Cook's punches, once capable of leveling the ground like cannon fire, were now weakened by injuries and exhaustion. Naturally, he was furious.
"Gonna run like a coward again, huh? Fine, run all you want. But I wonder how many of your island friends will even survive another minute!"
Cook swung another massive fist. Wood, hearing this, glanced at the mangled, bloodied civilians on the other side of the battlefield. Gritting his teeth, he charged forward, raising his sword.
Clang—!
Steel met iron. Wood's right arm shuddered under an unbearable pressure as his blade slammed against Cook's armored gauntlet. The force reverberated through his arm, and he could almost hear his bones whining, as if they might shatter at any moment. His left arm was already broken, his shoulder dislocated—useless for leverage.
Instinctively, Wood pressed his right foot against the spine of his blade, using his legs to push back against Cook's punch. The move sent the blow deflecting, and Cook's face twisted with surprise. He had expected Wood to dodge—or be sent flying—but not to counter with such ingenuity.
Yet Cook still had his left arm. While weaker than his right, a single hit from it could still severely wound Wood. Seeing Wood close in intentionally, Cook lashed out with a sweeping left hook aimed straight at Wood's ribs, trying to crush his midsection.
But Wood's face hardened. The longer this fight dragged on, the more danger threatened the people of Red Leaf Island. Most of the original inhabitants had fled over the past two years of pirate harassment. Those left were mostly women, children, elderly, or a few locals too attached to abandon their homes. Armed with nothing but rakes and axes, they stood little chance against the ferocious Iron Arm Pirates.
Every second wasted could cost lives. Wood couldn't afford to drag this fight out.
As Cook's fist sliced through the air, Wood didn't dodge. Instead, he drove a knee into the punch, meeting the gauntlet head-on.
Crack—!
The result was inevitable. Cook's strength, amplified by iron armor, shattered Wood's left kneecap instantly. Pain ripped through him, drawing blood from between his teeth.
Yet even as Cook's face registered satisfaction at this injury, he saw the boy leap again, using his remaining leg to propel himself forward. A feral glint shone in Wood's eyes, veins standing out on his right hand as he gripped the sword.
"Ittō-ryū: Iron-Cutting Strike!"
Cook froze. Wood, one-armed and with a shattered leg, launched himself at Cook with a crazed determination that made the pirate captain step back in horror.
"You lunatic… monster!"
Ordinary people would have passed out from the pain of a shattered knee, but Wood seemed impervious. Ten, maybe twelve years old at most, and yet his willpower burned like a raging inferno.
Silver light flashed as his sword slashed through the air. Cook raised his gauntlets, but it wasn't enough—the blade tore through his armored forearm, splitting the metal and carving a deep gash across his throat. Blood sprayed uncontrollably. Cook's hand tried to stem the flow, but it was useless.
The torrent of blood dulled his consciousness, and his eyes gradually unfocused.
Wood, having expended all his strength to complete the Iron-Cutting Strike, crashed heavily to the ground, coughing up blood. His sword, pressed beyond its limits, snapped in two—hardly a surprise, given it had been a salvaged weapon from previous pirates and had just endured Cook's iron punches.
Looking down at Cook sprawled in his own blood and at the faltering islanders, Wood forced himself upright, supporting himself on the broken sword. But after a few steps, his vision blurred, and his consciousness wavered.
"Remarkable kid," a deep, commanding voice echoed. "Strength aside, your will… I've never seen anything like it. When I was your age, my power and resolve were nowhere near yours. You've done well enough. The rest is up to me…"
A white cape emblazoned with the kanji for "Justice" appeared in his vision. Zephyr had arrived. Just as Wood was about to collapse, the admiral caught him, holding his battered body steady.
Looking down at the black-haired boy, left arm and leg twisted grotesquely, Zephyr's expression softened. He had arrived too late to witness most of the battle—but he caught the final, desperate moment of Wood's determination.
With decades of experience, Zephyr could see that Wood could have won against Cook more efficiently. But the boy had fought with reckless, unyielding resolve, risking everything to protect the islanders. Watching him, limping with a shattered sword, Zephyr felt something stir in his chest.
This boy's fight—his sheer will—was justice in its purest form.