[East Blue – G-62 Branch, Dock]
Dawn broke over the calm sea, the cool breeze carrying the scent of salt and damp wood.
A small but fully equipped Marine warship glided silently into the outermost pier.
On the deck, Lieutenant Ronan stood with his hands clasped behind his back, his uniform cloak fluttering slightly in the wind. His expression was calm—unreadable, yet heavy with resolve.
Behind him, First Sergeant Rett led a handpicked squad of elite soldiers—veterans who had bled alongside Ronan across the East Blue for years. Their stances were rigid as steel, their eyes sharp and unwavering.
Having concluded the last of the branch's administrative duties, the G-62 vice-commander stepped forward and saluted, his voice solemn:
"Lieutenant… the East Blue will never forget your cleansing and your protection."
Ronan gave a slight, silent nod—no words, only acknowledgment.
With a single, deliberate wave of his hand—
—the warship cast off.
A piercing whistle split the morning sky as the ironclad hull cleaved through the waves, cutting a determined path toward the Grand Line.
[Grand Line – Jaya Island Vicinity]
Early morning.
Thick fog rolled back like a curtain, yielding to golden shafts of sunlight that spilled across the restless sea.
After two days of relentless travel—accelerated by the strategic use of an Air-Air Fruit user to manipulate wind currents—the warship slid smoothly into a quiet cove just off Jaya's coast.
This was the legendary convergence point of the Rising Dragon Air Current, the atmospheric gateway to the fabled White Sea and Skypiea.
But the current hadn't yet formed. And Ronan wasn't here for adventure—he was here for intelligence.
[Jaya Island – Mock Town]
A town of crumbling facades, drunken brawls, and lawless chaos.
Pirates staggered through the streets, brandishing cutlasses and pistols, their laughter drowned only by the occasional gunshot or scream. Vendors cowered in doorways as stalls were overturned, goods stolen, bones broken.
Rett wrinkled his nose. "...What a stinking, rotten gutter of a place."
Ronan walked forward, hands still behind his back, eyes indifferent—yet missing nothing.
Their presence was impossible to ignore: a full squad of Marines in crisp, standard-issue uniforms, marching with eerie synchronization through the filth. The rhythm of their steps carried weight. The stillness in their shoulders spoke of violence held in check.
Street thugs and low-tier pirates instinctively recoiled.
"Who the hell are these guys…?" one muttered, backing into an alley. "That killing intent… it's like standing next to a storm."
At the town's heart, the Bellamy Pirates' flag snapped in the wind—bold, arrogant, a declaration of false dominion.
Below it, Bellamy's crew rampaged with theatrical cruelty: kicking over carts, smashing windows, dragging civilians from their homes. At their center stood Bellamy himself—golden mane cascading past his shoulders, teeth bared in a feral grin, fists crackling with latent Spring-Spring Fruit energy.
"HAHAHA!" he roared, caving in the front wall of a wooden shack with one punch. "Jaya belongs to Bellamy! And anyone who disagrees—gets erased!"
His men howled in approval.
Then—silence.
The Marine warship had docked.
Ronan and Rett stepped onto the ruined street, their squad moving like twin blades through smoke and rubble.
Bellamy's laughter faltered for half a second. Then his smirk returned, wider, sharper.
"Yo?" he sneered, squinting. "What's this? Some East Blue rookie thinks a fancy uniform makes him tough?"
Sakis, lounging nearby, snorted. "Hah! Probably never even seen real blood!"
The Bellamy Pirates jeered, hurling insults like stones. "Go home, brat!" "You'll drown in the Grand Line before lunch!"
Ronan paused—just for a breath.
Rett cracked his knuckles, a slow, predatory grin spreading across his face. "Boss… they're begging for it."
Ronan's voice was low. Ice-cold.
"Then… let them have their way."
BOOM!
In the next heartbeat, Rett launched forward like a cannonball.
Armament Haki: Explosive Assault!
His fist—coated in jet-black Haki—slammed into the nearest Bellamy thug with devastating force. The man didn't just fall—he vanished in a spray of dust and splinters, sent hurtling through three buildings before silence swallowed his scream.
The street went dead quiet.
Even Bellamy's smirk froze.
Blood and broken teeth sprayed through the air as Bellamy crashed through a three-story wooden house—his fate unknown!
"!!!"
Astonishment flashed in Bellamy's eyes.
"You… you've already made your move?!" he roared, stomping the ground.
[Spring-Spring Fruit – Jump Attack]!
His legs coiled like high-frequency springs, launching him toward Ronan with terrifying velocity.
The air itself seemed to split. The street trembled beneath the force of his charge.
Gasps rippled through the onlookers.
—But.
Ronan simply raised a hand, his fingertips giving a slow, deliberate twirl.
[Air Compression]!
Clang!
The moment Bellamy closed the distance—
—an invisible vise of compressed air snapped shut around him, suspending him mid-leap like a fly in resin.
Crack!
His eyes bulged. Every muscle strained against the crushing grip of the unseen force.
"What… kind of power…?!" he choked out through gritted teeth.
Ronan shifted his stance—just a single, measured step forward—and opened his palm.
[Air Blast]!
BOOM—!!
An invisible shockwave detonated against Bellamy's chest.
The captain of the Bellamy Pirates hurtled backward, bones snapping, blood spraying from his mouth as he smashed through the crumbling wall of a tavern at the far end of the street.
Silence fell.
His crew stared in horror. Their captain—defeated in a single strike.
A cold dread shot up their spines like ice water.
"Aaaaah!! Run!!" shrieked one of the cowards, turning to flee.
But in the next second—
Rett grinned and lunged into the panicked mob.
[Iron Fist Frenzy]!
[Armament Haki – Piercing Fist]!
Each punch tore through flesh with a sonic crack. Limbs twisted unnaturally; blood painted the dust-choked air.
The wind howled.
Screams cut short.
In under three minutes, every last remnant of the Bellamy Pirates lay broken amidst the rubble—groaning, unconscious, or worse.
At the end of the street, Ronan surveyed the carnage with detached calm.
A faint shimmer of compressed air lingered around his palm—like the breath of a storm god.
No one dared move.
Mock Town fell into a tomb-like hush.
Only the wind stirred—lifting dust, smearing blood, and scattering shattered blades across the cobbles.
Rett shook the blood from his knuckles and returned to Ronan's side, grinning.
"Boss," he said, "should we feed these scum to the Rising Dragon Aura too?"
Ronan's reply was calm, almost bored:
"Not worth it."
Hands clasped behind his back, he added indifferently, "Clean up. Rest here. Wait for the aura."
His cloak fluttered in the wind once more.
Beyond the harbor, warships sat anchored and silent.
On the horizon, storm clouds gathered—dense, churning, electric.
A rising current of energy stirred in the sky.
[Gaya Island – Mock Town, a dark alleyway]
Night had fallen.
Deep in a crumbling alley, a figure leaned against a collapsed stone wall.
He wore a tattered black coat, his wide-brimmed hat pulled low, face lost in shadow—only the ghost of a smile visible.
Marshall D. Teach.
Blackbeard.
His gaze, sharp and patient, fixed on a column of disciplined Marines marching down the street beyond the broken wall.
Especially—
—the black-haired lieutenant who commanded the winds, his aura radiating like divine wrath.
And beside him, the first mate—his very presence a storm given form, fists said to shatter mountains and split stone.
In just a few minutes, the Bellamy Pirates—once infamous for their arrogance and years of unchecked dominance across the Grand Line—had been utterly annihilated.
Every detail of the assault was unnerving: the precision of each strike, the fluidity of every motion, even the sheer weight of the lieutenant's presence.
It unsettled Marshall D. Teach.
Blackbeard, a man who prided himself on reading people through their "overall situation," felt an unfamiliar prickle of unease crawl up his spine.
"Zehahaha…"
His grin was tight, laughter forced—barely masking the tension in his jaw.
"This guy… he's definitely not someone to mess with."
Eyes narrowing, shadows deepening over his face, Blackbeard silently branded Ronan in his mind with a single, unbreakable rule:
[Dangerous. Do not engage directly.]
Without another word, he slipped back into the alleys of Mock Town—vanishing like smoke into the night.
[Jaya Island – Mock Town, Noon]
The sun blazed over the ruined streets.
News of the Bellamy Pirates' swift and total defeat spread like wildfire across the island.
Just as Ronan signaled his subordinates to secure the area—
—a small Marine vessel appeared on the horizon.
The white and blue flag of the World Government snapped proudly in the wind.
Minutes later, a contingent of mid- and high-ranking Marines marched ashore.
At their head strode a broad-shouldered officer in a lieutenant general's coat, the insignia of G-2—the East Blue's regional branch—draped over his left shoulder.
It was Gumir, current commander of G-2.
He approached Ronan with purpose, halting with a crisp, formal salute.
"Lieutenant Ronan. Ensign Rett."
"Thank you for cleaning up this mess."
His voice was deep, his tone unusually earnest—free of the usual bureaucratic veneer.
Ronan returned the salute calmly. "If Mock Town is under Grand Line jurisdiction, why has it deteriorated like this?"
Gumir exhaled, grimacing. "Jaya's surrounding waters are a de facto lawless zone. Ever since the Golden City vanished and the route to the Sky Islands collapsed, this place's been overrun—Ronan pirates, exiles, black-market syndicates… we raid it yearly, but the rot runs deep."
He met Ronan's gaze squarely. "Today's operation… clean, ruthless, efficient—that was all you."
Rett smirked, arms crossed. "Well, someone's got to keep the peace."
Ronan said nothing—only offered the faintest of smiles.
In his mind, there were no true "lawless zones."
Only places where justice had not yet arrived.
Gumir watched him quietly—impressed.
These young officers from the East Blue carried themselves like veterans of Marineford. If they kept this up, they'd be shaping the future of the entire organization.
Without further fanfare, Gumir handed over a coded contact chip.
"The G-2 branch stands ready to support you—intelligence, logistics, or manpower. Just say the word."
As he turned to leave, he added under his breath:
"…If there were more like you in the Marines, this world might actually feel like a better place."
The warship pulled away, its wake slicing through the calm sea.
Ronan stood with his hands clasped behind his back, eyes fixed on the horizon—where cumulus clouds swirled into a slow, gathering vortex.
The Rising Dragon Current was nearly complete.
Ritter chuckled beside him.
"Boss… the path to the Sky Island's opening."
A breeze stirred Ronan's coat. He looked toward the distant Heavenly Pillar, where energy coiled like a sleeping serpent.
"Then let's go," he murmured.
"To the Sky Island."