Legend said that "Red the Aloof," Balorick Redfield, possessed an eerie, singular brand of Observation Haki—something beyond the usual sense of presences within a radius. They claimed he could read minds.
And if he pushed it far enough, he could even catch fragments of a person's memories.
For years, most people dismissed it as rumor.
After what had just happened, Darren wasn't so sure.
Realization lit in his eyes, and a faint smile curved at his lips.
"So the legend's true."
Around them, the other prisoners went rigid.
Wait.
Their expressions shifted—shock turning into a staggered, almost offended disbelief—as the implication hit them like a brick.
So this lunatic had infiltrated Impel Down, popped their Seastone shackles, opened their cells, let the whole sixth level loose… then beaten them half to death—
Just to sharpen his Observation Haki?
Did that make any sense at all?
If you want to train Observation Haki, go find your teacher!
"Black Arm" Zephyr was a former Marine Admiral, wasn't he?
What the hell did this have to do with them?
The "world-class" criminals nursed broken bones and bruises, teeth clenched, faces twisted in pain and resentment.
Redfield exhaled and lowered himself to sit on the cold floor.
Even battered, even bleeding, his back remained straight, posture immaculate—an old-fashioned gentleman refusing to bend, as if dignity itself were part of his skeleton.
"All Haki," he said evenly, "no matter how domineering, comes from the strength of the heart. Observation Haki especially."
"Yes, extreme combat can force the body to draw out a kind of latent potential. It can sharpen your ability to catch a target's aura—almost like grinding a blade."
"But that approach will never give you true mastery of the heart."
Darren frowned.
"The heart?"
To be honest, he'd already torn Haki apart and studied it from every angle he could.
In his understanding, Haki was something every human carried—an innate force.
Presence. Killing intent. Fighting spirit.
Learn to control those unseen things, and you can forge sheer will into a weapon. That was what the Sea called Haki.
Simple enough.
Presence, killing intent, fighting spirit—those were the "fuel" for Conqueror's Haki. Willpower was the ignition, the catalyst that turned that fuel into an overwhelming eruption.
A battle-hardened warrior naturally had plenty of that fuel. But if his spirit broke—if his will collapsed—then even a man with years of blood on his hands could lose the ability to shape that pressure into power.
It explained a lot. Men like Crocodile and Gecko Moria—after their defeats to Whitebeard and Kaido—had their confidence shattered. Their strength fell apart with it. Even basic Armament and Observation Haki became unreliable.
That was one way to see it.
Redfield was offering another.
"Haki," he said, "is the power of the heart."
Darren's eyes narrowed slightly.
"Exactly." Redfield nodded. "Armament and Conqueror's—I won't pretend I'm the authority there. Garp and Zephyr are better than I am."
"But Observation Haki, at its core, is the ability to perceive the hearts of others."
His gaze slid over Darren—bloodied, wounded, still sitting there as if he belonged—and something strange flickered in Redfield's eyes.
"Don't tell me," he said, voice almost incredulous, "you've always trained Observation Haki like this."
"By fighting strong opponents over and over. Throwing yourself to the brink of death."
Darren's expression turned just as odd.
"Don't you?"
Redfield: "..."
Staring at Darren's perfectly sincere face, Redfield pressed a hand to his forehead and rubbed his temple.
"It's a miracle you've lived this long."
"For me, fighting is proof. A way to measure what my training has produced. Yes—battling powerful enemies can force growth. It can push you past limits."
"But there's no guarantee the Goddess of Victory will keep smiling on you."
Darren considered that, then nodded—then shook his head.
"Not entirely true," he said calmly. "If your body is strong enough, even a 'fatal' wound can recover surprisingly fast."
A fatal wound… "mere"?
The eavesdropping criminals gaped.
If anyone else had said it, they'd have called it delusion.
Coming from him—after watching their attacks fail to even scratch him—they couldn't even argue.
Redfield's mouth twitched. His fingers tightened around the blood-red umbrella's handle, then slowly eased.
"Have you always talked like this, kid?" he asked flatly.
Darren raised both hands, palms out. "I'm just stating facts."
Redfield drew a slow breath.
"That's not the point. The point is—no matter how monstrous your defenses are, you still can't guarantee survival in every fight."
His eyes locked onto Darren's, sharp and unwavering.
"Only by staying alive can you become stronger."
Darren was quiet for a few seconds, then nodded once.
"That's fair."
A faint smile returned to Redfield's lips. "Those with weaker physiques have to be careful. Otherwise, they'll die without meaning to."
Darren stroked at the stubble on his chin and murmured, "...You're right."
Redfield's smile froze.
Veins stood out on the back of his hands, at his temple, the strain of restraint creeping into his face.
That brat… He's unbearable.
"But that advice doesn't really fit me," Darren added casually.
Redfield's eye twitched. "What do you mean?"
Darren chuckled.
"Compared to you—and most people on this sea—I haven't had much time to get stronger."
"Look at me now. The World Government's number one enemy. The most wanted man with the highest bounty."
"And if I ever get caught," he went on, voice light, "I probably won't even get the luxury of becoming your cellmate down here."
He tilted his head toward Redfield.
"For you, it's survive first, then get stronger."
Then he gave Redfield a quick, shameless wink.
"But for me… it's only by getting stronger that I can survive."
To be continued...