Darren felt himself brushing up against a secret.
The fog that had veiled his vision all this time seemed to thin, just enough for him to glimpse the shadow behind it.
The world's top combatants could destroy mountains, split continents, even trigger natural disasters with certain Devil Fruits—earthquakes, tsunamis, storms that could smash entire islands to rubble.
But to make a medium-to-large island—an entire nation—vanish from the map without a trace…
That wasn't something simple brute force could accomplish.
It was terrifying.
Darren stared at Roger, his gaze sharp, his tone steady.
"Roger. If Rocks didn't erase God Valley… and it wasn't you… and it wasn't Garp… if none of you had that kind of power—then there's only one answer."
Roger glanced at him, pretending not to understand.
"Back then, the Marines launched a Buster Call at God Valley. Sengoku was the one in charge."
Darren shook his head.
"I know better than you how hollow a Buster Call really is. Don't forget, I've led one myself."
"Five Headquarters Vice Admirals, ten battleships, thousands of elite marines—that's all it is."
"A Buster Call can reduce a nation or an island to ruins. It can turn everything into charred rubble."
"But completely erasing a country from the sea as if it never existed?"
"Impossible."
"So, Roger… what really happened at God Valley?"
Roger's eyes flickered. He paused for several seconds, then gave a low chuckle and took a pull from his bottle.
"You don't want to know."
Darren drew in a long breath.
These cryptic bastards… every single one of them deserves a beating.
"You should get going," Roger said, suddenly changing the subject. He raised his chin toward a spot not far away.
Over there, Zephyr lay on the ground. His dry, cracked lips trembled faintly.
He was about to wake up.
Darren blinked. "What, that's it? I thought we were going to fight."
Roger threw his head back and laughed. "Forget it. We'll save it for next time—if there is a next time." He winked and lifted his bottle in Darren's direction. "Besides, your injuries aren't fully healed yet. Where's the fun in that?"
"When you've recovered completely… when you've settled everything that's weighing you down… when you've got nothing left holding you back—then we'll find a place to really go all out."
Darren thought about it for a moment.
"All right."
He grinned and raised his bottle.
The two bottles met in mid-air with a clear, ringing chime.
Clink!
Amber liquor sloshed and spilled, catching the light as it scattered into the air.
In that moment, the two most notorious criminals in the world looked at each other and laughed.
They threw their heads back and drank deep.
---
Out on the Oro Jackson, Buggy, Shanks, and the other crew members were clinging to the railing, eyes bulging as they stared at the scene in front of them.
"This feels wrong somehow…"
"Captain Roger… drinking with that bastard?"
"It's way too weird."
"…?"
Rayleigh sat on the deck, back resting lazily against the railing, eyes half-lidded in a tipsy haze.
Beside him, Gaban let out a quiet sigh, a bottle of sake dangling from his fingers.
In the dim hull belowdecks, a one-armed man in a samurai's robe lay sprawled on his back, dead drunk.
---
Roger watched as Darren picked Zephyr up and disappeared into the distant sky.
Slumping back against a massive boulder, he sank slowly to the ground, letting out a long, shaky breath.
"I thought you'd just tell him everything," Rayleigh said, appearing behind him without a sound. He held out a bottle of beer.
Roger grinned and shook his head. "If you know the ending too early, where's the fun in living?"
He twisted the cap off, took a deep swig, and stared up at the sky, his flushed face lit by the last light of day.
"Besides, what good would the truth even do him?" Roger said quietly. "That kid can't confront the true power that's been piling up for eight hundred years. Not yet. It's way beyond what he can handle right now."
Rayleigh's expression darkened. Something bitter flickered through his eyes and then faded.
"And we thought that power could only be used once," he muttered.
Roger suddenly burst into a wide grin, his eyes turning red as tears gathered at their corners.
He pushed himself up, using his knee for support.
The cool sea breeze whipped across his face, snapping his blood-red captain's coat behind him. It cracked in the wind like distant thunder.
He stood there, unmoving, staring out at the endless blue sea.
"Rayleigh," he said softly, "do you remember Little Shyarly's prophecy?"
Rayleigh thought back, then nodded slowly.
"The Mermaid Princess will be born in ten years… According to the Poneglyphs, she's the Ancient Weapon 'Poseidon'—the Sea King."
"Exactly," Roger murmured.
"I heard that 'voice'… 'King' and 'King' will meet someday."
"Someone who hasn't even been born yet will surpass us in the future."
He laughed.
It was loud and unrestrained as always, but beneath it there was an indescribable bitterness.
"We came too early, Rayleigh… both me and that brat Darren…"
"That's a cruel truth no one can change."
His legs gave out beneath him and he toppled backwards.
Rayleigh instinctively reached out, then relaxed when he realized Roger had simply passed out drunk.
Under the darkening sky,
the Pirate King—revered across the world, the man who had conquered the Grand Line—lay flat on his back like a mischievous child.
He clutched an empty sake bottle, smiling faintly as he mumbled:
"I really wanted to live in the same era as you, Joy Boy…"
"Whether in the past… or in the future…"
"Too bad… I'm out of time."
---
At the same time,
on the Red Line,
in the Holy Land Mary Geoise,
deep within Pangaea Castle—
In a shadowed chamber untouched by time, a tall, slender figure stood motionless, crowned with a diadem and draped in pale robes.
Dust motes drifted through the dim air.
On the gray-black stone walls hung rows of photographs.
Most were old and brittle, edges curled and surfaces cracked.
Yet one detail they shared:
Every photograph was marked with a large crimson "X," as red as fresh blood.
The figure stood before the wall, unmoving, as though lost in thought.
"Another… light… is about… to be…"
A pale, unnaturally white hand slowly emerged from the wide sleeve.
"…extinguished."
Those long, thin fingers brushed lightly across Roger's photograph, then came to rest on the newest image at the end of the row.
"Now… it is… your… turn."
"Rogers… Darren."
The cold, rigid voice echoed in the ancient hall like a devil's whisper.
Behind the figure, the darkness churned and twisted.
For an instant, the silhouette of a colossal straw hat could be seen looming in the shadows.
To be continued...