The morning sun, usually a beacon of unwavering justice over Marineford, felt cold and mocking as it filtered through the high windows of Acting Fleet Admiral Sengoku's office.
Inside, the air was thick with tension, palpable enough to choke.
Sengoku sat at his vast, polished desk, his hand clenching an iron mug so tightly that the metal creaked under the strain.
His promotion to full Fleet Admiral was already set in stone, just waiting for the opportune moment for the Higher Ups to make the public announcement.
But the incident at dusk, the latest disastrous episode, had reached his ears well before he takes a single sip from his morning tea, filling him with a cold, simmering rage that he struggled to hold back.
Across from him, slouched on a plush sofa, was Monkey D. Garp.
The Hero of the Marines, usually snoring through meetings or casually munching on rice crackers, was wide awake, his eyes open and alert.
He is still leisurely eating a senbei, the crunching sound unnaturally loud in the silence, but his gaze is fixed on the man standing before Sengoku's desk.
It was a stare devoid of any warmth, piercing through the very soul of Vice Admiral Sakazuki.
Sakazuki.
The very name once synonymous with absolute, unyielding justice, now seemed to carry a different weight.
His hair, despite him still being in his prime, was now stark white, a stark contrast to the healthy black Sengoku remembered from just a half-decade ago.
His once-muscular body was withered, almost gaunt, his uniform hanging loosely on a frame that had been hardened by countless battles.
His stomach, however, was disturbingly bloated, a testament to the copious amounts of alcohol he'd been consuming to numb the voices.
Sea-stone handcuffs, usually reserved for the most dangerous of pirates, rest on both his hands, made a soft, clinking noise on his prosthetic right arm, an ugly, metallic counterpoint to the silence.
They were a necessary precaution, a humiliating symbol of his internal decay.
The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating.
Garp continued to crunch his senbei.
Sakazuki simply stood there, his eyes downcast, refusing to meet either man's gaze.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Sakazuki spoke, his voice a low, raspy whisper.
"A mistake."
Sengoku snapped.
The iron mug he held, still cold from the tea he hadn't touched, became a projectile.
It spun through the air, spilling its content everywhere, striking Sakazuki squarely on the forehead with a sickening THWACK, drawing a thin line of blood that quickly welled and trickled down his brow.
"A mistake?!"
Sengoku's eyes, usually gleaming with strategic brilliance, were now devoid of any warmth, burning with frustrated fury.
"It's already the third time! The third time your... episodes... have terrorized a civilian district! We already told you, you fool! If you can't handle it, then go to the goddamn hospital! We have the best doctors! Specialists who can examine that thing plaguing you!"
This time, one innocent life—gone.
Sengoku's angry voice, usually kept measured, could be heard by the whole floor, echoing through the high ceilings of Marineford.
This was no longer a private matter.
"I am not a madman!"
Sakazuki bellowed back, his voice regaining some of its old, fiery power, even as his body trembled.
His pride, though tattered, still burned.
Garp, finally finished with his senbei, slowly rose from the couch.
He walked closer to Sakazuki, his smile fading, replaced by a grim set to his jaw.
With a deceptively casual movement, he grabbed Sakazuki by the shoulder, his grip like a vice.
Then, with a powerful punch straight to Sakazuki's gut.
The blow wasn't imbued with Haki, but it carried the full force of a Vice Admiral's displeasure.
Sakazuki doubled over, a choked cough escaping him, before he dropped to his knees and retched, vomiting a sour, dark liquid onto the polished floor.
"Listen, boy," Garp said, his voice low, a menacing grin spreading across his face that promised only pain.
"Go to the hospital. Or my Fist of Love will break every single bone in your body, one by one, until you don't have any other choices except to go to the hospital."
The air around him seemed to crackle with barely contained power.
Sengoku sighed, the anger draining out of him, replaced by a weary resignation.
"Sakazuki," he said, his voice flat.
"The Higher Ups were planning to promote you into the rank of Admiral. But after this... incident... I'm sorry, Sakazuki, but I must hold on to that."
The implications were clear: his future was on hold, his once-meteoric rise now stalled by the very curse that defined him.
"You are under house arrest until you recover. I'll send Tsuru to you once she returns from her current mission. Don't you dare refuse again! She's the only one who might stand a chance of reasoning with that... thing."
Sengoku, his gaze distant, lit a cigarette, the tiny flame a flicker of warmth in the cold office.
He took a deep drag, the smoke curling around his weary face.
After Sakazuki, a broken figure, was escorted out by two silent Marines, his office finally became quiet again.
Only the persistent crunching sound of Garp eating senbei accompanied his troubled thoughts.
Sengoku looked out the window, his gaze settling on the giant, ancient Ardel tree in the courtyard below.
A towering tree stood like a sentinel in the clearing, its massive trunk gnarled and weathered by time.
Its branches spread outward and upward like the arms of a giant, countless limbs twisting and splitting into finer and finer twigs.
Each branch was draped in a dense canopy of leaves, green and rustling.
The foliage shimmered in dappled sunlight, casting intricate shadows on the ground below.
Once, it had been a tradition for young Marines, full of hope and naive dreams, to confess their love beneath its sprawling branches, carving their initials into its bark.
Now, it had become a symbol of horror.
A few weeks after the Ohara incident, over a decade ago, he had found them.
The survivors' bodies, hanging from the branches of that tree.
Twenty-seven of them, including Spandine, the orchestrator of the Buster Call.
"Garp..."
Sengoku began, his voice heavy with a burden he rarely shared.
"I don't want to get involved in that case, Sengoku." Garp cut him off before he could say another word, his voice final, unyielding.
Sengoku could only sigh, taking another long drag from his cigarette, the smoke bitter on his tongue.
He only hoped Tsuru would bring good news.
For Sakazuki's sake, and for the sake of the justice they upheld.
Sakazuki, his face smeared with blood and vomit, walked stiffly down the corridor, flanked by the two silent Marines.
The sea-stone handcuffs clinked with every halting step of his prosthetic hand.
His mind burned with humiliation and rage, the voices in his head a low, insistent hum, amplified by the fresh wound on his forehead.
As they neared the main entrance, a familiar, tall figure emerged from around a corner, strolling casually towards them.
It was Kuzan, returning from what was a successful mission, his signature sleepy grin gracing his face. But as his eyes fell upon Sakazuki's pathetic state, that lazy smile shifted, twisting into something sharper, colder, utterly mocking.
"Well, well, Akainu," Kuzan drawled, his voice a slow, deliberate drawl, different from his usual languid self. "You certainly look like a mess."
His tone was laced with an undeniable contempt.
A red haze descended over Sakazuki's vision.
The humiliation, the pain, Kuzan's casual scorn – it was too much.
With a guttural roar, fueled by pure, unadulterated fury, Sakazuki swung both his still-handcuffed hands in a wild, desperate arc towards Kuzan's head.
Kuzan didn't even flinch.
He simply stood there, a slight tilt of his head, and just accepted it.
Sakazuki's attack, even in his rage, was pathetic compared to his former power.
The cuffed hands merely bounced off Kuzan's unyielding skull with a dull thump. It was clear: Sakazuki couldn't hurt him much now.
But Kuzan wasn't one to let that go unpunished, especially from a man he despised.
His eyes, usually half-lidded, narrowed into icy slits.
With a fluid, almost casual motion, Kuzan lashed out.
His fist, imbued with a sharp, precise force, connected squarely with Sakazuki's face.
A sickening crunch echoed in the corridor. Sakazuki's head snapped back, a tearing sensation splitting his cheek.
His mouth ripped, and a gush of fresh blood spurted onto his chin, mingling with the drying vomit.
Kuzan recoiled slightly, a theatrical grimace on his face.
He turned to the two bewildered Marines escorting Sakazuki.
"Oh, my apologies, gentlemen," he said, his voice laced with feigned regret.
"Just a bit of self-defense, you understand. He came at me, after all."
A faint, chilling smirk played on his lips as he gave Sakazuki one last, pitying look. Then, he turned and continued his slow, indifferent stroll towards Sengoku's office, leaving Sakazuki bleeding and broken in the corridor.
Sakazuki, propped up by the Marines, felt the hot, metallic taste of blood fill his mouth.
His vision swam, but one thought burned with absolute clarity through the haze of pain and humiliation.
He would rise again. And the one who made him like this – the one who made him a laughingstock – was going to pay with blood.
Every drop.