"The Gorosei want to see me?"
That voice—
Saint Jaygarcia Saturn, one of the Gorosei—the Warrior God of Science and Defense.
Sengoku froze, a chill skittering down his spine as cold sweat tracked across his brow.
"M-my apologies, Saint Saturn," he blurted, scrambling to explain. "I was… reprimanding my subordinates."
"Hmm. Never mind," Saint Saturn said, calm and distant through the Den Den Mushi, his flat-brimmed hat casting his eyes in shadow as he leaned on that ancient cane.
Sengoku exhaled in relief and seized the chance to report. "The Miracle Island battle is concluded. I regret to inform you that due to my subordinates' failures, Roger, Big Mom, and Kaido escaped."
He clenched his teeth. "Though we achieved substantial gains overall, the responsibility for this mission's failure rests with me as its commander. I'll accept whatever punishment you see fit."
There was no avoiding it. He couldn't throw the blame at Garp—who had held back the entire Roger Pirates and, even after the Oro Jackson slipped free, immediately took a warship in pursuit. And as the ranking commander here, any attempt to evade responsibility would be shameful.
"We've read the reports," said Saint Warcury—the Warrior God of Justice—his voice unhurried over the military line.
"Their strength exceeded expectations. Our intelligence was at fault. You are not to blame."
"After all," he added, "those three brats—Sakazuki, Borsalino, and Kuzan—aren't fully grown yet. A setback is natural."
Sengoku blinked, thrown for a moment.
They were letting it go?
Relief loosened something in his chest. Then another thought surfaced. He chose his words carefully. "As for the Roger Pirates… Our intelligence indicates Roger has secured all four Road Poneglyphs leading to the Final Island. He escaped Miracle Island, and it's only a matter of time until he deciphers them and finds it."
His expression hardened. "If he reaches that legendary island, could it trigger a catastrophe? Shall I lead a large-scale operation to continue the encirclement and pursuit?"
As an admiral, Sengoku knew some of the Government's oldest taboos. The Poneglyphs were zealously guarded; study of the ancient script was forbidden. And Roger had just recruited Kozuki Oden of Wano's Kozuki Clan—one of the rare few who could read them.
Sengoku didn't know what the Final Island concealed, only that the Government would do anything to prevent anyone from reaching it. Even with his own accountability eased, he wanted results. If he could eliminate Roger before he arrived—
"Unnecessary," Saint Saturn said, cutting him off with a voice as cold as steel.
"Why?" Sengoku blurted.
"That is not your concern," came the answer, edged with mockery. "You are a Marine admiral. Your duty is to execute orders without question."
"Beyond that, you have no need for pointless actions—and no right to ask pointless questions."
Silence folded over the line.
After a beat, Sengoku drew a long breath and bowed his head. "Yes, Excellencies."
"Good," the Gorosei replied, faint smiles audible in the Den Den Mushi's mimicry. "Let Garp handle Roger. Given how things stand, even a massive fleet would have near-zero chance of success."
"The New World is treacherous, chaotic, and complicated. There's no sense wasting resources on a dying man."
"Besides, even if he does reach this so-called 'Final Island,' what difference does it make?"
"He lacks a key... he's destined to fail. All his efforts will be in vain."
"Gol D. Roger... his entire life and dreams are nothing more than a laughable joke."
Lacking… a key?
Sengoku felt his heart lurch. What key?
His mind raked through everything he knew. Nothing fit. Even as an admiral, his clearance left great swathes of truth hidden from view. The Elders' certainty of Roger's failure chilled him to the marrow.
He knew Roger's will and strength. He knew the caliber of the crew sailing under him. Headquarters had been on edge for years because of that man.
And to the five at the top of the world, it was all a joke.
Cold seeped into Sengoku's bones, as if he'd been dropped into an icy trench. He lifted his face to the pitch-dark sky and the hammering rain.
It felt like a vast, invisible net—broad as the thunderheads—had settled over the sea, wrapping everything in its mesh.
"I understand," Sengoku murmured, breath smoking in the cold. Rain coursed down his face.
"In that case, Excellency, we'll regroup here briefly, then set course for Headquarters."
"No need to return," Saturn said. "We have new orders."
Sengoku straightened, voice deepening. "Please state them, Excellency." He fixed his gaze on the Den Den Mushi, posture firm.
Whump—
The rain came down in sheets, bouncing off the earth and spattering his uniform. Thunder swallowed the Den Den Mushi's words. But as the shell mouthed the commands—edictal, final—Sengoku stood as if struck.
He held his stance, every muscle locked. The fire in his eyes guttered, cooling into disbelief, then dread—then a tide of anxiety and guilt.
He didn't move. The storm lashed him, and he took it, trembling hands at his sides.
The rain did not end.
---
Aboard the Ark cleaving through the sky, Darren sat shirtless at the prow, bandages crisscrossing the muscle of his back and chest. A cigar smoldered at the corner of his mouth. The Den Den Mushi in his hand had just drifted back to sleep. His brow was deeply furrowed.
Silence spread across the deck. The others watched his back, unsure what to say. Only Doflamingo, smile hidden behind dark lenses, let out a soft, chilly chuckle.
Then the Vice Admiral laughed—bright and sudden—mischief sparking in his eyes. "The Gorosei… want to see me?"
To be continued...