"So, you're just as ambitious as the rest," said Arlan, eyes narrowing with understanding. "Let me guess, you plan to use the Navy as a front, a convenient mask to pursue your true goals. Crafty. Ruthless. But ultimately, just another schemer."
"As long as I keep rising through the ranks," Iman muttered coldly, "I'll eventually be stationed in a branch where I can call the shots. Then I'll use Marine resources to gather powerful subordinates loyal to me alone. Whether I remain in the Navy or go pirate, I'll carve out a domain of my own, free from anyone's control."
His face darkened as a memory flickered: the crushing defeat he'd once suffered at the hands of Crocodile.
"If Crocodile hadn't been a Logia-type Devil Fruit user, immune to my attacks… Do you really think I'd have stayed under his thumb for so long?"
"Heh…" Arlan's laugh was cold and sharp. "Another ignorant fool, blind to the vastness of the sea."
"You're not a true swordsman," Oliver added with disdain.
A real swordsman could lose, but would never bow to strength. Iman had surrendered to Crocodile and then plotted betrayal from the shadows. His blade lacked conviction, his path muddied by ambition and duplicity. A schemer, not a warrior.
After hours of clashing steel, both Arlan and Oliver had gauged Iman's power. He was strong, undeniably a master-class swordsman, but still no match for either of them. If not for his familiarity with the desert terrain, this fight would've ended long ago.
In a world ruled by strength, one's spirit was just as important as their sword arm. Iman's heart lacked the fortitude of a true swordsman. Even if he someday obtained a powerful Devil Fruit, it wouldn't change a thing. A man's ambition determines his ceiling, and his was pitifully low.
And this man dared to dream of dominating a region? Using the Navy's might as a stepping stone to unchecked power? Laughable. Did he really think the World Government and Navy were paper tigers? That the Admirals and Vice Admirals were just for show?
A clever plan, sure, but hopelessly naïve.
"And what the hell do you two know?" Iman snapped, voice rising in fury under their scorn. "You think your little Warlord Alliance will succeed? Ha! Don't kid yourselves. The moment you leave Alabasta, the Navy fleet will wipe you out!"
"—Navy fleet?!"
Arlan and Oliver locked eyes, the same thought flashing through their minds.
"What did you just say?" Arlan demanded, the edge in his voice sharp as a drawn blade. "There's a Marine fleet outside Alabasta? How do you know that?"
The sudden tension made it impossible to ignore. Were there really Marine ships stationed near Saintin Island? If so, why? What was their objective? Could they be targeting the Chris Pirates?
"Uh…" Iman froze for a second, realizing he'd just let something slip. He quickly tried to cover it up. "Are you seriously taking that bait? Come on, Navy fleet? You're just paranoid."
"No. Something's definitely off."
Arlan and Oliver exchanged another glance, this one full of unspoken understanding.
Then they moved.
In perfect sync, the two swordsmen launched their assault.
Arlan vanished from sight in an instant, reappearing at Iman's right flank. With a crack of air, his leg swept toward Iman's head, a whip-fast roundhouse kick. The strike howled through the air, its sheer force enough to rupture bone. A normal man's skull would've exploded on contact.
"So fast—!"
Iman barely registered Arlan's disappearance before he felt the slicing wind on his right cheek. His skin prickled from the pressure, he could almost feel the kick before it landed. He knew he couldn't block it. He didn't even have time to react.
Instinct took over.
He threw himself backward, narrowly dodging. Arlan's shoe swept just past his nose, only two or three centimeters away, but the gust it carried still made his nostrils sting with pain.
Before he could recover, Oliver was on him, his dual blades dancing in deadly arcs. Each one was a Skillful Grade Blade, honed to lethality. The sword lights bloomed like deadly petals, slicing straight for Iman.
Clang! Clang! Clang!
Sparks flew as giant sword met twin blades, steel clashing against steel in the air. Both men were master swordsmen, but Iman, who had only recently reached that threshold, was clearly outmatched by Oliver. Especially since Oliver wielded Observation Haki, letting him anticipate Iman's every move.
In no time, Iman's body was marred with shallow cuts, red lines blooming across his torso.
CLANG!
Oliver slammed down with both swords, a powerful cross strike that sent Iman stumbling backward.
"Damn it!"
Bloodied and pressed, Iman knew that if he didn't do something fast, he wouldn't get another chance to escape.
Suddenly, Oliver disappeared.
Two-Sword Style: Flash Cut!
A silver flash streaked through the air.
CLANG!
A shrill metallic ring echoed as sparks burst like fireworks. The world froze for a breath.
Iman stood, sword raised with one hand, barely holding the line. Behind him, Oliver stood calmly, blades resting on his shoulders, back turned.
"…Impressive technique."
Even as Iman spoke, a thin red line appeared across his abdomen. Slowly, it deepened, then the blood began to pour.
"You actually blocked it." Oliver turned around, face dark and taut, veins bulging at his temples.
Suddenly, Iman spun, greatsword sweeping wide, but Arlan was already there.
BOOM.
A punch landed directly on Iman's blade with the sound of a temple bell. The sheer impact sent a tremor down the sword's length.
Iman felt the force slam into him, driving him back step after step, deep footprints forming in the soft desert sand.
Before he could steady himself—
BOOM!
Arlan was in front of him again.
Another punch. This time, it connected.
Square in the face.
The air cracked. Iman's body flew backward like a ragdoll, soaring over ten meters before crashing into the sand. He bounced once, then again, finally rolling to a halt over thirty meters from where he'd stood.
The trail he left behind was carved deeply into the desert floor.
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