Just as the Five Elders' faces darkened to an ashen green, racking their brains for any excuse—any pretext at all—to stall Gern's unstoppable proposal to relocate Marine Headquarters…
"End this tedious farce… for 'Mu.'"
A voice rang out.
Cold.
Indifferent.
Devoid of even the faintest trace of human emotion.
It did not travel through the air. It did not pass through ears.
It echoed directly within the depths of their souls—resounding simultaneously in the minds of all five Elders.
In that instant, their bodies froze in unison.
Every flicker of anger, unwillingness, calculation—
Vanished.
Replaced by absolute reverence.
Submission.
Even… fear.
Because they knew that voice.
It belonged to Im.
The sovereign seated upon the Empty Throne.
The supreme existence who had held dominion over the world for eight hundred years.
At the same time, within the ranks of the God's Knights, Junzigong—who had been standing silently behind Saint Figarland Garling—stiffened ever so slightly.
When those eyes, concealed beneath the shadow of a newsboy cap, lifted once more—
Her pupils had transformed into eerie concentric ripples.
"She"—or rather, the will temporarily descending into her body—
Was Im.
Through those Rinne-patterned eyes, Im gazed quietly, intently… at Gern on the stage.
The gaze was frigid.
Evaluative.
Utterly detached.
After only a brief moment of scrutiny, Im reached a conclusion.
Within a thought heard only by "herself," she uttered the same words once spoken by Rocks at God Valley when addressing Gern—
Though unlike Rocks, who had first asked his name, Im spoke without preamble.
"Not a D."
Then her gaze dipped briefly to the blade at Gern's waist—Bahuang—and her tone remained flat as she added,
"Nor a David."
Having confirmed that Gern belonged neither to the accursed "Clan of D"—the so-called natural enemies of the gods—nor to the possible inheritor tied to some ancient "promise" associated with the name "David,"
The final, almost imperceptible thread of interest Im held toward him vanished.
To Im, unless one touched upon those two taboos—those roots embedded deep within the foundations of the world—
It did not matter whether Gern was a king among men or a hegemon of political intrigue.
He was merely a slightly larger wave in the river of history.
And like Whitebeard and countless others—
He too would dissolve into dust in time.
"She" feared only those two.
Nothing more.
The will receded like a withdrawing tide.
The ripple-patterns in Junzigong's eyes faded quietly, her pupils returning to normal as her body swayed faintly once again.
Meanwhile, the Five Elders—having received Im's explicit directive—felt all struggle drain from their hearts.
Saint Marcus Mars swallowed the words he had intended to argue.
He exchanged glances with the other four.
In each other's eyes, they saw the same thing:
Resignation.
Obedience.
Saint Shepherd Ju Peter inhaled slowly, then faced the assembly and spoke in a voice so calm it bordered on numbness.
"Since… the Marines have reached internal consensus, and the matter conforms to established regulations… the World Government respects the Marines' autonomous authority."
"The investiture ceremony… is hereby concluded."
There were no congratulations.
No encouragement.
Only an abrupt ending.
Thus, the ceremony that had drawn the eyes of the entire world came to an oddly anticlimactic close.
Gern remained standing on the stage.
He watched the sudden shift in the Five Elders' demeanor. Watched the hurried departure of the World Government's representatives.
A shadow flickered across his eyes.
Just moments ago—
His Haki had sensed it.
Felt it.
That fleeting will—
One that stood above even the Five Elders.
He had sensed, too, the near-total indifference with which it regarded him.
"Ignoring me?"
He smiled faintly.
"Good."
"That makes it easier… to accomplish everything I want."
"And the day you are forced to look at me directly…"
He lowered his gaze slightly.
"You'll find that this sea no longer resembles the one you remember."
...…
The investiture ceremony—magnificent, turbulent, and utterly unpredictable—had finally drawn to a close.
And immediately afterward, the World Economic Journal's special edition released several explosive headlines—
Or rather, confirmed what everyone who had watched the live broadcast already knew—
Igniting public opinion across the seas like wildfire.
["Heaven-Shaker" Gern Officially Appointed Supreme Commander of the New World—Granted Unparalleled Authority!]
[Fleet Admiral Sengoku Retains Position—Will Continue to Lead the Marines!]
And the most earth-shattering of them all—
[Marine Headquarters to Officially Relocate to the New World in Response to the Four Emperors' Era!]
The combination of these announcements triggered diametrically opposed—yet equally violent—reactions across different seas.
———
The first half of the Grand Line—"Paradise."
The moment pirates heard the news, disbelief lasted only seconds before erupting into thunderous ecstasy.
"The Marines are running! They've abandoned Paradise!"
"Their main forces are all heading to the New World! This place is ours now!"
"Freedom! The true age of freedom has arrived!"
In their eyes, the relocation of Marine Headquarters meant the World Government's center of power had shifted completely away from the first half of the Grand Line.
The garrisons left behind would inevitably be weakened.
Vice Admirals would become scarce.
This comparatively "milder" sea connecting the Four Blues would no longer be a priority defensive zone.
A vacuum in oversight. A thinning of power.
To them, it was a golden era—an age for unchecked expansion and lawless ambition.
They naïvely believed the Marines had strategically "abandoned" Paradise.
That it had been handed over to them on a silver platter.
———
But in the New World—
The atmosphere was entirely different.
Heavy.
Watchful.
Seething with suppressed anger.
"That bastard Heaven-Shaker… is now Supreme Commander of the New World?"
"The Marines are moving their Headquarters here?!"
"They're planning to trap us in our own territory and crush us?!"
The pirates of the New World—especially those under the banners of the Four Emperors or surviving independently through sheer strength—felt not freedom, but unprecedented pressure.
Even before this, the structure in which Gern alone stood as a balancing force against the Four Emperors had already made life uncomfortable.
Because it meant that, leveraging the G-10 system he had cultivated for years in the New World, and now coordinating directly with Marine Headquarters—
Gern could launch devastating strikes against any sea region at a moment's notice.
The New World would no longer be a relatively "stable" backyard where pirates could quietly grow stronger.
It would become the foremost front line.
A battlefield where top-tier wars could erupt at any moment.
Through this sequence of maneuvers, Gern had moved like an invisible hand—
Shifting the world's balance with precision.
And in that moment—
The structure of the sea itself was fundamentally rewritten.