Knock, knock, knock.
Half-asleep, Diarmuid heard a series of knocks at the door. He slowly opened his eyes and glanced out the window.
The sun had already sunk halfway below the sea. Night was approaching fast.
"Come in," Diarmuid said as he sat up from the sofa.
The moment his voice fell, a Marine Branch major pushed the door open and stepped inside. In his hands, he carried a sword.
"Report, Colonel Diarmuid. The mission is complete. Nagasone Kotetsu has been secured," the major said quickly.
Diarmuid beckoned him forward.
The major stepped closer and presented the sword horizontally with both hands.
Nagasone Kotetsu—one of the famed blades.
There were many famous swords in this world, but if ranked by grade, they were divided into four levels:
Supreme Grade Blades (Saijo O Wazamono) — twelve in total.
Great Grade Blades (O Wazamono) — twenty-one in total.
Skillful Grade Blades (Ryo Wazamono) — fifty in total.
And finally, an unspecified number of ordinary Wazamono-grade blades.
The Supreme Grade Blades were naturally the kings among famous swords.
The most well-known examples included the black blade Yoru, wielded by the future Warlord of the Sea and the world's greatest swordsman, Dracule Mihawk.
There was also Murakumogiri, the weapon of the "Strongest Man in the World," Edward Newgate, known as Whitebeard.
And the legendary Shodai Kitetsu was also said to belong to this highest tier.
The Great Grade Blades, numbering twenty-one, were only slightly inferior.
Among the famous ones were Wado Ichimonji and the black blade Shusui, which would one day be wielded by Roronoa Zoro.
As for the Skillful Grade Blades, there was no need to elaborate much further.
And the sword currently before Diarmuid—Nagasone Kotetsu—was also one of the Twenty-One Great Grade Blades.
The scabbard was jet black with faint patterns barely visible across its surface. The guard resembled the mouth of a tiger, while the hilt was wrapped in black cord interwoven with dark red threads.
Even before being drawn, the sword looked extremely low-key—quiet and unassuming.
Diarmuid took the sword in one hand, gripping both the scabbard and the hilt. Slowly, he began to draw it.
The blade gradually revealed its edge.
Even after pulling it out only two finger-widths, Diarmuid could already feel the razor-sharp aura emanating from it. The blade faintly glowed with a cold blue sheen, giving off an icy, lethal presence.
A smile unconsciously formed on his lips.
Without further hesitation, he pulled the sword fully from its scabbard.
The true form of Nagasone Kotetsu was revealed.
The blade shimmered with a deep bluish hue. Layer upon layer of orderly hamon patterns ran along its length. It felt perfectly balanced in his hand—both the weight and length were just right.
At first glance, the blade resembled a tranquil mountain stream, quietly flowing through a secluded valley.
But the moment it was held in hand, the feeling changed completely.
It was as if he were gripping a ferocious tiger.
Once swung, it would devour lives.
As a swordsman…
Well, he could probably call himself that. Even if he wasn't particularly strong.
But after drawing the blade, Diarmuid no longer doubted its authenticity.
This was unquestionably Nagasone Kotetsu, one of the Twenty-One Great Grade Blades.
It was instinct.
Compared to the ordinary saber he had previously carried, this weapon was on a completely different level.
Simply holding it made the difference obvious.
"Good blade. Truly worthy of being one of the Twenty-One Great Grade Blades. With Nagasone Kotetsu in hand, I feel much more confident about the upcoming Officer Training Camp assessment," Diarmuid said happily, excitement flashing in his eyes.
"With strength like yours, Colonel, you'll definitely pass the assessment and be promoted to Marine Headquarters, Marineford," the major quickly added, offering some well-timed flattery.
Diarmuid was not originally from this world.
More than ten years ago, his soul had transmigrated here, becoming the person he was now.
His current identity was that of a North Blue native—an ordinary civilian named Rodriguez Diarmuid.
He was nineteen years old.
Seven years ago, when he had reached the point where he could barely survive any longer, he grit his teeth and joined the Marines.
He had started at the lowest possible position in Marine Branch 113, stationed in the North Blue.
Cleaning garbage. Scrubbing decks.
All the dirtiest, most menial work aboard a ship—he had done it all.
Over the past seven years, he had climbed step by step through the ranks.
Now, he had become the second-in-command of Marine Branch 113 in the North Blue—the deputy commander.
His rank had risen to Colonel.
Of course, it was a branch colonel, not a headquarters one.
Overall, the past seven years had been filled with hardship and danger.
Reaching the rank of Marine Branch Colonel had required both ability and a fair amount of luck.
Diarmuid understood clearly how cruel this world was.
He had experienced it firsthand.
Because of that, he placed enormous importance on his own strength.
Unfortunately, he lacked a good background.
No prestigious lineage.
No famous mentor.
No one to personally teach or guide him.
All he could do was grind forward through sheer effort.
Over the past seven years, he had desperately wanted to find a Devil Fruit to eat.
But Devil Fruits were treasures of the sea.
They weren't something you could just stumble upon.
From the age of twelve to nineteen, after seven years in the Marines, he had never even seen a real Devil Fruit with his own eyes.
Originally, he had hoped that joining the Marines would allow him to learn the Six Powers (Rokushiki).
In the end, that hope had been dashed as well.
The Six Powers might seem common, but in reality there was a strict threshold.
Marine branches in the Four Blues had absolutely no qualification to learn Rokushiki.
Only Marine branches within the Grand Line had such access.
As for Marine Headquarters, Marineford, that went without saying.
Because of this, despite years in the Marines, Diarmuid had never learned any of the Six Powers.
As for something even more advanced like Haki, that was completely out of reach for him.
If he had any real skill at all, it was the most basic form of swordsmanship he had learned from the branch's fencing instructor.
So at best, Diarmuid could barely call himself a swordsman.
However, as a transmigrator, he did possess a certain advantage.
You could say he had a cheat ability.
His first ability could be considered a natural talent.
It was called Iron Will.
After years of observation, Diarmuid had figured out what it did.
He had an extremely high resistance to pain, injury, and fatigue.
Especially during combat.
No matter how serious his injuries were, he almost never felt pain.
Pain would not shake his fighting spirit.
Of course, this didn't mean he was immune to injury.
If he got wounded, he still got wounded.
If his head were cut off, he would still die.
Lose too much blood, and he would still perish.
What he was immune to was the mental impact of pain.
For example, if an enemy stabbed him, he wouldn't feel much pain.
He wouldn't make unnecessary reactions because of it and could counterattack immediately.
But in Diarmuid's opinion, the true power of Iron Will wasn't in battle.
It was in training.
Sharpening one's strength was a dull, exhausting process.
But because of this ability, Diarmuid had trained relentlessly for seven straight years without ever slacking off.
His fundamentals in swordsmanship were extremely solid.
And his resistance to fatigue allowed him to repeatedly push beyond his physical limits.
It had benefited him enormously.
Aside from Iron Will, there was something else within him.
His consciousness… or perhaps his soul.
Somewhere inside his body existed a black core.
He still didn't understand what that thing was.
But because of it, every time his physical strength or endurance improved, his overall power would increase far beyond normal human limits.
So overall, his strength wasn't particularly remarkable.
Even in the North Blue, it wasn't enough to make him famous.
But it certainly wasn't weak either.
At the very least, he had earned the position of Marine Branch Colonel through real ability.
Even without relying on swordsmanship—
Inside the Marine training grounds stood a massive solid boulder five meters wide and nearly four meters tall.
Diarmuid could shatter it with a single punch.
That was the true reason a nineteen-year-old like him could firmly hold the position of Marine Branch Colonel.
"Thank you for the kind words," Diarmuid said cheerfully.
After a brief pause, he asked,
"There weren't any problems, right?"
"No, sir," the major replied immediately.
After all, all they had done was eliminate a group of criminals at the docks and confiscate their evidence.
For the Marines, that was perfectly legitimate.
"Good. Set sail. We're returning to base," Diarmuid nodded.
Soon, the warship of Marine Branch 113 left the port and headed back toward their base.
Several days later.
On an island somewhere in the North Blue, the territory of the Donquixote Family.
At this time, the young Doflamingo had not yet reached adulthood. He was still just a kid.
But his temper was already extremely violent.
He harbored deep hatred toward the world, and he hadn't yet learned how to hide it.
Even if he tripped over a stone in the street, the Donquixote Family might bomb the entire street just to vent his anger.
It was easy to imagine just how explosive his personality was.
"The Marines took that sword?" Diamante asked in surprise.
Trebol nodded.
"That's right. A colonel from Marine Branch 113 took it. Doffy, should we kill him?"
Doflamingo didn't seem to care much.
"No need. We'll deal with it later," he said casually. "I heard some big shots from Marine Headquarters have arrived in North Blue. Now isn't the time to clash with the Marines."
Despite his violent temper, he had already shown remarkable intelligence from a young age.
It was only a famous sword.
Doflamingo wouldn't challenge the authority of the Marines head-on over something like that—especially not at this moment.
Compared to that, he had more important matters to deal with.
"Still haven't found Rosinante?" Doflamingo asked darkly.
His younger brother, Rosinante, had run away from home not long ago.
He had disappeared.
Despite searching for a long time, the Donquixote Family still hadn't found him.