Vice Admiral Momonga stood on the warship's quarterdeck, the sea wind carrying the smell of ozone and gunpowder into his chapped lips.
He watched the Eternal Divine Kingdom gradually recede, the island shrouded in a bloody sunset slowly shrinking in his vision until it was swallowed by the horizon.
"Admiral Sakazuki..."
He unconsciously touched the broken medal on his chest—the one Akainu had personally pinned there after a successful campaign in the New World.
Now the medal was cracked down the middle, and the man who pinned it... had turned to ashes scattered across those waters.
He wanted to say something, but his throat felt blocked by a lump as heavy as Seastone.
He turned to Vice Admiral Doberman beside him.
This usually tough colleague was now gripping the railing tightly, his knuckles white.
One of his eyes had been blinded in the battle, covered by a hasty bandage, while his remaining eye swirled with too many emotions—rage, resentment, confusion... but ultimately settling into a dead silence.
"Headquarters knew all along."
Doberman suddenly spoke, his voice hoarse as if scorched by magma.
"Fleet Admiral Sengoku sending Aokiji and Kizaru as backup... explains everything. They anticipated that Sakazuki might fail."
Momonga looked toward the bridge.
Kizaru was sitting with his legs crossed, leisurely trimming his fingernails with a light-beam file.
Aokiji leaned against the railing, his sleep mask pulled down, seemingly dozing off.
These two Admirals behaved as if they were returning from a tea party rather than a devastating defeat where their colleague was obliterated.
"Why... didn't we keep fighting?" Momonga forced the words through gritted teeth.
He remembered the moment Akainu's heart was crushed by Whitebeard, the sunken warships, the corpses of his comrades floating on the sea...
Doberman's voice grated harshly. "Because we can't afford a second defeat. If Aokiji and Kizaru fell too... the Marines would cease to exist."
The deck suddenly shook as medics rushed past with a stretcher.
On it lay Vice Admiral Onigumo, now down to only two of his six swords—the other four forever lost in those waters.
The iron-willed Spider Vice Admiral was unconscious, blood continuously trickling from the corner of his mouth.
Momonga finally understood—this wasn't a retreat, but damage control.
The Marines had staked Akainu and half the Headquarters' elite forces, only to suffer a complete rout.
If they kept gambling, they risked losing even their remaining foundation.
"All hands, orders!" The messenger's voice echoed across the warship, trembling slightly.
"Return to Marineford!"
No cheers.
No protests.
The surviving Marines silently carried out the command, each hiding unresolved questions in their eyes.
But military orders were absolute—this was the iron law of the Marines.
Aokiji had opened one eye at some point, gazing toward where the Eternal Divine Kingdom had vanished.
"The tide of a New Era..." he sighed softly.
Kizaru's sunglasses reflected the fading sunset. "How terrifying~"
Meanwhile, the four Seraphim, having received new orders via the authority chip held by Kizaru, disengaged from their pursuit.
They landed on the warship decks, standing motionless like statues, their green blood already clotting.
...
Marineford - Fleet Admiral's Office.
The atmosphere in the office was so thick you could wring water from it.
The Projection Den Den Mushi had long since wearily closed its eyes, leaving only glaring static snow on the screen.
But that final scene was already burned into everyone's minds—Sakazuki's heart being crushed by Whitebeard, his magma body disintegrating before countless eyes, finally scattering into drifting ash.
BANG!
Sengoku's fist slammed heavily on the desk, overturning a teacup and spreading brown stains across classified documents.
Veins bulged on his forehead, his braided beard trembling uncontrollably, yet he couldn't utter a word.
The "Buddha" Sengoku suddenly seemed to have aged ten years in a single hour.
Even his signature round glasses were clouded, as if coated with the dust of defeat.
Vice Admiral Tsuru's fingertips dug deep into her palms.
The "Great Staff Officer," famous for her composure, was now staring fixedly at a stain on the floor.
A few strands of silver hair had escaped her meticulously arranged bun, dangling before her wrinkled forehead.
The New World troop deployment map spread across the desk now looked like a crude joke.
The "Absolute Justice" piece was missing from the board.
In the corner.
Garp leaned against the wall with crossed arms, shadows covering most of his face, leaving only the tense line of his jaw visible.
But anyone familiar with the old Hero would notice the faint, uncontrollable twitch at the corner of his mouth—a complex mix of suppressed satisfaction and grim realization.
The fury over his grandson Ace being hunted, the extremist doctrine that Akainu represented—it all churned in his chest.
A part of him, the grandfather, was relieved the "Red Dog" could no longer threaten his family.
Yet, as the "Hero of the Marines," when his gaze swept over the fresh recruits training outside the window, that hidden delight transformed into deep concern.
"Over forty warships... more than ten thousand elite troops..."
Sengoku suddenly spoke, his voice raspy like sandpaper grinding against stone.
"And Sakazuki..."
The cry of seagulls came through the window, a sound usually comforting but now particularly piercing.
The floor-to-ceiling windows reflected the figures of three people—once the pillars who held up the sky for the Marines, now resembling three cracked statues.
Tsuru finally lifted her head, her voice almost inaudible.
"The balance in the New World... without an Admiral's restraint, and with Whitebeard's ... it's going to be disrupted again. The Four Emperors will move."
Her words were like a blunt knife, slowly cutting away the last shred of hope.
The unspoken second half of that sentence was clear to all three—Whitebeard's Awakened ability, Ron's mastery of technology, plus the catastrophic blow to prestige from Akainu's death...
The darkest chapter of the Great Pirate Era was about to begin.
Garp suddenly turned and walked toward the door, his wooden clogs making dull clack-clack sounds on the floor.
As he pushed the door open, the old Hero ultimately couldn't hold back a low snort.
"It's just Akainu's death," his voice rumbled through the room like muffled thunder. "The Navy isn't finished yet!"
He spun around sharply, his Justice cloak flapping dramatically behind him.
"We'll start recruiting across all seas tomorrow! I refuse to believe we can't find someone in this vast world to replace that magma brat!"
BAM!
Then he slammed his fist against the doorframe, making the entire wall tremble.
"..."
Sengoku's eyes widened slightly behind his glasses as he looked at his comrade of decades.
He saw not despair burning in Garp's eyes, but a fighting spirit he had almost forgotten—one that belonged to the era of Roger.
Tea hovered at the rim of the overturned cup for a moment before finally dripping onto the last battle plan Akainu had signed before his death.
"You're right."
Sengoku slowly removed his glasses, wiping the fog from the lenses with his sleeve.
When he put them back on, the Strategic Mastermind had returned.
His eyes were sharp, cold, and calculating.
"Messenger!"
The office door was thrown open, revealing a young adjutant whose pale face still bore tear tracks.
"Effective immediately, initiate the 'World Military Draft'," Sengoku's voice regained its resolute strength.
"Extend the recruitment scope to all branches across the Four Blues and the Grand Line. Relax the age limit."
He paused, his gaze turning toward the empty chair where Akainu used to sit.
"We need new monsters to fight monsters. I will personally explain the situation to the Five Elders. Dismissed."
The adjutant saluted shakily. "Yes, Sir! And... regarding Admiral Sakazuki's funeral?"
Sengoku closed his eyes for a moment.
"There is no body to bury. Erect a Cenotaph in the Hero's Plaza."
He opened his eyes, hard as flint.
"We have a war to prepare for."
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