Chapter 55: Magnificent Death

"Brother Arlong!" Among the fleeing fishmen, someone suddenly remembered a crucial question: "Where should we run now?"

"To Cocoyashi Village!" Arlong gritted his teeth, quickening his pace as he spoke. "If we can capture a couple of villagers as hostages, we might still have a chance to escape."

The fishmen’s eyes lit up. In a fluster, they hurried after their leader, dashing toward Cocoyashi Village.

"Brother Arlong!" Another fishman couldn’t help but call out his leader’s name—not because he was unsure of their direction, but because their Brother Arlong was moving with such breakneck speed that his figure seemed to blur, leaving only a vague afterimage in their vision.

Arlong’s strength as the fishmen’s leader was fully displayed at this critical moment, the gap between him and the physically inferior underlings growing more obvious with every stride.

"Wait for us…" one of the fishmen blurted out, voicing his innermost plea.

But Arlong either didn’t hear, or pretended not to. In fact, his pace increased even more.

Naturally, Arlong wasn’t listening, and even if he had, he would have ignored them. At a moment of life and death, who could worry about dragging the underlings along?

The memory of being crushed mercilessly beneath Kizaru’s foot in his youth was too vivid—Arlong dared not hesitate for even a second in the face of a Logia user with "Admiral-level" strength.

So, before long, Arlong’s formidable physique allowed him to vanish completely from his followers’ sight.

But the fishmen had no time to marvel at their leader’s agility, for the marines landing behind them were already in hot pursuit, murderous intent blazing.

In this tense, frantic race, two unlucky stragglers had already fallen to marine bullets. After being shot, the inertia of their full-tilt sprint sent them sprawling to the ground, performing a dramatic, undignified flop.

Meanwhile, Smoker, the human smoke jet, and Garen, with his acceleration abilities, bore down relentlessly, nearly upon the panicked fishmen.

Hearing the shouts and cries drawing ever closer, Crooby, running at the front of the group, suddenly faltered and slowed his pace.

"What are you doing?" Hachi asked anxiously. "If we don’t hurry, it’ll be too late!"

"The marines are too close. At this rate, no one will escape," Crooby said hoarsely. "I’ll hold them off. You take the others and run!"

"Crooby!" Hachi’s eyes shimmered with sorrow, and he couldn’t help but plead, "That man is too strong. You’ll die!"

"Brother Crooby!" The fishmen underlings looked at him with a mixture of admiration and reluctance.

"Don’t worry about me—this is no time for indecision!" Crooby suddenly clenched his fists, eyes brimming with a warrior’s tears. His steps slowed, but the strength in his grip only grew, and his expression was filled with grim resolve.

Hachi still hesitated, and a few deeply moved fishmen slowed their pace to stay with Crooby.

"No more words!" Crooby came to a complete stop, his stance as solid as bedrock and as straight as a pine. "To die at the hands of such a man is the best end a warrior could ask for!"

"Take care!" Hachi nodded heavily at Crooby, whose resolve to die was plain. Tears slipped silently from his eyes.

"There’s no time…" — "Go now!"

Crooby slowly turned away, leaving his companions with a back they would never forget—a silhouette of unwavering resolve.

Hachi wiped his tears away and led the remaining fishmen in the opposite direction.

As the clamor faded, silence returned. Crooby felt as if the world held only himself and the beautiful, sorrowful death approaching.

And in his line of sight, the invincible knight of legendary fame was drawing closer.

At this final moment, Crooby couldn’t help but reflect on his unremarkable life: a street thug in Fishman District, a menial on the Sun Pirates, later following Arlong to the East Blue as a minor officer in the Arlong Pirates. Not only had his life been devoid of highlights, but it seemed to regress further with each step.

Yet, to his surprise, in his last moment, he was to meet such a brilliant end.

"A man who can go toe-to-toe with Garp…" Crooby muttered, a self-mocking smile tugging at his lips. "The only reason you didn’t kill me in the sea was because I was too weak, wasn’t it? Too weak for someone like you to consider worth your effort..."

As he spoke, a sudden gleam lit up Crooby’s eyes, and an intimidating aura burst forth from his steel-forged body.

"I was wrong!" Crooby gripped his fists, thick veins bulging on his arms as they pumped immense power into his iron fists. "Since coming to the East Blue, I haven’t thrown a punch at any true strong opponent. My Fishman Karate has only been used to bully the weak."

At that moment, Garen charged at him, his great sword carving a dazzling golden arc through the air, slashing straight at the motionless Crooby.

"Thank you…" Crooby recalled his youthful dedication to training in Fishman Karate; the spirit of a warrior quietly rekindled within him. "For letting me, in this final moment, rediscover the true essence of Fishman Karate!"

Planting his feet like iron stakes, he dropped into a horse stance, thrust out his muscular arm, and unleashed a punch he had been holding back for so long straight at the onrushing Garen.

"Fishman Karate—Thousand Tile True Punch!"

His fist shot forth like an arrow, thunderous and swift, unleashing a radiant white shockwave that tore through the air.

The so-called Thousand Tile True Punch was a technique so powerful it could shatter a thousand tiles underwater with a single blow. Yet for years, Crooby had stagnated at the "thousand tiles" level, busying himself with oppressing villagers in remote East Blue villages.

But now, at the brink of life and death, his punch broke through the shackles of the "thousand tiles."

A carefree smile appeared on Crooby’s face as he thought to himself, "To unleash this punch… I have no regrets in this life!"

Though this punch surpassed his martial limits, Crooby never believed it could defeat an East Blue knight with "Admiral-level" strength. He simply wished to make it the final performance of his life and die gloriously by the hand of a supreme warrior.

However…

The fierce gust from his punch, carrying that white shockwave, roared forth—and the peerless fighter, famed for matching Garp blow for blow, obligingly went flying backwards, gouging a deep trench in the earth.

And the "peerless warrior" struck by his punch seemed unable to rise.

"What in the world…?" Crooby’s eyes widened in disbelief. He stared at his fist in a daze, suddenly doubting his own true strength.

Just then, the situation shifted once again—

The "invincible" knight sprawled in the dirt inexplicably transformed into a cloud of smoke that burst apart.

"What’s going on?!" Crooby was even more baffled.

Bang! A dull thud from a heavy sword.

Still stunned, Crooby collapsed to the ground, struck down. Garen stood behind him, his great sword not yet withdrawn.

The blow to his spine left Crooby paralyzed, the searing pain numbing his body.

"You… you…" Crooby, gravely injured, looked sidelong at the "peerless warrior" who had struck him from behind, and said bitterly, "How could someone as strong as you use such a lowly trick against me!"

His face twisted with pain and resentment. This humiliating death was nothing like the glorious, heroic end he had envisioned.

"Huh?" Garen seemed puzzled.

The casual attitude infuriated Crooby; his eyes reddened with fury.

"Forget it…" Garen swung his sword down. "Let’s just finish this."