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Chapter 434: Arrogant! Garp Charges Through Gunfire
Dozens of kilometers away from Georgopol, a golden wheat field rippled in the sea breeze, looking like an ocean of gold. The harsh roar of airplane engines tore through the sky. It wasn't the bombers bringing death, but a massive transport plane coated in camouflage paint. With a low, rumbling hum, it slowly swept over the wheat fields.
The rear cargo hatch opened, and a giant blue iron crate was pushed out. A bright red parachute snapped open in the air with a loud pop, carrying the heavy crate as it swayed down toward the very center of the fields.
Thud. The crate hit the ground, crushing a large swath of golden wheat. Immediately, thick, un-dissipating red smoke erupted from the top of the box. The smoke billowed straight up into the sky, clearly visible for miles around. It was a beacon of fatal temptation.
Hiding behind a massive haystack on the edge of the field, Sengoku swallowed hard. His current appearance was thoroughly pathetic. His iconic Fleet Admiral uniform was long gone, replaced by a filthy, gray windbreaker. His signature thick, round glasses were half-shattered, and his hands tightly gripped a rusty sickle he had scavenged from a farmhouse.
"That's the Super Airdrop Blake mentioned," Sengoku whispered, his voice low. "It holds the top-tier weapons, maybe even body armor and a Med Kit."
Sengoku knew full well that in this godforsaken place devoid of all supernatural power, whoever secured the modern heavy firepower from that drop would dominate the battlefield. Yet, he didn't dare move. The red smoke was like blood in the water, stimulating the nerves of everyone nearby. In this seemingly peaceful wheat field, there was no telling how many greedy eyes were lying in wait.
In the mud right next to Sengoku, Garp sat casually. His right ankle was tightly bound with a strip of bloody rag torn from his clothes. The fabric was thoroughly soaked—a through-and-through wound courtesy of Benn Beckman's Kar98k back at the container yard. Without Haki or his Life Return to mitigate the damage, the penetrating wound sent shooting pains up his leg.
But Garp didn't even furrow his brow. He casually gripped a heavy iron crowbar he had forcefully snapped off an abandoned tractor. Staring at the distant airdrop, his eyes blazed with fanatic battlelust. Propping himself up with his hands, he hauled himself to his feet, favoring his shot leg.
"This old man is gonna haul that crate back," Garp laughed broadly, flashing a wide, bright smile.
Sengoku turned pale and grabbed Garp's arm.
"Don't be impulsive, Garp!" he hissed, his tone full of warning. "Your foot is injured! You can barely move! The enemy might have firearms; running out there makes you a sitting duck!"
Sengoku knew his old comrade too well. Normally, with Armament Haki protecting him, Garp could afford to be as reckless as he wanted. But here, they were flesh and blood. A bullet the size of a peanut was all it took to claim the Marine Hero's life.
Garp violently shook off Sengoku's hand.
"Afraid of what!" A wild, unyielding spirit shone in his eyes. "Even without Haki, I haven't lost my combat skills! The bullet that can kill this old man hasn't been forged yet!"
Before his words even faded, Garp leaped out from the haystack. Completely ignoring the agonizing pain in his right ankle, he sprinted toward the airdrop like an enraged lion. Though limping, his speed was still astonishing, violently parting the golden waves of wheat as he ran.
At the exact same moment, behind a dirt mound on the opposite side of the field, Marshall D. Teach was lying prone in the mud. His signature missing-tooth grin stretched into a look of extreme greed. In his hands, he tightly gripped a Micro UZI he had scavenged from a run-down public restroom right after landing.
When he found it, he had nearly cried tears of joy. After being kicked out of the sky by Whitebeard from ten thousand meters up, he thought he was a dead man. Instead, not only had he survived, but he had also acquired a fully automatic firearm. In a world where everyone was mortal, possessing a gun basically made him a god.
Teach had been camping behind this dirt mound ever since. He had seen the airdrop fall, but being more terrified of death than anyone, he chose to set an ambush. He planned to wait for someone else to loot the crate and then shoot them in the back. Now, his sharp eyes caught Garp sprinting through the wheat.
"Zehahahaha!" Teach let out a suppressed, manic laugh. "Old dog Garp! Your time has finally come!"
In the outside world, even with ten times his courage, he wouldn't dare pull a gun on Garp. But here? Everyone was a squishy target. One pull of the trigger, and the Marine Hero would be turned into a honeycomb. Teach raised the Micro UZI and squeezed the trigger without hesitation.
Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat! The deafening roar of gunfire shattered the tranquility of the wheat field. A continuous stream of brass bullets spat from the muzzle, sweeping toward Garp. The bullets sheared through the wheat stalks and kicked up dirt near Garp's face.
The moment he heard the gunfire, Garp's combat instincts exploded. Without missing a beat, he threw himself forward into a textbook tactical roll. His massive frame tumbled through the wheat, perfectly evading the lethal line of fire.
He didn't retreat. Using the waist-high wheat as cover, Garp kept his body incredibly low. His footwork shifted unpredictably, carving a rapid zig-zag path straight toward Teach's mound. He darted left, then right—every pivot perfectly exploiting the blind spots of Teach's tracking aim.
The Micro UZI fired incredibly fast, but its recoil was equally massive. For a pirate who had never received professional marksmanship training, Teach simply couldn't control the spray. The bullets drifted wildly into the sky, shredding the leaves above.
Click. The bolt locked back with a faint sound. He had emptied the magazine.
"DAMN IT!" Teach's expression dropped, cold sweat beading on his forehead. He scrambled frantically to pull a spare magazine from his pocket. "Old bastard sure can run!" he sneered, trying to mask his panic as he yanked out the empty mag and prepared to slot the new one.
Just as he lowered his head, a violent gale hit his face. Garp was right in front of him.
His towering physique blocked out the sun, casting a heavy, dark shadow over Teach's face. No Devil Fruit. No Armament Haki. Not even Rokushiki. But decades of refined close-quarters combat had long been baked into his bones.
Garp twisted his waist, transferring power flawlessly from his thighs to his hips, up through his shoulders, and straight into his right arm. The heavy iron crowbar swung in a perfect half-circle, generating a terrifying whistling sound as it cut through the air.
With pinpoint precision, it smashed brutally into Teach's right wrist just as he gripped the magazine.
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