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"Whoa—scared the life out of me!"
High above the battlefield where Kanos, Atlas, and Crocodile had just clashed, a human-like albatross wearing a black suit and a top hat dramatically patted its chest as if genuinely frightened.
It then descended slowly and carefully checked the camera in its hands.
"Phew, still intact! Good, good!"
Meanwhile, Atlas had already locked Crocodile in a pair of Seastone handcuffs and thrown him into the temporary holding cell aboard the Marine warship.
He ordered the crew to feed him regularly, just enough to keep him alive.
Marine ships were well-designed after all, equipped with everything from kitchens and training rooms to sleeping quarters and jail cells.
The return journey went smoothly. Within a few days, Atlas and his team arrived at the G-8 Fortress port.
Once they handed over the battered and humiliated Crocodile to the prison at the fortress, they went straight to Vice Admiral Jonathan's office.
After all, having captured such a "big fish," Atlas had a full report to deliver to the base commander.
Knock knock.
"Come in."
Jonathan, as always, sported his wine-red hair and thick handlebar mustache. Wearing a white shirt, he leaned casually against his desk.
He didn't look surprised at all when Atlas entered—in fact, he was grinning for once, a change from his usual composed demeanor.
"Reporting in, Vice Admiral Jonathan! The mission is complete. The Alabasta incident was orchestrated by the current Warlord of the Sea, Crocodile. He is now under arrest!"
Atlas noticed Jonathan's smile but didn't think much of it. He figured the man was just pleased that the mission was completed so quickly.
"I already know. Take a look at this."
Jonathan casually picked up a newspaper from his desk and handed it to a very confused Atlas.
Atlas took the paper, and the bold headline instantly caught his eye:
SHOCKING! Marines Detain Warlord Crocodile — Will the World Government Abolish the Seven Warlords System?
The article detailed his battle with Crocodile, using it as a launchpad to analyze the global balance of power.
It suggested that the World Government had broken its pact with the Seven Warlords and that the world's balance was on the verge of collapse.
Photos accompanied the article—one showing Crocodile battered and broken, and another of Atlas standing tall and proud.
You had to wonder if Crocodile, once he got out, would hunt this reporter to the ends of the earth.
Atlas glanced at the byline: Morgans.
Morgans? Wasn't that the so-called "King of Underground News"? No wonder Atlas had sensed a massive bird with his Observation Haki during the fight.
Word was, Morgans had eaten a Bird-Bird Fruit. At the time, Atlas hadn't paid it much attention—after all, the guy was watching.
But now? Morgans had dared to criticize the World Government publicly!
"So you knew all along, Vice Admiral Jonathan?"
Atlas looked at the smug expression on Jonathan's face and couldn't help but sigh.
"Oh, of course. But now it's Fleet Admiral Sengoku's headache, isn't it?"
Jonathan looked positively gleeful. As a half-involved party in this mission, he knew very well there was no solid evidence of Crocodile's crimes.
Still, the Marines had already arrested him—no way were they letting him go now.
Red Line, Mary Geoise — Pangaea Castle, the Room of Authority.
"Outrageous! Who gave the Marines the right to arrest a Warlord? This is an act of defiance against the World Government!"
An elderly, bald man in a white robe, glasses perched on his nose, and a long katana cradled in his arms, slammed his fist down in anger.
He was furious not so much at Crocodile's arrest, but at what it represented: a possible power shift that undermined the World Government's control over the Marines.
"Hmph! Settle down, Saint Nusjuro. Now's not the time to hold the Marines accountable."
Another elder—Saint Warcury—spoke up. Bald, dressed in a black suit, with a birthmark across his face, he remained calm.
"Our priority is deciding Crocodile's fate… and the future of the Seven Warlords system."
Saint Jupeter, a blond man in a red suit, nodded in agreement.
"Impossible! We cannot abolish the Warlords system—not now!" Saint Nusjuro shouted, standing up and glancing around at the others.
"The Seven Warlords aren't just meant to balance the pirates—they're also a safeguard against the Marines becoming too powerful!"
"Enough, Saint Nasjuro. Saint Warcury, Saint Jupeter," said Saint Marcus, stepping in to calm the growing tension.
"The Warlords system isn't going anywhere. Let's not bring that up again."
They all knew deep down that the system couldn't be abolished—at least not until the Marines were fully under their control.
The next Fleet Admiral would have to be one of their choosing.
"Then let's move on—how should we deal with Crocodile?" asked Saint Saturn, dressed in a black suit with white curled hair, a scar over his left cheek, and a flat-brimmed hat.
Truth be told, they didn't care whether Crocodile lived or died.
What mattered was the Marines' attitude—how much control they had over them could be inferred from this case.
"Hmph! Call Sengoku. Tell him we want an explanation!" barked Saint Nazarov again, clearly the hot-headed one of the group.
"Seconded."
"Agreed."
Jupeter picked up the Den Den Mushi. In moments, the transponder snail took on Sengoku's appearance—frog-eyed, beard braided at the chin.
"Moshi moshi. This is Sengoku."
"It's me—Saint Jupeter. We want to know how you plan to deal with the Crocodile."
"Saint Jupeter, the Marines intend to imprison him in Impel Down and strip him of his title as a Warlord."
Sengoku had prepared for this. The Marine hierarchy had long been discontent with the Warlords' system.
This was their chance to thin the ranks—even if they couldn't abolish it entirely.
"What did you say?! Sengoku! You've overstepped your authority!"
Nasjuro's voice boomed.
"Saint Nazarov," Sengoku replied with even more conviction, "this is the will of the Marines. Justice must not be compromised."
"The Marines are nothing but—"
"Enough!" Jupeter interrupted, cutting off his fellow Elder.
"…Very well. Proceed as you said."
Click. The line went dead.
...
Year 1507 of the Sea Circle Calendar. New World. Unknown waters.
A massive whale-headed, triple-masted ship sailed steadily through stormy seas.
No wave could shake its course—like its captain, the strongest man in the world, Edward Newgate, known as Whitebeard, it remained immovable in the tide of a new era.
Moby Dick, Deck.
A young man with a blonde punk hairstyle stirred awake, a dagger strapped to his waist.
His shirt hung open, revealing the tattoo of the Whitebeard Pirates on his chest.
He was 28 years old, and the first division commander and doctor of the Whitebeard Pirates: Marco.
The deck still bore traces of last night's feast. Marco's droopy eyes and drowsy face gave away how little sleep he'd had.
He'd sailed with Whitebeard since he was a boy. Like his captain, Marco had little ambition—he wanted to live a peaceful life with his "family" on the sea.
To him, Whitebeard was no different from a real father.
"Hmm? A new paper today?"
Marco lazily waved at a News Coo above and fished a crumpled bill from his clothes. The bird gave him a judging glare before dropping the paper into his hand.
"Ugh, all our money's been spent on booze for Pops again…"
It wasn't that Marco was poor—it was that Moby Dick held parties constantly, and Whitebeard kept secretly sending money back home.
So most of their cash went to buying alcohol. Not that Marco minded; he was still a renowned pirate across the New World.
"Seven Warlords? Marine rising star? Kanos Atlas?"
Marco squinted at the bolded headline and clicked his tongue. As he read further, his brow furrowed. Crocodile?
He didn't care much about that guy. The Warlords were a joke in his eyes. But the Marine—a young upstart like Atlas with such strength? That got his attention.
The Marines… were becoming more dangerous than ever.
"Zehahaha! Captain Marco, what're you reading that's got you so serious?"
A man with dark skin and a head of messy black hair suddenly popped up beside Marco, grinning with curiosity.
He was a strange-looking fellow—chest hair spilling out of his open shirt, a few missing teeth, a green bandana on his forehead, and no jewelry or accessories on his neck or wrists.
A claw-shaped weapon hung at his left side. Despite his goofy smile, his eyes held a deep, dangerous ambition.
"Oh, it's you, Teach," Marco replied, handing the paper over. "Just a Marine who beat the sand-croc bastard."
Teach blinked, surprised.
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