Marineford — Logistics Chief's Office.
The heavy mahogany doors shut out the outside noise.
KING lay collapsed on the soft leather sofa, body twisted into an inelegant sprawl like a sun-dried fish.
The Seven Warlords meeting was finally over.
He had no idea why the pink-feathered flamingo in sunglasses left looking like she had swallowed poison.
Nor did he understand why that aloof snake-wielding woman shot him a murderous glare before departing.
Whatever.
He only wanted sleep.
AFK.
Retirement.
[Ding! Host detected successful slacking during a high-level meeting. Classified as Advanced Slacking Behavior. Reward: Observation Haki +5000!]
The system notification echoed in his mind.
KING didn't even lift his eyelids.
"Awooo—!!"
A cheerful bark shattered the silence.
A black blur burst through the half-closed door.
It was the little black dog KING had picked up in Loguetown — codename Pochi.
Right now, Pochi clamped an absurdly luxurious bento box between its jaws.
Inside: premium steak.
"Pochi! Stop! That's Vice Admiral Onigumo's lunch!"
Onigumo's adjutant rushed in behind it, breathless and despairing.
Not again.
KING jolted upright.
Ever since he brought the dog back to headquarters, it had become a tyrant of Marineford.
It had stolen senbei from Sengoku's office.
If this continued, the entire Navy would isolate him.
That would severely damage AFK efficiency.
"Drop it!"
KING lunged forward, pinning Pochi to the carpet and wrestling for the lunchbox.
Man and dog rolled across the rug.
"I told you not to steal from people! Are you trying to get me killed?!"
"Woof! Woof!"
(Mine! I stole it with skill!)
"If you keep this up, I'm cutting off your food supply! Hear me?!"
KING deployed his ultimate threat.
Pochi froze.
KING snatched the drool-soaked lunchbox free and smacked the dog lightly on the head.
He was about to sigh in relief—
—and realized someone stood in the doorway.
It was Smoker.
He had returned to headquarters to report. Crocodile had been tried and transferred to Impel Down.
He had prepared a full report:
Crocodile's conspiracy.
Straw Hat movements.
And his own doubts about justice.
Now every word lodged in his throat.
He stared at the scene on the carpet through drifting smoke.
To outsiders, it looked like a man wrestling a dog over food.
To Smoker…
this was a higher-dimensional struggle.
The black dog — was it truly a dog?
Pochi's fur bristled. A low growl rumbled from its throat. Its eyes gleamed with primal ferocity.
Food guarding?
No.
A predator defending territory.
Under King's suppression, that ferocity resisted violently.
Smoker felt a chill.
The speed at which the creature had burst in… even his Logia reflexes had barely registered it.
What kind of speed was that?
This is a beast wearing the skin of a dog.
His gaze shifted to KING.
No Haki.
No Devil Fruit power.
Only raw physical control.
He effortlessly suppressed fangs capable of tearing flesh and the instincts of a primal hunter.
Smoker recalled King's words:
"If you keep this up, you'll starve."
Not a simple threat.
A declaration of dominance.
A ruler depriving a beast of the right to feed — and thus the right to power.
Control desire. Control the soul.
To tame a beast is not to bind its body… but to conquer its will.
Smoker inhaled deeply. Smoke filled his lungs, making him tremble.
The greatest truths were the simplest.
So this is the highest form of command.
He stepped forward, saluted sharply, voice trembling with fervor:
"Chief of Staff King! Smoker reporting for duty!"
KING shoved the lunchbox into the adjutant's trembling hands, apologizing profusely.
Then he looked at Smoker with exhausted eyes.
"Smoker… you need to understand one thing."
"Although my rank is Vice Admiral, I am neither your direct superior nor a field commander."
"Report to the Fleet Admiral. Turn left when you leave."
(Inner monologue: Alabasta's done? Great. Don't involve me. I'm logging off.)
"No."
Smoker stepped forward. Smoke swirled violently around him.
"I do not want to hear official platitudes."
"In Alabasta, without your foresight… without your resolve to face any obstacle… we could not have defeated Croc—"
KING blinked.
What foresight?
Smoker bowed his head sharply.
"I was too weak."
"I failed to defeat Crocodile myself… and required you to violate regulations to support my unit."
"I cannot shirk that responsibility!"
He straightened.
"Therefore, I request permission to remain at Headquarters and train under your command."
"So that one day… I may become a blade worthy of following your path!"
KING's temples throbbed.
Follow me?
Stay here?
Train?
Absolutely not.
The logistics department was supposed to be a retirement sanctuary.
Not a boot camp for elite Marines.
He wanted to refuse.
But exhaustion left him unable to speak.
He stared blankly.
Silent.
Smoker's heart thundered.
King… did not refuse.
Silence.
This was acceptance.
A test.
He was willing to give him a chance.
"Thank you, Lord King—"
He didn't finish.
The door burst open.
Monkey D. Garp stuck his head inside, mouth full of senbei.
"Oh! You're both here! Perfect!"
He strode in and examined them.
Then nodded.
"Smoker, I hear you're motivated!"
He slapped Smoker's shoulder.
Then pointed at King.
"King teaches. Smoker learns."
"I'll supervise your progress!"
Teach?
Learn?
KING's brain shut down.
Smoker trembled with emotion.
To be personally instructed by Lord King…
Garp grinned, teeth flashing.
"If he doesn't teach properly, I'll train both of you together!"
"This is the Iron Fist of Love Special Training Camp!"
"Move out! No wasting time!"
Before either could react, Garp hoisted them like chicks — one in each hand — and strode into the corridor.
"Wait… no… didn't I already train this morning… and I'm a desk officer…" KING croaked weakly.
Garp laughed.
"King, don't you get it?"
"In this place, there's no such thing as an office worker!"