Whitebeard's smile faded. His fingers rubbed the dents on the flask. "What could have made him fight to the death rather than run?"
That question was chewed over again and again in countless taverns and cabins.
When the news first arrived, many people dropped their glasses.
"Impossible!"
That was the most common first reaction.
Far too many people had challenged Alucard.
Supernovas, ambitious men, madmen who thought themselves exceptionally powerful-most had ultimately melted into that churning sea of crimson, becoming another life in his stockpile.
Exhausting those lives would have been like bailing out an ocean.
Of course, there were always exceptions.
Sengoku, Garp, Golden Lion... those at the very pinnacle could indeed do it.
But the question had never been "could he be defeated"
-it was "could he be **"
The speed granted by the Bat-Bat Fruit made pursuit a joke.
The trails Geppo carved through the air could never catch the black shadow tearing through the clouds.
So there should have been only one conclusion: Alucard could not die unless he willingly abandoned every advantage and stood rooted like a tree, waiting for his end.
But the photographs in the newspaper did not lie.
The crimson castle ruins, the dried-up sea of puppets, and the new title that had replaced "Impaler"
-"Oldest Shichibukai Slayer."
"They say the island where they fought still smells of rust."
Marco folded the newspaper. "The blood soaked half a foot into the soil. Even passing flocks of birds fly around it."
Whitebeard fell silent for a moment, then suddenly raised a hand and patted his son on the back.
"Tell the kitchen we're having extra booze tonight."
He grinned again, though there was little amusement in his eyes. "We ought to have a drink to see the old era off."
The wind swept