The endless sea stretched to the horizon, gray-black smoke thinning in the wind. Through the haze, the faint outline of a figure with scorched wings appeared—his body blackened and broken—before the ocean finally swallowed him whole.
That was Scar-Face, the captain who had taken Rorin's Great Fireball head-on. Even wrapped in Armament Haki, he couldn't withstand the inferno. His last expression was one of endless hatred, dragged straight into hell.
"Remember my name when you meet the King of Hell," Rorin muttered, his flames collapsing back into his body.
He shifted, flames extinguished, and his Prometheus form melted away. In human guise once more, sword at his back, Rorin D. Sol walked toward the trembling wreck that was Jack Bovan.
Jack's eyes widened as Rorin strode across the deck, every step carrying wind and weight. He knew now—the lethal poison powder hadn't done a damn thing. His heart plummeted.
"Boss—big boss! I was wrong! Just… just treat me like a fart and let me go!"
Tears streamed down Jack's face as he collapsed to his knees, forehead smacking the deck again and again. Bang! Bang! Bang!
Rorin's hand slid along the hilt of his sword, a faint smile curving his lips. This intoxicating feeling—holding another man's life in his palm—it was almost too sweet.
"One day. You get me to the island I name within a day, and I'll let you keep your miserable life."
Hope flickered across Jack's eyes. He kowtowed harder, scrambling to his feet."Yes, yes, boss! No problem! I'll push this ship until it flies!"
Rorin only watched with an icy smile.
Jack truly worked himself to the bone. Under his frantic shouting and command, the merchant vessel reached the designated island within a day.
Exhausted but grinning wide, Jack stumbled toward Rorin, panting. "Boss, I—"
His words never finished.
A blade of flame flashed, bright as the sun yet silent as death.
"Flame Banquet—Nocturne."
Jack's head hit the deck still wearing a foolishly joyous smile, as if he really believed he'd been spared.
He never realized Rorin had never once considered letting him live.
"Flame Banquet—Waltz!"
With a soft murmur, crimson light flared. Countless sword slashes tore through the ship, reducing every last slave aboard to corpses. Rorin left no witnesses who might whisper his name.
Sheathing his sword, he stepped off the bloodstained ship and walked alone onto the island.
It was Navy territory—Island 824, one of many numbered bases under Marine control. Posters plastered the streets, stamped with the seal of newly appointed Fleet Admiral Sengoku.
A quiet breeze rolled through the sparse little town. Yet from nearby, cheers and shouts echoed.
"So, the Navy's grip here isn't as weak as people claim. At least when it comes to recruitment, they've still got pull," Rorin mused, sword strapped across his back, making no attempt to hide his aura.
Right now, his strength had reached the peak of a Great Swordsman—just a step short of Mihawk's realm as the world's supreme blade. That one step, one insight, was all he needed to break through.
And his aura blazed like a bonfire in the night. Anyone strong or sharp enough would notice instantly.
Sure enough, on the plaza where Marine recruitment trials were underway, Vice Admiral Mole froze mid-step. His eyes sharpened at once.
"Vice Admiral, recruitment's going smoothly. We've already surpassed the quota. Why the grim look?" a major asked curiously.
Mole's gaze darkened. "Pass word down. Stay sharp. We may have an uninvited guest."
"Uninvited guest? Who would dare—" The major fell silent under Mole's glare.
Even the recruits sensed the change in atmosphere. Their gazes fixed on the sharp-dressed vice admiral in his striped suit, tie straight, pompadour high, beard neatly trimmed.
And then—they saw him.
Rorin D. Sol, walking slowly into the plaza, tall and lean, sword long as his frame gleaming on his back.
Mole's brows furrowed. He could feel it—the overwhelming sword aura radiating from this man, leagues beyond his own.
This wasn't just a swordsman. This was a predator.
And the suffocating pressure since earlier? Now Mole knew exactly who was releasing it.
"Ding! Congratulations, host. Your aura has shocked Vice Admiral Mole. Evaluation: B. Reward: Rokushiki—Soru!"
The system's voice chimed in Rorin's mind. He grinned. A single vice admiral had dropped Soru. What would a full admiral, or even Sengoku himself, yield? The thought alone burned like fire in his chest.
But first, he needed more power. Always more.
Mole turned to the village elder. "Has this man ever appeared on the island before?"
The old man peered over his spectacles, shaking his head slowly. Before he could speak further, Mole stepped forward, voice sharp.
"Marine recruitment. Civilians are to leave immediately!"
Rorin smiled easily. "Don't mistake me, Vice Admiral. I've always dreamed of joining the Marines. When I heard you were recruiting here, I rushed all the way to take part."
If Mole had been wary before, now he was ice-cold. A man this powerful wouldn't wait until now to 'enlist.' His strength screamed of someone who could crush most vice admirals. Could he even stop him?
Still, outwardly, Mole's tone remained calm. "If you wish to enlist, then join the trials. Meet the requirements, and you'll be accepted."
Rorin chuckled, fingers tapping his hilt. His brow lifted, aura flaring."Start as a grunt? That's a waste of everyone's time. The lowest I'll take is admiral. Isn't that right… Vice Admiral Mole?"
The pressure surged, no longer distant but crushing down on the entire plaza.
Even the weakest villagers felt it now, youths clutching their heads as the sheer weight of a predator's presence bore down.
"This—this pressure! It's monstrous!"
The recruits froze mid-exam, staring wide-eyed at Rorin, their minds blank with terror.