[Summer of 1504 — Sea Calendar]
Time flowed like water.
The scorching sun baked the sea, and the salt-laced wind whipped whitecaps into fury, their crash against the harbor echoing like distant cannon fire.
At the Zephyr Special Training Camp, the moment the final, ultimate assessment concluded—
—silence.
Not the absence of sound, but the kind of stillness that follows thunder: heavy, reverent, charged with exhaustion and awe.
The training ground lay in ruins—shattered dummies, smoldering craters, and trenches carved by desperate movement. Sweat and blood mingled in the dust, steaming faintly under the midday blaze. Every trainee was spent, some leaning on knees, others staring blankly at the sky—bodies broken, wills tested.
Yet at the heart of the devastation, two figures stood unbent.
One: black hair whipping like storm-tossed sails, eyes sharp as winter stars—cold, focused, untouched by fatigue.
The other: dark-skinned, broad-shouldered, fists still clenched at his sides, radiating the calm of a mountain weathering a gale.
—Ronan.
—Rett.
Under Zephyr's unwavering gaze, the results were declared:
[First Place: Ronan – Air-Air Fruit (Gasu Gasu no Mi) – Rating: S+]
[Second Place: Rett – Peak Human Physicality / Combat Intuition – Rating: S]
They had dominated. Not merely won—crushed the competition with overwhelming force and tactical brilliance.
From the observation deck, high-ranking instructors murmured in hushed admiration:
"A monster… barely sixteen and already commanding Logia pressure like a Vice Admiral."
"Rett's discipline is terrifying. He never takes a step out of place."
"But Ronan… he breathes battle. It's in his blood."
[Graduation Ceremony – Marine Headquarters Plaza]
Beneath the towering insignia of the World Government, the plaza blazed under the summer sun. Blue-and-white naval banners snapped in the wind as hundreds of cadets stood rigid in formation—backs straight, boots planted, silence absolute.
In the front row: Ronan and Rett, side by side.
Their uniforms were crisp, their stances honed from a year of hellish drills. Every line of their posture spoke of trials endured and victories claimed.
Zephyr strode forward in full combat regalia, his cloak rippling like a war banner. But it was not he who conferred the highest honor.
From the dais, Vice Admiral Zephyr—retired but still revered—stepped forward. With deliberate care, he draped the ceremonial naval cloak over Ronan's shoulders, then pinned a gleaming silver lieutenant's insignia to his chest.
Snap.
The sound cut through the air like a rifle shot—final, irrevocable.
Zephyr's voice rolled across the square, deep and resonant:
"Ronan."
"From this day forward, your shoulders bear more than your own will."
"They carry the hopes of the innocent."
"The dignity of this uniform."
"And the weight of Justice."
Ronan's eyes—steady as a still lake—never wavered. He struck his chest with a closed fist, the Marine salute sharp and precise.
"I will never betray the name of Justice!"
Sunlight glinted off his badge, casting a radiant halo around his silhouette. Even Zephyr's stern face cracked—just slightly—into something resembling pride.
Moments later, Rett received his ensign insignia.
But as the ceremony neared its end, he broke formation.
He strode to Ronan, dropped to one knee before him, and declared—loud enough for all to hear:
"I request to serve as Lieutenant Ronan's direct adjutant."
A ripple surged through the crowd.
Naval regulations were absolute. Rank was sacred. For an ensign—especially one of Rett's caliber—to subordinate himself so publicly was unheard of. It meant surrendering personal ambition, future command prospects, even honor—all entrusted to another's hands.
Yet Rett's eyes held no doubt. Only fire. Only faith.
This was not mere loyalty. It was conviction—forged in shared blood, mutual survival, and a shared vision of a world that needed more than order… it needed reformation.
Zephyr studied him. Seconds stretched like minutes.
Then, with a slow, solemn nod, he slammed a fist onto Rett's shoulder.
"…Granted."
Rett rose. Stepped back. Took his place—half a pace behind Ronan.
The position of an adjutant. The shadow of a blade.
And so, their journey began.
[Headquarters – High-Level Strategy Room]
Behind a heavy rattan desk in the dimly lit chamber, a personnel file lay open.
Name: Ronan
Devil Fruit: Logia-type – Gasu Gasu no Mi (Air-Air Fruit)
Assessment: Elite combatant, natural command presence, ideologically unwavering. Ruthless in execution, yet strategically restrained.
Recommendation: High-priority cultivation. Potential candidate for independent command within 5–7 years.
Vice Admiral Tsuru adjusted her round glasses, a rare glint of approval in her eyes.
Fleet Admiral Sengoku, sipping coffee, gave a slow, thoughtful nod.
And standing just behind them, arms crossed within his formal cloak—Sakazuki.
His gaze lingered on the file.
His nephew.
The boy he'd pulled from the rubble of a ruined island—covered in ash and blood, eyes already burning with purpose. The one he'd sworn to protect, not with coddling, but with iron discipline.
A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched Sakazuki's lips.
Even Akainu, the man of absolute justice, felt something warm in his chest.
Sengoku closed the file.
"A blade like this… shouldn't be kept in the armory."
"Send him to the East Blue."
"Let him cut his teeth on pirates and corruption—but control the pace."
"Don't let this sword reveal its true edge… too soon."
[Autumn of 1504, Sea Calendar – East Blue, Naval Branch 62]
Dawn was breaking.
The rising sun glowed through a thin veil of mist, and the sea breeze carried the salt of the ocean—and the lingering tang of blood.
At the edge of a small naval port, a new lieutenant's flag was hoisted: white with blue stripes, fluttering crisply in the wind. It marked the arrival of the new commander of this long-dormant branch.
In the center of the parade ground stood Ronan.
Clad in a freshly pressed Marine uniform and bearing the insignia of a newly appointed lieutenant, he stood ramrod straight—like a blade drawn from its sheath, its edge catching the first light of morning.
Beside him stood Rett, silent and severe. His black combat cloak rippled in the breeze, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, his brows knit with quiet resolve.
They had inherited a broken command: a neglected East Blue branch fleet, its warships weathered, its cannons rusted, its personnel demoralized. The soldiers shuffled through drills with apathy, their eyes dull with years of inaction.
And yet—
No one dared speak a word of disrespect.
Because during the morning's full inspection, Ronan had demonstrated his power.
With a single strike—channeling compressed air into a devastating shockwave—he shattered a five-ton training pillar at the center of the square.
Silence fell over the base. Not out of respect—yet—but out of fear.
This was no ceremonial officer.
This was a warrior-lieutenant, forged in fire, ready to mete out justice with his own hands.
[Branch Operations Room – That Night]
A dim lamp cast flickering shadows across a long wooden table. Spread upon it was a detailed sea chart of the Midlands—a labyrinth of scattered islands, narrow straits, and hidden coves. A haven for fugitives. A graveyard for merchant ships.
Recent reports confirmed it:
At least four new pirate crews had begun operating in the region—attacking trade routes, slaughtering fishermen, and razing coastal villages.
Ronan leaned over the map, fingertips drumming lightly against the wood. His voice was low, edged with steel.
"Tolerance is betrayal. Betrayal of the people we swore to protect."
He looked up. His eyes—cold, unblinking—cut through the dim room like a blade.
Rett stood at attention, awaiting orders.
Without hesitation, Ronan drafted the first directive of his command:
Operation: East Blue Purge – Midlands Sector
Targets: Four emerging pirate crews (designations pending intel)
Principles:
• No mercy. No delay.
• Swift, island-by-island eradication.
• No survivors among confirmed combatants.
• Civilian safety is paramount—then total annihilation of pirate strongholds.
Deadline: Full clearance within one month.
Rett slammed a fist against his chest, his eyes blazing.
"Understood, Lieutenant!"
[Port – Midnight]
The night was still.
Four refitted warships—old but battle-ready—lay anchored at the docks. Under Rett's supervision, the crews had worked tirelessly for days: patching hulls, cleaning cannons, sharpening blades.
Now, their battle flags snapped in the offshore wind—white with blue trim, bearing the Marine symbol like a vow.
On the lead vessel's deck stood over a hundred hastily assembled elite Marine troops. Their faces were grim, their stances rigid, their eyes alight with renewed purpose.
At the bow stood Lieutenant Ronan, cloak fluttering behind him like the wings of a hawk poised to strike.
Rett stood at his left—first mate in all but title—arms folded, expression unyielding as stone.
A hush fell over the fleet.
Then Ronan spoke. His voice, though calm, carried across the water like thunder wrapped in silk.
"The East Blue was once the most peaceful sea in the world."
"Now—pirates tear at its shores with bloodstained claws."
"I don't care what you were before—cowards, slackers, ghosts of a broken system."
"From this moment… you follow me."
"We move forward—only forward."
"We erase evil… with steel and fire."
"We uphold justice… with blood."
His right fist clenched.
A visible shockwave rippled through the air—shattering the surface of the sea in concentric rings.
"Set sail!"
BOOM—!
Four warships surged forward as one, cutting through the black waves toward the storm-wracked Midlands.
And so—
in the shadow of night, with justice as their compass and annihilation as their method—
the first step of absolute justice began.
In the days ahead,
they would wield sword and flame, thunder and wind,
to carve light from darkness—
until not a single pirate dared stain the name of the East Blue.