Sand pressed down on Jack Sparrow from every direction—heat radiating from sand that refused to cool even under the stars, air so dry it scraped his lungs raw with every breath. His boots sank slightly with each step, grains clinging to his clothes, his skin, his mouth. His tongue felt swollen, useless. The last trace of rum was a memory that mocked him.
Across from him, the woman stood as if the land itself bent to accommodate her presence.
Which it probably did.
Crocodile exhaled slowly, cigar ember glowing faintly in the dark, sand drifting lazily around her boots as though drawn by habit rather than intent. Her black hair stirred despite the still air, her posture relaxed in a way that suggested absolute confidence.
Jack straightened as much as his aching body allowed and rolled his shoulder. Pain flared instantly, sharp and deep, like something twisting inside his arm.
He hissed through his teeth.
"So," he said, voice dry and rough, "care to explain why everyone I meet wants me dead?"
Crocodile's eyes flicked over him—measuring, dismissive.
"You wandered into my desert," she replied calmly. "That alone is reason enough."
The sand moved.
Jack did not see the attack so much as feel it—an instant of pressure, a tightening in the air, a sharp warning that screamed just behind his eyes.
He twisted.
A blade of sand tore through the space where his heart had been a moment earlier, slicing the air with a sound like tearing cloth. Jack stumbled back, boots skidding, barely keeping his footing.
His breath came fast.
That sensation again.
Crocodile watched him recover with mild interest, as though he were a curiosity rather than a threat.
"You move well," she said. "For someone losing."
Jack grinned despite the dryness cracking his lips. "I get that a lot. And I never lose."
He lunged.
Wado Ichimonji cut forward in a clean arc, steel flashing under the starlight. The blade passed through Crocodile's torso without resistance, her body dissolving into sand before reforming a step away.
She retaliated instantly.
The ground surged upward, sand coiling around Jack's legs. He hacked downward, freeing himself just as a compressed blast of grit slammed into his side, sending him tumbling across the dunes.
He rolled, coughed, and spat sand.
His arm screamed in protest.
Inside, something burned.
Haki reflux.
Kureha's voice echoed, sharp and unforgiving.
Force it, and your body will break first.
Jack pushed himself up anyway.
"Right," he muttered. "Let's avoid breaking."
Crocodile advanced, her steps unhurried, sand shifting subtly with each movement. She raised one hand, fingers curling.
A wave of sand surged forward.
Jack ran—not away, but sideways—feet barely keeping rhythm as the dune collapsed behind him. He slid, recovered, and leapt as another spear of sand erupted beneath him.
He landed hard, knees jarring.
"You're persistent," Crocodile said coolly. "That usually ends poorly."
Jack wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "I've noticed."
She attacked again.
This time faster.
Sand erupted from every direction—sharp, compressed, relentless. Jack did not try to block. He could not. He relied on that faint, instinctive warning instead, moving just before each strike arrived, dodging by margins so narrow he felt grains scrape his skin.
Each evasion drained him.
Thirst gnawed at his throat. His breathing grew ragged. His arm throbbed constantly now, a deep internal pain that worsened whenever he so much as tightened his grip.
Crocodile noticed.
She tilted her head slightly, eyes narrowing.
"You're holding back," she said. "Are you mocking me?"
Jack laughed weakly. "I assure you, this is not a strategy."
She raised both arms.
The desert answered.
Sand spiraled upward, forming massive rotating columns that converged toward him. Jack's senses screamed.
No room to dodge.
He stepped forward instead.
For a fleeting instant, everything slowed.
The world sharpened—not visually, but intuitively. He felt the moment Crocodile's body solidified to direct the attack. Felt the exact point where sand became flesh.
Jack moved.
He allowed only at the edge of the blade, only for the briefest instant, like striking flint.
Pain lanced through his shoulder.
Wado Ichimonji cut.
Crocodile recoiled, sand scattering as blood darkened her coat.
She landed lightly despite the injury, eyes flicking to the wound with a frown.
"…Hmph."
Jack dropped to one knee, coughing violently, clutching his arm as agony surged.
"That," he rasped, "felt important."
"You chose your moment well," she said. "But that won't happen twice."
Jack forced himself upright, legs shaking. "Good. I'm terrible at repetition."
The fight stretched on.
Night deepened. Stars wheeled overhead. Sandstorms rose and collapsed as Crocodile reshaped the battlefield again and again, grinding him down with sheer inevitability.
Jack stopped attacking recklessly.
He waited.
He listened—to the desert, to the pressure shifts, to the whisper of danger that came just before every strike. Observation sharpened slowly, painfully, like a muscle forced to grow under strain.
When he struck, it was precise.
Each successful hit sent waves of pain through his arm, his vision blurring at the edges. He could feel the limit approaching—his body warning him that even this restrained use could not be sustained indefinitely.
Crocodile's movements slowed, almost imperceptibly. Old wounds reopened beneath her control. Sand no longer flowed quite as smoothly.
She scowled.
"You're annoying," she said flatly.
Jack smiled through cracked lips. "I get that too."
Dawn crept toward the horizon.
They stood apart now, both breathing hard, the desert scarred by craters and shifting dunes.
Crocodile raised her arm.
Sand condensed violently, forming a massive spear that hummed with compressed force.
"This ends now."
Jack adjusted his grip.
Wayward Tide Cut.
The technique was incomplete—rough, unrefined, born of instinct. It demanded timing above all else.
He centered himself.
The warning came.
Now.
Jack stepped forward and twisted the blade at the last instant, redirecting the strike—not toward Crocodile's center, but toward the injuries she had been guarding all night.
Pain exploded through his arm as he let the edge bite with everything he could afford—no more.
Steel cut through sand.
Then flesh.
Crocodile's attack unraveled mid-flight, collapsing into harmless grains as she staggered back, blood spilling freely now.
She fell.
The desert went quiet.
Jack stood there for a heartbeat longer, then collapsed onto his back, chest heaving, arm burning as if on fire.
Above him, the sun crested the horizon.
He stared at the sky, dry laughter bubbling weakly from his chest.
"…Never liked deserts," he murmured.
Crocodile lay unconscious nearby, sand settling around her as the world finally, mercifully, stood still.