Commanding Officer's Office, Marine 321st Branch.
Darren stood by the massive floor-to-ceiling window, shirtless as usual, a lit cigar clamped between his teeth. The glass reflected the golden rays of the setting sun, casting a long shadow behind him as he overlooked the entire base.
Out at sea, warships patrolled the surrounding waters in strict formation. On the training grounds below, rows of Marines drilled under barking commands, the rhythmic clash of wooden swords and shouted cadences echoing up to the office.
Other soldiers worked steadily along the docks and gun batteries, maintaining the cannons, checking gear, and prepping for the next rotation.
The haze of cigar smoke curled around Darren's chiseled face, his eyes sharp, contemplative.
"Progress is slowing down..."
He exhaled, sighing quietly, eyes drifting to the scabbed-over wounds on his palms and chest.
They'd likely be healed by morning. His superhuman physique granted him not only brutal defense, but an absurd rate of recovery.
At this point, standard training no longer pushed his limits.
His body had adapted—completely. No matter how intense the stimulus, it barely registered anymore.
That's why, ever since returning from the Germa Kingdom, he'd pulled in Momonga, Gion, and Tokikake for "special training."
Partly, it was to help them push their own potential to the next level.
It was to force new pressure onto himself.
True, their combined strength still wasn't enough to truly threaten him. But in combat, even simulated, Darren's body responded to the challenge with slight gains. Every strike, every clash—his stats crept forward, if only by fractions.
And in a sea this vast, those three were far from weak.
They were exceptional.
He closed his eyes for a moment, letting his perception sharpen. Using his innate gift for "sensing," Darren scanned his own physical condition—his internal "status screen" coming into focus.
Over the past month, his physical stats had only increased by 0.5 to 0.8 each—marginal gains. Most of that had come from these "training sessions."
As for his Devil Fruit development, progress was even slower.
A soft rapping broke the silence.
The door opened, and in stepped Lieutenant Commander Momonga, crisp in uniform, cap snug on his head. His stride was straight and sure, though a bit weary.
Darren poured him a glass of chilled whiskey and handed it over with a grin.
"How're you holding up?"
Momonga accepted the drink, grimacing as he took a seat.
"Not great. Not all of us are freaks who get off on pain and brawling, y'know."
He hadn't had a decent night's sleep in days. Every training session left his body feeling like a broken jigsaw puzzle. Even lying in bed, his muscles still screamed.
Darren just shrugged with a grin.
"Pain's a good thing. It reminds you you're alive."
"In battle, taking a hit with your own flesh lets you feel your opponent's strength. Their speed, their force, even their will. It's the quickest way to see their weakness."
Momonga rolled his eyes and downed the drink in one go.
Darren's fighting style had always baffled him.
He had the speed and instincts to dodge nearly anything. But he rarely did.
Instead, he chose to meet attacks head-on, letting himself be hit.
His wild, savage fighting style was the polar opposite of his political nature—shrewd, manipulative, precise.
He never dodged. He never retreated.
It was a style he'd forged over years—maybe one influenced by his former commanding officer: Sakazuki.
Fight with blood. Trade injury for injury. Gamble everything when death is on the line.
These were the kind of opponents you prayed you'd never face.
Like a starving wolf, mad with hunger—
Even if his organs were crushed, even if his limbs were broken—
He'd still be grinning, dragging his teeth across your throat for one last bite.
Darren casually refilled Momonga's glass.
"Dodging in battle is a bad habit. Makes you soft. Makes you hesitant."
"If you always leave yourself an escape route, you'll start depending on it. And eventually, your enemy will predict it."
"If you're planning a retreat, you've already lost the fight."
"Reflexive evasion doesn't make you stronger—it just slows you down."
"It's will. It's resolve. It's the instinct to win when staring death in the face—that's what makes power real."
Then he added with a chuckle:
"There's only one Borsalino in this sea."
At that, even the stoic Momonga twitched slightly, recalling the smug, drawling voice of that light-speed freak.
"But if you keep risking everything in every fight... how many lives do you think you've got?"
Darren took a sip of his whiskey, the sunset glinting in his eyes.
He stared toward the horizon, cigar smoke trailing around his sharp, composed features. His voice echoed softly through the spacious room.
"But we only get one life. I intend to live it loud."
"To me, life is simple. Move forward—or fall back."
"Falling back? Sure. It's easy. The first time you do it, you'll lie to yourself. 'It's fine. I'll let this one slide. I'll get them next time...'"
"But the moment you do it once—there will be a second time."
"Again, and again. Every retreat. Every compromise. Every dodge."
"And one day, you'll look in the mirror and realize—you're not the same person anymore."
"There are a thousand reasons to back down. But only one reason to move forward."
"That one reason is enough for me."
He clenched his fist.
"I'd rather die than lose."
Darren wasn't just talking about fighting.
These were the same words that had guided the man through every decision he'd made. Over and over again, when the world demanded compromise—he chose resistance.
Against the Celestial Dragons.
The words "grin and bear it" simply didn't exist in Rogers Darren's vocabulary.