Momonga turned to Sabo and said without expression, "The Revolutionary Army's second-in-command. That's a big fish. How could I let you get away?"
When Sabo saw it was Momonga, he smiled. His fight with Mitchell had left him on the defensive and wounded, but facing Momonga filled him with confidence. If he couldn't beat a Vice Admiral, he was far too weak.
Sabo calmly twirled the Pipe in his hand and walked toward Momonga. Momonga paused. Sabo was still bleeding, yet instead of running, he looked completely at ease. Momonga nodded, tightened his grip on Blood Hunt, and said, "You'll regret staying."
The words had barely left his mouth when he sprang into the air. An afterimage flashed overhead, and in the blink of an eye he was above Sabo. Blood Hunt stabbed down in a cold gleam, so fast that even the air seemed to chill.
Sabo shifted aside. The Pipe spun easily through his fingers before he flicked his wrist and brought it across his body. Clang! Dazzling sparks burst into the air. Momonga seemed to freeze midair, blade and all, unable to advance another inch.
Sabo remained composed and graceful. Loose strands of hair fluttered across his forehead, and his coat billowed in the wind. Amid such a fierce battle, he looked like a noble prince: elegant, unruffled, without a trace of distress.
Others fought with shouts or gritted teeth and glaring eyes. Some had veins bulging; others looked half-mad. Sabo fought like a gentleman at a banquet, smiling politely through every movement and putting others at ease. Even the dust on his clothes did nothing to diminish his bearing.
At first glance, Sabo seemed out of place here. With his refined, gentle air, he looked as though he belonged at a banquet rather than on a