3
He began adjusting his breathing, letting every breath carry away a little fatigue.
This was not the most desperate battle he had ever fought, but it was certainly the most irritating-you knew your opponent's weakness, yet could only watch him slowly repair his damaged body at an unreachable height.
"How many more slashes can you manage?"
He asked the man beside him, his gaze still fixed on the sky.
Oden fell silent for a moment. "Ten.
Maybe fewer."
Enough.
Rossi flexed his wrist.
His joints clicked softly, like rusted gears meshing again.
He recalled the rumors about this man: the interpreter who had sailed to the end of the world, the swordsman who had commanded the Second Division aboard Whitebeard's ship.
People always loved placing legends side by side, as though the strong must stand atop the same mountain.
But between mountains lay bottomless chasms.
The clouds began to rotate.
Blue-black scales flickered in and out of sight amid the lightning, like a giant shadow cruising through the deep sea.
Rossi knew the next assault was coming-and this time, they had to inflict wounds too deep to heal quickly.
He lowered his center of gravity, his feet sinking into the scorched earth.
A crow's cry came from afar, piercing the wind and thunder like a fine needle stabbing into his eardrums.
All three types of Haki had reached the pinnacle, and his Devil Fruit ability had granted him an exceptionally tough body.
Beneath that seemingly rugged exterior, however, his fighting style was exceptionally steady.
Once his injuries accumulated to a certain point, he would pull away without hesitation, catching his breath and recovering in midair.
If this drawn-out battle continued, Rossi might be the first to exhaust his stamina.
"Onward, Oniwabanshu!"
At that moment, all three on the battlefield