Marineford.
Sunlight streamed through the huge windows, tracing warm golden lines across the floor of a secluded office, highlighting the dust motes lazily drifting in the air.
The nameplate on the office door was rather unusual, Strategic Planning and Logistics Support Special Office (No Loiterers Allowed).
Inside, piles of documents were stacked neatly in the corner mostly thanks to Kizaru's "assistance", while at the center of the room sat an oversized, luxurious sofa instead of a standard desk and chair.
Renzo was buried in that sofa, a marine coat draped over him, only half of his messy black hair visible. His breathing was slow and even, sleeping soundly.
Such was the daily routine of the newly promoted Rear Admiral Renzo.
Months had passed since his return from Warmwave Island. With the "brilliant" record of single-handedly taking down two major New World pirates and Kizaru's artistic embellishment in the report, his title of "The Sleeping General" had been cemented.
Fleet Admiral Sengoku chose to turn a blind eye.
As long as Renzo didn't cause any major trouble and could "occasionally" move when needed, trading one sofa for a living strategic deterrent seemed like a good bargain for Marine Headquarters.
Akainu had slammed the table multiple times demanding stricter discipline, but Sengoku and Tsuru always brushed him off with the excuse that "special talents require special management."
After all, anyone who could resolve a 900-million-berry problem without fighting probably deserved some leniency.
Creaaak
The office door opened slightly.
Potts poked his head in, first checking that the Rear Admiral on the sofa hadn't moved an inch, then tiptoed inside carrying a tray.
He was now Renzo's official attendant, and part-time apprentice under Sanji. His rank hadn't gone up much, but his life certainly had, filled with the daily challenge of perfecting how to serve the most effortlessly lazy man alive.
He placed the tray carefully on the low table beside the sofa.
On it sat a chilled glass of volcanic orange juice, condensation beading on the surface, and a small plate of freshly baked hot spring moss cookies dusted with powdered sugar.
A faint, sweet aroma drifted through the air.
Almost immediately, a muffled voice came from under the coat:
"…Potts, what time is it?"
"It's three in the afternoon, sir," Potts whispered. "Sanji asked me to bring your afternoon tea. He said the cookies won't taste as good once they cool."
An arm reached out from under the coat, unerringly found the glass, and guided the straw to his mouth.
Renzo half-opened one eye, took a sip of the chilled juice, and sighed in satisfaction.
"Mmm. Where's Sanji?"
"In the kitchen, experimenting with a new dessert. He said he's using cloudberries from Sky Island to make a new mousse cake."
Renzo grabbed a cookie and popped it into his mouth. It was crisp and fragrant, with that distinct mossy aroma.
"Tell him to use less sugar. That molten cake last time was too sweet for my taste."
"Yes, sir."
Potts held back a chuckle. For this man, so lazy he barely moved, to voluntarily give food feedback, Sanji's cooking must truly be divine.
After finishing his snack, Renzo yawned and looked ready to slip back into sleep.
Potts quickly spoke up, "Um… sir, Admiral Kizaru asked me to tell you, the file you 'signed' last week, about the West Blue's 37th branch requesting additional patrol fuel funding, he already handled it. He said you can 'sleep easy.'"
"Oh." Renzo didn't even open his eyes. "Next time, don't bother reporting such small stuff."
"And, uh… Admiral Akainu mentioned again in the meeting that you were absent from the monthly strategy conference…"
"Too troublesome."
Renzo turned over, facing away from the light.
"If I have time for meetings, I'd rather sleep half an hour more. Sengoku didn't complain, did he?"
"Well… the Fleet Admiral only said that next time you should at least show up, even if you're sleeping in the back row…"
Potts' tone carried helpless amusement. That was apparently the final compromise of Marine HQ, you don't have to attend, but your name must appear on the roll call.
"We'll see," Renzo murmured, voice growing faint as he drifted back toward sleep.
Potts sensibly gathered the empty dishes and tiptoed out, closing the door softly behind him.
Silence returned. Only sunlight moved across the floor, and Renzo's calm breathing filled the air.
His Domain of Absolute Sloth quietly expanded, unconsciously enveloping the entire room.
Outside the window, a seagull tried to perch on the ledge, but suddenly felt an overwhelming drowsiness, flapped its wings weakly, and flew off.
A forgotten report on the top of a file stack was lifted by a passing breeze, yet, just before it could drift over Renzo's sofa, it oddly spun midair and floated gently back into the corner, as if "too lazy" to bother him.
Such was Renzo's blissful life at headquarters.
A private soundproof "safe zone" under his domain, a loyal attendant who appeared even when uncalled, and a top-tier personal chef whose culinary skills rivaled any in the world.
Minimal hassle. Maximum comfort.
Except for the occasional summons from Sengoku or Akainu's death glare, life was perfect.
Time slipped by peacefully, days blending into weeks, weeks into months.
The sofa's depression molded more perfectly to Renzo's shape.
Sanji's recipe list grew ever longer, and his "Headquarters Private Kitchen" had become more popular among the higher-ups especially Kizaru than even Sengoku's office.
Sanji even began training Potts, so that when Sanji was "too busy," he could still prepare meals that met Renzo's bare minimum taste standards.
Potts' cooking slowly improved under Renzo's constant critiques of "not bad," "barely passable," and "less salt next time." At least he'd moved past the "even Sea Kings wouldn't eat this" phase.
Renzo's power?
Oh, that was "lazily" growing too.
His Observation Haki expanded day by day as he called it "passive reception of the world's information stream" through sleep meditation, until even in slumber, he could perceive every movement within Marineford.
Armament Haki? Still unnecessary.
After all, even when Akainu once lost his patience and "tested" him with a magma-coated punch, which froze midair a hair's breadth from Renzo's nose under the domain's lazy stasis, Renzo merely frowned, muttered "Hot...noisy," and Akainu was shoved backward by an invisible force.
If attacks couldn't even reach him, why bother training?
Kizaru remained his fellow slacker, often dropping by to share Sanji's latest desserts and exchange tips on "how to look busy while doing absolutely nothing."
Sengoku's hair grew grayer. Every time he read Renzo's performance reports written by Kizaru, printed by Potts, signed by Renzo, he'd pause, sigh, and move on.
Akainu's fury burned as always, but even he had grown resigned to this "Sleeping God" of a Rear Admiral, as long as Renzo didn't outright defy orders.
One year. Two years…
By the years 1518 and 1519 of the Sea Circle Calendar, the world had changed.
"Fire Fist" Ace's fame blazed across the seas.
"Whitebeard" still ruled the New World.
Kaido and Big Mom's empires expanded.
Marine HQ tightened preparations, launched new recruitment drives, and fresh officers began to rise.
But none of that concerned Renzo.
His world still revolved around his sofa, good food, and peaceful naps.
The chaos outside, as long as it didn't reach his domain, was just "background noise."
He was the calm eye of the storm, the one place of perfect tranquility, sleeping soundly no matter how fierce the world raged.
.....
If you enjoy the story, my p@treon is 30 chapters ahead.
[email protected]/DaoistJinzu