Marineford Harbor, New World.
In the past, whenever an envoy of the World Government descended upon naval soil, the scene would be grand beyond measure—flags unfurled, ceremonial guards assembled in perfect formation, officers gathered in ranks, cheers rising like crashing waves.
But now…
As the solemn, austere government vessel bearing the World Government's emblem slowly docked, an unnatural stillness hung over the harbor.
No cannon salutes.No military band.No lines of officers standing at attention.
Only a few harbor guides performing routine docking procedures.
The sea breeze whipped the newly raised Marine flag and the Marshal's standard into sharp, snapping motions—yet not a single person spared the World Government's banner more than a passing glance.
The contrast with the past was stark.
Once, when the Marines were still subservient, they would empty the entire base to welcome even a minor envoy—desperate to display loyalty.Now… there was nothing but indifference.
The gangway lowered.
The first to step onto the dock was Rob Lucci.
Clad in the white coat of a CP0 commander, faint traces of battle still marked his body—bandages visible beneath his collar. The moment his feet touched ground, his sharp gaze swept across the harbor, taking in the cold reception.
Yet his expression did not change.
He simply stepped aside, slightly bowing, assuming the role of guide.
Then—
One of the highest authorities in the world descended.
Topman Warcury.
Dressed in a meticulously tailored black suit, crisp white shirt, and dark tie, every inch of him radiated rigid discipline. His bald head gleamed faintly under the sunlight, the distinctive birthmark on his forehead unmistakable. His neatly groomed mustache twitched ever so slightly with his stern expression.
Lucci stepped forward and, following protocol, announced in a clear, ringing voice:
"Five Elder, Saint Topman Warcury, has arrived!"
The words echoed—
…and vanished into silence.
No one responded.
The Marines nearby either paused their work to glance from afar… or simply turned their backs and continued what they were doing.
Not a single salute.Not a single greeting.
The fear still lingered in their eyes—fear of the World Government, of the Celestial Dragons, of the Five Elders…
But something else had begun to grow.
Resistance.
Since Gern Reginald Sigmar's declaration of independence—since the interception of Heavenly Tribute shipments, since the arrest and execution of Celestial Dragons—something fundamental had changed.
The illusion had shattered.
The so-called "descendants of gods"… bled.They feared.They begged.They died.
And once that veil had been torn away by mortal hands—
No one was willing to kneel anymore.
Warcury's brow twitched, almost imperceptibly, before smoothing out again.
He adjusted his tie, suppressing the flicker of displeasure rising within him.
"How uncouth…"
Drawing a steady breath, he cast aside the distraction and moved forward.
With Lucci accompanying him, he walked toward the towering Marine Headquarters building—toward the very heart of the New Navy's authority.
The Marshal's office.
This visit carried immense weight.
Because above him… hung a sword.
Imu.
That being's fear—triggered by "that incident"—and the order to observe and refrain had shackled the Five Elders, preventing them from taking direct military action against Gern's Navy.
But the Celestial Dragons… those pampered nobles who had lived in luxury for centuries—
They were on the verge of collapse.
It was easy to grow accustomed to excess.Impossible to endure its loss.
Once, they had fleets escorting them, CP agents attending their every whim, entire nations forced to offer Heavenly Tribute. They took, commanded, and killed as they pleased.
Now?
The Marines no longer protected the tribute shipments—they intercepted them.Celestial Dragons venturing into the lower world were arrested… even executed.In territories controlled by the New Navy, their authority meant nothing.
Fear.Rage.Confusion.And above all—terror of losing privilege.
It spread through Mary Geoise like a plague.
The noble families pressured the Five Elders relentlessly:
Punish the traitors.Restore order.Reclaim authority.
And Imu's silence only intensified that pressure.
Thus, Warcury had descended.
Not to wage war—
…but to negotiate.
To buy time.To reclaim fragments of control.To probe Gern's true intentions… and his limits.
By the time Warcury returned to the present moment, he had already reached the corridor leading to the conference chamber.
But at the end of the hallway—
Leaning casually against the doors—
Stood an unexpected figure.
Borsalino.
Kizaru.
Dressed in his signature yellow-striped suit, the new Admiral's coat draped over his shoulders, sunglasses tilted lazily—he was filing his nails with utter indifference.
At the sound of approaching footsteps, he raised his head slightly, peering over the rim of his glasses.
A familiar, teasing smile spread across his face.
"Oho~" he drawled, his tone exaggerated, echoing faintly through the corridor."Well, if it isn't Saint Topman Warcury himself~ What a rare sight… coming down here personally like this."
There was no reverence in his voice.
Only amusement.
Warcury halted briefly, his gaze sharp as it settled on Kizaru.
"Borsalino."
His tone was calm, but heavy.
"It is regrettable to see you still standing here. You—and many others among the Marines—have made the wrong choice."
"The Marines should not have followed Gern Reginald Sigmar into this farce."
"To sever ties with the World Government… is to march toward ruin."
"Is that so?"
Kizaru's smile didn't fade—in fact, it seemed to deepen.
He put away the nail file, slipped both hands into his pockets, and shrugged casually.
"Well… I think you've come to the wrong person for that answer~"
He shifted slightly, lazily pointing his thumb toward the doors behind him.
"The source of all this 'nonsense' you're talking about is right inside."
"Marshal Gern… and Inspector General Sengoku are both waiting~"
Then, stretching his tone once more, he straightened his coat.
"As for me~ I've still got work to do."
"Sigh… being a wage worker is tough. One word from the boss, and I've gotta run myself ragged~"
With that, he began walking away—slow, almost languid steps that nevertheless carried him far in an instant.
As he passed by Lucci, however—
He paused.
Just slightly.
Behind those tinted lenses, his gaze flicked over Lucci's still-healing wounds.
The corner of his mouth lifted.
Quietly, almost lazily, he murmured:
"Rob Lucci… you should be grateful it was Tesoro back then—not me."
"Otherwise… you'd already be dead."
Lucci's pupils shrank.
He said nothing.
Warcury remained where he stood, watching Kizaru's retreating figure before shifting his gaze to the sealed conference doors.
His expression darkened, then steadied.
Kizaru's attitude—on the surface, careless and evasive—had in fact been flawless.
He had drawn a clear line.He had pointed directly at Gern as the decision-maker.And with that same playful tone, he had shut down any attempt to exploit him as an opening.
A silent declaration.
A warning.
The stance of the New Navy's leadership was clear:
They would not bow.And this… was their ground.
Lucci stepped forward slightly.
"Saint Warcury?"
Warcury exhaled slowly, straightening his collar once more. The weight of his authority settled back into place.
"Enter."
The command was brief.
Decisive.
Lucci pushed open the heavy double doors.
Light spilled outward.
Inside—
At the far end of the long conference table—
Gern Reginald Sigmar sat at the head.
Dressed in his Marshal's uniform, posture straight, hands clasped calmly before him—
His gaze steady.
Waiting.
Beside him, Sengoku sat upright, his expression grave and composed.
The storm at the heart of the world…
Had finally come face to face with itself.