Saint Michael's mangled body hung suspended in mid-air, spine still knitting itself back together. His lower half dangled uselessly beneath him like a blood-soaked rag.
As the black-haired youth raised his hand and slowly closed his fingers into a fist, tendrils of violet electricity crackled through Saint Michael's flesh, crawling under his skin in an eerie, unnatural pattern.
I… I can't move…
"My body… what did you do to me?"
The color drained from Saint Michael's face. His dry, cracked lips trembled. Darren's earlier words seemed to trigger some half-buried memory, and a cold dread surged up from his core.
"Ever since that battle on Felsek Island in the North Blue, I've been turning over the same question in my head," Darren said hoarsely. Thick blood slid from the corner of his mouth and dripped from his chin. He casually tossed the torn half of Saint Michael's spine aside; it hit the ground with a wet, meaty thud.
"Just what is that so-called 'immortality' of the Gorosei, really?"
"Is it the result of advanced genetic modification technology? Some inherent property of their Mythical Zoan powers? Or an external force entirely?"
"Are they truly immortal… or have I just not been strong enough to kill them yet?"
He swayed suddenly, almost losing his balance.
"So, during all this time, I wasn't just training to get stronger."
His shoulders rose and fell with ragged breaths as he slowly lifted his head, baring his teeth in a savage grin at Saint Michael.
"I've come up with a few methods."
"First, naturally, was the simplest: tear you 'immortals' apart. Beat you into bloody mush while you're still alive and see if you stay down. Judging from how this is going…"
He eyed the ruin of Saint Michael's body and snorted.
"…that seems almost impossible. You monsters aren't livestock waiting for the slaughter. Though, to be fair, you do look the part of a beast right now."
Saint Michael's eyes nearly bulged from their sockets, fury blazing so hot it was almost tangible.
"You insolent vermin!!"
He struggled desperately. His broken body jerked and spasmed against the invisible restraint, but the harder he strained, the more violently the purple lightning arced across his skin.
Even when he summoned cold flames that billowed like Kaido's fire clouds, he still couldn't break free. The force binding him wasn't coming from outside.
It was coming from inside his own body.
"So we can temporarily rule out Plan A," Darren rasped, a cruel smile tugging at his mouth. "Already tried it. Not very efficient."
"But I did discover something else: even as your body is reduced to chunks, you still feel pain. That alone sets you apart from the Gorosei."
"Their reaction to pain—or rather, to bodily damage—is nowhere near as pronounced as yours. Have they already surpassed human limits somehow? That still needs more research…"
He narrowed his eyes.
"But you…"
A mocking glimmer flashed in Darren's gaze.
"Other than that ridiculous regenerative ability, you're still within normal parameters. At the very least, when you're gravely injured, the extreme pain makes your body seize up. When your spine gets smashed, you temporarily lose neural control of anything below it until the vertebrae regenerate."
"In other words, you're no god."
"You're just a very strong human with a very impressive healing factor."
A dark-green vortex suddenly flared into existence behind Darren, twisting into a towering human form.
"So you're saying he can be killed?" Dragon asked, stepping out of the storm. His face was pale, his breathing labored.
A deep, bone-revealing gash ran across his abdomen—proof of the price he'd paid to take down three CP0 elites in such a short span of time.
As he spoke, Dragon unleashed a spiraling hurricane that wrapped around Saint Michael's suspended body. The tightly compressed gale howled like a living thing, its razor edges carving fresh wounds into the Celestial Dragon and stripping more of his strength away.
Darren shot him a sideways look, voice edged with annoyance.
"You were too slow."
Dragon's face flushed. "I was fighting three of them at once!"
He clicked his tongue. "Next time we can switch, if you want."
A beat.
"You're right, though. I was too slow," he muttered through clenched teeth.
Darren shook his head and turned his attention back to Saint Michael.
"So… you still… can't kill me…"
Shredded by wind and blades, Saint Michael had been reduced to a grotesque figure of exposed muscle and tattered fur, a blood-red specter howling in agony. His voice, chopped and warped by the hurricane, carried a chilling, almost inhuman timbre.
"I wasn't finished talking yet…"
Darren chuckled, wiping the blood from his mouth. He fished a crumpled cigar from his pocket, lit it with a flicker of electricity, and clenched it between his teeth.
"Since you still qualify as 'human,' that makes me curious."
"Does the insane regenerative ability granted by your Mythical Zoan Awakening actually have a limit?"
"As far as I understand it, whether we're talking Haki or Devil Fruit abilities, both rely on physical stamina as their foundation. Physical stamina—or life force, if you want to be dramatic—is the fuel behind all of it."
"So it's reasonable to assume that if I completely burn through your stamina—your life force—your regeneration will eventually fail, isn't it?"
Darren exhaled a stream of smoke, eyes narrowing, voice dropping to a cold murmur.
"Objectivity is my starting point, Saint Michael. So I'd like you to cooperate with me on a little experiment."
"Help me verify that hypothesis… as my test subject."
He crooked his finger.
Electricity crackled through the air, and a warped magnetic field exploded outward.
From the clouds above, four streaks of dazzling light speared downward in succession.
Ame no Habakiri. Enma. Oto. Kogarashi.
Four famed blades howled through the air, wrapped in the invisible grip of Darren's Magnet-Magnet Fruit. Driven to impossible speeds, they pierced through Saint Michael's body again and again.
Blood burst outward in continuous sprays, almost instantly shredded into a crimson mist by the devouring gale.
Saint Michael's screams shook the air, raw and piercing. He could only watch as his own body was skewered over and over, subjected to an excruciating execution that seemed to have no end.
One minute passed.
Three minutes.
Five minutes.
---
Ten minutes later, Saint Michael's shrill roars and curses finally began to fade.
Beside him, Dragon's initial excitement had long given way to a numb, rigid expression. His face had gone stiff with shock.
The way he looked at Darren now could only be described as pure, unfiltered horror.
Darren's face was emotionless as he stood beneath the suspended body, cigar between his fingers. Purple arcs popped and hissed across his blood-soaked skin, his expression calm—as if he were overseeing nothing more than a tedious procedure.
Dragon clicked his tongue inwardly, the corner of his eye twitching.
This guy's methods… How the hell was he ever a Marine…?
To be continued...