014-rock of doom

The healer belonging to Anna's troops rushed towards their wounded companion, moving with urgency that mirrored the chaos enveloping them. Hiroshi's reassuring words floated through the air, a haunting melody that wrapped around John like a lifeline.

He shifted his gaze from the fallen soldier to the furious scowl etched on Anna's face. A mocking grin crept across his features, a stark contrast to the tension that draped the battlefield, as he scanned his surroundings with desperate eyes. The ground was a crumbled tapestry of flesh, shattered debris, and remnants of a battle that had turned the once vibrant field into a graveyard.

John's heart raced as he took in the scene—a visceral tableau of destruction—before fixing his sights on a battered wall that still stood defiantly against the ruins. He darted towards it, his body moving instinctively for cover, but a nearby gunshot shattered the air, its crack echoing like a death knell. A fierce, commanding voice cut through the chaos, a clarion call of authority.

"Men!! Shoot your firearms!!" Lieutenant Commander Anna's shout rang out, powerful and unyielding, striking the ground like the wrath of a thunder god unleashed. Her troops reacted without hesitation, unleashing a barrage of bullets that tore through the atmosphere, each round a testament to their training and desperation.

In the midst of the fray, John hurled himself toward the sturdy wall, his attempt to vault over it a moment of reckless bravery. Yet, what should have been a heroic leap became a comedic scene of calamity as his foot snagged on a sharp piece of protruding wood, sending him crashing face-first into the rocky ground.

"Arghh.... Fuck, fuck, fuckers!!" he groaned, cursing his misfortune with rising frustration. His large, protruding eyes darted back and forth, taking in the ongoing carnage around him.

The air was alive with the relentless sound of gunfire, merging into a symphony of war that seemed to mock his plight. In the chaos, John caught sight of a young man clad in tattered clothes whose deft hands nimbly notched arrows against his bowstring, performing a deadly dance of precision while facing a hailstorm of bullets.

His vacant eyes revealed an unsettling focus, but John could see the dwindling supply of arrows in the quiver at the man's back, rapidly emptying like the sands of time slipping away.

With his back pressed against the wall, the young archer sought cover, his body crouched low, desperately evading the onslaught.

"Damn, at this rate, his supply of arrows will be gone before he can take down even a fraction of them," John thought, anxiety spiking within him. He longed to help, but charging headlong towards the enemy to use his explosive ability felt like a death sentence.

Even channeling his power through the man's hair would be futile, as the strands would falter against the unforgiving resistance of the air.

Desperation fueled John's frantic thoughts as he considered every possible solution, praying silently to any gods that might be listening.

He tried to stealthily navigate the broken remnants of the battlefield, his attempts hindered by his plump physique, his movements stuttering under the weight of his body. He contemplated throwing rocks as makeshift projectiles against the foes, but nothing seemed viable. Just as hopelessness began to sink in, a brilliant idea flickered to life in his overworked brain.

That's right! Throwing a rock will do a thing!!" John thought, a mischievous sparkle igniting in his eyes as adrenaline coursed through his veins.

He scrambled across the jagged terrain, heart pounding like a drum, until his hand closed around a stone, perfectly nestled between two boulders. It wasn't just any rock—this one was about the size of an infant's fist, smooth and unassuming at first glance. But this rock held power, he could feel it.

With a swift, deliberate motion, he plucked two strands of his own hair, jittery excitement dancing in his chest. He deftly tied it around the rock, muttering a mantra of unshakable assurance to himself as he did.

Minutes stretched like hours as he prepared for his moment. Finally, summoning all his might, John hurled the rock across the battlefield. Time seemed to slow as it sailed through the air, every marine's head turning in confusion, his laughter echoing like a harbinger of doom.

A marine gasped in shock as the fist-sized stone ruptured into his pocket. The moment hung suspended and breathless, until a cataclysmic explosion erupted from the hapless soldier, spraying crimson against the air like macabre confetti. Chaos erupted, fellow marines freezing in horror as they witnessed their companion's horrifying demise, flesh raining down like grotesque autumn leaves. Confusion and primal terror gripped the hearts of the soldiers, thoughts scrambling amid the visceral reality of war.

"HAHA! I made it!!" John's cruel laughter reverberated across the ravaged field, loud and unrepentant. He reveled in the violent fruits of his twisted brilliance, eyes gleaming with vicious delight. "I will call it, rock bomb... rock grenade? Nah! I shall name it [Rock of Doom]!" His voice dripped with mocking glee as he caught sight of Lieutenant Commander Anna Ruz, her furious glare promising retribution.

Without missing a beat, John gathered more rocks, each one a seed of his unfathomable invention, and tied them with strands of his hair. He unleashed them upon the facing marines, a barrage that detonated in a hellish symphony of destruction, sending shockwaves through the ranks of the unfortunate souls caught in his lethal tempest.

Anna's expression twisted into a mask of fury and disbelief, watching as John's creations wreaked havoc, an insatiable fury kindled within her. The tenacity of John's [Rock of Doom] only intensified, each explosion amplifying the chaos, compounded by the blind man's arrows—each one a harbinger of death, striking true and taking with it another life from her dwindling ranks. Where there once stood dozens of her marines, a grotesque spectacle of carnage now lingered; the duo's prowess shrank her formidable force by half, with fifty-four soldiers already sacrificed to John's earlier explosion.

As John reveled in the anarchy, he could feel the relentless rain of bullets beginning to sap his strength. The shield wall that had once felt impenetrable began to show signs of weakness, dark cracks emerging like ominous prophecies threatening to spell disaster. "Fuckers!" he spat through gritted teeth, frustration boiling over with each tremor of his makeshift defense. "At this rate, my shield wall will crumble before the marines finish their massacre!"

His dilemma gnawed at him, the clock ticking mercilessly as he realized the time it took to craft his [Rock of Doom] was a luxury he no longer possessed. Each assembly consumed precious moments that jeopardized his very life.

"Shit, fuckers!! I need to modify my marvelous [Rock of Doom] into a technique that can be made in a couple of seconds!" he exclaimed, scrubbing his fingers across his nose as a habit when anxiety struck. It was time to think quickly, or risk becoming a gruesome addition to his own battlefield masterpiece.

Wait a minute, nose!! That's right! A brilliant idea unfurled in John's mind, a stroke of genius that promised to elevate his already formidable creation, the infamous Rock of Doom, into an even more terrifying entity. His heart raced with excitement as he barely hesitated, driven by the frantic thrill of innovation. Without a second thought, he plunged his index finger deep into the cavern of his nostril, feeling the cool, damp air within.

His finger emerged, adorned with a large, glistening booger that had been nestling within, waiting patiently for the moment it would serve its new purpose. With a swift motion, he pressed the slimy mass onto the surface of the rock, sealing in a unique concoction of filth and creativity.

Meanwhile, the blind shooter Hiroshi, stationed a few paces away, caught an unsettling whisper of the sordid act unfolding in the shadows. His keen senses absorbed the hushed tones that depicted the disgusting spectacle, and a wave of revulsion washed over his typically calm features. He grimaced involuntarily, his distaste palpable even without the gift of sight.

"Men," Anna stated, her voice steady and authoritative, despite the queasiness churning inside her, "I have discerned the flaw in his technique. I witnessed it—the rock he launched was tethered with a strand of his hair. This means his cursed devil fruit allows him to trigger an explosion from his own body. We must exploit the time consumed during his creation process. We'll retreat while he bombards us, and strike decisively when he's vulnerable, in the midst of his grotesque preparations."