Chapter 34: Ripples in the Eternal Hell
The eruption of power was not merely physical. When Levi unleashed his Reiatsu, it was a spiritual cataclysm.
To every person with even a modicum of sensitivity on the water—the Marines, the prisoners, the Blackbeard Pirates—it felt like the sky had turned to iron and was pressing down. It carried the crushing weight of Conqueror's Haki, but it was something more, something deeper. It didn't just intimidate; it invaded.
For Marshall D. Teach, the sensation was a brutal flashback. The overwhelming pressure, the sense of absolute, unstoppable dominance… it was like standing before an enraged Edward Newgate in his prime. A cold, primal fear, thought long buried under layers of ambition and guile, clawed its way up his spine. His eyes widened as he stared at Levi, not just as a powerful Admiral, but as a monster of the same breed as the man he had betrayed.
But it was worse than Whitebeard's fury. This pressure didn't just make his knees weak; it hurt. It felt like his own Haki, his spiritual will, was being flayed by a thousand invisible knives. The pain was psychic, a sharp, grinding agony in the core of his being. What is this?! his mind screamed. Conqueror's Haki could knock people out, could impose will, but it didn't cause this kind of raw, spiritual laceration. For the first time, Blackbeard felt truly, deeply uncertain. The rules he understood were being broken.
This time, escorting Ace, he thought, forcing his strategic mind to work through the fear, I must memorize Impel Down's layout. I must find allies here. Powerful ones. With Admirals like this… my plans need more weight. For now, I play the dutiful Warlord. I avoid conflict with this 'Black Crow' at all costs. The decision cemented in his gut. Survival and opportunity demanded it.
On the deck, Jesus Burgess, the "Champion," felt his bravado shrivel and die. He'd boasted of wanting to challenge Admirals, but facing this… this was like a child boasting it could fight a tsunami. The other members of the Blackbeard Pirates—Van Augur, Doc Q, Lafitte—exchanged grim, silent looks. They were walking a razor's edge. One wrong move, and the two titans clashing before them could turn their focus and obliterate them in an instant.
The shockwaves of the clash didn't stop at the surface.
Deep below the waterline, in the lightless trench beside Impel Down's foundations, massive shapes stirred. Ancient Sea Kings, rulers of the Calm Belt, sensed the violent spiritual eruption. It was an alien, predatory signal that spoke not to their bodies, but to the primitive spirit within them. With powerful flicks of their tails, they fled, churning the deep water into froth, temporarily abandoning their territory to the frightening presence above.
And deeper still, far below the main deck, past five levels of despair, the ripple finally reached the final circle of hell.
Impel Down, Level 6: Eternal Hell.
In a cold, dank cell, a figure moved with relentless, rhythmic purpose. Chains heavier than most men could lift clanked with each repetition. "Nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety… nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety-one… nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety-two…" The count was steady, the voice a low grind of pure will. Douglas Bullet, former member of the Roger Pirates, trained. While others rotted, he forged his hatred and ambition into iron muscle and unbreakable spirit.
"Hey, Bullet," a weary, sarcastic voice drifted from the adjacent cell. "Still at it? What's the point? We're never getting out. Save your strength for when they drag your corpse to the incinerator."
Others here had given up long ago. Decades in the absolute dark, with no hope of sunrise, broke even the strongest wills. Some, like the once-terrifying "Red Earl" Wang Zhi or the frozen "World Destroyer" Vasco Shot, were physically past the point of such exertion. Their bodies, aged and abused, would shatter under Bullet's regimen. To them, his discipline was the futile twitching of a caged animal, destined only to shorten its own life.
Bullet didn't answer. He simply completed his set, the chains groaning in protest. Then, he paused. His body was bound, but his will was not. A pulse of fierce, domineering Haki—Conqueror's Haki—flared from his cell, a brief, defiant roar in the silent dark.
From another cell, Wang Zhi let out a dry, appreciative chuckle. "Roger's brat… his spirit hasn't dimmed a bit. It's gotten sharper."
"The 'Demon Heir' is strong," mused the "Evil King" Avalo Pizarro from his own cage, his voice a bored drawl. "But strong or not, these walls don't care. Escape is a fairy tale." He turned over on his stone slab, closing his eyes to the eternal night.
In a newer cell, Sir Crocodile leaned against the wall, his hook resting on his knee. His fish-like eyes were half-lidded with disgust. "To think my eternity is to be spent listening to the grunts of has-beens and madmen," he muttered to himself. The news that filtered down—Bullet's relentless training, his growing power—irritated him. I never lost to him in our youth, he thought bitterly. His own eternity had been derailed by a single, devastating encounter with Whitebeard, a defeat that had left him with more than physical scars. It had installed a fear that had festered into cynicism… until a rubber-headed idiot in Alabasta had clumsily reignited a long-dead spark of something resembling a dream.
"Oy, Sand Crocodile!" the voice of "Great Drunk" Basco Shot called out. "You're the fresh meat. Entertain us. What's the world like these days?"
"Nothing to tell," Crocodile snapped, not bothering to look in the direction of the voice.
In a special, more fortified cell, not a prisoner but a inmate, Shiryu of the Rain polished his sword, a cigar clamped between his teeth. "When will Magellan lift my confinement?" he wondered aloud, his voice a gravelly rumble. "I'll make a deal. One corpse every ten days. Fair trade for my freedom." He sighed, a cloud of smoke filling his cell.
"Don't be so dull, Shiryu!" another prisoner yelled. "We're all stuck here! Share a story! Give us something—"
BOOOM!!
The plea was cut off, not by a voice, but by a force.
It slammed down from above, penetrating through five layers of fortified stone, sea, and despair. It was not sound, not vibration, but a pure, dense wave of oppression. It was Levi's Reiatsu, diluted by its journey through the prison but still potent, still carrying the cold, soul-crushing weight of his clash with Sakazuki.
It washed over Level 6.
The constant, background noise of dripping water and rustling chains ceased. Every legendary monster, every broken king, every silent fiend felt it. It pressed on their chests, a weight that had nothing to do with their chains. It whispered of a power that was alien, that didn't play by the rules of Haki or Devil Fruits they understood.
For the first time in years, decades for some, a uniform expression crossed their varied, scarred faces.
Shock.
Pure, unadulterated shock.
Bullet stopped counting, his head snapping up towards the ceiling, eyes wide. Crocodile's dead-eyed stare sharpened into a razor focus. Wang Zhi slowly sat up from his reclining position. Avalo Pizarro's bored expression vanished. Even the frozen Vasco Shot seemed to sense it in his icy slumber.
Shiryu paused, his cigar freezing halfway to his lips.
A heavy, profound silence filled Eternal Hell, broken only by the fading echo of that terrifying pressure.
From the darkness, a single, hoarse voice, filled with a mixture of dread and terrible curiosity, finally whispered the question on all their minds:
"…What… was that?!"
Above, the battle between Admirals raged. Below, in the deepest pit of the world, the oldest predators had just been stirred from their lethargy, and their eyes now turned upwards, gleaming in the dark.
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