Fleet Admiral's Office.
The moment Momonga pushed open the heavy door of the conference room, a dense, suffocating stillness met him.
Around the great circular table sat the highest officers of Marine Headquarters—each clad in the crisp whites of command, their ranks gleaming gold beneath the steady light. Some puffed silently on cigars, others simply observed him with calm, unreadable expressions.
Dozens of eyes locked onto him, sharp as drawn blades. The weight of their collective presence pressed against his chest like an invisible wall.
His gaze flicked subtly from one man to another, noting the insignia on their epaulettes.
All Headquarters flag officers... every one of them.
Even so, Momonga walked forward with steady, measured steps.
He halted before the table, straightened, and offered a crisp salute. His voice rang clear and disciplined:
"Supreme Commander of the North Blue, Base Commander of the North Blue Marine 321st Branch—Captain Momonga, reporting for duty!"
Gone was the naive officer who once struggled beneath Darren's shadow in the North Blue.
Momonga had been tempered by chaos and duty alike—by politics, war, and endless nights of paperwork and strategy. As Darren's right hand, he had stood witness to battles that shaped the seas. As Supreme Commander, he had steered an entire ocean under his command.
In Darren's absence, he'd kept the North Blue stable—discipline intact, pirates crushed, and the North Blue Fleet advancing like clockwork. His ability to balance the interests of Member Nations and lawless territories had earned him quiet respect across the ranks.
He was no longer just a subordinate. He was a commander in his own right.
Even under the scrutiny of Headquarters' highest brass, his composure never wavered.
And beyond all that—he was strong.
The Rumble-Rumble Fruit coursed through his veins now, its power bolstering his confidence, his will, his presence. Lightning hummed faintly beneath his skin.
As he took his seat, he could feel their eyes studying him just as he was studying them.
The officers had all heard of the young man who succeeded Vice Admiral Darren—the man who had managed to uphold the iron order Darren had forged in the North Blue.
Among the Four Blues—East, West, South, and North—the North Blue now stood as Headquarters' crown jewel.
After all, under Darren's reign, chaos had been purged, crime had fallen to historic lows, and order had spread like a new dawn. And when Darren stepped down, his successor hadn't merely maintained that legacy—he'd refined it.
The admirals knew what that meant. The North Blue wasn't just stable—it was efficient, disciplined, and powerful.
"Relax, Captain Momonga," Sengoku said with a warm, reassuring smile. "We're all Marines here. You're among comrades."
He gestured to a chair near the table. "We summoned you only to hear a detailed report on Vice Admiral Darren's battle with the Golden Lion and any intelligence you may have regarding it. Nothing formal, nothing recorded. Please, have a seat."
The words were casual, almost friendly—but Momonga wasn't fooled.
He nodded politely and sat down. "Yes, Admiral Sengoku."
Sengoku leaned forward slightly, folding his hands. "Captain, how long have you served in the Marines?"
"Six years, including my training period, sir."
"Six years... quite the record for one so young," Sengoku said with a chuckle. "Over three hundred missions completed, more than two thousand pirates captured or eliminated."
He paused, studying Momonga's face with quiet curiosity. "During your tenure in the North Blue, you've shown not only strength, but remarkable administrative and leadership skill. I must say, Captain, someone of your ability shouldn't be confined to one sea forever."
A faint smile tugged at the old admiral's lips. "The next session of the Elite Officer Training Camp begins soon. Would you be interested in joining?"
The words fell like a stone into still water.
A ripple of surprise passed around the table. Even hardened officers shifted slightly in their seats.
The Elite Officer Training Camp—the crucible that forged the Marines' future leaders. It was there that the so-called "Golden Generation," including Darren, Sakazuki, Kuzan, and Borsalino, had once trained side by side.
Its admission process was merciless. Candidates underwent exhaustive physical trials, psychological assessments, and political screenings. Only those whose convictions aligned perfectly with the Marines' ideal of Justice ever made it through.
And yet—Sengoku's tone left no room for doubt. This was no test. No vetting. No politics.
All Momonga had to do was accept, and a seat would be his.
An open door where none had ever been opened before.
Even monsters like Sakazuki and Borsalino had fought tooth and nail to earn their place. Darren had faced an internal tribunal before he was allowed to set foot inside that camp.
But for Momonga… Sengoku was offering it freely.
He understood instantly.
He's trying to butter me up first.
The old Momonga might have felt honored beyond words—might have accepted immediately, his heart swelling with gratitude.
And truthfully, temptation stirred even now. The Training Camp was more than prestige; it was the fastest road to power. To influence. To the future.
Graduates of that camp became the spine of the Marines—their elite, their rising stars.
He could see it already: the network, the promotions, the access to resources…
But those thoughts faded as quickly as they came.
Because Momonga was no longer that wide-eyed lieutenant from years ago.
He'd learned the hard way that every gift from the upper echelons came wrapped in invisible strings.
He bowed his head respectfully. "Thank you for the invitation, Admiral Sengoku. Joining the Elite Officer Training Camp has always been my dream—and would be my greatest honor."
He paused.
"However, the situation in the North Blue remains unstable. Though Vice Admiral Darren has defeated Golden Lion Shiki, the very news of Shiki's presence there has caused unrest among the Member and Non-Member States. Fear spreads quickly, even when the threat is gone."
"I must ensure the region stabilizes before I can leave my post. I hope you understand, sir."
It was a flawless excuse—courteous, logical, and impossible to refute.
Of course, it was also a lie.
The North Blue was secure.
But if he left—even for a short while—Headquarters would surely send another commander in his stead. And whoever they sent would dig into the North Blue Fleet. They would notice things that shouldn't be noticed.
Momonga couldn't risk that.
That fleet—Darren's fleet—was the one secret that could never be exposed.
To be continued...