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Arthur's power banished the darkness of Eternal Hell, flooding the level with harsh electric light. He materialized from the shadows. The air itself seemed to thicken around him.
"You look like shit, Redfield."
Pity and contempt threaded through his words—the same dismissive tone he reserved for the rest of the world.
Redfield had not seen him in three years. His image of Arthur was likely frozen in time, stuck on the man he used to be. A reminder of the current pecking order was necessary.
When legends fall, when they are brought low and left utterly helpless—that is when you strike. Shatter their pride. Seize control of the narrative.
The New World crawled with men who possessed Conqueror's Haki. But a true king, one who would stand above them all, had to be forged in the crucible of countless clashes.
The moment he appeared, Arthur unleashed his Haki.
He had once disdained spiritual attacks, confident his raw power could crush any opposition. Kill those who refuse to bend. Simple.
Garp's blow changed everything. Three years flat on his back. Three years where he could not rely on his Devil Fruit or physical strength. His only path forward had been sharpening his Haki, honing his spirit to a razor's edge.
So for three years, aside from managing his empire, he poured every ounce of energy into mastering Conqueror's Haki.
His natural talent could not compare to Shanks's, let alone Roger's. But three years of relentless focus had amplified his power exponentially.
Who else would dedicate three entire years solely to strengthening their spirit? Who else would abandon physical training, Devil Fruit development, everything—for this singular purpose?
His Conqueror's Haki now rivaled legends like the Golden Lion and Redfield himself.
Because unlike him, they had always divided their focus—Haki, physical strength, Devil Fruits, swordsmanship.
He snuffed out the Haki as quickly as he had released it. The guards crumpled to the ground, unconscious. As if it had never existed.
He ignored the dozen monitoring snails plastered across the walls.
Let them watch. Let them send the Head Jailer. He doubted Warden Hannyabal would send his men to pointless deaths.
In the now brightly lit expanse of Eternal Hell, only two men remained conscious.
"Have you come to laugh at me, Arthur?" Redfield's voice, though hoarse, retained its charismatic quality—that blend of world-weariness and dark charm. "If so, you can get the hell out."
The man was obsessed with maintaining his elegance, even now. Yet Eternal Hell was not a place conducive to such things.
Still, Arthur noted the change. Redfield was addressing him as an equal now, not as some brat. Progress.
Power equality, status equality—that had been established long ago. Now it was true parity.
"I did not come all this way, did not draw away your guards, just to trade insults." Arthur descended the stairs and stopped before the cell, studying the man bound in chains. A living statue of iron.
This pathetic state... Redfield had only himself to blame. And perhaps Arthur and the Golden Lion.
If not for their previous breakouts, Impel Down might have used a few chains, maybe some weakening drugs. Not this absolute, total lockdown.
"Did you cause some other major incident?" Redfield asked, feigning ignorance. "Something that made them pull men even from Impel Down back to Headquarters?"
"Stop playing dumb, Redfield."
Arthur's tone cut through the pretense like a blade.
"The more you deflect, the more pathetic you look. You have had three years with nothing to do but think. More than enough time to figure things out."
He had to break him. Shatter that last fragment of aloof pride. Otherwise, a man like Redfield would never truly submit.
He remembered what he had told him the first time they met: A man who sails alone, with no crew, no one to watch his back—his only end is capture.
The Navy does not care about honor when facing evil. They swarm. They overwhelm. They fight together, relentlessly, until their target is subdued.
To sail alone is to be without allies. When you are cornered, exhausted, with no one to rescue you—Impel Down becomes your only destination.
Redfield had once been too proud to accept anyone as his equal, let alone his subordinate. He sailed alone, a solitary, magnificent figure who believed himself the only sane man in a world gone mad. He had even crushed the Army garrisoned on the Red Line single-handedly.
Now? He had tasted the bitter fruit of his pride. Trapped, with no hope of escape. If he refused Arthur's offer, he would die here, alone in the dark.
He could not afford to wait any longer. He was of the same generation as Shiki and Whitebeard, but older.
Old men cannot afford to lose. There are no second chances. One major defeat, and the ambition dies forever.
"Heh... hehehehehehe!"
Redfield threw back his head and laughed—wild, desolate sound echoing through the prison. All pretense of elegance evaporated. Raw, unrestrained laughter filled with bitterness, helplessness, the weight of facing his own mortality.
Arthur waited patiently for the answer.
Remarkably, the prison's security forces still had not arrived. Hannyabal had managed to hold them back, saving him the trouble.
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Finally, the laughter died. Redfield had purged himself of despair. The eyes peering out from beneath the chains were cold and calm once more.
He sneered.
"What makes you so certain I will choose to be your First Mate? I could just rot here and die. It is still losing my freedom, either way."
"I am not certain you will join." Arthur shook his head, a slow smile spreading across his face.
"You are Red the Aloof. Solitude and pride are etched into your very soul. But I also know that no man is content to be trapped in a sunless cage forever. And the only way out is with me. Why would I take you if you refuse to join?"
His gaze hardened. The time for games was over.
"Rotting here and dying—that is just wishful thinking on your part. You have two choices. Right now. Die by my hand... or come with me. There is no other option."
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