The Greatest Disgrace in Marine History

The wind held its breath.

No one spoke.

A single line—razor-straight and deathly quiet—ran through the heart of the Oro Jackson's golden jolly roger. The sail drooped in two halves, torn clean down the middle, its ragged edges fluttering like the wings of a broken angel.

Silence fell across the deck.

"The sail... it's been cut."

"When did that happen?"

"This can't be real..."

The Roger Pirates stared.

A creeping, bone-deep coldness gripped them—not from the rain, not from the sea, but from the dawning realization that they had lost the one thing keeping them free.

Unlike Marine ships, the Oro Jackson had no engine, no steel heart beating below its deck. It was a proud creature of the wind, built to glide. The moment its sails were severed, its soul had been silenced.

They were no longer moving.

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They were prey.

A glint of steel hovered in the air.

A dagger. Suspended above the deck as if held by some invisible hand. No blood. No wounds. But its message was clear:

You are no longer in control.

"Wait—my dagger?!"

Buggy's shriek tore through the silence.

His finger pointed, trembling. "Why the hell is my dagger up there?!"

The crew blinked.

In the chaos of the storm, no one had noticed the weapon vanish. It had been just another blade, just another tool.

Now, it was a symbol. Of mockery. Of manipulation. Of violation.

"How is it moving on its own?"

"Was someone on board?"

"No. Observation Haki is clear. There's no one here but us."

Rayleigh's brow furrowed.

From behind, the rhythmic thunder of cannonfire still rolled across the sea, and Garp's ship was approaching fast—its hull cutting through the waves like a knife.

Then the dagger moved.

No wind touched it. No hand guided it.

It shivered.

And then—

FWOOOSH!

A silver bolt tore through the air, screaming as it accelerated, faster than thought.

Its target was not a warrior.

Not a veteran.

But a boy.

A red-haired child with a straw hat.

Shanks.

"SHANKS!!"

CLAAAANG!!

A sword intercepted the blade mid-flight, metal crashing against metal in a howl of fury.

Shanks stood motionless. Pale. Unblinking. His legs buckled.

Before him, Rayleigh's blade held the dagger at bay.

The First Mate didn't speak. He simply lowered his sword, eyes unreadable.

"Take Buggy. Fall back. Don't move unless I tell you."

His voice was steel.

Shanks nodded slowly, throat dry.

The dagger reversed course—like a bird returning to its master.

Across the sea, on the deck of a Marine warship, a hand caught it.

Darren.

He admired the hilt—red gemstone set in the center, the edge still humming with unnatural force.

He looked up.

And their eyes met.

Shanks froze.

He felt it again—the same drowning pressure from earlier. The same coldness that wrapped around his chest and whispered: he could have killed you. He still can.

The man standing across the sea didn't see a boy.

He saw a threat waiting to grow.

Darren smiled.

"Not bad," he said, tossing the blade once in his palm. "Didn't think I'd get lucky. But it was worth a try."

Rayleigh stepped forward, eyes like drawn blades.

"So. It was you."

Behind him, Roger's aura rose like a storm.

Black and red lightning licked his blade. His gaze locked onto Darren like a hawk sizing up prey.

Darren chuckled.

"What? That little redhead's future is too bright. Someone had to dim it."

The pressure shifted.

It was like being caught between two tidal waves. Like standing on a thread over a volcano. Roger and Rayleigh together were no longer men. They were forces of nature. War made flesh.

Even Darren's magnetic field—his sense of every living thing—wavered under the sheer density of their presence.

Rayleigh's voice was low, but it cracked the air like lightning.

"The man who defeated Byrnndi World. The rising star of the Marines. The so-called 'King of the North Blue'..."

He pointed his sword at Darren.

"And yet, all that glory... and you strike at children?"

The crew seethed.

Their fury was not a shout. It was a presence. Thick. Heavy. Unforgiving.

Darren shrugged.

"Temper? I've got plenty of that."

He grinned, feral.

"Just not for pirates."

His tone sharpened. Bit deep.

"And you want to talk morality? Roger slaughtered a nation's soldiers because someone mocked his crewmate. Did he stop to think about the children those men left behind?"

The reaction was immediate.

"LIES!!"

"Roger would NEVER do that!"

"You Marine bastard!!"

Darren met their rage with a smirk.

Dragon stepped forward. Gion and Tokikake flanked him.

Swords were drawn.

The wind tensed.

Darren raised his hands, mock-innocent.

"Alright. Maybe you're right."

He snapped his fingers.

And the sky turned metallic.

Bullets. Cannonballs. Iron shards.

All rose from the deck of the Marine ship, suspended in a magnetic field that crackled with blue arcs.

They hovered like a second storm.

"Maybe you didn't touch the children."

He sneered.

"But you killed their fathers."

His voice dropped to a whisper that still carried across the waves.

"And that's even crueler."

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To be continued...