The Sandstone Basin lay just one kilometer east of Rainbase.
Formed over centuries from water-worn sediments compacted by time, sandstone is a type of sedimentary rock. The land east of Rainbase had once been a lakebed. Over time, the lake dried up, leaving behind only a few scattered ponds and a shallow depression that became a small oasis, home to patches of greenery and trees within an 800-meter diameter. But the desert had long since reclaimed it—winds covered the land with sand, the trees withered, and what remained was a barren, lifeless stretch of rock and dust. Occasionally, a few drifters might camp here, but otherwise, it was utterly deserted.
At precisely three in the afternoon, two groups arrived outside the basin.
One group numbered just seven people, all dressed in wildly different outfits. The other was a force of several hundred, clad in the standard Marine uniform—white shirts and blue trousers. They took up positions on either side of the basin's perimeter.
From the group of seven, a man with a golden hoop in his ear stepped forward and began to walk into the basin. He wore a hat woven from willow branches and a long black coat trimmed with white wave patterns, open to reveal a bare chest. A faint, amused smile played at the corners of his mouth, like none of this mattered to him in the slightest.
From the Marines' side, one man also stepped forward into the basin. He had close-cropped gray hair and a scruffy, sleazy-looking mustache. Deep lines carved across his face, marking the passage of time. Despite his age, his eyes burned with an unwavering resolve. He wore the Marines' trademark coat of justice draped over his shoulders, and underneath it, a white shirt patterned with seagulls.
Perched atop a towering sand dune not far off, a gust of wind swept past, pulling together a swirl of sand that coalesced into the shape of a man. The unmistakable golden hook for a hand, the facial scar like a blade-drawn "一," and the ever-present cigar clamped between his lips left no doubt—Crocodile had arrived to watch.
At the heart of the sandstone basin was a broad clearing. Unlike the surrounding dunes, the ground here was solid stone, hardened over centuries.
The two men reached the center and stopped, twenty meters apart.
"Hahaha... I've only ever seen your photo, kid. Gotta say, in person? You look pretty plain," said Syrons, letting out a rumbling laugh as he eyed the young man before him, no more than twenty-something.
Truth be told, Syrons himself was curious. This rookie upstart had stirred up so much trouble that even Fleet Admiral Sengoku had taken a personal interest in eliminating him. And Crocodile, that proud desert crocodile, had even struck some kind of deal with him.
"You sure a pervy old man like you gets to talk about appearances? You look weird as hell," said Aeridar, his tone lazy as his eyes scanned Syrons without much interest.
Still, now that he was facing the sleazy old man Crocodile had shown such uncharacteristic concern over, Aeridar had to admit, he got it. The moment they locked eyes, every hair on his body stood on end. The presence Syrons gave off was suffocating, an overwhelming force hidden in the shell of a wrinkled body. It was the kind of strength that could kill.
"My, my~ What a sharp tongue for such a brat," Syrons muttered, unimpressed but not denying it.
"Syrons-dono, I've heard much about you. It's an honor to meet you. I look forward to our match." The words were formal, but Aeridar's tone was so offhand that it bordered on disrespectful, especially when paired with his slouch and devil-may-care attitude.
"Oh, drop the act, punk. You're not the type to give a damn about manners," Syrons snorted, stroking his mustache. "Because of you, this old man had to drag his bones across the desert. Why don't you just come back to Impel Down with me, and spare me the trouble?"
Aeridar winced. He tilted his head back, scoffing. "You trying to play the pitiful old man card now? What a joke. If you're really that old, why not retire already and enjoy a quiet life? You came all the way out here just to get your ass kicked? What if this ends in humiliation? Not worth it, old-timer."
Despite standing nearly two meters tall, a towering height in the real world, Aeridar had to crane his neck to look up at Syrons, who stood over 2.3 meters, like most monsters in this anime world.
"Brat, I may be old, but I can still throw your ass into Impel Down," Syrons growled, his mustache bristling as he glared down.
"Oh yeah?" Aeridar smirked. "Come try it."
With that, he raised his right hand, now encased in an armored gauntlet, and threw off his coat, revealing a lean, sculpted torso. His muscles rippled with potential energy, like a coiled predator ready to pounce. His Observation Haki flickered to life, silent and precise, his whole body on edge for anything that came next.
Syrons responded in kind, letting a grin cross his face as he shrugged off his Justice coat and draped it over a nearby rock. His chest was thick with bronzed muscle, veins standing out beneath the skin, exuding brute strength. The aura rolling off him was feral, like a beast or a demon in human form.
"Damn, that pressure..." Aeridar could feel the weight in the air. His scalp tingled with tension. If Syrons was this terrifying, then what about the others from his generation? Fleet Admiral Sengoku, Hero of the Marines Garp, or even former Admiral Zephyr? Aeridar realized, bitterly, that he still had a long, long way to go.
"Let's see if your mouth's as strong as the rest of you, punk."
The words had barely left his mouth when Syrons vanished.
He left behind only a single footprint, pressed deep into the sandstone.
Aeridar's pupils shrank.
A black blur shot through the air, accompanied by a sound like a mountain crumbling. The sheer force of the strike felt like it could shatter the sky.
In that critical instant, Aeridar's Haki locked onto the incoming attack. With a sharp pivot and a burst from his legs, he slid to the side.
The impact exploded like thunder.
The entire basin shook as shockwaves burst outward, flinging shards of rock in every direction. A cloud of dust swallowed the scene. Cracks spiderwebbed out from the epicenter, carving into the solid sandstone floor with terrifying range.
"Whoa—seriously? This guy's a freaking monster," Aeridar muttered as the dust cleared, eyes wide.
At the heart of it all, a crater over five meters wide had been blasted into the ground. Cracks radiated from its rim in all directions.
At its center stood Syrons.
His right arm had transformed, black as pitch, massive and menacing, into a colossal warhammer, the head as large as three basketballs fused together.
"You dodged it. So you've got some skills after all," Syrons muttered, giving his transformed arm a lazy swing as he eyed Aeridar, a dangerous glint flashing through his gaze.
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