The Strongest, Toughest Armament!

Seeing the two soar into the air for a head-on collision, Gotti, who had been aiming his FT-G Rocket Launcher to lock onto the target, fired a rocket.

He could not kill those within the Family, but Daz was merely a hitman; it mattered little if both were buried together.

The rocket streaked toward the center of the clash where Conrad and Daz were locked in a gaze.

Daz's arms spun like drills, slashing down toward Conrad's face; that fragile skull seemed as if it would be shredded to pieces in an instant.

But Conrad did not dodge; once he had decided on a target, he would not change it.

His Shark Tooth Shigan spread out like wings, left and right, before his ten fingers snapped together, clawing into Daz's chest and back.

The Haki at the tips of his fingers swirled, and Daz's eyes widened like a black bull's.

Puchi!

Blood finally surged into the grooves, like the grin of a shark.

Boom!

The rocket exploded against Conrad's jagged, blood-matted hair and Daz's vomiting, mangled body.

Tumbling and rolling, the two crashed into the audience seating, shattering rows of chairs as splinters, thick smoke, and fire surged upward.

The mobsters running toward the exit stopped and looked back, while the King and Tony stared tensely from the top of the Opera House, trying to pierce the black smoke of the explosion to see the final outcome.

The dust and smoke were quickly blown away, for the spinning chainsaw arms of Daz acted like an electric fan, pushing the black smoke behind Conrad.

Conrad's hands were hooked into his chest and back, having pierced straight through his broad, sturdy frame; excluding the thumbs and pinkies, six claw tips protruded from the other side, blood flowing like a waterfall.

Yet, his chest still heaved, and he continued to breathe; as long as he received emergency treatment, there was still hope for survival.

But Conrad's face and skull were being pressed by the spiral blades on the forearm of Daz's right arm!

Bent back at a ninety-degree angle! A bloody, frenzied shredding!!

His Marine uniform had been blown into rags, his upper body scorched and bloody, and the one-meter-seventy youth tilted his head back, his face pressed by the muscular, knotted right arm of the two-meter giant as the chainsaw blades cut and tore.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

It was the sound of gunfire, six shots in succession.

It came from a tattooed man with a rolling tongue among the mobsters, known as Strange Gun Vito; his hands were massive, and thus the revolver he fired was equally large.

Six bullets pierced through the shredded hair, all striking Conrad's side profile, exposing raw, bloody flesh.

The mobsters' footsteps grew light.

The King and Tony exchanged a glance and couldn't help but laugh aloud: "Hahaha! Chase them! Kill the remaining Marines!"

Laffitte's gloomy face also wore a sinister smile once more; he had thought he'd encountered some kind of freakish monster, for this sea indeed held lifeforms capable of contending with giants at only a few years of age.

But just then, a violent laugh erupted—starting as a faint sound, gradually growing louder, until it became a wild, unstoppable roar of laughter.

"Heh-ha... haha... YEAH-HAHAHA!!"

The terror of this laughter made those who heard it feel as if they had fallen into an ice cellar; their hearts chilled so deeply they could not lift their feet. All the mobsters were frozen in place, standing before the stage passage, heads turned back in stiff, paralyzed fear.

The most terrified of all was Daz, the one closest to Conrad.

Because the sound came from beneath his own forearm, from the mouth of the head that should have been shredded to pieces.

And a force surged upward, lifting his arm.

Before everyone's eyes, Conrad's blood-slicked head, bent back at ninety degrees, lifted forward bit by bit, emitting blinding sparks.

When it was almost straight on his neck, he jerked it back violently, slamming his face into the spiral blades with a resonant clang that echoed throughout the entire Opera House.

"Arrogant? You foolish iron turtle! You shouldn't have! You shouldn't have attacked my strongest, hardest—face!"

Amidst the lingering clang, a face of pure black, reflecting the starlight of the night sky, appeared before the eyes of every mobster in the hall.

They had never seen a black so deep.

It was as black as an iron wall so hard it could block anything, and like the throatless maw of a giant great white shark.

The gore was merely flesh and blood from his own body, splattered onto his Armament Haki-clad face.

When a cold, chilling smile curled across that pitch-black face, and he pulled his claws from Daz's chest, tilting his head back to let out a laugh that rolled with waves of Haki—

"Ah!!!" The mobsters screamed and fled; those who use violence to terrorize others shall inevitably be terrorized by violence themselves.

Daz's hulking frame had already withered like an old man's; had it not been for the difficulty of absorbing his steel-like internal organs, he would have been reduced to nothing but bones, just like the ordinary mobsters.

His vitality had transformed into the four centimeters of height Conrad gained, helping him grow to one meter seventy-four.

Daz closed his eyes, his will fading from excessive blood loss, but he only kept them closed for a second before snapping them open—eyes bloodshot and wide.

For Conrad was hunched over at his side, his ten Shark Tooth claws thrusting back and forth into his chest, over and over again.

Until he had seized the last of his vitality, leaving not even a corpse behind.

Conrad did not exhale; he couldn't exhale at all, for the addiction had taken hold, and the craving pleasure occupied his entire brain.

He charged toward Gotti, who had just fired the rocket at him; his Soru was faster than before.

So fast that Gotti had barely seen him stomp the ground before he had crossed the audience seating and arrived right before him under the stage.

"Haa!" He roared, swinging the iron chain on his right arm; to be able to wield such a heavy steel rocket launcher with one arm and withstand the recoil, his strength was clearly formidable.

But it was too slow.

Before he could even raise his arm from the ground to his waist, the Shark Claw had already pierced through the left side of his neck and into his chest, the tip of the middle finger stabbing directly into his heart.

In an instant, blood surged backward, and the bearded man's face turned a deep, explosive red.

"Go! Take me away, quickly! I don't want to watch anymore!" the King tugged at the sleeve of Laffitte's formal attire.

Laffitte furrowed his browless forehead, his eyes filled with disgust; if not for the fact that the King was under his hypnosis, the man would have already fainted the moment the Conqueror's Haki leaked out.

He pondered silently; his and Bege's original goal had been to pin the blame for the slaughter of the Marines and the socialites on Tony, thereby inciting a conflict between the Marines and the Marlon Family.

Then, they would seize the opportunity to unify the underworld of the West Blue.

These mafiosi were, in fact, all subordinates of Bege.

But now, the Marines had successfully retreated, the mafia were running about in chaos, their will to fight had collapsed, and the plan had already failed.

Laffitte sighed, "Sigh, a bunch of useless trash. It seems that these days, anyone with any real ambition just goes off to become a pirate..."

Bang!

The roof of the Opera House was smashed open, and blood-red hair, like rolling waves, caught Laffitte's eyes.

A sense of crisis struck his heart, and two broad, snow-white wings suddenly unfurled from his back.

With a powerful flap, he hoisted the King into the night sky, not even having the time to take Tony with him.

Tony was left alone to face Conrad, staring into those crimson eyes.

He instantly lost control of his bladder, his legs turning to jelly as he collapsed onto the roof, wailing, "Save me! Save me! Save... just arrest me and throw me in jail!"

Snot and tears streamed down Tony's face; never in his life had he wanted to be in prison as much as he did in this moment—he truly, desperately wanted to be in jail.

He hoped with all his might that the Conrad before him would remember his identity as a Marine, that he would remember the laws of the World Government.

But unfortunately, what greeted him was a claw larger than his own head, which pierced through his chest and abdomen.

Under the vast, pitch-black night, he was hoisted high toward the dim moon.

The stars of fate flickered; the ominous omen of being surrounded on all sides was eclipsed, rendered dull and lightless by the even more ferocious Ten Thousand Mile Slaughter lurking at the center.