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*****
The sea stretched endlessly beneath a bruised horizon, the waters of the New World shifting in restless swells. Three colossal vessels carved their way through the chaos—one draped in the solemn crest of the World Government, flanked on either side by two Marine warships of towering iron and timber.
The waters here were treacherous, a graveyard of countless ships swallowed by whirlpools, storms, and predators that lurked beneath the waves. Yet these ships pressed forward unshaken, gliding with the unyielding calm of predators that feared nothing.
This was no ordinary convoy. At the heart of it sailed the vessel bearing the Celestial Tribute—a grotesque harvest of wealth wrung from the blood and sweat of nations bent beneath the World Government's yoke.
Year after year, this tribute flowed to the Holy Land, feeding the endless greed of the Celestial Dragons. With the Government's grip reasserted even in the chaotic New World, the tribute had grown monstrous—an ocean of riches dredged from suffering.
So feared was this ship that even the most savage pirates skirted it as though it carried a plague. To strike at the tribute was not just piracy—it was a direct challenge to the weight of history, to decades of iron-fisted rule. Only the deranged few, pirates unhinged enough to court oblivion, had ever dared such folly.
But fear of pirates was not the reason for the convoy's calm. Hidden to the world, one of the Marine warships carried within its hull two Admirals of the Marines. Their presence alone was enough to smother any threat before it could take shape.
On the deck, near the main mast, two figures sat in quiet conversation. Admiral Ginshimo, an elder of the old guard, rested cross-legged atop a wooden crate. His long silver hair was tied neatly, the lines of age and battle etched deep into his face. His katana leaned against his shoulder like an extension of his soul. His eyes were closed, but his presence radiated sharpness—keen, unrelenting. Even at rest, his senses reached farther than most could dream.
Beside him, perched casually on another crate, was the newly appointed Admiral Aokiji. The air around him carried his signature languor, his half-lidded eyes betraying little. Yet beneath that calm, a storm brewed—a heart unsettled, wrestling with truths he could no longer ignore.
"Ginshimo-san," Aokiji's voice broke the silence, soft but edged with unease. "Do you think Fleet Admiral Sengoku's hunch will prove right…?"
Ginshimo did not stir. His eyes remained closed, his breathing steady. Only the faint tightening of his grip on the sword's hilt betrayed that he was listening.
"The possibility is high," he said at last, his voice gravelly, weathered with decades of war. "This route may not lie within the territories of the so-called Emperors… but that means nothing. Their silence is the greatest danger. Especially…" His eyes opened a fraction, sharp as steel. "…the Donquixote Pirates. Their stillness these past months—it is unlike them. Silence from wolves is not peace, but the drawing of breath before a strike."
The sea breeze carried a weight with those words. Aokiji tilted his head, his gaze wandering across the rolling horizon. His silence stretched long before Ginshimo's voice cut through it again.
"You disapprove of all this." It was not a question. The old swordsman's observation haki cut deeper than blades. He could read the unease clinging to Aokiji's heart as clearly as if it were ink on parchment.
Aokiji's jaw tightened. His hands slid into his pockets, but his voice betrayed the turmoil inside.
"Of course I disapprove," he murmured. "They call it tribute—tribute to gods. But what it really is… is blood money. Every coin in those crates is wrung from the lives of people crushed under their rulers' heels. We've seen it ourselves, Ginshimo-san. The monarchs didn't sacrifice from their vaults when the tribute increased—they bled it from their people. Citizens worked to death, stripped bare, left to starve so that their king could bow before Mary Geoise with pockets heavy. And we…" His lips curled into something bitter. "…we stand here as their bodyguards."
For a long moment, the old Admiral said nothing. His eyes remained shut once more, but the silence between them was heavier than steel chains. Aokiji leaned forward, his voice rough with earnestness.
"Does it not bother you? All this injustice—and we, the so-called protectors of justice, reduced to glorified escorts for tyrants? Tell me, Ginshimo-san… isn't a Marine supposed to be a shield for the people, not a sword for their oppressors?"
His words trembled with the weight of youth's disillusionment. He had joined the Marines believing in the ideal of justice, believing that with power he could change the world. But the title of Admiral, once a beacon of freedom, now felt like a shackle. His authority was not his own—it was a leash, binding him to the will of the Celestial Dragons and the Marines who served them.
In that moment, Aokiji finally understood what Garp had always known. Why the Hero of the Marines had rejected the rank of Admiral time and again. It was not humility—it was refusal. Refusal to wear the collar, to become a hound for the throne.
Ginshimo opened his eyes fully now, meeting Aokiji's with a gaze that carried the weight of countless winters. His silver brows furrowed, but his voice was calm—calm like the sea before a storm.
"Justice, Kuzan, is not a word the world agrees upon. To the rulers, justice is obedience. To the people, justice is protection. To the Marines…" He exhaled, weary. "Justice is a banner. Nothing more."
The younger Admiral's shoulders slumped under the truth. The salt air stung his eyes, though he would not call it tears.
Above them, the black sails of the tribute ship snapped in the wind. The gold within its hold gleamed like a mockery of the very word they both carried as their creed: Justice.
"Kuzan…" Ginshimo's voice was low, almost swallowed by the crash of waves against the hull. His eyes, still closed, seemed to peer beyond the horizon itself. "I have walked these seas for nearly six decades. The Four Blues, the Grand Line from end to end… I have set foot even upon Lodestar Island, the last known beacon before the place men whisper of as legend."
Aokiji's brow twitched. The name alone—Lodestar—carried the weight of myth. Few Marines even believed it existed, let alone claimed to have reached it. He turned, studying the old swordsman, wondering how much of the world's hidden history lay buried in that silver mane.
Ginshimo's tone darkened, like clouds blotting out the sun.
"And in all those years, Kuzan… I have seen everything. Kingdoms rise, kingdoms burn. Tyrants carve their thrones from the bones of children. Pirates slaughter entire towns for a laugh. And yes… I have lived through it. Perhaps I did not commit the evils with my own hands, but I stood by and watched. I had the power to end much of it with a single swing of my blade, and yet… I did nothing."
At that, he finally opened his eyes. They were not dull with age, but sharp—piercing, as though they could cut straight into the marrow of one's soul.
"So tell me, Kuzan… does that make me guilty? Or innocent because I didnot have anything to do with it…?"
Aokiji's mouth parted, but no words came. The weight of the question pressed down on him, heavy as the ocean.
"That…" he began, but Ginshimo cut him off with the faintest raise of his hand.
"You are truly naïve if you think you have an answer to that." His gaze never wavered. "You look at the world and still cling to the idea of black and white—good and evil. But the truth, Kuzan, is that the world does not turn on absolutes. It thrives in the shadows between. In the grey. That is where kings rule, where pirates survive, where even Marines… choose to look away."
Aokiji's jaw tightened. "I don't agree with you, Ginshimo-san. What about the civilians? The innocents? Do you believe they deserve what's happening to them? The tribute, the tyranny, the endless suffering?"
"Innocents…" Ginshimo repeated, the word bitter on his tongue. He shook his head slowly. "You still think of humanity as simple. Noble. Worthy of saving. But you misunderstand the very nature of mankind. Humans are… twisted, Kuzan. Inherently. Even those you call innocent will turn away when their neighbor's house burns, so long as their own roof is untouched. They will mourn, yes, whisper pity when all that remains is ash. But when the choice comes—risk themselves for another, or preserve their own comfort—they choose self, every time."
He tapped the hilt of his katana, the motion sharp, deliberate.
"And until the day comes when man will bleed for another as willingly as for himself, justice will remain grey. Justice is not truth. It is not pure. It is a calculation, Kuzan—a weighing of evils, choosing the lesser, so that fewer must die."
The younger Admiral frowned, his chest heavy. "So that's it, then? Justice is nothing but compromise? A banner, like you said earlier? Empty words to dress up ugliness?"
Ginshimo's expression softened—not kind, but solemn, like a man bearing the scars of truths too bitter to swallow.
"Not empty, Kuzan. Necessary. It gives people hope, even if it is false. But remember this well: not every pirate draped in black sails is evil… and not every Marine cloaked in justice is good. You will meet men who wear our uniform but hide monsters beneath, and you will meet men who defy the World Government yet carry hearts nobler than kings. Justice is not universal. It never has been. To one man, your justice will be salvation… to another, it will be tyranny."
His gaze drifted out toward the black-sailed tribute ship cutting through the waves.
"All you can do, Kuzan, is choose the justice that spares the most lives… and live with the blood that stains your hands because of it."
Aokiji turned away, staring at the sea, his breath misting faintly in the cold air he unconsciously emitted. The old man's words sank deep, grinding against the fragile idealism he still clung to. He had always believed justice was a shield for the weak. But Ginshimo spoke as one who had seen too many shields shatter, too many innocents trampled even beneath the banners of righteousness.
For the first time, Kuzan understood: the coat of "Justice" he wore was not armor, but a shackle. And Ginshimo, with decades of wisdom, had long since learned to live with that weight. The waves crashed harder, as if echoing the turmoil in his chest.
Aokiji's gaze hardened, his usual laziness stripped away as his voice cut sharp.
"So if you truly don't believe in this whole concept of justice, then why, Ginshimo-san? Why did you even join the Marines? Because I can tell—it wasn't out of some noble goal to save the less fortunate…"
There was no bitterness in Ginshimo's face—only amusement. His weathered lips curved into a broad, almost boyish grin, one that clashed against the years carved into his features.
"To me," the elder Admiral chuckled, "justice is just a word. My life's justice—the only one I ever recognized—was the pursuit of the sword. To walk that path until the day I fall. I never had some grand ambition to save the people. Nor did I kneel to serve the Celestial Dragons. I took this mantle because it gave me opportunity. The chance to face what I was lacking. And with this coat on my back, doors open… doors to battles worth spilling blood for."
His eyes gleamed, silver hair swaying in the wind. "The truth is simple: I became an Admiral so I would have a reason—no, the authority—to challenge the few men in this world worthy of my blade."
Aokiji's frown deepened. He already knew where this road led. "So you're telling me… if tomorrow, someone you deem worthy accepted your challenge—but only in exchange for you abandoning your post and becoming a pirate… you'd do it?"
Ginshimo's smile said everything. He didn't need to speak.
But before Aokiji could press further, the old Admiral's face snapped toward the horizon. His eyes widened, and in one fluid motion, he rose from the crate. His presence alone shifted the air, sharp as drawn steel.
"Kuzan!" he barked, voice like thunder, hand already coiled around his katana's hilt. "Raise the strongest barrier you can—we're under attack!"
No hesitation. Aokiji vanished in a blur of soru, reappearing above the waves where Ginshimo's instincts pointed. His sandals touched the ocean's skin—and instantly, a sheet of frost spread outward in all directions, ice claiming the sea. He plunged his hands into the rolling waters, and with a roar, his power surged.
"ICE AGE!!!"
The ocean itself screamed as it froze. Miles of sea locked in an instant, a glacial kingdom rising beneath the ships. The horizon became an endless mirror of frost, jagged walls of ice thrusting skyward as Kuzan layered wall upon wall, fortress upon fortress, until it was as though the Marines sailed within a frozen cathedral of his making. The air cracked, every breath turned to mist, and even the heavens seemed to pale beneath the Admiral's chilling dominion.
Then—
A blinding light tore across the sky. A searing, unnatural purple radiance, brighter than lightning, devoured the world.
Fwoooooooom!
The beam erupted with cataclysmic force, a magnetic lance of destruction that split the horizon. It slammed into Aokiji's defenses, shredding them apart. The first wall cracked. The second disintegrated. The third exploded into glittering shards. Layer after layer of ice shattered, carved through like butter beneath a hot knife.
But every wall mattered. Every heartbeat bought time.
By the time the beam reached the final barrier, Ginshimo was already there. The old swordsman stood upon the railing, silver hair whipped by the frozen wind, his entire being focused into the moment. His blade sang as it left its sheath in a single motion, the sound sharp enough to split silence itself.
"Ittōryū Iai: Ume no Shirabe… !"
The strike was instantaneous. A single slash—but its radiance bloomed like a storm of petals. For a heartbeat, the frozen battlefield was filled with the vision of falling plum blossoms, delicate yet unyielding, each petal a fragment of Ginshimo's will honed through decades of battle.
Steel met energy.
The slash carved into the beam, the shockwave rattling the heavens, sea, and ships alike. The frozen walls behind him cracked from the sheer force of the release. Petals of shimmering light collided with the purple radiance, diverting it, splitting it, tearing its fury away from the tribute ship at the last possible instant.
The sky howled. The ocean roared. And when the light cleared, a new scar ran across the frozen sea—a chasm carved by a single blade, stretching into the horizon. Ginshimo lowered his sword, breath steady despite the enormity of what had just occurred. His katana's edge gleamed, faint wisps of energy still falling like plum blossoms to the frozen ground.
"Kuzan," Ginshimo muttered, his voice like iron, his gaze still fixed on the horizon. The hum of his blade seemed to vibrate through the very air. "The Fleet Admiral's gut was right. We've drawn the eyes of a Yonko."
There was no fear in his tone. No hesitation. Only anticipation—and a glimmer of bloodlust—as if his meitō itself yearned for the clash.
The entire convoy shuddered with alarm. Marines rushed to and fro until a Rear Admiral bolted up the deck, pale-faced, only to halt at the sight of Ginshimo standing like a statue of war upon the railing, and Kuzan calm beside him. Two Admirals, unshaken—two guardians between heaven and earth.
Aokiji's voice rang out sharp, cutting through the chaos like a whip.
"Contact Headquarters immediately! We're under siege by a Yonko's fleet! Alert every base and outpost within range—they need to be on full alert. Reinforcements, diversions—don't assume this is their only move!"
His commands steadied the men; discipline replaced panic.
The Rear Admiral swallowed. "Admiral, do we know who it is? Which crew?"
Ginshimo's eyes narrowed. His voice was low, but it carried like a death knell.
"It's the Bloodsteel Pirates."
Gasps rippled through the Marines. The Bloodsteel were more rumor than fact—whispers of carnage in the New World, stories told by survivors with trembling lips. If not for Ginshimo's preternatural Observation Haki, which allowed him to glimpse seconds ahead into the future, the tribute ship would already be nothing but smoldering ruin.
Far on the horizon, the ocean was boiling with movement. A vast fleet surged forward, slicing the seas apart with raw aggression. Dozens of ships, black flags rippling in the storm winds, bore down like predators closing in for the kill.
On the flagship of the Bloodsteel, chaos had given way to awe. The crew stared wide-eyed at the distant battlefield, marveling at the devastation their captain's attack had wrought even across such impossible range.
At the prow, standing like a sovereign of ruin, was Scarlett D. Lachlan, captain of the Bloodsteel Pirates, one of the Four Emperors of the sea.
Her smirk was sharp, lips curved with cruel amusement. "Tch. Missed. And it looks like the rumors were true—more than one Admiral."
Her right arm—no longer flesh, but an instrument of slaughter—smoldered with residual heat. It was no ordinary weapon. The entire limb had transformed into a monstrous railgun, a construct of steel and magnetism so vast it dwarfed her own towering frame. Its molten-red barrel pulsed with energy, glowing like a furnace, thin streams of steam hissing off its surface. The scent of scorched metal clung to the air.
Her Magnetic-Magnet Fruit powers had twisted her body into a war machine, one that could reshape the battlefield itself. With it, she extended her Kenbunshoku Haki beyond natural limits, perceiving targets across horizons where no human eyes could reach. The tribute convoy had been locked in her sights long before the Marines ever sensed her presence.
The railgun creaked as it cooled as her hand reformed, disabling the massive construct, a leviathan of weaponry forged into her mechanical arm. It was a weapon designed for impossible range, a cannon to pierce the world itself. Perhaps only the Donquixote family's most deranged engineers had conceived of such horrors—but Scarlett had perfected it, wielding it with terrifying precision.
Her crimson eyes gleamed. "This haul won't come cheap." She raised her voice so the entire fleet could hear. "Katakuri—prepare the fleet! We'll split them apart. Drive the tribute ship away from the Marine escorts. You'll deal with the ice brat. The old swordsman… is mine."
She laughed, the sound rolling across the deck like thunder. "It's been too long since I've had a fight worth the swing of my blade—or the blast of my gun."
Beside her, Charlotte Katakuri inclined his head, calm but resolute. He turned to the relay officers, his commands flowing with sharp efficiency. Around them, the Bloodsteel fleet surged with renewed ferocity.
The captains of the vanguard ships were no ordinary pirates. They were Charlotte siblings—Perospero, Smoothie, Cracker—veterans of Big Mom's fallen fleet. Once scattered by the chaos of the New World, now reforged under Scarlett's banner. Some harbored resentment, yes. Mutiny whispered in dark corners. But Scarlett knew their hearts—and more importantly, their fear. If any dared rise against her, she would slaughter them where they stood and rebuild anew.
For now, they served. For now, they advanced with her will. And from her flagship, Scarlett stood upon the deck, her titanic railgun-arm cooling, her grin sharpened like a blade. The sea seemed to shudder beneath the weight of her presence.
"Let's remind the world," she said, her voice dripping with hunger, "why the Bloodsteel Pirates are feared even among emperors." The drums of war began to beat.