One kilometer outside Port Nanohana, deep in the desert—
A swirl of yellow sand lifted unnaturally from the ground, drawing together mid-air before taking on human form. It solidified into a tall man with a golden hook for a left hand.
One of the Seven Warlords of the Sea—"Desert King", Sir Crocodile.
A black shadow suddenly plummeted from the sky, crashing hard into the sand. The impact sent up a burst of dust, leaving a crater behind as if a meteor had struck. At its center stood a young man in a black coat patterned with white waves. His chest was bare, his grin—blindingly sunny.
Captain of the Chris Pirates—Golden Ring—Chris T. Aeridar.
"You just leapt straight down here. Looks like it's not just your body that's tough—your ability must've helped," Crocodile observed sharply, immediately discerning the cause. He wasn't one to be easily fooled.
"Aha~ You figured it out already? Yeah, I'm a user of the Impact-Impact Fruit," Aeridar said with a sheepish chuckle, scratching his head as if troubled.
"The Impact-Impact Fruit, huh... No wonder you could generate shockwaves that powerful," Crocodile muttered, a glimmer of realization in his eyes.
He had been rattled when Aeridar first unleashed that blast. The shockwave felt eerily similar to the kind the Fleet Admiral—Sengoku the Buddha—was known for.
"Hey now, Crocodile~ I came here hoping to talk things over. But the way you're looking at me, I get the feeling if I'm not strong enough, you'll just kill me on the spot," Aeridar said with a casual pout, sounding more annoyed than afraid.
Crocodile eyed him with faint amusement before letting out a scornful laugh. "Tch. 'Talk'? Don't make me laugh. You're just another rookie pirate who made some noise. You think that qualifies you to negotiate with me?"
From inside his coat, he produced an hourglass and tossed it into the sand.
"I'll give you three minutes. Show me what you've got. Once time's up... I'll make you wish you were dead."
"Man~ you really are more arrogant than I expected," Aeridar replied flippantly, though a flicker of sharpness gleamed in his eyes. Clearly, that jab struck a nerve. "You'd better pray I don't kill you by accident. That'd throw a real wrench in my plans."
No sooner had the words left his mouth than Aeridar vanished. Only a gust of swirling sand remained where he'd stood.
"Fast!" Crocodile's eyes widened as Aeridar reappeared in front of him with blinding speed.
Still, Crocodile made no move to dodge. As a Logia user, he didn't think some upstart pirate could hurt him.
But reality doesn't always align with expectations.
Aeridar's fist smashed into Crocodile's face.
Pain exploded across his cheek. The blow sent him flying backward.
Crocodile flew nearly eight meters before crashing into the sand, tumbling another five or six meters and leaving a deep trench before finally skidding to a halt.
Crocodile had been punched in the face. And hard.
Dazed, he clutched his cheek in disbelief, his eyes vacant with shock. For the life of him, he couldn't understand how a supposed Logia like him had been hit—much less hurt—by a third-rate rookie pirate.
Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. A realization began to dawn.
"You... you're using Haki?!"
Aeridar sneered. "Crocodile, you've been holed up in Alabasta so long you've forgotten the basics. Logia users aren't invincible."
He raised his right arm slowly. As his fingers curled into a fist, a mysterious force pulsed outward. His skin from fist to elbow turned black—gleaming with a metallic sheen.
Armament Haki—Hardening.
"You bastard... hiding that kind of Haki?" Crocodile gritted his teeth.
It wasn't just that Aeridar had Haki. It was how he used it. The punch that hit Crocodile had been cloaked in invisible Armament Haki—not hardened—just enough to bypass his Logia intangibility without revealing the full extent of his strength.
It was a dirty trick. A calculated humiliation.
After all, damaging a Logia without even using visible Hardening wasn't something just anyone could do.
It took a level of Armament Haki so refined, so potent, that even the invisible kind could strike with force rivaling full-on armor—Stage Four, the realm of supreme mastery.
Most never made it past the basics: wrapping their fists or blades in an unseen layer of Haki just strong enough to hit intangible bodies.
A few climbed further, achieving that telltale blackened sheen along their limbs—Partial Hardening—where both offense and defense took a sharp leap.
Rarer still were those who could armor their entire bodies in it, shrugging off gunfire, blades, and even explosions as if wrapped in steel skin.
Aeridar's display proved he was well into Stage Two, if not higher.
"I couldn't help it," Aeridar said, grinning as he shrugged. "That smug face of yours was just begging for a punch."
Crocodile's rage erupted. "So what if you have Haki, brat?! I fought in the New World, survived against monsters you can't even imagine! You think that pathetic display means anything to me?!"
He had once stood tall in the New World, facing off against the likes of Whitebeard. Though his defeat had been humbling, he wasn't someone who could be dismissed so easily. If not for that loss, he'd still be among the great pirates of the New World—not licking his wounds in Alabasta.
"Die! Desert Spada: Gigant Blade!"
Both his arms transformed into massive blades of sand. With a powerful swing—
Four towering sand blades—each over two meters tall—cut through the desert, slicing forward and boxing Aeridar in.
"So now you're pissed?" Aeridar's expression sharpened. The fire in his eyes flared up.
"Well, I've been pissed from the start."
"Eat this—Impact Cannon!"
Faced with the incoming sand blades, Aeridar made no attempt to dodge. He raised his arm, muscles coiling like steel cables. His fist clenched tight. Veins bulged along his forearm, and his muscles swelled like coiled serpents. With a sudden roar of force, he drove his fist forward.
The air seemed to erupt with the blow. As Aeridar's punch lashed out, the atmosphere within a radius of dozens of meters churned into chaos. A savage gust howled outward, and from his fist surged a cylindrical shockwave, three to four meters wide, racing ahead at blinding speed.
The desert floor caved in beneath its path. Sand was blasted aside and compressed downward and outward, leaving behind a deep, semicircular trench carved clean through the battlefield—no, more than a trench. It was a ravine, forcefully torn open by raw, concentrated power.
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