Chapter 435: Chapter 78: Congratulations on Becoming a Distinguished Member of the Shichibukai
"Donquixote Doflamingo?"
At the sound of the name, the Gorosei on the other end of the Den Den Mushi fell eerily silent.
Then—flickers of memory.
An arrogant boy with wild blond hair and cruel eyes.
Sunglasses glinting on the Stairway to Heaven.
A severed head swinging from his hand, blood still warm.
"This is my father’s head," the boy had said, laying it at their feet. "I demand to be reinstated as a Celestial Dragon."
Back in the present, Saint Topman Warcury’s voice dropped to an icy pitch. "Darren. What is your connection to Doflamingo?"
Darren smiled faintly. "Reporting, Your Excellency—I have no direct ties to Doflamingo."
"While stationed in the North Blue, I encountered his crew on multiple occasions. The Donquixote Family’s influence was growing fast. I launched several campaigns to suppress them... none succeeded."
"A failure of command on my part," Darren admitted, tone calm and even. "But his ability to slip through Marine operations time and again speaks for itself. Since you’re evaluating pirates for the Shichibukai, I thought he deserved consideration."
He let his gaze drift toward the broken man lying beside him.
"At the very least, he may prove more promising than Crocodile."
Crocodile’s teeth clenched. His eyes burned.
On the other end of the line, the Gorosei exchanged subtle glances.
Saint Topman Warcury’s voice eventually returned, calm but hard. "Donquixote Doflamingo is a minor figure from the North Blue. He does not qualify. He is not under consideration."
Darren’s smile didn’t waver. "Understood, gentlemen."
"I won’t waste your time further."
Click.
The line went dead.
Crack.
Saint Topman Warcury crushed the Den Den Mushi in his palm, shards of shell falling like glass. "That insolent brat. Does he think he has the right to meddle in our selections?"
At his side, the katana-wielding elder sneered. "Warcury, you don’t actually believe Crocodile killed Falcon, do you?"
"We all know Falcon’s strength. No way that lizard pulled it off."
Warcury grunted. "Of course I don’t believe it."
"But does it matter?"
To them, CP0 agents were disposable. Tools—expendable.
"What does concern me," Warcury added, voice tightening, "is how quickly that brat has risen."
"The Totto Land incident drew far too much attention. Even non-aligned nations are growing nervous about the Marine’s expanding reach."
Each of the Gorosei now sat with a manila file open before them.
At the top, a name: Rogers Darren.
A photograph paper-clipped to the corner showed a man with a cigarette between his lips and contempt in his eyes.
The Financial Martial God, Saint Ethanbaron V. Nasujuro, stroked the black-violet edge of his demon blade, fingers contemplative. "The tides are shifting again. Under Darren, the Marines are growing restless."
"We’re seeing the same volatility we did in the Zephyr era... perhaps worse."
Saint Shepherd Ju Peter crossed his arms. "At least Borsalino still listens to us. Right, Saturn?"
Saint Jaygarcia Saturn—black suit, white beard, and eyes like cold glass—nodded once. "He remains obedient. His surveillance of Vegapunk is flawless."
Warcury chuckled. "Then perhaps we use that. Stir up some friction between them."
Saint Marcus Mars exhaled slowly. "The immediate concern is the Shichibukai plan."
"That brat’s strength has already surpassed what the Marines should be allowed to possess."
"The system was never just about pirates—it was about keeping the Navy in check."
"But," said the blond elder suddenly, "we mustn’t push him too far."
"Indeed," Saturn murmured. "Darren isn’t Zephyr. He won’t break—he’ll turn."
Warcury’s expression darkened. "And if he does, we’ll have something even more dangerous than the Golden Lion on our hands."
"But that’s what makes him useful."
"Give him what he wants—glory, women, power, recognition. As long as he has desires, he can be controlled."
"The real danger," Warcury added, "are those without desires."
The other elders exchanged small, knowing smiles.
"Agreed."
"Agreed."
"Seconded."
"Unanimous."
---
On the battlefield, Darren watched the Den Den Mushi’s eye flicker and die, then crushed the shell between his fingers.
He exhaled a long breath, smoke curling from his lips like a dragon’s sigh.
"Annoying old bastards," he muttered.
Then he turned to the stunned Marines.
"Well, that’s that."
Tokikake: ...
The Marines: ...
Darren ignored them and walked to Crocodile.
"You heard them, didn’t you?"
He knelt beside the battered pirate and gently wiped the blood from Crocodile’s bruised face with his handkerchief.
"Looks like I can’t kill you after all. Pity."
Crocodile glared at him, but said nothing.
"Don’t give me that look," Darren said. "You weren’t thinking about the Marines’ feelings when you butchered them."
He sighed, stood up—and drew Enma.
"But escaping death doesn’t mean escaping justice. You’ve killed Marines. You’ve slaughtered civilians. Something has to be left behind."
Crocodile’s eyes widened. "Wait—"
Shhk!
A single, clean stroke.
Crocodile’s left hand flew into the air.
He didn’t even scream right away. His body trembled violently. Then—
"AAAGHHH! You BASTARD!!"
He clutched the bleeding stump, red pouring between his fingers, face contorted in pure agony.
"Hm. That’s better," Darren said, sheathing Enma with a soft hiss.
"Oh—and here’s a tip. Replace it with a gold hook. You’ll look more the part."
He pressed a heavy boot against Crocodile’s chest and leaned close.
"Don’t think I’m sparing you because of the Gorosei."
"If I wanted you dead, you’d be rotting already. All they’d do is scold me."
"No... I’m letting you live because I expect something more from you."
"Never forget this."
Darren’s eyes gleamed with something far darker than justice.
"From this moment on—you are a member of the Shichibukai."
"You want to pick a fight with Whitebeard? Go ahead. Roger? Sure. Tear up the New World if you want. I guarantee no Marine or government dog will come for you."
"But remember this."
"You don’t serve them."
"You serve me."
Crocodile’s breath hitched.
That ambition—ruthless, towering, suffocating—it crashed over him like a tidal wave.
This man didn’t want order.
He wanted control.
Darren pulled a gold-banded cigar from his coat and gently placed it between Crocodile’s lips.
Then he lit it.
He smoothed back Crocodile’s blood-matted hair with the care of a friend.
And smiled.
"Congratulations, Crocodile."
"From now on—you are a distinguished member of the Shichibukai."
To be continued...