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The arrival of Marco and Silvers Rayleigh injected fresh tension into Nine Snake Island's atmosphere, transforming what had been a straightforward negotiation into something far more complicated. Yet despite the sudden appearance of two legendary figures, both newcomers maintained surprising politeness. Neither attacked the Marine representative on sight—a restraint that spoke to careful calculation rather than mercy.
Admiral Kennen observed Phoenix Marco with openly curious eyes, his small frame still crackling with residual electricity. He studied the man carefully, searching for something special—some clue to explain an impossible resurrection.
As for whether Boa Hancock would ultimately join the Adventure Group system... there were far too many interfering factors present now. The situation had grown too complex for continued discussion. Better to table the matter and gather intelligence.
"Excuse me, Mr. Marco," Kennen began, his high-pitched voice carrying an edge of professional suspicion. "According to Marine records, should be dead. Your death was witnessed directly by Admiral Borsalino himself." The small Admiral tilted his head, electrical sparks dancing between his fingers. "Is there perhaps some... misunderstanding here?"
The question hung in the air like an accusation.
In the final stages of the Battle of Marineford—at least according to official Marine documentation—Borsalino had single-handedly fought off several Whitebeard Division Commanders simultaneously. During that fierce engagement, he'd managed to fasten a Seastone necklace around Marco's throat, rendering the Phoenix's Devil Fruit abilities completely inert.
And then, according to the report, he'd killed him.
Not only had Admiral Kizaru witnessed Marco's death with his own eyes—he'd personally delivered half of the Phoenix's corpse to the Marine Logistics Department as proof of his victory. That partial body was currently displayed somewhere in Marine Headquarters, preserved in a glass case as a trophy of war.
Yet here stood Marco—whole, alive, and breathing—on Nine Snake Island in broad daylight.
The strategic implications of this resurrection were staggering. This information absolutely had to be transmitted back to headquarters. The Marine Intelligence Department needed to know about this variable immediately, needed to understand how their supposedly verified intelligence had been so catastrophically wrong.
Marco looked at the justice cloak draped across Admiral Kennen's small frame, his expression distant and haunted. To claim he held no resentment toward the Marine would be a transparent lie. After everything that had happened at Marineford—after watching his family die one by one while he'd been powerless to save them—how could he not carry hatred?
But at the same time...
Both sides had served their own masters during that war. Both had suffered casualties. When Marco truly examined the Battle of Marineford with clear eyes, he had to acknowledge an uncomfortable truth: there had been no real winner between the two primary combatants. The Marine and the Whitebeard Pirates had simply destroyed each other for someone else's benefit.
Marshall D. Teach—that traitor—had been the final arrival at Marineford. The Blackbeard Pirates had appeared at the most critical moment, when both the Whitebeard Pirates and their temporary allies were locked in desperate combat with Marine forces. Teach had stolen the fruits of everyone's sacrifice, had claimed victories earned through other people's blood.
He'd turned everyone who fought that day into clowns. Made them all sew wedding dresses for a fat man's ambitions.
"I didn't die that day," Marco said quietly, his voice carrying the weight of survivor's guilt. "Admiral Kizaru should have known I survived—he was there at the scene. I don't..." He paused, seeming to struggle with the words. "I don't really understand why he let me live."
As a man who'd lost absolutely everything, Marco had no interest in lying. No energy for deception or playing political games. He didn't care about Borsalino's feelings, didn't care about provoking conflicts within the Marine organization.
He just wanted to die but somehow couldn't manage even that simple task.
After fleeing Marineford, Marco had drifted alone across the ocean for weeks—directionless, purposeless, a ghost haunting familiar waters. Later, he'd learned from a newspaper that the Whitebeard Pirates had been completely annihilated. Every Division Commander except himself, dead or scattered to the winds.
It had become a luxury just to recover his family members' bodies for proper burial.
Everyone had died. He alone survived.
Confused and consumed by guilt, Marco had eventually returned to Edward Newgate's beloved hometown—that peaceful village Pops had protected for decades, had loved enough to claim as his territory despite its complete lack of strategic value.
He hadn't expected to find that Edward Newgate's once-cherished sanctuary had been transformed into hell on earth.
The island had lost all its vibrant colors. Where there should have been green forests and colorful homes, only black remained—the aftermath of a massive conflagration that had consumed everything. Marco had come to the village ruins hoping desperately to find survivors, people who might still carry Pops' memory, children who'd been saved by Whitebeard's protection.
Instead, beneath the collapsed buildings and melted structures, he'd found only charred corpses.
Their bodies had been carbonized and blackened by extreme heat, flesh burned away to leave skeletal remains frozen in their final moments. Each corpse captured a different pose of agony—hands reaching toward sky in futile prayer, bodies curled around loved ones in desperate attempts at protection, mouths opened wide in screams that no one had survived to hear.
These innocent villagers—every man, woman, and child—had been burned alive. No one had been spared. Not the elderly grandmother who'd once baked Pops his favorite pie. Not the children who'd laughed and played in streets Whitebeard had walked down like a gentle giant.
They had all experienced unimaginable suffering before death mercifully claimed them.
The weak had been protected too well by Whitebeard's shadow. Without that towering tree's shelter, they'd been reduced to their true vulnerable state immediately. The inhuman executioner who'd done this work had shown absolutely no mercy to the defenseless.
In that executioner's dictionary, there existed only two categories: those who joined his forces, and those who died.
Join or die. Serve or burn.
The memory of that village haunted Marco's nightmares still. He could smell the charred flesh whenever he closed his eyes, could hear phantom screams echoing across water that should have been peaceful.
"Admiral Raizumi," Silvers Rayleigh interjected smoothly, his smile making him appear like an exceptionally kind elderly gentleman. "We've made this journey specifically on Hancock's behalf. It would be unfortunate to leave empty-handed after coming so far."
But outsiders shouldn't be fooled by that grandfatherly appearance. The title "Dark King" hadn't been earned through kindness or mercy. One absolutely must not fall into Rayleigh's linguistic traps—the old man was a master manipulator who'd learned from the Pirate King himself.
"Hancock losing her Shichibukai status appears inevitable at this point," Rayleigh continued, his tone remaining pleasant and reasonable. "So it's not unreasonable to expect she'd receive more substantial compensation for this... forced transition, wouldn't you agree?"
The Dark King's advance knowledge of the attack on Nine Snake Island had come through well-placed acquaintances in the Marine's upper echelons. Weeks before the operation launched, someone had predicted this exact scenario in Rayleigh's tavern on Sabaody Archipelago—had mentioned that the World Government's Seven Warlords system would face systematic dismantling on an appropriate day in the near future.
Large-scale troop mobilization at Marine Headquarters couldn't be hidden from someone as well-connected as Silvers Rayleigh. To ensure Boa Hancock's safety, the old man had invited the despondent Marco to journey to Nine Snake Island together.
Rayleigh maintained close ties with the Amazon Lily Kingdom for deeply personal reasons. He was, after all, this nation's son-in-law in a technical sense—having been fortunate (or bold) enough to abduct one of their former Empresses decades ago. His actions had left the Kingdom of Daughters leaderless for an extended period, creating political chaos that had taken years to resolve.
The tremendous importance he placed on this country today stemmed from a desire to repay old debts, to protect what his youthful selfishness had once endangered.
The Dark King is truly an old fox who knows how to leverage situations, Kennen thought with grudging admiration. He's taking advantage of superior numbers—four against one—to extract concessions.
Admiral Kennen hadn't prepared extensively for this particular contingency. If he attempted to fight in this situation, he'd be actively seeking his own destruction.
Four against one with these specific opponents? Absolutely no chance of victory.
Kennen possessed crystal-clear understanding of his own strength and limitations. Phoenix Marco, the Dark King Silvers Rayleigh, Empress Boa Hancock, and Wonder Woman Diana—none of them were weaklings who could be dismissed casually. Having all four gather in one location simultaneously was an extremely low-probability event, yet here they stood.
"The Marine has undergone tremendous institutional transformation," Kennen acknowledged carefully, his electrical discharge dimming slightly—a gesture of concession. "Although I hold the rank of Admiral, I possess very limited economic autonomy. I can promise to provide basic living supplies to Nine Snake Island moving forward—food, medicine, essential materials."
He spread his small hands in a gesture of helplessness.
"But if you're requesting compensation on a larger scale, I would need to submit applications to higher authorities for approval. Fleet Admiral Artoria Pendragon maintains final authority over such expenditures. Even Admirals cannot arbitrarily dispense Marine resources."
Kennen had also understood the subtle hint embedded in Rayleigh's words. It was almost certainly Admiral Borsalino who'd tipped off the Dark King—otherwise this old man wouldn't know about the Marine's classified combat plans, wouldn't have appeared here with such convenient timing.
The Admiral's combat mission had been thoroughly thwarted. Kennen would absolutely hold Borsalino accountable for this sabotage. When he returned to Rome, there would be a reckoning. He wouldn't suffer this humiliation silently.
Failing to complete a task personally assigned by the Fleet Admiral with both quality and efficiency intact... as a member of the Mink Tribe elevated to extraordinary rank, Kennen felt profound shame at this outcome.
After all, Fleet Admiral Artoria Pendragon had promoted him to Admiral as an exception to normal advancement procedures, had trusted him with critical missions. He needed to prove worthy of that faith and appreciation.
"Whether it's the Adventure Group or the Shichibukai system," Boa Hancock said finally, her voice carrying new maturity, "I just want Nine Snake Island to live freely without constant fear of external threats. Joining the World Government or serving the Marine..." She paused, her expression thoughtful. "In the end, working for either amounts to the same thing."
After years of ruling, navigating political complications and making difficult compromises, Boa Hancock had developed into a pragmatic leader. Previously, she'd needed constant urging from her advisor—the elderly woman called Granny Nyon—before finally agreeing to participate in the Battle of Marineford.
Now she could set aside impulsive pride and consider only the practical interests relevant to Nine Snake Island's future survival.
At that famous war, despite the presence of many tremendously powerful combatants, the Empress—like most other Warlords—had essentially done nothing throughout the entire conflict. She'd withdrawn from the battlefield with only minor injuries, later receiving compensation from the World Government that had allowed Nine Snake Island to prosper temporarily.
All in all, that particular journey hadn't been wasted effort.
Next time she performed missions for the Marine, Boa Hancock would simply demand higher compensation from the beginning. Better terms, more supplies, concrete guarantees rather than vague promises.
She was done pretending loyalty mattered more than survival.
"Then we have an accord," Admiral Kennen said quietly, relief evident despite his small frame's continued electrical crackling.
The negotiation had finally reached resolution—not through force of arms, but through cold calculation of mutual interests.
Just as it always did.