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Chapter 852: Kuro, Victorious
Chapter 852: Kuro, Victorious
Kuro raised an eyebrow, studying the indentation in Bartholomew’s chest and his slightly sunken left arm. Suddenly, he lifted his Yokai Blade and slashed across Bartholomew’s arm, carving a thin gash.
“Your injuries run deeper than mine—now we’re even!”
Bartholomew frowned, then smashed his own left arm with a fist, creating a crisp crack and a new wound.
“But the cut you gave me is deeper. Now we’re even!”
“Bullshit! That blow you landed hurt worse!”
Kuro slashed his own waist, opening another gash.
“Your strike packed more force,” Bartholomew said, raising his Fist before slamming it into his own body.
Across the island, Lida’s eye twitched violently as she screamed, “Enough! You’ll kill yourselves like this—there’s no point, stop it!”
Before she could say more, both combatants halted their self-inflicted strikes, realizing the futility, and charged at each other.
Kuro drove his blade into Bartholomew’s side, carving a gaping wound.
Bartholomew retaliated with a punch to Kuro’s left shoulder blade, producing a sharp crunch as Kuro’s arm drooped limply.
The gruesome spectacle left onlookers trembling.
“Are you all just going to stand there?”
Lucci glanced at the unmoving Vice Admirals, puzzled. “If this keeps up, Golden Lion will sustain irreversible damage—even if we win.”
Aokiji closed his eyes, silent. The others mirrored his inaction.
Kuro had already shouted at them to “get lost.” They weren’t unwilling to intervene—it was just impossible to step into a battle this bloody and ferocious.
Whether Navy or pirate, they were first and foremost legendary figures.
Lucci, born of the World Government, lived by a singular creed: Justice was his mission. He would stop at nothing to achieve it. But for them, Justice was not so rigid.
Even the coldest hearts could weep for a fallen mentor, and even the sternest souls would hesitate to interrupt this clash.
This was their battle.
Intervening now would only enrage Kuro.
“Let’s wait until the final moment,” Lida said.
Her white hair whipped wildly in an unseen wind as she restrained herself from rushing forward.
They could intervene at any time—Bartholomew’s condition made his defeat inevitable.
Yet Kuro fought so viciously, showing no sign of wanting backup, even shouting “get lost” in their direction.
Clearly, he had his own fierce will to win.
They could force their way in, but interfering might shatter Kuro’s resolve later.
The other Navy officers had reached the same conclusion, explaining their hesitation.
Even Dracule Mihawk now fixed his gaze on the others, ready to block anyone who moved.
Hiss!
A sudden sound of steel biting flesh erupted.
Kuro swept his Yokai Blade upward, unleashing a golden glow. The blade slipped past Bartholomew’s swinging Fist, cutting beneath his ribs in an upward arc.
“Ultimate Mystic Art!”
The blade sliced through Bartholomew’s shoulder, severing an arm.
“Atomic Collapse!”
Bartholomew clenched his remaining left arm, aiming a punch at Kuro’s chest. But Kuro, capitalizing on the brief stiffness from his blade’s strike, pivoted upward and kicked.
Crack!
Bartholomew’s punch struck Kuro’s shin, snapping the bone with a sickening twist. The impact hurled Kuro backward, slamming him to the ground.
Kuro rose swiftly, staggering sideways as he stood.
That leg wasn’t just broken—it was shattered to fragments.
“You’ve lost an arm!” Kuro glared, crimson eyes locked on Bartholomew.
“You’re no better off!” Bartholomew shot back, his own wounds ghastly.
Bartholomew’s shoulder and neck were riddled with gashes. A chunk of flesh had been scooped from his waist. Blood poured from his severed arm, while the injuries from Shunjaku Azure Dragon Slash erupted anew, drenching him in crimson.
Kuro’s left arm hung uselessly. His leg wobbled. Bruises marred his body and face, his torso bore a deep dent.
Both men gasped for air, drenched in sweat like fresh sauna-goers.
By now, Bartholomew’s Body trembled—not from fear, but from pushing his strength beyond physical limits, triggering primal instincts.
Kuro felt his Yokai Blade as heavy as a mountain, too burdensome to lift.
But—
“Just a little further!” Both men steeled themselves.
Kuro raised his Yokai Blade, golden light swirling across the blade.
“Unenlightened Divine Wind Murderous Sword,” he murmured.
Bartholomew tightened his Fist, channeling Observation Haki to cover it.
He had to surpass this man—his first step to eclipsing Roger.
Though he’d possessed a Log Pose to Laugh Tale long ago, he’d never gone. Even after leaving Roger’s crew and refusing to follow him there, he’d never wanted to. It would only be retracing Roger’s steps.
He would surpass Roger!
Defeat the Grand Line’s strongest men—the Four Emperors, the Admirals. Ascend as the Grand Line’s mightiest, then go to Laugh Tale. That would prove his superiority.
Roger never achieved that.
“Azure Dragon (Jiaolong)!”
Kuro soared forward, his blade glowing golden, as he swung.
The radiant glow in Bartholomew’s eyes suddenly evoked memories.
Aged eight, he’d enlisted as a young soldier to defend his nation. He’d charged minefields, wielded bombs as a vanguard, earning the highest honor—a medal reserved only for the most valiant.
Bartholomew had deserved it. He’d been stronger than his comrades.
But when victory loomed, his comrades betrayed him, stealing his medal and leaving him near death.
He bore no hatred. He merely realized true strength wasn’t about instilling fear—it was about becoming so overwhelmingly powerful that no one dared resist.
After recovering from his injuries, he hunted down those young soldiers, reclaimed his medal.
From age nine to thirteen, he dominated battlefields with the power of being alone, his belief growing stronger by the day: only strength could grant freedom, and only freedom could let one command their own fate.
At fourteen, when his nation stood on the brink of victory, his commanding officer vowed to let him leave the battlefield, even leave the nation entirely, granting him true freedom. Bartholomew believed it. He fought harder, single-handedly crushing the final enemy forces at the cost of near-death, securing his nation’s triumph.
But he was betrayed. His commander—or rather, his nation—feared his might, wanting him buried on that battlefield. As for that so-called "freedom"? Utter nonsense.
Enraged, Bartholomew shattered his homeland and defiantly set sail.
At sea, he became nearly invincible, yet adrift in purpose.
What was his goal?
What should he be?
What was he even for?
Then he met Roger.
That man gave him a purpose: to surpass. For the first time, Bartholomew found meaning in living. Back then, no one aboard the ship could defeat him—not even Silvers Rayleigh, who only ever fought him to a draw.
He was fifteen years old.
Had fate not intervened, he’d have stayed aboard until surpassing Roger, striving for nothing else. Gradually, he was absorbed into the Roger Pirates.
These comrades ensured he’d never fear betrayal again. So long as Roger stood tall, all would be well.
At seventeen, Roger fell gravely ill.
When Bartholomew learned the news, shockwaves rattled his world. Desperate, he challenged Roger—but lost again.
Roger remained unshaken, unshakable.
“I’m dying, Bartholomew.”
The next year etched itself into his soul. The man who’d casually declared his own death date had smiled with such wistfulness.
He didn’t understand. He drifted into confusion.
Protect comrades!
Maybe if he protected them, Roger wouldn’t die.
His combat grew hesitant. Lost and adrift, he fought like a beast without purpose, convinced he’d weakened. Doubt crept in—was Roger even that strong?
How could a truly mighty man fall to mere illness?
He challenged Roger again. Lost again. But this time, he left the crew.
Staying would only make him weaker. He’d challenge Roger in another way.
Yet the chance never came.
Roger died.
The man he’d believed invincible across the seas, the world—dead.
Bartholomew roamed the Grand Line like a ravenous beast, until the Navy’s Pacifista subdued him.
In prison, he forged a new goal.
If no one could surpass Roger himself, then he’d do what Roger couldn’t—another path to victory.
Defeating the Grand Line’s strongest men, alone—Roger had failed at that.
His first act after release? Hunt down the man who’d left such a deep impression: Lucius Kro.
Years ago, he’d slashed his captain, unknowingly revealing the captain’s fatal illness.
If not for that wound…
Bartholomew shouted, eyes wide: “Unless I surpass you, I’ll never become the strongest, Lucius Kro!”
His fist crashed toward Kuro—
Hiss!
As the blow neared, Kuro’s body suddenly lifted, evading the strike. A golden glow sliced across Bartholomew’s neck.
Kuro landed behind him, one foot planted, blade flicked lightly.
Bartholomew touched his neck, finding no wound. He turned, grinning darkly: “You dodged? Afraid to perish with me, Lucius Kro? You’re nothing special! On the Grand Line, only those who embrace death can ascend to the peak!”
“Spare me.”
Without glancing back, Kuro spoke softly: “I’m no ‘strongest.’ Just a Navy officer seeking safety.”
Bartholomew raised his fist, shifting to attack—
Kuro continued, unmoving: “Chasing the peak feels exhausting, don’t you think? There’ll always be someone stronger. As long as one remains human, no one holds the summit forever. The era shifts. You cling to old ideals while your body stays young—but your heart’s aged.”
“You’ve got time… to find a beach, sunbathe, feel the breeze’s harmony and peace. Then your thoughts might change.”
“Of course, that’s just my view. Listen well—”
“Hear this divine wind’s gentle sound.”
Hsst!
Bartholomew’s body stiffened as a gash tore open at his neck, blood spraying like a fountain. Wounds across his body erupted, spilling crimson.
He staggered, staring at Kuro’s back, lips curling: “I… heard the wind.”
His fist reached forward, brushing Kuro’s back: “Feel… my fist.”
Thud.
As his body crumpled, his massive fist slid down Kuro’s back. With a final gust of wind, his wide eyes fixed on Kuro’s retreating figure—a gaze mixing defiance, then gradual acceptance.
“You win.” A whisper.
Kuro lingered, about to shake his head, then nodded: “I suppose so.”
As the words faded, Bartholomew’s eyes stilled like cold stone.
The beast adrift…
Kuro sheathed his Yokai Blade, reaching for his cigar—only to find none left. Shattered.
Sighing, he muttered: “Next life, try being human. You’ll see different skies.”
Bartholomew’s physical toll had been far heavier.
Kuro hadn’t faced elite Vice Admirals or the Seven Warlords of the Sea, but Bartholomew had. That alone explained the disparity in exhaustion.
That toll let Kuro unleash one killing strike, evade the fist, and still stand.
One move. Decisive victory.
The aura behind him merged with the earth itself—
Signaling the end of this man’s life-force.
Sunset bled into the horizon. The crescent moon rose.
Four days and three nights of combat…
Kuro. Victorious.
(End of Chapter)
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