The earth bucked like a maddened dragon, throwing up rolling clouds of dust. Thunderous cracks raced across the ground, and when the air finally thinned, a crater dozens of meters wide yawned at the center—an appalling wound gouged into the port.
No one spoke. Eyes stretched wide; jaws sagged.
"T-this…"
"This is insane…"
"He's too strong…"
"Worthy of Admiral Sengoku…"
Since Sengoku had gradually taken the reins of Marine Headquarters from Fleet Admiral Kong, his own hands-on interventions had grown rare. To many of the younger Marines, he was an enigma—the cornerstone of the organization—more often glimpsed as the bespectacled strategist behind a desk, trading barbed words with Garp-san, or erupting in colorful tirades.
No one imagined that "honest" Admiral Sengoku, once roused, could be so terrifying.
He had struck down Douglas Bullet—the "Demon Heir," a Great Pirate whose 2,174,000,000-berry bounty eclipsed the combined bounties of the other five Shichibukai. Bullet's first blast of Conqueror's Haki alone had left the Shichibukai gasping, bodies numb. And yet that same force of nature had just been swatted from the sky by a single palm.
It beggared belief.
"…That was so cool!!" Kuzan cried, vaulting off the Dog-Headed Battleship, eyes sparkling as he waved at the Golden Buddha still radiating might overhead.
Tokikake, right behind him, shrank instinctively. Memories of pestering Sengoku to tears—and the Admiral's fraying patience—sent a cold sweat prickling down his spine.
"Bwahahaha! Been ages since I've seen Sengoku this fired up!" Garp roared, hands on hips, laughter booming.
Darren's mouth twitched; he rubbed his brow, helpless.
Tsuru covered her face. She knew precisely what this was: Sengoku had been waiting for this opening for a very long time.
Across the harbor, the Shichibukai twitched in unison. Crocodile and Moria felt a chill finger up their backs as they remembered how brazenly they'd just dismissed Sengoku's authority.
Sengoku touched down, the great form of the Buddha folding back into a man. A hundred looks met him—admiration, shock, fear—and he felt every pore sing.
Yes… this is it.
His mind felt clear as struck glass.
Silence wrapped the port.
"…You damn old man. Ambush me, will you…?"
The hoarse growl came from within the smoke, chopped by violent coughing.
A gust peeled the dust aside. In the ruin at the center, Douglas Bullet heaved a slab of rock from his chest and forced himself upright. He wiped the blood from his mouth and glared at Sengoku, eyes feral.
"You're not my opponent, old man." He whirled, venom dripping from his voice as he fixed on Darren. "Darren, what the hell is this?! I agreed to be a Shichibukai, not to fight washed-up geezers!"
Darren's glance slid to Sengoku—whose face had darkened again—and he thought, Bullet, for your own sake, shut up. Sengoku wasn't the only "washed-up geezer" present.
Garp's fists were itching; Zephyr had appeared on the wall beside Gion and the other flag officers, eyes narrowing. Darren stepped in fast. "If it's a brawl you want, I'll oblige you any time. But today is the Shichibukai induction. Let's finish the ceremony first, Bullet."
Bullet narrowed his eyes, searching Darren's face for a trick. After a beat, he snorted. "You said it."
He slapped dust from his uniform and strode off as if nothing had happened.
Marines stared, wide-eyed, at the grotesque power in his frame.
Bullet sat where he liked, killing intent thrumming off him—alien among Warlords who, almost despite themselves, had drifted closer together.
"Oi, Crocodile—sure about this monster being one of us?" Moria asked, bumping Crocodile's shoulder; the arm sloughed briefly into sand.
"Of course," Crocodile said coolly, eyes flicking as a memory surfaced. "In fact, I once fought him to a draw." He dipped his chin to Bullet, who returned the nod.
"A draw? Kishishishi, pull the other one," Moria sneered. "You're strong, but you're not on that demon's level."
Crocodile's face didn't change, but doubt stirred. The weight of Douglas Bullet's aura still pressed on his skin like lead.
How did I fight him to a draw? He stared at his hand and the golden hook, mind stuttering. Could it be… am I stronger than I think?
Sengoku clapped his hands. "All right. Now that every Shichibukai is present, we prepare." He smiled, an unreadable gleam in his eyes as he glanced toward the horizon.
Under Marine escort, merchant ships flying the flags of the world's great news agencies angled toward Marineford in neat formation. At the prow of the lead battleship stood Sakazuki—dark crimson suit, hands in his pockets, cape snapping in the wind—like a monument that would not move.
Headquarters snapped into motion, clearing the grounds at a dead run.
"You've gone too far," Tsuru sighed, joining Sengoku—exasperation barely veiling a hint of amusement.
"Hahahaha! This is the Holy Land of Justice! I won't let rabble run wild here!" Sengoku's laughter rang, beard bristling with pride.
He paused, as if recalling something, and lowered his voice. "Oh, Little Tsuru—when you have a moment, cut together the part where I took the field just now."
Tsuru blinked, then chuckled. "I see. Not great optics for a Marine Admiral to be seen striking a Shichibukai."
"No, no," Sengoku said quickly, eyes bright. "Edit it and send it to every major paper. Have them run it on loop."
Tsuru's smile died. Her face darkened. "So you do have a personal vendetta," she said, voice edged.
Sengoku grinned sheepishly and did not deny it.
"In that case," Tsuru said sweetly, rolling her eyes, "the repair and reconstruction costs for this port will be deducted from your salary. Ten years should about cover it."
Sengoku's triumphant smile froze.
Tsuru's cheerful grin returned in full.
To be continued...