Chapter 4: A Sudden Killing Intent
On the God Valley coastline, the silhouettes of the warships were faint in the distance. The horns continued to blare; there wasn't much time left for the Marine evacuation.
Derick stared at Garon's back, his shoulders tensing slightly as his right hand quietly slid toward the flintlock pistol at his waist.
His knuckles turned white from the force of his grip, the veins on the back of his hand bulging.
"Let's go, Warrant Officer," Garon said flatly. "The evacuation window is closing."
He had, in fact, noticed the look of raw greed Derick had shown moments ago. But Derick was, by nature, a greedy man. It was only normal for him to have that kind of reaction after seeing the fine sword Garon carried.
He couldn't be bothered to overthink it. Besides, if they didn't get off the island soon, the World Government was going to erase it from the map.
Garon took a step forward, but Derick remained rooted to the spot. Sensing that the man behind him hadn't moved, Garon instinctively looked back. His gaze fell on Derick's rigid posture, and a strange, discordant feeling welled up in his heart.
"Something's wrong!"
The thought had barely flashed through his mind when Derick drew his pistol. The motion was so fast it was almost an afterimage.
The sun glinted blindingly off the steel barrel. The dark, hollow muzzle was aimed directly at Garon's heart and head.
"BANG! BANG!"
Two deafening gunshots tore through the silence of the coast.
Garon's pupils constricted violently. Time itself seemed to freeze. He watched, wide-eyed, as the lead bullets spiraled toward him, utterly unable to react in time.
The instant the bullets should have torn through his chest, Garon—still not fully accustomed to his new identity as a Logia user—instinctively squeezed his eyes shut.
But the agonizing pain he expected never came. In its place, there was only a bizarre, vibratory sensation.
He looked down in bewilderment. He found that his chest and his forehead were rippling like the surface of water. The bullets had passed through him as if he were made of air, completely unhindered, kicking up small puffs of dust in the sand behind him.
"This..." Garon blankly touched his chest. The flesh beneath his hand was perfectly intact. Only the air where the bullet holes should have been shimmered with faint, vibrational waves.
On the other side, Derick's expression was frozen solid. His lips trembled uncontrollably, and the hand holding the pistol began to shake.
"Garon, you... You ate a Devil Fruit?!" His voice was laced with a disbelieving tremor, as if he was staring at his worst nightmare made real.
Garon slowly raised his head. The sea breeze whipped the hair away from his face, revealing eyes that were rapidly turning to ice. The initial shock had faded, replaced by a chillingly profound calm.
"Warrant Officer." His voice was soft, yet it cut like a blade. Every word landed with a heavy, leaden weight. "Were you trying to kill me?"
Derick's face instantly paled, cold sweat trickling down his temples.
But in an instant, that fear was replaced by a savage snarl. His features twisted into an ugly mask, his eyes flashing with a desperate, crazy killing intent.
"Damned little brat!" he shrieked hysterically, his finger mashing the trigger again and again. "BANG! BANG! BANG!"
A series of gunshots exploded across the coastline, frightening a flock of sea birds into the air.
The bullets howled as they tore through Garon's body—his chest, his arms, even his head. But just like before, every single one passed through him as if he were a phantom, leaving only the faintest ripple of vibration in the air.
Garon stood his ground, motionless. He watched Derick with a blank expression. His body had taken on a translucent quality in the sunlight, as if it were composed of countless, trembling particles.
As the last bullet passed straight through his brow, he didn't even blink.
"A Logia..." As a branch Warrant Officer, Derick naturally knew about Devil Fruits.
The moment he realized he couldn't kill Garon, his hand began to tremble so violently that the flintlock "clattered" to the sand.
Garon didn't answer.
Instead, he took a step. The sand beneath his feet, stirred by his own subconscious anger, began to vibrate silently, scattering away from him as if in fear.
Then a second step. A third.
With every step Garon took, Derick was forced to stumble backward, until his back slammed hard against a reef.
"Wait! Garon!!" Derick scrambled, his eyes nearly bursting with terror as he used both his hands and feet to crab-walk backward on the sand.
"Garon! Wait! It's a misunderstanding!" he pleaded, waving his hands frantically, the muscles in his face twitching uncontrollably. "I just... I was just trying to check your condition!"
"My condition." Garon continued to advance, his expression terrifyingly placid.
"Those last few shots..." he said softly, lightly touching his own forehead. "They didn't seem to have 'leaving me alive' as the goal."
Derick's face was ashen. He suddenly broke down, roaring in a torrent of rage and fear. "You were supposed to die on the battlefield at God Valley! Your death benefit... that money was enough for me to go back to West Blue and get another promotion!"
His voice was as hoarse and grating as sandpaper. "A guttersnipe like you is just a waste of food! Why are you still alive?! Do you have any idea how much money I'm losing because a worthless, parent-less failure like you managed to survive?!"
Garon's footsteps paused. If he remembered correctly, the death benefit for a Seaman Second Class from a branch base was... 1.5 million Beri.
"Death benefit?" At this thought, a cold, mocking smile touched Garon's lips. "Heh. So, my life..."
He slowly raised his hand. A white, vibrational aura began to glow in his palm. "...is only worth that much?"
Derick tried to say something, to defend himself, but Garon wasn't giving him another chance.
He reached out and placed his hand on Derick's shoulder. The gesture was almost gentle, like a greeting between old friends.
"Why?" Garon asked in a low voice, his tone frighteningly calm.
Derick trembled violently, his lips moving but making no sound. He could feel a bizarre, alien vibration transferring from that hand, so powerful it made his teeth chatter uncontrollably in his skull.
Garon's five fingers slowly tightened.
"VMM."
An invisible shockwave instantly passed through Derick's body. The concussive force was so great that it shattered the reef he was leaning against.
Derick's pupils shrank to the size of pinpricks. His mouth gaped open in an exaggerated "O."
A thin trickle of blood escaped the corner of his lips, but his skin's surface remained completely unharmed.
"Urk... ah..." Derick let out a guttural whimper, like a dying beast. His hands clawed uselessly at his own chest, as if all his internal organs had been instantly pulverized into a chaotic slurry.
His eyes, completely bloodshot, stared at Garon, filled with a final, unbelievable terror.
The next second, his knees buckled. He collapsed like a sack of filth, falling forward, his face planting directly into the wet sand.
Blood began to ooze slowly from his ears and nose, staining the beach a dark, spreading crimson.
Garon retracted his hand, looking down dispassionately at Derick's corpse.
There was no anger. No satisfaction. Just a cold, unfamiliar indifference.
He flexed his fingers, feeling the residual echo of the vibration at his fingertips.
"So... killing someone..." he muttered to himself. "Is this easy."
The wind began to pick up. From the distant warship, he could hear muffled shouts. Someone had noticed the disturbance on the beach and was on their way.
Garon stood still, looking down at his own palm. Sunlight streamed through the gaps between his fingers, casting a mottled pattern on the sand.
He could feel the power flowing within him—violent, overwhelming, and capable of tearing anything apart.
Just a few minutes ago, he was a lowly Seaman Second Class who could be betrayed and murdered by his superior at any moment.
And now, he could extinguish a life as easily as crushing an ant.
"This is... power. The power to dominate everything... and to dominate my own destiny."
Garon clenched his fist. The air in his palm vibrated, letting out a low hum.
The footsteps in the distance were getting closer. Derick's gunshots had, in the end, attracted the attention of the nearby Marines.
"In that case, I'll have to ask you to help me put on one last show."
Garon gave Derick's body one final glance. A small smile flickered onto his face. He then bent down, picked up the corpse, and slung it over his shoulder.
"After all, if I recall correctly, the man in charge of this evacuation sector is the Marine HQ Vice Admiral who is about to be promoted to Admiral... 'Black Arm' Zephyr!"