"Look! What a massive warship!"
"I've never seen that kind of hull number — it's not from our West Blue fleet."
"With a ship like that patrolling the seas, pirates wouldn't dare show their faces again!"
"Just look at those cannons — the size, the number of them… terrifying!"
When Kizaru's flagship arrived at Ganaba Port, the entire harbor erupted in chaos and awe.
Merchants, sailors, and locals alike gawked at the massive vessel — a floating fortress unlike any ship they'd ever seen.
It was nothing like the sail-driven ships of the West Blue — its sleek, reinforced design carried the aura of a modern weapon of war.
"This guy really knows how to pick his spots," Kizaru drawled, watching the bustling harbor from the deck.
"So much money flowing through here… no wonder he built his fortress in this place."
He hadn't even stepped ashore, but the sight of countless merchant ships, endless stacks of cargo, and the thriving trade told him everything he needed to know about Brian's choice.
Plenty of profit to skim.
Step. Step. Step.
A rhythmic march echoed from the streets below.
Kizaru glanced up — a company of marines was approaching in perfect formation.
At the front marched the color guard carrying the banner of Ganaba Fortress, followed by sword-bearing officers.
Behind them, rows of riflemen with fixed bayonets moved in unison, each step perfectly timed, their discipline razor-sharp.
Though the unit numbered barely over a hundred, their synchronized precision exuded an overwhelming presence that left the crowd speechless.
Spectators whispered among themselves:
"Are these really the same thugs from Ganaba Fortress?"
Even Kizaru's adjutant was taken aback.
"Sir, Major General Brian seems to be quite the drillmaster. His troops are remarkably well-trained."
Kizaru gave a lazy snort.
"Still showing off, that one."
Ten years ago, when Kizaru had joined the Navy as one of Zephyr's first cadets, he'd met a wild thirteen-year-old named Brian at the academy.
Back then, Brian was an energetic, unpredictable maniac — brash, arrogant, desperate to show off.
And the more Kizaru got to know him, the less he could stand him.
The adjutant muttered,
"Still… their formation is impressive. Their posture rivals the Headquarters' own Military Police."
"Hmph. Don't be fooled by appearances," Kizaru said flatly.
"Those soldiers are as rotten inside as their commander."
"Really? That bad?" the adjutant said doubtfully.
Kizaru didn't bother answering.
Words were pointless — soon enough, the man would see.
The marines halted.
At their head strode Brian, surrounded by his officers — sharp uniforms, proud faces, and the Navy's Justice Seagull cloak billowing in the wind.
For a moment, even the cynical adjutant was struck speechless.
What a figure — tall, commanding, perfectly poised. A model of naval authority.
Next to him, Kizaru — lazy grin, slouched shoulders, sunglasses askew — looked like a complete contrast.
In appearance and presence, Brian utterly eclipsed him.
"Attention!" Brian's bark was sharp as a whip, his voice carrying across the harbor.
Clack!
The entire formation — color guard, officers, riflemen — froze in place simultaneously.
"Salute!" Brian commanded.
Clack!
Every soldier and officer snapped their hands to their brows in perfect unison, saluting Kizaru.
Then — clap, clap, clap…
Applause spread through the watching crowd.
Rumors had painted Brian as corrupt and ruthless, but the discipline and pride of his troops spoke louder than any slander.
With soldiers like this guarding the port, who would fear pirates?
Amid the cheers, Kizaru finally descended the gangplank, his trademark lazy smile never faltering.
When he reached Brian, he leaned close and murmured,
"Brian, your little act of honor and discipline… makes me sick, you know."
"Thank you for the compliment," Brian replied pleasantly, extending a hand. "But I think I can still improve."
Kizaru chuckled and took it, the smile never leaving his lips.
"If the Navy ever holds a contest for hypocrisy, you'd take first place."
"You're not so bad yourself," Brian said lightly. "A close second, at least."
They smiled, laughed, and shook hands — a perfect picture of camaraderie.
But anyone watching closely would see the veins bulging on their hands, the muscles in their forearms tightening like coiled cables.
Neither man was yielding an inch.
Kizaru's adjutant blinked in confusion.
They'd been "shaking hands" for over a minute now — far too long for politeness.
He glanced down — both men were still smiling… but their grips were locked in a silent battle of strength.
Buru buru… buru buru…
Both Den Den Mushi — one in the adjutant's hands, one in Snow's pocket — began ringing at the same time.
"The Headquarters line, sir," the adjutant said quickly, stepping between them.
"Answer it," said Brian and Kizaru together — still not releasing their grips.
The snails' faces morphed into Sengoku's furious expression.
"Brian! Kizaru! You two idiots — stop embarrassing the Navy and let go!"
Both men snorted in unison, then finally released their hands.
The connection ended almost immediately — Sengoku clearly knew there were World Government informants in the crowd, reporting every move back to Headquarters.
The public show was over — for now.
As the crowd began to disperse, Brian leaned closer, his voice dropping low.
"Monkey, I hope you enjoy your stay. But a little advice — nights here can get… dangerous. Try not to wander off. I can't guarantee your safety."
Kizaru tilted his head, his usual sly grin returning.
"As long as you don't poison my food, I'll sleep just fine."
His tone was light, mocking, but his eyes gleamed with the same lazy menace as Brian's smile.
The two men, each a storm unto himself, stood grinning — the air between them crackling with unspoken hostility.
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