight with one Conqueror's-coated slash, so why bother with all those flashy moves?
The answer's simple.
Because it's more fun that way.
Then you ask again: This was a small-time scene. He could've sent his men. Why did he go personally?
Well…
Because Hawkeye went out.
And who knows which swordsman he's out there "enthusiastically crossing blades" with this time.
Alabasta's sky had been cut cleanly into two halves.
On one side was the yellow sandstorm Crocodile took such pride in, savage and violent, the embodiment of natural disaster.
On the other was Kael's black iron tide, summoned with a casual flick, deep and deathly still, the overture to an ending.
The two forces collided, tore at each other, devoured each other in midair.
Iron sand grinding against yellow sand produced a teeth-aching screech, sparks bursting like scattered stars, as if the entire world had become one massive millstone.
At the storm's center, Crocodile's face was bloodless. Cold sweat slid down his temples, soaking his collar.
His beloved home-field advantage, his desert kingdom, had become a joke in front of this man.
Kael could extract something even more destructive from sand itself.
Iron.
What kind of absurd power was this?
Retreat.
He had to retreat.
Crocodile's mind ran wild, calculating every possible escape route.
But Kael looked like he was out for a stroll.
He even had the leisure to extend his hand, feel the icy flow of iron sand sliding between his fingers, smiling like he was enjoying the breeze.
The instant Crocodile's nerves tightened to their limit, Kael vanished from where he stood.
Bad!
Alarm bells screamed in Crocodile's head. Years of battle instinct made him jerk backward at once, throwing up a wall of sand in front of him.
But the attack he expected never came from the front.
A spine-freezing sense of danger exploded from behind.
Crocodile sensed it and snapped his head around.
A hand wrapped in ominous black-red lightning already had his throat in a vice.
It was flesh and blood, yet harder than Seastone.
His prized logia body couldn't slip away.
Strength drained from his limbs, from his bones, from his very breath.
"Ghk…"
Crocodile's eyes bulged, a tortured rasp tearing from his throat.
As his will collapsed, the sky-devouring yellow sandstorm lost its support like a tower with its pillars kicked out, crashing down into a rain of sand that poured from above.
The black iron tide calmed as well, breaking apart into countless tiny grains that sank back into the endless desert as if it had never existed.
The sky returned to a clear, perfect blue.
…
Scene shift.
On an endless sea, an unremarkable little boat bobbed gently with the waves.
Kael lounged on a deck chair, sunglasses on, soaking up the sun, a glass of iced orange juice in hand.
Across from him sat a "mummy" wrapped head to toe in bandages, only his eyes and mouth exposed.
The mummy had a cigar between his lips, expression dark as he blew smoke.
"Smoking while you're injured. Not very well-behaved," Kael drawled, taking a slow sip.
The corner of Crocodile's eye twitched violently.
Why don't you mention who did this to me?!
Yes.
This unlucky mummy was none other than the man who'd been untouchable a moment ago.
Sir Crocodile himself.
After Kael subdued him in a single move, he was "invited" onto this little boat for the return trip.
"After losing to Whitebeard, that one stung, didn't it?"
Kael's lazy voice stabbed right where it hurt, peeling open the one wound Crocodile refused to touch.
Crocodile's lips stiffened around the cigar, his gaze turning razor-dangerous.
Kael didn't care. He kept going.
"When I was young, I lost to him too. Of course, these days I wouldn't go pick a fight on purpose. I'm a new-era pirate who respects the elderly and cherishes the young."
He pulled off his sunglasses, those pure gold eyes landing on Crocodile with amused mockery.
"You're looking for… that thing, aren't you? An Ancient Weapon. Pluton."
Boom.
Those words hit harder than any attack.
Crocodile sat up straight, bandaged eyes locked on Kael, voice rough as sandpaper.
"How… do you know?!"
That secret was the entire reason he'd spent years here.
He'd abandoned his position in the New World, buried himself in this desert, all for this.
It was his greatest trump card.
"Bro, isn't it funny how things line up?" Kael grinned, teeth white. "I just happen to have an archaeologist who can read Poneglyphs."
Crocodile froze solid.
Someone who could read the Poneglyphs?
The sole survivor of Ohara?!
"So give it up now," Kael said, draining the last of his juice. He casually tossed the empty cup into the sea. "Alabasta doesn't have Pluton."
His tone was flat, but the certainty in it left no room for argument.
Because Kael knew it.
Pluton's blueprints were in Water 7 right now.
And the ship itself slept in Wano.
Crocodile fell silent.
His cigar burned down to ash. The ash dropped onto his bandages and he didn't even notice.
A decade-plus of effort.
All for nothing?
A huge wave of emptiness and disorientation swallowed him whole.
Watching that hollow, lost look, Kael crossed one leg over the other and finally tossed out his olive branch.
"Instead of chasing some hazy ancient weapon, why not work for me?"
Crocodile slowly raised his head, a shred of wariness and confusion still in his eyes.
"Full benefits. Bonuses at year end. Food and lodging included," Kael counted on his fingers, dead serious.
"Most importantly, you get to experience the ultimate thrill of stepping on Marineford and punching Mary Geoise."
"How's that? Tempted?"
Kael stood, arms spread wide against the sea wind, grin wild and blazing.
"Pirate King? That title's boring. Besides, I already walked that road with Roger."
"What I'm going to do is become the freest person in this world."
"Go wherever I want. Hit whoever I want."
"I'll make sure there's no rule on this sea that can bind me ever again."
"I am the only rule."
That declaration, arrogant to the extreme, echoed across the wind.
Crocodile stared at the man's back.
His heart began pounding beyond his control.
Overturn the world.
Wasn't that what he'd wanted all along?
He'd chosen Ancient Weapons.
This man chose something far more direct, far more violent, far more audacious.
He would flip the world over with his bare hands.
In front of Kael's grand blueprint, Crocodile's ambition suddenly felt small.
Ridiculous.
So this was the bearing of a true… kingmaker.
The fog in Crocodile's eyes thinned, replaced by a heat even he didn't notice forming.
He lowered his head slowly, hiding the turbulence, and fished out another cigar to light.
Bluish smoke rose, blurring his expression.
After a long time, one low, hoarse sentence squeezed out between his teeth, reluctant yet real.
"Big talk… Boss."
…
"Huh? Are you an idiot?"
"So let me ask you this. Do you even have a clear understanding of your own businesses?"
"Businesses?" Kael thought for a second. "Oh, those. There are too many. I guess? Probably?"
"Probably?!" Crocodile's voice shot up an octave. "Do you know how many berries Sabaody's 'Furnace' moves every day?"
"Do you know how much profit the broadcast rights and merchandise alone generate every month? And that's not even counting how many promising fighters it recruits for you!"
"Oh, Caron handles that. He's doing a good job," Kael nodded, satisfied.
"A good job?" Crocodile's blood pressure spiked. "That's not just good, it's genius-level business design! But what about you?"
"You're the boss, and all you do is lie here sunbathing! Have you ever checked where the money goes? Have you ever made an expansion plan? Any roadmap at all?!"
He jabbed a finger so close it almost poked Kael in the face.
"And then there's the North Blue arms trade, the West Blue underground ports, and several of the most profitable routes in the New World."
"On paper they belong to different forces, but the money flow behind them all points to you."
"With the size of the underworld, with that much turnover, you should have a clear future strategy!"
The more Crocodile talked, the more worked up he got, glaring at Kael like a founder scolding a rich heir who only knew how to waste money.
He couldn't understand it.
In Alabasta he'd seen Kael's godlike power.
On this boat he'd been captivated by Kael's world-flipping madness.
He thought he'd chosen to follow the most terrifying overlord in history.
But what was the truth?
This overlord was a hands-off shopkeeper who knew nothing about his own empire.
A salted fish who only cared about sunbathing and orange juice.
That whiplash nearly shattered the "loyalty" Crocodile had just built, replacing it with a ridiculous urge to scream.
Faced with Crocodile's roar, Kael only yawned and waved a hand lazily.
"Ugh, what a hassle."
"Just leave that stuff to Caron. He's capable. And if that's still not enough…"
Kael tilted his head, as if trying to remember how many employees he had.
"…then there's Doflamingo."
"Doflamingo?"
Crocodile repeated the name without thinking. It sounded familiar.
Then his mind got struck by lightning.
Dofla… mingo?!
JOKER?!
That man who sat at the center of the underworld, known as the embodiment of evil, feared even by the Marines, arrogant to the bone.
The Heavenly Yaksha, Donquixote Doflamingo?!
Crocodile's eyes widened bit by bit. His mouth fell open. The cigar slipped from his lips and clattered onto the deck.
He stared at Kael, lips trembling, unable to force out a single word.
"N… no way…"
"Doflamingo is your man too?!"