Marine Headquarters, Marineford.
The banquet hall thrummed with clinking glasses and trading whispers as reporters and guests mingled for information.
Darren kept to a quiet corner, a glass of red wine in one hand and a Military Den Den Mushi in the other.
"Everyone's arrived? Good."
"Honestly, you're making things too easy for yourself," Momonga grumbled over the line, the ambient noise around Darren telling its own story. "Dump the work on me, enjoy the party at Headquarters…"
Darren chuckled. "It's a sign of trust."
The Den Den Mushi faithfully rolled its eyes.
"And that Fish-Man kid, Jinbe—he's got real potential," Darren added. "Make sure he's trained properly. I'll swing by when I can."
At a secret port in the North Blue, Momonga pressed both hands to a massive socket-like conduit, blue current streaming steadily from his palms. At Darren's praise, his brows lifted in surprise. Very few youngsters earned that kind of endorsement from Darren.
"Understood," Momonga said simply. He never second-guessed Darren's judgment. "Back to work."
He closed the line and exhaled. The power gauge surged, then locked at a full 100%. Only then did he pull his hands free.
"Charging complete! Prepare for redeployment!" a Marine officer barked.
Two hundred fully kitted Marines emerged at once, moving in crisp formation onto the moored warship—an extravagantly designed, metal-skinned beast with a cold, futuristic sheen. Each soldier wore acceleration-boosted leg armor and ultra-tough lightweight plating, carried a high-frequency current rifle, and sheathed a hardened-alloy combat saber. A single combat set cost more than five million berries.
These were the North Blue's elites. With relentless training and cutting-edge gear, each trooper fought on par with a commissioned officer from Headquarters.
Every Flying Battleship embarked two hundred of these core fighters—and a thousand regular soldiers besides—backed by three heavy laser cannons and ten conventional heavy guns. The Marines alone aboard one ship represented more than a billion berries in cost. Keeping the fifteen ships of the First through Fifteenth Flying Battleships aloft devoured over two billion berries a year in maintenance.
Momonga watched one of the steel giants ease out of harbor and lift into the clouds, engines roaring. Pride welled in his chest.
This was the North Blue Fleet's true foundation.
The 321st Branch served as the training hub. Through a ruthless selection process, elite recruits joined the Flying Fleet: fifteen battleships, twenty-plus thousand personnel. With power, discipline, and mobility, their total combat strength rivaled Marineford's grand battle line of fifty thousand—and surpassed it in speed, flexibility, and stealth.
They divided the North Blue into one hundred and fifty patrol zones. Each ship owned ten. Anyone who defied their rules was erased with decisive speed.
"Still, we can't expand any further for now," Momonga murmured, following the vanishing silhouette into the sea of clouds.
The North Blue wasn't the Grand Line. Pouring nearly the region's entire surplus into fifteen ships had brought them to the limit. Raising taxes further would kill the golden goose; squeezing the Member Nations would backfire politically and invite scrutiny from the World Government. The fleet's rise had come from Darren's careful balance of nobles, government, and commoners—tip that equilibrium and the consequences would be unthinkable.
And then there was the practical limit: with his current mastery of the Rumble-Rumble Fruit, Momonga could barely sustain fifteen ships' daily needs. Adding even one more would break him.
Hence Darren's push for an underwater combat arm—Fish-Man units were simply cheaper.
"If this keeps up, I'll be wrung dry," Momonga muttered, staring at the line of ships awaiting a "recharge." Under the sympathetic looks of nearby Marines, he squared his shoulders and walked back to the charging dock like a man returning to the front.
---
Darren pocketed the Den Den Mushi, savored a sip of wine, and looked perfectly at ease.
He had to admit: Momonga could carry the world.
Between the Shichibukai system and Headquarters duties, Darren hadn't returned to the North Blue in nearly six months. He confined himself to strategy and reading Momonga's daily reports, yet the fleet's growth had outpaced even his expectations.
Was it right to sink the North Blue's wealth into fifteen Flying Battleships? Could their power justify the price? Even he couldn't say for certain. Money stockpiled was just paper; invested, it became strength. In time, he'd forged a loyal bloc—and the North Blue now stood like a fortress.
He bit the end off a cigar, lit it, and scanned the room. Admiral Sengoku was flushed and expansive amid a knot of reporters. Darren's eyes slid past and found the figure devouring the banquet like a siege.
He walked over, took a seat opposite, nudged aside a small mountain of empty plates, and grinned.
"Bullet," he asked, "do you know what the Roger Pirates have been up to lately?"
To be continued...