Momonga's mind whirled. The consequences of one misstep here were too great to risk.
Accepting Sengoku's offer would be an undeniable boon to his career—of that, there was no doubt. Gion's meteoric rise from Lieutenant Commander to Commodore was proof enough of what the Elite Officer Training Camp could do for a promising Marine. Momonga knew that with his current strength and the power of the Rumble-Rumble Fruit, graduation from that camp could catapult him through the ranks.
But none of that mattered.
Compared to personal advancement, the North Blue Fleet meant everything.
That fleet was not just Darren's legacy—it was their shared creation, the culmination of years of quiet labor, delicate politics, and forbidden innovation. A masterpiece of military might and secrecy. One wrong move, and all of it could collapse.
Even if he did agree to join the Training Camp, he'd need to speak with Darren first—to plan, to delegate, to ensure the Fleet's continued survival.
He couldn't afford a single crack in their defenses.
"He refused?"
The words rippled through the room like an unexpected gust of wind. The Marine officers exchanged surprised glances, murmuring in disbelief.
No one—no one—had ever turned down such a direct invitation from Admiral Sengoku himself.
Any other officer in the Four Blues would have fallen to their knees in gratitude. But Momonga sat upright, composed and respectful, his expression steady. His refusal was not arrogance—it was principle.
That calm defiance earned him more respect than any obsequious acceptance ever could.
Sengoku blinked, taken aback, but recovered quickly. A deep, approving chuckle rumbled from his chest. "Prudence is a virtue," he said. "Very well, Captain. My offer stands. The doors of the Training Camp will remain open to you, whenever you choose to enter."
"Thank you, Admiral Sengoku," Momonga replied evenly. "Your recognition honors me."
Sengoku's tone hardened. "Good. Then let's move on to what truly matters."
He folded his hands atop the file before him, his expression turning grave. "I've read the reports you submitted about Darren's battle with the Golden Lion. But paperwork can only say so much. I need to hear it from you, directly."
He leaned forward. "As you know, Darren remains in critical condition. Understanding the details of that fight might help the medical division determine how to treat him. We need everything you can recall."
"Yes, sir," Momonga said, his voice calm and deliberate. "Ask whatever you wish. I'll answer as accurately as possible."
Sengoku nodded, flipping open the report. His eyes narrowed slightly as he scanned the lines. "According to your data… Vice Admiral Darren's combat power has already reached that of an Admiral. Is that correct?"
"Yes, Admiral," Momonga answered without hesitation.
Sengoku hummed. "Even so, there's still a vast gap between Darren and Golden Lion Shiki. Darren is powerful, yes, but to defeat a Great Pirate of Shiki's caliber single-handedly? Impossible." His tone sharpened. "Which means there must have been another factor involved. Perhaps… another combatant?"
Momonga paused, lowering his eyes. For a few tense seconds, silence filled the room.
Then he nodded once. "…Yes."
Sengoku's gaze hardened. "Who?"
"Me," Momonga said.
The entire room froze.
Him?
Even Sengoku was caught off guard. His brows drew together, and for a rare moment, the strategist was speechless.
"Captain Momonga," he said carefully, "I don't mean to doubt your capabilities. But your strength, impressive as it is, shouldn't have been enough to affect a battle of that magnitude… should it?"
Momonga drew a slow, deliberate breath. His hand rose, fingers flexing slightly. "Because of this."
Crackling blue light erupted from his fingertips.
In an instant, the air in the room changed. The faint smell of ozone filled the space as arcs of electricity coiled around his arm, the currents growing denser, hotter—until his entire forearm glowed like molten metal, flickering with plasma.
The room grew warmer; a low hum reverberated through the floor.
"What… what is that?"
"A Logia-type ability!"
"Wait—lightning? Could it be…?"
A collective gasp swept through the officers.
"The Rumble-Rumble Fruit! That's the Rumble-Rumble Fruit!"
"The strongest of the Logias!"
The words spread in waves of astonishment. Even hardened veterans stared, wide-eyed and disbelieving.
The legendary Rumble-Rumble Fruit—long thought lost to the sea—was in Momonga's possession.
Sengoku's pupils constricted.
It took several long seconds before he finally spoke again, voice low and deliberate. "So that's it… You've become the new Rumble-Rumble Fruit user. That explains much. But even so, that alone couldn't have turned the tide against Shiki, could it?"
"Your insight is, as always, precise, Admiral," Momonga said, inclining his head slightly. "Even with my new ability, I could only provide support from a distance. The power gap remained enormous."
"Then how?" Sengoku asked, leaning forward, suspicion flickering in his eyes.
Momonga reached into his coat and produced a small, dark wooden box. He placed it carefully on the table.
The officers watched closely.
"What's that?" Sengoku asked.
Momonga spoke slowly, each word deliberate. "Golden Lion's body has already been recovered. Once Headquarters' forensic division examines it, they'll find evidence of extensive artillery and bullet damage alongside the fatal heart wound."
He paused, recalling Darren's steady voice echoing in his mind: The most perfect lies are those laced with truth.
He opened the box.
Inside lay a single black bullet, gleaming with a faint metallic sheen.
"This is… Sea Stone?" Sengoku breathed. His eyes narrowed. "A Sea Stone bullet?"
"Yes." Momonga nodded. "Vice Admiral Darren restrained Golden Lion in close combat, enduring grievous injury in the process—while ten battleships of the North Blue Fleet opened continuous fire on their position…"
He looked up. "For five minutes."
A stunned silence fell over the room.
Five minutes. Continuous bombardment.
Even Sengoku's composure faltered. The sheer image of it—a man standing against Golden Lion Shiki, pinned under a storm of cannon fire and Sea Stone shells—was staggering.
"The bombardment mixed a heavy concentration of Sea Stone ammunition," Momonga continued, his tone steady, every word calculated. "The rounds embedded in Shiki's flesh neutralized his Devil Fruit powers. Without his ability to fly or resist, Vice Admiral Darren was able to deliver the final blow."
Around the table, murmurs erupted:
"So that's how it was…"
"No wonder the reports mentioned heavy artillery traces."
"A brilliant tactic—using Sea Stone in saturation fire…"
"Exactly," another whispered. "No Devil Fruit user could withstand that."
Sengoku said nothing.
On the surface, the explanation was airtight—logical, supported by physical evidence. And yet, deep in his gut, something didn't fit. Something vital.
He was about to press further when—
Boom!!
The conference room door exploded open.
Tokikake burst in, hair disheveled, face slick with sweat, chest heaving as if he'd run across all of Marineford.
"D–Darren… he's awake!!"
Every officer shot to their feet. Sengoku's chair scraped violently against the floor as he surged upright.
"What?!"
Tokikake's next words hit like a cannon blast.
"But he's dying!!"
The color drained from Sengoku's face. "What did you say?!"
Without another word, he bolted from the room, the other officers on his heels.
If Darren truly was on the brink of death, it would be a loss no victory could make up for. The future of the Marines themselves would tremble.
As the door slammed shut behind them, only Momonga remained seated.
For a moment, he stared after them in silence. Then, slowly, he exhaled—and a faint, knowing smile ghosted across his face.
To be continued...