The grandson of the Hero of the Marines going off to become a pirate—if someone with ulterior motives decided to exploit that, would the Marines' banner of "Justice" still mean anything at all?
"Blame me, will you? Wouldn't be happening if you old geezer didn't keep me chained to headquarters every day, pinching pennies on leave approvals. If I had the time, I'd have gone back to discipline the kid myself."
Garp dug at his nose without a care in the world, flicking away an indescribable lump as he spoke—every inch the shameless old rogue.
That line choked Sengoku so hard his eyes nearly rolled out of their sockets. For a moment, he genuinely couldn't find a rebuttal. All he could do was point angrily at the newspaper and tell Garp to hurry up and read it.
Outside the door, Vice Admiral Bogard stared expressionlessly at the ceiling. He was long used to these daily verbal sparring matches between the two big shots.
Garp picked up the paper, curious to see what new stunt Ace had pulled. The more he read, the wider his grin stretched—nearly reaching his ears.
"Well I'll be damned! That brat Ace really did it—he took down that slippery bastard Stella? Just like my grandson should! Those fists are solid! Hahahahaha!"
"Garp! I didn't come here to listen to your acceptance speech!"
Sengoku took a deep breath, forcibly suppressing the urge to punch someone, his tone turning grave.
"Don't play dumb with me. You know perfectly well how serious this is. That was a Warlord of the Sea personally appointed by the World Government!"
Even if the Seven Warlords were currently the weakest of the Three Great Powers, they were still carefully selected figureheads—official symbols of the government's authority.
If Stella had been taken out by someone on Kaido's level, fine. Being outmatched was nothing to be ashamed of.
But now he'd been toppled by a greenhorn who hadn't even been active for half a year.
Where was the World Government supposed to put its face? Wouldn't their judgment be mocked to pieces by the world?
Not to mention, once Stella went down, all the filthy business he'd been sitting on was exposed—an utter, spectacular embarrassment.
"So what?" Garp smacked his lips, utterly unconcerned. "The World Government's best at wiping their own asses. They'll smooth it over."
Sengoku knew that was true—but that didn't mean he was willing to keep cleaning up after Garp's family forever.
First there was Dragon, the revolutionary son. Now Ace, the pirate grandson.
If he didn't hammer some sense into this old bastard now, who knew what kind of mess would come next?
"That boy… is your grandson."
At Sengoku's piercing stare, Garp slowed his cracker-chewing. Something seemed to click in his mind.
"…You're not thinking of making me go arrest him, are you?"
Sengoku let out a long, heavy sigh and spoke earnestly.
"You know the situation. The Warlords can't have a vacant seat. The World Government intends to recruit Ace, have him replace Stella as a new Warlord. So you, as his grandfather, need to take responsibility and see this assignment through."
"That damn brat…" Garp scratched his head in frustration, brows knitting tightly. "He never listened to a word I said—snuck off to become a pirate. Now that his wings have hardened, how am I supposed to control him?"
Then a complicated look flashed through his eyes, and he muttered under his breath,
"And besides… Ace would never take a bullshit job like being a Warlord."
The words were quiet—but Sengoku heard them clearly, and he caught the subtle undercurrent in Garp's tone.
He studied his old friend for a moment, sensing that Garp was hiding something.
But at their age, who didn't have secrets they couldn't speak of? Sengoku himself was no exception.
As long as Garp didn't betray the two words behind him—Justice—Sengoku didn't want to dig any deeper.
With that thought, Sengoku slammed the desk again, radiating the unquestionable authority of a Fleet Admiral.
"I don't care! This matter is on you now! Aren't you always complaining that you never have time to visit your grandson? Well, congratulations—I've approved your public-funded vacation."
"And besides, the next World Conference is only days away. If Ace accepts this proposal, there's a good chance we can completely wipe out the fallout from Stella's mess."
He looked at Garp, his gaze unusually serious, his tone softening.
"Since he's your grandson… after he chose the path of piracy instead of the Marines—becoming a Warlord might be the only protective cloak you can still put over his shoulders."
The New World — Sphinx Sea
This was once Whitebeard's homeland, and now the main base of the Whitebeard Pirates.
The sea wind howled with a salty stench. On the vast deck of the Moby Dick, the man known as the Strongest in the World sat calmly.
Whitebeard held a freshly delivered newspaper in his hands, his gaze deep and distant.
Now, his bare upper body bore not only the old scars that symbolized his glory, but also many new, shocking wounds.
Even more lamentable was the sight of countless tubes and medical devices attached to him, sustaining his failing body.
The once-proud, invincible king of the seas had been eroded by time, revealing an unmistakable air of twilight.
Yet even a lion in its twilight years, so long as it still breathed, could unleash suffocating pressure upon the entire sea.
Ever since his regrettable defeat against Tenma, the Whitebeard Pirates as a whole seemed to have sunk into a subtle slump.
It wasn't just their subordinate crews growing restless—there were even clueless newcomers on the seas trying to step on Whitebeard's name to climb higher.
Fortunately, those fools were swiftly crushed by Whitebeard's thunderous retaliation. Their total annihilation finally shut up the voices claiming that "Whitebeard is finished."
A starved camel is still bigger than a horse.
Though today's Whitebeard Pirates no longer commanded the same overwhelming dominance as at their peak, they still sat firmly among the first tier of sea emperors.
On the surface, everything appeared calm, the old order intact.
But beneath that seemingly still water, Teach sensed something different.
Compared to the past—when this was an ambitious crew constantly chasing the title of "strongest"—the Moby Dick now felt more and more like a massive retirement home, playing at warm, familial "house games" all day long.
It was as if everyone had silently accepted the reality of the old man's failing health.
The division commanders no longer pursued conquest or expansion. One by one, they became obedient good kids, content to guard their "father" and let him enjoy his twilight years.
This kind of "peaceful passage of time" atmosphere made Teach itch with impatience, clawing at his heart—
To the point that he began cursing inwardly.
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