Out on the open sea, two warships—one large, one small—were anchored side by side.
The larger vessel bore the West Blue Navy insignia W291, while the smaller was the personal flagship of Vice Admiral Orton from Headquarters.
On Orton's deck, Brian stood with Snow, overseeing the unloading of fresh milk, fruits, vegetables, meat, and an assortment of Nacian pastries—all of it presented to Orton's adjutant.
The gifts weren't lavish, but they were chosen with thought.
After all, the voyage from the Grand Line through the Calm Belt to the West Blue was long and taxing, and with Fleet Admiral Kong urging Orton to hurry to his new post, the fleet had made no supply stops.
Fresh food had run out days ago—everything on board had been long consumed. For the past two days, not even the Vice Admiral had tasted a proper meal.
"Set the table," Brian ordered. "I'll be having lunch with the old man."
"Yes, Lord Brian."
At his word, Snow moved quickly, laying down fine tablecloths and arranging polished silverware. Soon, the orderlies brought up the dishes and drink—fragrant wine, roasted meat, and the newly delivered produce.
Brian and Orton sat across from one another at the table, the sea wind tugging faintly at their uniforms.
"You can all leave," Brian said, waving a hand. "This is a private meal between the old man and me. We have personal matters to discuss."
Orton's adjutant hesitated, glancing at his superior.
Orton nodded slightly. "Go below deck. No one is to come up until I call. I also have a private matter to discuss with Brian."
Once the deck had emptied, Brian poured a glass of fresh milk for Orton, and wine for himself. "Old man," he said lightly, "counting from the day I graduated the Academy, it's been one year, five months, and seven days since we last saw each other."
He'd meant it as a warm opening, an attempt at nostalgia—but Orton's tone was calm, steady, and heavy.
"As Sengoku said," he murmured, "you came early to meet me—and you came to persuade me to leave the West Blue, didn't you?"
Brian didn't deny it. "That's right. Everything is happening just as Sengoku predicted."
Orton's eyes locked onto his. "And Sengoku also told me—if I refused to leave, you'd do to me what you did to Karl. Eliminate me. Isn't that so?"
Brian didn't flinch from the gaze. He met it squarely and nodded. "That's right. Sengoku was right. Too bad you still came."
Orton's fists clenched. He wasn't angry for fear of his own life—he was angry at himself. Angry that he had failed to guide this brilliant, broken student down the right path. Angry that he had failed Brian's parents, and the Navy's ideals.
After a long silence, Orton spoke again. "Is power really so important to you?"
Brian replied softly, "When I took the first step forward, it was like stepping into a swamp. The deeper I walked, the harder it became to get out."
Bang!
Orton slammed both fists onto the table. Plates rattled, cups toppled, and the sound echoed across the deck.
Below, the sailors froze, listening, fearful that the two might come to blows.
"Wake up, Brian!" Orton roared, seizing the younger man by the collar, spittle flying as his voice broke with emotion. "Your parents were true marines! They sacrificed themselves for justice—to protect their comrades! They died with honor!"
Brian's expression didn't change. "And what does that have to do with me? They made their choice. I make mine. We all fight for what we believe in—nothing more."
That calm reply only stoked Orton's fury. He swung his fist, striking Brian hard across the face.
Brian didn't dodge. The punch landed solidly.
"Why didn't you block it?!"
"Why didn't you put your full strength into it?" Brian's voice was quiet but cutting. "Do you still hope I'll repent? That I'll crawl back to Headquarters and rediscover your so-called justice?"
"You're hopeless!"
Orton threw another punch—this one stronger. Years ago, it could have shattered a boulder. Now, age had dulled its edge. Brian caught it easily in his palm.
The old man tried to pull free, but Brian's grip was like iron, unmoving.
"Before you start preaching," Brian said evenly, "let me tell you a story. One I've nearly forgotten. But it's a long one, so I hope you'll listen."
"What?" Orton frowned in confusion.
"Once upon a time," Brian began, his voice low, "there was a boy. He had a simple, loving family. His parents were just farmers. They taught him never to steal, never to lie, never to envy others. They told him the world was fair—that if he studied hard and worked hard, he could change his fate."
Orton's brow creased; he didn't see where this was going.
"The boy believed them," Brian continued. "He studied harder than anyone. From grade school to university, he was always top of his class. His dream was simple—to graduate, get a good job, make his parents proud, and use his talent to make the world better."
"The boy did everything right. He got a good job. He worked harder than anyone else. But he didn't flatter his superiors, didn't bow or scrape, and had no money to bribe anyone. So for five years, he stayed a lowly worker—while the lazy, the connected, the corrupt rose above him."
Orton's expression softened slightly, but he said nothing.
"Then, two years later, his parents spent all their savings to buy him a small home in the city—so he could finally start a family. But not long after moving in, his father collapsed from exhaustion. They took him to the hospital. He waited for a week in the hallway, never getting a bed. Others who arrived later… pulled strings, paid bribes, and were admitted immediately."
Brian's voice grew colder. "But the boy's father… he waited too long."
He turned his face slightly away. His tone didn't waver, but his shoulders trembled. A few drops of water—tears—fell silently onto the deck.
Orton's heart clenched. "What… what happened to the boy's father?"
Brian smiled faintly, though it didn't reach his eyes. "He died. Because he was poor, because he had no power, because the world was never fair. And the boy—he began to question everything he'd been taught. He began to hate—hate his own weakness, hate the lies of fairness and justice. Tell me, old man—was he wrong to question? Was he wrong to hate?"
Orton's lips parted, but no words came.
Brian looked at him, eyes shining with quiet rage. "So tell me… if you've never experienced despair, never seen the cruelty of this world, yet still preach love, equality, and justice—don't you think that's laughable?"
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