"Blood Crimson Moon!" Redfield bellowed, his voice a guttural roar that reverberated across the battlefield.
His once-pristine suit was long gone, replaced by his bare upper body, marred with hundreds of bleeding wounds. His hybrid form—a grotesque fusion of man and bat—lunged forward, driven by sheer ferocity.
The ornate lance in his hand gleamed ominously as crimson energy swirled around it, radiating with a terrifying intensity.
The fight had raged for nearly a full day, each of us refusing to yield an inch. Redfield's once-cunning mind had abandoned all reason, his pride and purpose reduced to ash. Nothing else mattered now—not the fallen forces of the Elsar Kingdom, not even the death of his nephew.
His bloodshot eyes burned with a singular obsession: defeating me, an opponent he had grossly underestimated.
With a guttural snarl, he thrust his lance forward. A massive beam of crimson energy erupted from its tip, a searing torrent that devoured everything in its path.
The earth split apart, massive cracks snaking outwards as the sheer force of the attack gouged deep trenches into the landscape. The beam was wide enough to consume islands, its intensity warping the air itself as it screamed toward me.
I steadied my stance, both blades gripped firmly in my hands. As the beam roared closer, I infused my weapons with haki, the obsidian glow of armament haki enveloping the blades like a living entity.
Black lightning danced and crackled along the edges, arcs of raw power tearing through the air with a sentient fury. My conqueror's haki surged outward, colliding with Redfield's oppressive aura in a clash of wills that sent shockwaves rippling across the battlefield.
The heavens above groaned, dark clouds swirling as if the sky itself feared what was to come.
"Lightning Nova!" I roared, slashing both blades skyward in unison.
A massive cross-shaped slash of black lightning surged forth, the attack slicing through the very fabric of the world as it soared to meet Redfield's devastating beam. The two attacks collided midair, their impact unleashing an explosion of unparalleled magnitude.
The ground beneath the clash disintegrated into dust, and the shockwave from the collision flattened everything for miles. Entire chunks of earth were hurled skyward, only to disintegrate in the maelstrom of energy that followed.
The sheer force of the clash created a vortex of raw energy, a swirling storm of destruction that expanded outward, annihilating the battlefield. The earth quaked beneath us, and the crater below the point of impact deepened and widened with each passing second. It was as if the world itself sought to flee from the wrath of our combined might.
Redfield's crimson beam strained against my black lightning, the two forces vying for dominance. His feral grin faltered as he felt my conqueror's haki surge, suppressing his with a force that was undeniable. My attack began to carve through his beam, the crackling cross-slashed lightning tearing the crimson energy apart, scattering it like broken shards of glass.
Redfield's eyes widened in shock, his realization coming too late.
"Impossible!" he snarled, raising his lance in a desperate attempt to defend himself. But it was futile.
The cross slash cleaved through the remnants of his energy beam and slammed into him with devastating force. The impact was cataclysmic. Redfield managed to bring his lance across his torso in a last-second defense, but the haki-infused attack tore through him like a tempest. His body was flung backward like a ragdoll, crashing into the ground with a thunderous explosion.
As the dust settled, Redfield stood kneeling in a smoking crater, his body mangled and broken. The once-proud vampiric warrior now struggled to rise, his chest heaving with shallow, labored breaths. A massive, gaping wound ran diagonally across his torso, nearly splitting him in two. Blood gushed from the wound, pooling beneath him in a spreading crimson lake.
Yet even now, he refused to fall completely. He planted his lance into the ground and used it to drag himself upright, his eyes glaring at me with a mixture of defiance and disbelief.
My condition was far from pristine. Every inch of my body bore the marks of this relentless battle—deep gashes carved into flesh, bruises blooming in violent hues, and the sting of countless lacerations. My breathing was heavy, each inhale sharp like broken glass scraping my lungs. Blood trickled from cuts on my arms and chest, staining my tattered attire, yet my grip on my blades never wavered.
I had fought recklessly, trading blows with little regard for the consequences. Yet, even in my recklessness, I had ensured that none of my injuries were fatal or debilitating. The experience from countless battles guided me, instinctively maneuvering to avoid strikes that would cripple me.
Pain was ever-present, but I had trained my body to endure—to numb itself to suffering through an intricate application of lightning. I had honed this technique to suppress pain and keep fighting, but now, something was different.
I could feel my body mending itself, not just resisting further harm but genuinely healing at a speed that defied reason. Wounds that should have bled me dry were closing, muscles knitting themselves back together beneath my skin.
It wasn't the mere suppression of pain I had trained for; it was true regeneration. The realization flickered at the edge of my mind, but I had no time to dwell on it—not now, not when the fight still raged.
"How…" he rasped, blood trickling from his lips. "How can someone like you… push me this far?"
I stood firm, my blades still crackling with residual energy. The ground around me smoldered, the air thick with the scent of ozone and ash. My gaze met his, unyielding.
Across from me, Redfield was in even worse condition. The once-dignified vampire, clad in his immaculate white suit at the start of this battle, now looked like a creature pulled from the depths of despair.
His bare torso was marred with horrific wounds, some so deep that bone glimmered through shredded flesh. Blood poured freely from a jagged slash across his abdomen, pooling at his feet, and his hybrid form—a grotesque fusion of bat and man—seemed to sag under the weight of its injuries.
His once-proud wings were in tatters, one barely hanging on, flapping uselessly as if mocking his struggle to stay airborne earlier.
The lance he clung to, his trusted weapon, was chipped and splintered, no longer the elegant weapon of precision it had been. Redfield's crimson eyes, though still glowing with intensity, were bloodshot and weary, the fire in them not dimming.
His every breath was a ragged rasp, and his towering frame trembled as he forced himself to remain upright. Despite the wounds ravaging his body, he stood defiant—a testament to his sheer willpower and monstrous endurance.
But the toll was undeniable. His movements were slower, his attacks lacking the precision and ferocity they once carried. His body, once a symbol of vampiric immortality and overwhelming strength, was betraying him under the sheer weight of my assault.
"Underestimating me was your first mistake, Patrick," I said, my voice calm but laced with unshakable resolve. "Clinging to pride over reason was your second."
The battlefield fell silent for a brief moment, save for the crackling remnants of our clash. Redfield, battered and broken, let out a low growl, refusing to yield even in the face of defeat. His crimson eyes burned with unrelenting fury.
But deep down, I could see it—he was faltering. His body, no matter how powerful, could no longer sustain the damage and repeated regeneration. This fight was finally starting to tilt in my favor, and both of us knew it.
Redfield wiped the blood from his cracked lips, his crimson eyes gleaming with a predatory sharpness as he stood upright. His frame, though battered and bloodied, radiated an aura of lethal precision.
Despite the devastation wrought upon his body, his spirit was unbroken. His aura shifted, his haki sharpening like the edge of his rapier as though he had cast off the weariness that had weighed him down.
"I've been through worse, young Rosinante," he chuckled, his voice rich with a dark humor that belied the chaos surrounding us. "But it seems you were right—I've grown complacent. The quiet seas have made me soft. Consider this a timely wake-up call."
The way he steadied himself, the slight smirk tugging at his lips, told me that he wasn't finished—not by a long shot.
"So, you've stopped calling me 'boy,' and decided to address me by my proper name, have you?" I retorted, tightening my grip on my blades. "Or is it anger that's making you polite? Upset because we killed your nephew, perhaps?"
It wasn't just banter. I was testing him, searching for cracks in his composure, for the slightest hesitation I could exploit. This wasn't just a fight of fists and blades—it was a duel of wills.
Redfield's smirk widened, his voice dripping with mockery. "Come now, Rosinante. You should know better." His tone was as cold as the icy gusts swirling around us. "I'm a pirate—and a solitary one at that. Blood ties? They mean little to me. The seas have but one rule: the weak are devoured. His death was his failure, not my loss."
With a flourish, he sheathed his hybrid form, reverting to his human state. The change was not one of retreat but of calculated purpose. His wounds, though far from fully healed, began closing faster now that his vampiric regeneration had shifted focus.
His lean figure, once immaculate and regal, now bore the brutal evidence of our battle, but his rapier remained poised in his hand, as steady as his resolve.
The tension thickened between us as the battlefield seemed to quiet, the wind carrying only the faint echoes of distant carnage. He gave his blade a slight flick, clearing the blood from its edge, then raised it to point directly at me.
"This," he declared, his voice resonant and commanding, "is no longer a clash of duty or vengeance. It is a duel between one pirate and another. Nothing more, nothing less."
I took a deep breath, feeling the storm of haki surging within me, ready to explode at a moment's notice. The ache of my wounds faded into the background, replaced by the thrill of the fight.
"Then let's finish this, Redfield," I said, my voice low but firm, my blades sparking with black lightning as my haki infused them anew.
The world seemed to hold its breath as we squared off, two warriors battered but unbowed, preparing to etch the conclusion of this clash into legend. Then, with a roar of unleashed willpower, we charged at each other, the ground beneath us shattering under the force of our advance.
*****
The heavy snowfall blanketed the island in a sheet of white, yet no amount of snow could hide the deep crimson that stained the ground. Blood soaked into the frozen earth, its dark tendrils creeping through the snow like veins on a pale corpse.
This was a place where over a million souls had perished in an unrelenting storm of a pointless war. The once-pristine landscape was now a graveyard of the lost and broken, an apocalyptic reminder of humanity's darkest tendencies.
For days now, volunteers from the surviving villages and neighboring towns had flocked to the site to offer their aid. Together, they worked tirelessly to bury the dead, hoping to grant the fallen a semblance of peace in death, even if they had found none in life.
Wails echoed across the frozen wasteland as survivors searched for loved ones among the thousands of corpses, their cries intensifying with each discovery of only fragments of what they had hoped to find.
Smoker exhaled heavily, a visible plume of steam escaping his lips as he threw the last corpse from a pile into a mass grave. He collapsed onto the blood-soaked snow, his body aching and numb from the grueling work.
He had lost track of time—two, maybe three days had passed since the battle had ended. Yet the toll of war lingered. Corpses still lay strewn across the battlefield like discarded refuse, and the landscape reeked of death and ash.
"That should be the last of them…" Smoker muttered, rubbing his temples as exhaustion gnawed at his senses.
The Donquixote forces had been stretched thin. Issho had taken half of their strength to stabilize the remnants of the kingdom, Diamante secured the seas to prevent opportunistic pirate crews from taking advantage, and Smoker himself had been left to help with the burial efforts.
Despite the chaos, one thing remained a constant—a reminder that even victory had its price.
Smoker glanced toward the distant mountains, where dark clouds churned unnaturally, laced with ominous purple mist.
Despite the passage of time, the battlefield where Rosinante and Redfield clashed rumbled like a living nightmare. The swirling storm above their arena swallowed all light, casting jagged bolts of black lightning across the heavens. Even from this distance, he could feel the tremors from their blows, shaking the ground as if the island itself recoiled from the clash of titans.
He shuddered, not from the cold but from unease.
It wasn't fear of the battlefield that made him uneasy. No, Smoker had long accepted that as a pirate, death was an inevitability. It was the realization of the vast gulf between himself and someone like Lucci that gnawed at him.
The dragon's monstrous strength was on another level entirely. Smoker clenched his fists, frustration tightening his chest. He had always thought himself strong enough to stand beside his crewmates, but now he wondered if he was simply being left behind.
Nearby, Lucci moved with mechanical efficiency, his massive strength helping to seal the mass graves. Large piles of soil and snow were thrown effortlessly into the pits containing the unclaimed and unidentified dead.
Despite his inhuman strength, there was no arrogance in his actions, only a grim acceptance of the task at hand. For Lucci, it wasn't duty—it was necessity. Issho-san had made it clear they couldn't leave bodies to rot, even in the cold. Disease didn't discriminate between victors and the vanquished.
Smoker reached into his jacket, fingers brushing against something hard. A cigar. He pulled it out, staring at it thoughtfully. It wasn't his; it had belonged to the Supreme Commander of the Elsar Kingdom—the man he had killed during the battle. A symbolic trophy, perhaps.
He looked down at the cigar, then to the half-melted candy still in his pocket. He hesitated, glancing toward Lucci. Smoker knew he needed to change. To grow. Not just to match Lucci's strength but to ensure he wasn't a burden to his crew.
The Donquixote family had become his home. Here, for the first time, he belonged. And Smoker knew one thing for certain—a man didn't let his family carry his weight.
With a wry smile, Smoker slid the candy back into his pocket and placed the cigar between his lips. It was more than just a gesture. It was a decision. A choice to shed the insecurities of his past and step forward as someone worthy of the Donquixote name.
"You know Master Rosinante is going to break your bones if you start smoking before you're a proper adult," Lucci's voice rumbled behind him, low and sharp.
Smoker startled, nearly dropping the cigar. He fumbled to catch it, turning toward Lucci with a growl. "Damn it, Lucci! Can you not sneak up on me like that? And did you forget I am a smoke human?
Lucci's expression remained stoic, though there was a flicker of amusement in his piercing gaze.
"Nonetheless, he will break your bones if he finds out, and I am sure he will. Tell me, do you really think smoking that thing will help you achieve anything? If you feel helpless, start putting more effort into your training."
Lucci's eyes shifted toward the distant battlefield, his gaze heavy with unspoken longing. Smoker followed his line of sight and felt a pang of understanding.
Despite his overwhelming strength, even Lucci seemed to recognize his limits. That battlefield wasn't one he could step into—not yet.
Smoker smirked, taking a deep drag from the unlit cigar before pulling it from his mouth. "You're not wrong, Lucci. I've got a long way to go."
He glanced back toward the storm-shrouded mountains. The battle between Rosinante and Redfield raged on, the sheer scale of it inspiring both awe and determination. For Smoker, the path forward was clear. He wouldn't stop. He couldn't stop—not until he could fight alongside his family without hesitation, without regret.
"Don't fall too far behind, Smoker," Lucci said, his voice cool as he resumed his work.
Smoker chuckled, gripping the cigar between his teeth with renewed resolve. "Don't worry. I'm just getting started."
Smoker sat on the ground, the unlit cigar still clenched between his fingers, watching as Lucci methodically shoveled more soil onto the mass graves. The silence between them stretched, broken only by the occasional howl of the icy wind.
Smoker hesitated, his gaze drifting toward the storm-shrouded mountains where the earth itself trembled beneath the ongoing battle of titans.
He'd always considered stories of week-long clashes between world-shaking figures to be exaggerations, myths spun to make legends seem larger than life. But here, witnessing the storm and devastation that had not ceased for days, he couldn't deny it. The stories were true, and that realization ignited something deep within him—a fire he hadn't felt before.
"Lucci," Smoker said, his voice quieter than usual, almost tentative. "Do you truly think that one day we'll be able to stand on the young master's level?"
Lucci paused, the last of the soil slipping from his shovel as he looked up at Smoker. His golden eyes glinted in the dim light of the overcast sky, cold yet resolute.
"We don't have a choice, do we?" Lucci said evenly, his tone carrying a weight that made Smoker sit straighter. "If we don't want to be burdens to the family—if we want to carry our weight—we have to strive harder. We can't let Master Rosinante bear all that responsibility alone, now can we?"
Lucci turned back to the grave he was filling, his movements deliberate. "We're supposed to be the spear of the Donquixote family. And tell me, Smoker—have you ever heard of a blunt spear being used in war?"
Smoker swallowed, the truth of Lucci's words settling in his chest like a stone. This wasn't just about strength anymore; it was about purpose. About loyalty. He clenched his fists, his mind racing with images of the battles they had fought and the sacrifices their family had made.
Then, with a whisper that grew in resolve, he said, "Train me, Lucci."
Lucci froze mid-motion, his sharp ears catching every word. Smoker's voice hardened, his gaze locking onto the young boy before him.
"I want your help to train me. Not the way Issho-san trains us—not those drills meant to sharpen the edge and help us grow steadily. No…I want to train the way the young master trains you. I want to be pushed to the edge, to the breaking point, over and over again."
Smoker's chest heaved, but his determination didn't waver. He stood, his voice rising with conviction.
"I need this, Lucci. I need to be strong—not just for myself, but for the family. For the young master. Pride has no place here. If I'm going to be a man worthy of standing beside all of you, then I have to earn it."
Lucci turned to face Smoker fully now, the snow catching on his snow stained face as his golden eyes bore into Smoker's. For a moment, there was silence, the weight of Smoker's words hanging in the air like a challenge. And then, for the first time in what felt like years, Lucci smiled—a genuine, unguarded smile that softened the fierce lines of his face.
"If you truly want it," Lucci said, his voice low but firm, "then I'll help you. But be warned, Smoker—this path isn't for the weak. There's no mercy. No shortcuts. If you hesitate, even for a moment, you'll be nothing more than a corpse."
Smoker didn't flinch. His pride—his childish rivalry with Lucci, his insecurities—was gone, burned away by the fire of his determination. "I won't hesitate. I won't back down."
Lucci's smile widened slightly, the sharp points of his teeth visible now. "Good. Then let's see if you have what it takes to keep up."
As the two locked eyes, a new chapter in their rivalry and camaraderie began. Smoker felt something stir deep inside him—a resolve that would not be extinguished, a commitment to rise beyond his limits. He knew the road ahead would be brutal, but for the first time, he didn't fear it.
Lucci turned his gaze back to the distant battlefield, the storm flashing with bolts of black lightning and echoing with the thunderous clash of titans. "Someday, we'll stand there too," Lucci murmured, almost to himself.
Smoker nodded, a faint grin tugging at his lips. "Someday."
The snowfall thickened, but neither of them moved to seek shelter. They stood in the cold, the bloodstained snow beneath their feet serving as a silent witness to their resolve.