Meanwhile, at the training ground of West Blue Marine Branch 133.
Gern stood at the center of the field, Black Blade · Eight Desolations strapped across his back.
More than thirty recruits sat in a fan-shaped formation around him.
Sweat streamed down their young faces—
yet no one dared wipe it away.
Every gaze was locked onto the lone figure in the center.
"Watch carefully."
Gern slowly raised his right hand, palm facing upward.
The air distorted.
Countless fine vibration particles emerged from nothingness, dancing and condensing into a pure-white sphere in his palm.
The recruits collectively held their breath.
Some unconsciously leaned backward.
"The essence of vibration is—"
The light sphere abruptly collapsed.
In an instant, the ground around Gern surged like ocean waves.
Training wooden posts silently crumbled into dust.
What was truly terrifying—
The splintered wood stopped midair just before reaching the recruits' noses, as if held in place by invisible hands.
"Control."
As Gern closed his fist, the suspended debris fell neatly to the ground.
Three seconds of dead silence—
Then thunderous cheers erupted.
"That's insane!!"
"So this is Logia power?!"
"Ensign Gern—please take me as your disciple!!"
Gern smiled slightly, about to speak—
Then caught sight of frantic movement in the shadows at the edge of the field.
Branch Chief Asahi was waving his stubby arms wildly, like a beached seal.
"Continue training," Gern said, waving to the recruits.
The smile vanished as he turned away.
The moment he reached the shadows, Asahi rushed forward, nearly crashing into his chest.
"Gern—It worked! It really worked!"
Asahi whispered shakily, barely suppressing his excitement.
"Fleet Admiral Kong signed it personally!"
He pulled out a gold-embossed document, his fingers trembling.
Marine Headquarters Special Summons Order
Name: Gern Reginald Sigma
Rank Recognition: Headquarters Ensign
Direct Superior: Marine Headquarters Vice Admiral Zephyr
Gern's pupils contracted slightly.
The crimson Fleet Admiral seal at the bottom corner looked like a drop of solidified blood.
"So… it went through."
Asahi suddenly straightened and saluted formally.
"Ensign Gern of Marine Headquarters—nice to meet you!
I am Asahi, Branch Chief of West Blue 133!"
"Haha, you little fat guy…"
Gern patted his shoulder.
"My rank didn't change?"
"Nope. Headquarters discriminates against West Blue," Asahi snorted.
"They wanted to send you to the Marine Academy for a year of 'justice theory.'"
"Academy?" Gern's eyes narrowed.
"That was the plan—until Vice Admiral Zephyr slammed the table and said—"
Asahi lowered his voice, imitating Zephyr's gravelly tone:
"That bureaucratic garbage only kills real warriors."
Gern raised an eyebrow.
"He really said that?"
"Absolutely! My buddy from South Blue heard it himself!"
Asahi grinned.
"You're directly under Zephyr now!"
Then he squinted suspiciously.
"Say… when did you get connected to Vice Admiral Zephyr?
He's unmarried, you know—
You're not his illegitimate son or something, are you?"
"Illegitimate son?"
Gern snorted coldly, fingers brushing the blade wrapping.
"I wish."
Asahi laughed awkwardly, then saluted again.
"Congratulations, Ensign Gern—Marine Headquarters!"
His voice suddenly jumped an octave, causing recruits to turn and stare.
"Our West Blue is finally producing a Headquarters general!"
Gern didn't return the salute.
His gaze passed over Asahi's round shoulders—
toward Marineford.
Three Days Later — West Blue Branch 133 Port
The harbor was packed with Marines seeing him off.
Asahi stood at the front, tears streaming down his chubby face, clutching a wrinkled handkerchief.
"Gern! You must come back often!"
"This will always be your home!
Show them what West Blue men are made of!!"
Gern stood on the warship's deck, back to the port.
He raised a hand slightly—no more.
The ship slowly pulled away.
Cheers faded into the distance.
Gern stared at the horizon.
No sadness.
Only anticipation.
"Marine Headquarters…" he murmured.
"Now it really begins."
Two Days Later — West Blue Sea Route
The warship sailed steadily.
Gern stood at the bow, eyes closed, feeling the sea breeze—
Then frowned.
Something was wrong.
At the horizon, a rough, unmarked ship approached.
No pirate flag.
No merchant insignia.
No Marine colors.
The escort commander—a Headquarters sub-lieutenant—froze.
"Report! Unidentified vessel ahead. Intercept?"
Both he and Gern raised binoculars.
Two figures stood at the bow.
One—
A towering giant over five meters tall.
Muscles like mountains.
An open white captain's coat.
Blond hair flowing freely.
And beneath his chin—
A crescent-shaped white mustache.
Calm.
Lazy.
Invincible.
Gern's pupils shrank violently.
Even without a flag—
He recognized him instantly.
The man who stood equal to Roger after Rocks.
"Whitebeard" — Edward Newgate.