—Broadcast—
New Marine Headquarters – Rome
Following the revelation of Admiral Thunder Rat or Raizumi, another name emerged from the Sky Screen's intelligence overlay: Admiral Tenryu. Both officers existed only in dialogue references and background mentions—their actual appearances still absent from broadcast footage. This conspicuous absence made the old guard Marines in the Real World increasingly anxious.
How many Admirals did the New Marine actually possess? Twelve, according to previous statements. But viewers had only seen a handful directly: Sakazuki, Esdeath, Wendy, and now these mysterious Raizumi and Tenryu through secondhand mentions.
What capabilities did the unseen Admirals possess? What Devil Fruits granted them their power? Were they all truly Admiral-class, or had the title's meaning been diluted through expansion?
But one revelation had dominated discussion more than mysterious Admiral identities: Admiral Sakazuki's golden glove.
The equipment embedded in his right hand—that impossible artifact allowing him to grab objects through space itself, to reverse transdimensional teleportation mid-transit—had stunned viewers worldwide. During the Hextech Flying Gate's activation sequence, Vegapunk's original body had been rescued from enemies who'd already begun their escape.
The scientist hadn't fallen into the Illuminati's hands. The invasion of Egghead Island had ended in complete failure for the attackers.
This marked the first time the Illuminati's name had appeared in global discourse. Could they be some small, unknown organization operating in obscurity? That seemed unlikely—possessing a top-tier scientific talent like Victor should have made them famous long ago.
There was clearly much more to discover about this mysterious technological faction.
Currently, neither the World Government nor the Marine could afford to send significant personnel toward hunting a newly emerging organization. Both massive bureaucracies were stretched thin managing existing crises. They could only hope the Illuminati would reveal themselves voluntarily—making capture far more convenient than active searching.
—Real World—
Marine Headquarters – Marineford
In the Marine officers' cafeteria at Marineford, Vice Admiral Gion sat across from Artoria Pendragon. The woman's face bore an expression of pure inquiry—though "gossip" might be the more accurate description.
"Six years from now, Sakazuki has clearly been trained very well by you," Gion observed, pointing toward the Sky Screen display mounted on the cafeteria wall. "He's being invited to dinner with you personally. Seeing how positive that man appears in your presence, I genuinely suspect Admiral Sakazuki has been replaced by an imposter."
In Vice Admiral Momosagi's extensive memory, Admiral Sakazuki had always been unruly, independent, borderline insubordinate. He'd never shown even a fraction of that respectful deference toward Fleet Admiral Sengoku—the current commanding officer he theoretically served under.
What kind of magic did Artoria possess that could make the Marine's strongest radical warriors follow a young girl's lead so completely?
Artoria's response was characteristically brief: "I simply treat them like human beings rather than disposable assets."
Then the blonde girl immediately returned her attention to the rice bowl before her, completely ignoring the curious gazes of surrounding Marine colleagues. She continued eating with single-minded determination, shoveling food into her mouth with mechanical efficiency.
Filling her stomach took priority over satisfying others' curiosity.
Across the cafeteria, Admiral Sakazuki had also entered during his scheduled meal period. His eyes tracked toward the future Fleet Admiral's location, observing the blonde girl who worked through her meal with relentless focus.
He couldn't understand it. Why would he follow this woman in the future? Wouldn't serving as Fleet Admiral himself be preferable? He possessed the strength, the conviction, the absolute justice philosophy. Why subordinate himself to someone else's command?
As the question circulated through his mind, the Sky Screen provided a cryptic answer through its next broadcast segment.
—Broadcast—
Rome's Marine Cafeteria
[Character Note: Since the New Marine constructed a completely renovated headquarters in the future, the cafeteria facilities expanded to accommodate the organization's massive growth. The building stands dozens of stories taller than Marineford's old mess hall, with internal systems upgraded to cutting-edge standards.]
The broadcast's analytical overlay provided context as the scene established itself:
[Chefs trained internally and culinary specialists hired from civilian sectors rotate kitchen duties, ensuring variety and quality. The meal service operates on self-serve principles—personnel take whatever they want in whatever quantities they desire. However, excessive food waste triggers penalty mechanisms. The core principle: waste nothing.]
[Beyond the public cafeteria, a specialized banquet hall serves senior officers exclusively. This private area provides ample freedom for high-ranking personnel. Those who prefer not to conduct meetings in formal conference rooms often choose these single-occupancy dining spaces instead.]
[The rooms also function as alternative rest areas. Admiral Borsalino frequently naps on the banquet hall's leather sofas despite his personal dormitory containing identical furniture. Perhaps he simply enjoys the change of scenery.]
The camera perspective shifted, showing three figures approaching the cafeteria entrance.
Admiral Artoria Pendragon walked in the rear position—unusual for someone of her rank, but clearly deliberate. Admiral Esdeath led the procession, her long blue hair swaying with each confident stride. Admiral Sakazuki maintained position behind and to the left of the Fleet Admiral, yielding half a body length to demonstrate proper respect for his commanding officer.
The physical positioning spoke volumes about hierarchy and relationship dynamics.
Esdeath pushed open the massive cafeteria doors with casual strength. The interior revealed itself: collective meal time for Rome's garrison, meaning at least a thousand Marines dining simultaneously. The sheer scale qualified as architectural spectacle—a mess hall resembling a cathedral more than a functional eating space.
The moment the Fleet Admiral entered accompanied by two Admirals, the cafeteria's boisterous atmosphere died instantly.
Conversations cut off mid-sentence. Utensils clattered onto plates as hands released them in synchronized motion. The ambient noise of a thousand people eating, talking, and moving simply... stopped.
Someone shouted "Attention!"—the voice's origin impossible to identify, but the effect was immediate and universal.
Every person in the cafeteria—from the newest recruit to seasoned officers bearing scars from decades of combat—rose to their feet in perfect unison. They adopted textbook military posture: backs straight, shoulders squared, eyes forward, hands positioned precisely along trouser seams.
Then, as one coordinated entity, they saluted toward the Fleet Admiral.
The gesture carried weight beyond mere protocol. This wasn't rote military courtesy performed out of obligation. The salutes radiated genuine respect—worship, even. Every Marine's eyes blazed with fervent devotion, an intensity suggesting they would die for Artoria Pendragon without hesitation if she merely asked.
Confronted with such formal ceremony, Artoria's expression shifted to something approaching helpless exasperation. She'd told her subordinates repeatedly that excessive formality was unnecessary. Such displays only widened the psychological distance between grassroots soldiers and command staff.
But Artoria's personal preferences regarding ceremony meant nothing compared to what the Marines themselves valued.
Although they never refuted her suggestions openly—that would constitute insubordination—they simply continued their traditions afterward. Standing at attention when she appeared. Saluting regardless of context. Treating her presence as though divinity itself had manifested.
They relied on these rituals to build common values, to unite disparate personalities under shared purpose, to remind themselves what they fought for.
"Please, sit down and continue your meals," Artoria said, her voice carrying easily across the massive space despite not being raised. The blonde girl sounded resigned about the Marines' obsession with ceremony, accepting she couldn't change organizational culture through simple requests.
With the Fleet Admiral's permission granted, normalcy flooded back into the cafeteria like water filling a vacuum. Those who'd been eating resumed their meals. Personnel collecting food returned to the service lines. Conversations restarted mid-thought, laughter echoing once more through the vaulted ceiling.
As if the solemn ceremony had never occurred at all.
The three senior officers proceeded deeper into the facility, navigating toward the private section where a single conference room had been reserved in advance. Only service staff delivering meals would disturb them there.
After entering the exclusive banquet hall, Artoria claimed the head position—the seat commanding the room's sightlines and establishing clear hierarchical positioning. Sakazuki took the chair to her left, while Esdeath occupied the right-hand seat.
These were the positions both Admirals habitually claimed, the arrangement so familiar it required no discussion. They'd conducted meetings in this exact configuration dozens of times over the years.
"There are no outsiders here, Sakazuki," Artoria began, her tone shifting from public Fleet Admiral to something more personal—closer to concerned friend than commanding officer. "Before the food arrives, I want to address something we've discussed before. You need to visit Illya. Soon. Some emotional knots must be untied before they calcify permanently. Otherwise, you'll carry regret for the rest of your life."
Her expression adopted that particular quality she wore when delivering advice she knew wouldn't be welcomed—maternal concern mixed with aristocratic authority.
Admiral Sakazuki, sitting in the first seat to her left, displayed a rare flash of genuine helplessness across his scarred features. This topic clearly caused him profound internal conflict.
There existed scars in a man's heart he preferred not to discuss. Wounds that speaking about only deepened rather than healed.
Since the period when Sakazuki disappeared from the Marine lived an entirely different life. A second existence separate from his identity as Admiral, as warrior, as absolute justice's avatar.
If he'd recovered his memory earlier, many regrettable events could have been prevented. Many people he'd wronged could have been saved from consequences his actions caused.
It was the pirates' fault. Everything traced back to pirates.
If pirates hadn't appeared during his second life, Sakazuki might have stayed in one place permanently. Lived a relatively happy existence far removed from war, justice, and endless violence.
But there were no "ifs" in this tragic world. Reality permitted no alternative timelines, no comfortable what-might-have-beens.
The man sitting in Rome's banquet hall was even more obsessed than his younger self from years past. His hatred of pirates had intensified beyond rationality into something approaching theological absolutism. His radical philosophy had evolved: better to kill a thousand innocents by mistake than allow a single pirate to escape.
That doctrine had implicated countless bystanders. Condemned people whose only crime was proximity to suspected criminals.
Admiral Sakazuki's hands were stained with blood—not just enemy combatants, but collateral victims his policies had sacrificed on the altar of absolute justice.
He could never turn back now.
The path forward offered only more violence, more severity, more uncompromising pursuit of eradication.
But Illya... that name represented the road not taken. The life he'd lost. The person he'd failed.
And Artoria was right, as always. Some wounds festered when left unattended.
Sakazuki's jaw clenched, magma-colored eyes reflecting inner turmoil no amount of Haki could suppress.
"I'll... consider it," he finally managed, the concession clearly costing him significant effort.
Esdeath observed this exchange with undisguised fascination, her sadistic personality finding entertainment in watching the stoic Admiral squirm under emotional pressure.
Artoria simply nodded, accepting the non-committal response. She understood her subordinates well enough to know when pushing further would prove counterproductive.
The service staff arrived with their meals, and the conversation shifted to more comfortable tactical discussions.
But the question lingered in the air between them, unresolved:
Who was Illya? And what had Sakazuki done that required forgiveness?