A chilling surge of killing intent swept across the military port, turning the sea breeze sharp and bitter.
Every Marine raised their rifle in unison, muzzles trained on the gaunt figure in blood-red garb—no longer as a prisoner, but as a threat. Their foreheads beaded with sweat, breaths fogging in the cold air as tension mounted like a drawn blade.
Sengoku raised a hand in a swift, practiced signal, halting the advance. His expression was grim.
And with good reason.
The man standing before them was no ordinary pirate. Compared to Kong's towering, broad-shouldered frame beside him, the man's build seemed almost slight.
His white hair, braided into two plaits, hung over his shoulders. A magenta shirt, crimson trousers, and black leather shoes trimmed with gold marked his attire. A sweeping blood-red cloak flowed behind him, whispering menace with every step.
His eyebrows were dyed the same crimson hue, and a wry, detached smile tugged at the corners of his lips.
This was Patrick Redfield.
The Red Count.
Red the Aloof.
A pirate whose name had once echoed with equal force as Whitebeard and Roger. A man feared for his power, who could hold his own against entire fleets.
But the man standing here was no longer that legend.
His clothes were tattered, stained with dried blood. A dark smear marked the corner of his mouth, the bruising still fresh. Clear signs of a brutal battle, yet his composure remained unnervingly intact.
He stood beside Kong as if he belonged there, not as a prisoner, but as a guest.
With a faint nod, he looked out at the bristling rifles aimed at him and chuckled.
"A well-trained army," he murmured with genuine admiration.
Then, placing one hand over his heart, he bowed deeply in a courtly gesture, like a nobleman greeting fellow aristocrats.
"To the elite of Marine Headquarters," he said smoothly, "it's a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance."
Only then did the crowd fully register the Sea Stone shackles on his wrists—thick, heavy restraints clinking softly with his every movement.
How… can a prisoner move with such grace?
Redfield turned to Sengoku, offering him a casual, almost friendly smile.
"Sengoku. It's been a while."
Sengoku's eyes narrowed.
"Don't expect any more reunions," he said coldly. "After today, you'll be sent to the deepest level of Impel Down. And there, you'll rot."
Redfield chuckled, unfazed. "That's fine. It was a good fight."
Kong, standing nearby, frowned deeply.
Redfield's smile twisted with amusement. "Would've been even better if those meddling fools hadn't gotten in the way."
From the ship's cabin, a loud, grating voice rang out.
"Still talking big, huh?!"
Vice Admiral Garp emerged, casually picking his nose.
Redfield turned to him, the smirk never leaving his lips.
That look alone lit a fire under Garp.
"What're you staring at, you bastard?! Kong! Take off his shackles! I'll knock his damn teeth in right now!"
Cracking his knuckles, Garp stormed forward, eyes blazing.
Panicked Marines rushed in, latching onto his arms and legs, voices raised in desperate protest.
"Vice Admiral Garp, please—calm down!"
"We just captured him after a full-scale battle—don't ruin it!"
"Don't let him bait you!"
Kong let out a long, weary sigh and rubbed his temples.
"Take the prisoner below. Now."
The order snapped the Marines into action. Weapons at the ready, they advanced on Redfield.
The warship behind them was barely seaworthy, its hull ravaged from battle. For a high-risk capture like Red the Aloof, the next step would be transfer to Impel Down, where advanced containment ships and protocols ensured no possibility of escape.
As the gangway lowered with a dull thud, Redfield stepped forward.
His head held high, his movements unhurried, he descended from the ship with the air of a nobleman arriving at a garden party—not a prisoner facing eternal confinement.
He took in the scene before him with quiet curiosity, as if this ruinous holy land of justice was no more than a tourist attraction.
And then, he paused.
"Oh, Kong—one more thing."
At the sudden halt, every rifle tightened on its trigger. Tension spiked in an instant.
Redfield turned his head, eyes meeting Kong's.
"I realize it's a bold request, but… if possible, I'd like to meet that young Marine. The one called Darren. Could that be arranged?"
Before Kong could speak, Sengoku cut in sharply.
"If you already know it's an excessive request, you shouldn't have made it."
Redfield only shrugged. "Can't blame a man for asking."
His gaze drifted—slow, thoughtful—toward a distant section of Marineford: the military hospital.
"The rising star of this new era… the one who's outmaneuvered the Golden Lion, Roger, and even Whitebeard... I confess, I'm curious."
A flicker of shadow passed behind Sengoku's eyes.
"Take him away."
Marines stepped forward again, gripping Redfield's arms.
But before he moved, Kong's voice—low and measured—stopped him.
"Redfield…"
Kong's eyes locked onto him.
"So… did you really join forces with the Golden Lion this time?"
The Golden Lion's attack had coincided too perfectly with Kong and Garp's absence. Too perfect to be chance.
Redfield paused.
Then shook his head.
"You and I go back, Kong. You should know better."
He lifted his gaze to the sky, his voice quiet.
"I just… don't feel like playing anymore."
In his mind, a memory flashed—Roger, laughing like a god. That earth-splitting slash. That overwhelming force.
In a single blow, Redfield's pride had been shattered.
A clean, irrevocable defeat.
"This era… it doesn't belong to me."
Without waiting for a response, the Red Count straightened his back and strode forward.
Toward the temporary prison.
His shackled hands did not tremble. His steps did not falter.
He moved not like a prisoner bound for the abyss, but like a man heading toward the conclusion of his own story—with dignity, and the last vestiges of pride.
To be continued...