New World — Marine G-14 Branch
Across the fortress walls of the base, deep, jagged sword marks scarred the stone—raw, violent reminders of the clash that had just taken place.
In the harbor, several warships sat half-submerged, their hulls tilted at broken angles. Only fragments of masts and gun turrets still jutted above the waterline like the bones of a drowned fleet.
The battle was over.
The members of the Red-Haired Pirates had not unleashed wanton destruction. They moved with restraint, quietly seizing control of key positions.
And yet—
The invisible pressure of a Yonko crew still pressed down like a mountain.
The surviving Marines found it difficult even to breathe, let alone act.
At the center of the plaza stood Red-Haired Shanks.
The sea breeze stirred his black cloak, the crimson strand of hair over his forehead swaying gently. The usual easygoing smile was gone.
In his right hand, he held someone aloft by the collar—effortlessly.
Vice Admiral Doll.
The commanding officer of G-14.
Blood trickled from the corner of her mouth. Her cap had fallen somewhere along the way. Yet her gaze remained unyielding, locked onto Shanks with fierce defiance.
"You're not qualified to arrest me."
Shanks' voice was calm—low, steady—but it carried clearly to every corner of the battlefield.
"Go back and tell your superiors…"
He paused.
"…they'd better have Gern come in person."
With a flick of his wrist, he tossed her aside.
Doll let out a muffled grunt as she staggered back, caught by nearby Marines. Her face turned ashen, but she clenched her teeth—refusing to give the order to counterattack.
She understood.
Against one of the Four Emperors himself, any resistance now would only mean pointless casualties.
Shanks' gaze swept over the shattered base… over the Marines suppressing their fear.
Then—
His Conqueror's Haki erupted.
A silent wave.
One by one, the remaining Marines collapsed, consciousness snuffed out like candles in a storm.
…
Footsteps sounded behind him.
Ben Beckman approached slowly, a half-smoked cigarette hanging from his lips. He looked as composed as ever, though a faint crease had formed between his brows.
He exhaled a thin stream of smoke into the still air.
"Shanks," Beckman said, his tone calm but edged with doubt, "your recent actions… don't exactly match our usual style."
His eyes swept across the battlefield.
The Red-Haired Pirates were known as balancers. Powerful, yes—but rarely the ones to initiate large-scale assaults. They preferred deterrence, negotiation, or precise strikes.
What had happened here…
This was different.
"A targeted attack like this—on the newly independent Navy…"
His voice lowered.
"You know that man, Gern, won't ignore it."
"He'll settle this account."
"And we might get dragged into a full-scale conflict we don't need."
He glanced at Shanks.
"That doesn't sound like your judgment."
Shanks didn't answer immediately.
He turned slightly, looking at his most trusted vice captain… then unconsciously brushed his fingers across the scar he'd once received when Beckman had pulled him away from Gern years ago.
"Beckman…"
His voice dropped.
"You don't know everything Gern has done."
"…No. You know part of it. You're just not sure."
Beckman's fingers stilled around his cigarette.
"You remember… I 'disappeared' for a while back then, don't you?"
At that, Beckman's expression sharpened instantly. Even the cigarette between his lips went forgotten.
The core members of the Red-Haired Pirates all knew—
Years ago, Shanks had vanished for a short but mysterious period.
When he returned, something about him had changed.
But what exactly had happened…
He had never said.
Only Beckman—and Yasopp—knew the truth.
Because it wasn't a pleasant memory.
Shanks hadn't disappeared by choice.
He had been taken.
Taken by the man who claimed to be his father—
The Supreme Commander of the God's Knights.
Figarland Garling Saint.
During that time, Shanks had been brought to the very top of the Red Line… into the depths of Pangaea Castle within Mary Geoise.
"I stayed there…"
His voice lowered further.
"I was 'granted' that thing… and I saw it. Felt it myself…"
He paused, searching for words—but none seemed sufficient.
"…the 'existence' behind the World Government… just how terrifying it truly is."
Beckman took a slow drag of his cigarette.
He knew exactly what Shanks meant.
The being above even the Five Elders.
The one the Celestial Dragons revered as a god.
The ruler of the Empty Throne.
"Gern… he's not a 'D.'"
Shanks turned back toward Beckman.
"He doesn't carry that cursed—and blessed—bloodline."
"He's not qualified."
His brows furrowed deeply.
"So how… how did he survive that?"
"Nasujuro Saint personally took action. That might've even drawn the attention of that existence…"
"How is he still alive?"
"Not just alive—openly declaring independence?"
There was confusion in his voice.
And something else—
A faint trace of anger.
Not at Gern himself, but at the breaking of something that should have been absolute.
"But I'm certain of one thing!"
His voice hardened, decisive—almost stubborn.
"What he's doing is foolish!"
"Provoking too early. Exposing himself. Dragging the Navy into direct opposition with the World Government…"
"That's not how you defeat that 'existence'!"
"That only leads to faster—more complete destruction!"
His eyes darkened.
"When we could have followed the path Captain Roger opened with his life…"
"Maintained the balance I've upheld all these years…"
"Followed the path of 'fate' step by step…"
"Waiting for the one destined to appear… at the right time… in the right way… to complete that final mission!"
For a moment, his gaze seemed to stretch into the distant future—
To a boy with a straw hat.
Smiling.
"That mission… the one who will overturn the old world and bring the true dawn…"
"…it's not him. Not Gern Reginald."
"He doesn't have the qualification!"
"He doesn't have the fate!"
Shanks' voice rose sharply, filled with unwavering conviction.
"I have to make him understand!"
"The one who carries that burden… the one holding the key to the era… is not him!"
"His 'independence'… his 'new justice'…"
"…will only disrupt everything. It'll drag countless people into a disaster that comes too early—and can't be won!"
The sea wind itself seemed to turn colder.
Beckman watched him in silence for a long moment.
He understood.
Shanks' fear came from firsthand knowledge of that overwhelming terror… from loyalty to Roger's will… and from the hope he had placed in the coming era.
In Shanks' eyes—
Gern's rebellion was a premature move.
A dangerous deviation.
Something that could destroy not just the Navy… but the very timeline needed for that "chosen one" to rise.
"…So," Beckman finally said, flicking ash from his cigarette, "you attacked a Marine base… to force Gern to show himself?"
"You want to… talk to him?"
"Not just talk."
Shanks' eyes turned cold.
"If necessary… I'll make him face reality."
"The Navy should return to where it belongs."
"Maintain balance. Wait for the right moment."
"Not become a sacrifice to Gern's personal ambition and reckless judgment."
The conversation ended.
Shanks turned away.
"Spread the word."
"Tell Gern—if he doesn't want more Marine bases to end up like this…"
"…then come to the New World and meet me in person."
"Some things… have to be said face to face."
"Some truths… have to be made clear."
His hand rested on the hilt of Griffon.
"Ahhh~~ how scary…"
A slow, drawn-out voice suddenly drifted down from the sky.
"An Emperor of the Sea… 'Red-Haired' Shanks…"
"…talking about 'reasoning' with the Fleet Admiral."
Shanks and Beckman's eyes sharpened instantly.
They looked up.
A streak of dazzling golden light flickered in the sky—then dropped with impossible speed, landing lightly on the ship's railing.
The light condensed.
Took shape.
A tall, slender man appeared—wearing a white Marine coat emblazoned with the word Justice.
Admiral Kizaru.
Borsalino.
He stood there with a slight slouch, hands in his pockets, yellow-tinted sunglasses hiding his eyes. His lips curved into that ever-present, vaguely troubled—yet teasing—expression.
"Kizaru… Borsalino."
Beckman's gun rose silently, his gaze razor-sharp.
Around them, the Red-Haired Pirates shifted into combat stance. The atmosphere tightened in an instant.
"Oh my~~ don't be so tense."
Kizaru waved lazily.
"Beckman, pointing that gun at me… that's really scary, you know~"
"I just happened to be 'passing by' and overheard something interesting… attacking Marine bases… forcing Gern to show up…"
He tilted his head slightly, sunlight glinting off his glasses.
"That won't do~ As a Marine Admiral, hearing someone speak so boldly about our Fleet Admiral—especially someone as 'popular' as Gern—I can't just pretend I didn't hear it, right?"
"Though… I admit, that junior of mine who became Fleet Admiral does give me headaches sometimes~"
Shanks remained calm, hand still on Griffon, his gaze deep and unreadable.
"A Marine Admiral appearing alone on a Yonko's ship…"
"That's hardly 'passing by.'"
"Are you here on behalf of Headquarters… or yourself, Borsalino?"
"Who am I representing… hmm, difficult question."
Kizaru stroked his chin as if genuinely pondering.
"If I had to say… probably 'my position at this very moment.'"
"After all… letting a Yonko openly provoke the Navy by attacking a base…"
"That wouldn't look very good, would it?"
His tone remained casual.
But faint golden particles began to gather around him.
"So… could I ask you to take back that rather dangerous 'invitation'?"
"Or…"
His lips curved slightly.
"…perhaps we try a different way of 'communication'? Like letting an old senior like me… hear your 'reasoning' first?"
The moment his words fell—
His body transformed into a beam of golden light.
Not toward Shanks—
But streaking across the deck at a speed beyond perception.
"So fast!" someone shouted.
"Yasakani no Magatama."
With his languid voice—
The sky erupted.
Countless beams of light rained down like a storm, bombarding the sea around the Red Force.
Explosions sent towering waves crashing upward. The ship rocked violently—
But the attacks never struck directly.
A warning.
A display.
The golden light gathered again.
Kizaru reappeared atop the main mast, looking down from above.
"You see… making too big a scene isn't good, right?"
"Some 'words,' once spoken… can attract unwanted 'attention'… and cause things to move ahead of schedule."
"That wouldn't fit your idea of 'maintaining balance,' would it… Mr. Shanks?"
Shanks lifted his head.
The two locked eyes—one hidden behind tinted lenses.
The wind calmed.
The pressure remained.
"What are you trying to say, Kizaru?"
"I'm just saying…"
Kizaru's form began to dissolve into flickering particles of light.
"The times are changing. Everyone has their own plans."
"You have your convictions…"
"And Gern… well…"
A faint pause.
"…he's already taken on burdens many of us shouldn't have to bear."
"…Even someone like me can drift along freely because of that."
Then—
His tone dropped, just slightly.
"So before you start lecturing about 'reason'…"
A faint glint passed behind the glasses.
"…don't underestimate Justice either, Red-Haired Shanks."