God Valley — Western Marine Evacuation Point.
The afterglow of sunset bathed the decks of the warships in gold. Marines moved briskly, carrying the wounded aboard as the air filled with the mingled scent of blood and salt.
"So… it's finally over."
At the bow of the ship stood a man with short purple hair and a resolute, angular face. His muscular frame strained against a standard Marine sleeveless vest, the deep-blue fabric pulled taut across his chest.
A pure-white coat billowed behind him, the word Justice on its back snapping loudly in the sea wind.
Arms crossed over his chest, Zephyr stood silently at the prow, his coat flapping like a battle flag.
"Vice Admiral Zephyr!"
A Marine stepped forward and handed him a list. "This is the roster of Marines killed in action."
Zephyr's brow furrowed as his gaze swept across the chaotic deck.
More than half the names on the list had already been crossed out. The brutality of God Valley had far exceeded expectations.
"…I see."
He let out a heavy breath. "Then prepare to set sail. We're withdrawing."
"Yes, sir!"
The Marine saluted and turned to relay the order—
When suddenly, a commotion erupted in the distance.
"Wait! Someone's still alive!" a Marine shouted, pointing toward the shoreline.
Every head snapped in that direction.
A lone figure was staggering toward them, drenched in blood, carrying another person on his back.
His Marine uniform was torn beyond recognition, yet his spine remained rigid—upright, as if held together by sheer will.
Zephyr's pupils contracted slightly.
"That is…"
Gern's steps were heavy, each one leaving deep impressions in the sand.
Blood smeared his face. His breathing was labored, as though he might collapse at any moment.
Derrick's "corpse" lay limply across his back, arms dangling and swaying faintly with each step.
The Marines on deck froze, then erupted into hushed murmurs.
"Someone actually made it out of that hell alive…"
"The one on his back—isn't that Ensign Derrick from the West Blue branch? I know him…"
Ignoring the chatter, Zephyr strode down the gangplank and stopped in front of Gern.
His gaze was sharp, cutting, scrutinizing the young soldier before him.
"What happened?" Zephyr demanded. "Your name."
"Gern Reginald Sigma."
Gern slowly raised his head. The moment he saw Zephyr up close, a thought surfaced unbidden—
So this is Zephyr at the peak of his integrity… this pressure—this is the aura of a true powerhouse.
But thoughts were thoughts. Acting was still necessary.
After all, this man was his true objective.
Gern let his eyes look dull with exhaustion. His lips were cracked, his voice hoarse to the point of breaking.
"Ensign Derrick… died covering my retreat…
He was killed by remnants of the Rocks Pirates—Whitebeard…"
Zephyr showed no doubt toward this mere second-class private. Instead, his frown deepened.
"So that's why you were delayed. You carried him all this way."
Gern hesitated, then dropped to one knee, lowering his head to hide the downward curve of his mouth. His voice choked as he spoke.
"I… I promised him… that I'd bring him home…"
He dredged up every ounce of bitterness he'd endured since transmigrating into this world—the real despair he'd lived through.
The tears that followed were genuine.
For a moment, the deck fell silent, broken only by the waves striking the hull.
Zephyr glanced down at the casualty list in his hand and quickly found both names.
When he saw Gern's rank listed as West Blue Branch, Second-Class Private, his expression flickered with surprise.
"You're a second-class private from a West Blue branch?"
"Yes, sir." Gern nodded.
"I begged Ensign Derrick to bring me along. I said… that a real man should see greater seas and greater battlefields."
His voice trembled.
"But I didn't expect… I didn't expect… If it weren't for me—"
Zephyr believed him completely.
After all, for ease of claiming compensation, the name listed as Gern's beneficiary was Derrick—and Derrick's beneficiary was Gern.
In the Marines, only those as close as family would entrust each other with that line before going to war.
Zephyr studied Gern for several seconds, then suddenly placed a hand on his shoulder.
The weight of it was immense—like a mountain—but there was warmth in it.
"Gern," Zephyr said, his voice unusually gentle,
"You did the right thing. The Marines do not abandon their comrades."
Gern's shoulder twitched slightly before going still again.
He kept his head lowered. No one could see the trace of irony in his eyes.
"Yes, Vice Admiral."
The surrounding Marines—fresh from the horrors of God Valley—were visibly shaken by the scene. Some even reddened at the eyes.
They whispered among themselves about Gern's "bravery," as if he were a tragic hero.
Soon, Derrick's body was covered with a white cloth. A military doctor stepped forward to examine him—
—and his expression changed abruptly the moment the uniform was opened.
"This… his internal organs are completely pulverized, but there's barely any external damage."
The doctor looked up at Zephyr, his voice shaking.
"This kind of injury… it looks like the body was attacked internally by some kind of vibration."
Zephyr's gaze sharpened instantly.
"Vibration?"
"Yes," the doctor replied quietly.
"It matches the characteristics of Whitebeard's Devil Fruit."
Zephyr fell silent, then turned his eyes back to Gern.
Gern still had his head lowered, as if lost in grief.
"…Another game for the World Nobles," Zephyr muttered bitterly.
"How many young lives does it cost us each time?"
"A mother raises her child for over twenty years, only for them to last less than five seconds in front of monsters like that…"
He slammed his fist against the railing.
"Record the casualties," Zephyr ordered his aide.
"Prepare to return to base."
…
Night fell.
The Marine warship slowly departed God Valley, cutting through the black sea and leaving a silver wake beneath the moonlight.
Gern stood alone at the stern, gazing into the dark ocean.
Moonlight traced the hard lines of his profile.
Crack…
A faint sound echoed beneath his boots.
The wooden deck was spreading with spiderweb-like cracks, radiating outward from where he stood.
Gern stared at the uncontrolled vibration particles, then curled his lips into a cold smile as the fractures quietly vanished.
The goal had been achieved.
But in this world, simply possessing a Devil Fruit was nowhere near enough.
Without a system.
Without cheats.
He would climb step by step—from a man with no fruit, no Haki, no talent, a so-called three-nothing nobody—
to the very peak.
The Devil Fruit was only the first step.
Next came mastery of the fruit… and Haki.
His fingers unconsciously brushed the bandage-wrapped hilt of Eight Desolations, his thoughts racing.
There was no doubt—
Zephyr was the best possible choice.
Among the Marine high command of this era, Sengoku was exhausting himself chasing promotion.
Garp was running after Roger across the seas.
Only Zephyr—soon to be promoted under the name Black Arm, the future chief instructor of the Marines—
would truly take interest in guiding an ordinary soldier.
If the timeline was correct, then after God Valley, Zephyr would soon be promoted from Vice Admiral to Admiral.
Once Gern returned to the West Blue, revealed his Devil Fruit, and worked his way back to Marine Headquarters—
whether for factional alignment or future planning, leaving a good impression on Zephyr would bring nothing but benefits.
"Heh."
Gern chuckled softly.
"'Black Arm' Zephyr's mastery of Armament Haki… right now, it's no weaker than Garp's."
He raised his hand. A sphere of white vibration particles gathered in his palm.
"So this is… 'justice'…"
He clenched his fist. The light burst sharply between his fingers.
"…Nothing special at all."
The waves surged.
The shadow of the warship faded into the distant darkness.
…
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