Jamie Carragher looked like a monster more than a man.
One might think he was related to Kaido because of their identical builds. And that was also one of the reasons Kaido was even more angry at Carragher Pirates.
'How dare one unworthy pirate dare to copy my style!'
Carragher stood taller than everyone on the street, his shoulders broad enough to block the sun when he moved. A torn blue shirt clung to his frame, soaked dark in sweat and dust, and beneath it thick white bandages wrapped his torso again and again, some already stained red. They were not there for show. Every step he took pulled at old wounds that hadn't healed properly since the New World.
His face carried a familiar structure — sharp jaw, hard cheekbones, straight nose — but where that resemblance ended, brutality began. His eyes were wild, gleaming with reckless delight. This was a man who enjoyed destruction.
Another group of guards rushed him.
Carragher laughed.
He stepped forward and punched.
The air detonated.
The front guard flew backward like a broken doll, crashing into two others. Stone cracked beneath their bodies. Shields splintered. Spears bent like tin. Carragher rolled his shoulders and exhaled deeply, savoring the feeling.
"This?" he shouted, spreading his arms as more soldiers hesitated. "This is the largest standing army in the world?"
He drove his fist downward into the ground.
The shockwave rippled outward, tossing men off their feet.
"I expected more!" Carragher roared. "This would be easier than I thought!"
Arabasta's defenses were collapsing fast. His crew flooded in behind him, cutting down resistance, laughing, looting, shouting. Carragher barely noticed.
Then the sand flew through the street.
A golden hook erupted from the ground behind him, sharp and violent, aimed straight for his spine.
Carragher twisted on instinct.
The Desert Spada tore through the air and slammed into his forearm. He blocked it barehanded.
The impact staggered him back a full step, boots grinding into the stone. Dust rose around his feet. His laughter died instantly.
He turned slowly.
Crocodile stood before him, sand coiling around her like a living thing, coat fluttering though there was no wind. Her eyes were cold, focused, familiar.
Carragher's lips curled.
"You," he said, voice dropping. "I know you."
Crocodile said nothing.
"You're the desert woman," he continued, rolling his shoulder where the blow had landed. "The one Whitebeard crushed. The one who ran away, with tail tucked beneath her legs."
The air grew heavier.
Crocodile's expression didn't change — but something dangerous flickered beneath it.
"And you," she replied coolly, "must be the idiot who charged into the New World thinking numbers mattered… only to have Kaido grind your fleet into scrap. Also last I heard, he also called 'Ugly bastard'."
Carragher's jaw twitched.
Then Carragher smiled — tight, ugly.
"Careful," he warned.
She lunged.
Sand exploded outward, hardening into claws, spears, blades all at once. Carragher ducked, pivoted, moved with shocking speed for his size. A fist shot toward her ribs; she dissolved into grains and reformed behind him.
"So why are you here?" Carragher demanded, swinging backward, barely missing her head. "We don't have unfinished business."
Before she could answer, another voice cut in — irritatingly cheerful.
"We're pirates," it said. "We rarely need a reason to do things."
Carragher turned.
Jack Sparrow stood beside Crocodile, sword in his left hand. His right arm hung stiff, close to his body, pain written in every subtle movement. His hat was crooked, coat torn, grin intact.
Carragher blinked.
"And who," he asked flatly, "are you supposed to be?"
Jack dipped into a shallow bow. "Captain Jack Sparrow of the Caribbean Pirates."
Carragher glanced back at Crocodile. "He with you?"
Her eye twitched.
Jack answered for her. "Oh, she's part of my crew."
Silence.
Then Carragher burst out laughing.
"The Crocodile who faced Whitebeard," he roared, clutching his stomach, "a crewmate of some nobody? How low have you fallen?"
Jack frowned. "Oi. Nobody?"
He straightened. "I have a bounty of one hundred and twenty million berries. That's respectable."
Carragher stopped laughing.
He looked Jack up and down.
"One hundred and twenty," he repeated slowly. "That is interesting."
He stepped forward.
"Let's see if you earned it."
He moved.
Fast.
A punch tore toward Jack's head. Jack barely twisted aside, the wind of it ripping past his cheek. Crocodile attacked simultaneously, sand snapping at Carragher's legs.
Carragher jumped, spun, and slammed his elbow down.
The street cratered.
Jack slashed, awkwardly left-handed but precise. The blade grazed Carragher's side — darkened just enough to bite. Carragher hissed and leapt back.
"Haki," he muttered. "Already?"
Jack grimaced as pain flared through his arm. "Trust me, I'm as surprised as you are."
They clashed again.
Carragher's fists were relentless, every strike meant to end the fight. Jack ducked, stumbled, cursed, narrowly avoiding fatal blows by instinct alone. Crocodile attacked from blind angles, her sand hardening only at the instant of impact.
"Stay still!" Carragher barked, swinging wide.
"No!" Jack shot back.
Despite the chaos, neither gained the upper hand.
Carragher scowled. "A Grand Line rookie using Haki this early…"
He dodged another strike. "Annoying."
Jack lunged again, will forcing blade forward through agony.
Carragher twisted aside at the last moment.
"That's enough," Carragher said, voice dropping.
He stepped in.
One punch.
Jack never saw it.
The blow smashed into his torso, launching him through a wall, through another, and out into open air.
Jack barely had time to scream—
Before crashing into a bathtub full of water on the second floor of someone's house.
Water splashed everywhere.
Jack floated for a second, groaning.
"…I hate desert."
Outside, Crocodile faced Carragher alone.
He rolled his neck, eyes burning. "Now," he said, "I stop playing."