The impact between Murasa and Crocodile's sand blade lingered, the two forces grinding against each other in the center of the ruined chamber.
Haki scraped across compressed sand while dark-gold Reiatsu pressed down like an invisible weight.
Beneath them, the floor couldn't decide whether to remain stone or collapse into desert, so it did both—cracking apart in so places and flowing like dunes in others.
Crocodile stared at Zaraki from behind the crossed defense of his hook and sand blade.
For the first ti, the Warlord's expression lost the composure of a scher seated safely behind layers of plans.
What remained was sothing older—the look of a pirate cornered into a fight he couldn't manipulate his way out of.
"You're strong," Crocodile said, his voice dry and rough. "But strength alone is the most boring thing in this world."
Zaraki leaned closer, his grin widening. "Funny. I was thinking the exact sa thing about your talking."
Crocodile's eyes sharpened.
The sand beneath Zaraki's feet exploded upward—not as a blade or a storm, but as hands.
Dozens of sand arms clawed from the ground to wrap around Zaraki's legs, waist, and sword arm, each carrying Crocodile's dehydrating power.
The instant they made contact, Zaraki felt the moisture dragged from his skin.
His muscles tightened, and the bandages around his wounds cracked as they dried into stiff husks.
Simultaneously, Crocodile's hook shot forward, the venomous edge flashing straight for Zaraki's throat.
Robin's fingers twitched.
Nami's sharp inhale crackled faintly through the Den Den Mushi.
Outside the casino, Vivi could only hear the dull roar of the underground battle, yet her heart violently clenched.
Zaraki's eyes narrowed. For the first ti in the fight, he didn't simply tank the blow.
Leaning backward, he let the golden hook scrape past his neck, cutting a shallow line through his skin to draw blood.
At the sa ti, Murasa twisted in his grip, tearing through the sand arms binding him.
As the remaining restraints collapsed, Zaraki kicked Crocodile squarely in the chest.
Boom!
Crocodile flew backward like a cannon shell, smashing through the ceiling of the underground conference room and crashing into the casino level above.
Rain Dinners' main hall had been trying very hard to pretend nothing was wrong.
The first tremors were dismissed as building maintenance, and the second blad on desert instability.
The third sent several gamblers fleeing
But gambling was a poison stronger than common sense; many stayed at their tables, shouting over the rumbling floor as if luck alone would protect them from the monster fighting beneath their feet.
Then Crocodile crashed through the floor.
The magnificent crystal chandelier shattered above him while a roulette table exploded beneath him.
Chips flew like colorful rain. Cards, glass, splinters, dust, and screams filled the hall as the man worshiped as Rainbase's hero landed in the wreckage, blood pooling at the corner of his mouth and sand pouring from his torn coat.
For several seconds, nobody understood what they were seeing.
Then soone whispered, "Sir… Crocodile?"
The na spread like fire through oil.
"Sir Crocodile!" "That's the boss!" "One of the Seven Warlords?!" "How could he be—"
The questions died in their throats. From the enormous hole in the floor, a black Marine boot stepped onto the broken edge.
Zaraki climbed up from below with Murasa resting on his shoulder.
His coat was torn, his bandages stained, and a faint cut marked his neck where the hook had grazed him.
Yet compared to the battered Warlord coughing in the wreckage, Zaraki looked relaxed.
The casino froze. Hundreds of gamblers stared. Dealers forgot to breathe.
Guards who had rushed over raised their weapons on pure reflex, only to lower them the mont Zaraki's gaze swept across them.
He ignored the crowd, keeping his eyes locked on Crocodile.
"So you can still bite." Zaraki rolled his neck once. "Good."
Crocodile rose unsteadily from the wreckage.
The public eye was on him now—a realization that burned more fiercely than the wound itself.
For years, he had cultivated the image of Alabasta's protector, Rainbase's hero, and the Warlord who guarded civilians from chaos.
Yet now, in the center of his own casino under the gaze of the people who praised him, he was bleeding in front of a Marine.
No. Not just a Marine. A brat who wasn't even formally enlisted!
Crocodile's remaining patience snapped.
"Get out," he hissed, his voice rising into a roar. "I said get out!"
The casino guests scread and scattered, the guards fleeing right alongside them.
Tables overturned and chips rolled across the floor as the golden hall representing Crocodile's absolute control dissolved into chaos.
Only when the civilians began fleeing did Zaraki's expression shift.
He didn't care about the casino or the money, but Nami would absolutely kill him if he buried hundreds of civilians under rubble and turned the mission report into a disaster thicker than Sengoku's desk.
"Tch." He clicked his tongue in irritation. "Too many small fry."
Crocodile seized that mont of distraction, slamming his hand against the floor.
"Desert la Spada!"
The casino floor erupted.
Multiple blades of sand shot toward Zaraki from every direction, slicing through tables and pillars to cage him in place.
Simultaneously, the sand beneath Crocodile's feet gathered around his body.
He rose with it, looking less like a man standing on sand and more like the desert lifting its king.
"You think forcing into public changes anything?!" Crocodile roared, his voice echoing through the ruined hall.
"This is Alabasta! This is my desert!"
Sand poured in through the shattered windows as the dry wind outside answered his call. Rainbase itself seed to tremble. Zaraki looked up at the rising storm.
The excitent in his eyes—dulled slightly by the presence of civilians—returned in full force.
"There it is." He lowered Murasa from his shoulder. "At least now you look like a Warlord."
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