Three days later.
The noon sun poured down without a hint of mercy over the first half of the Grand Line, glittering on the sea.
A massive Marine warship cut through the calm water. Unlike the usual iron-blooded, grim Marine vessels, this one bore a giant pink rabbit head figurehead at the bow. It looked cute—but anyone who understood what it meant knew that the intimidation behind that pink rabbit was no weaker than the fiercest beasts.
As they drew closer, a naval base—grand to the point of excess—slowly filled everyone's view.
This was Marine G-17.
Unlike most branches built with a harsh, steel-willed fortress style, G-17's first impression wasn't just "big"—it was luxurious, almost offensively so.
The base was built along the mountainside. Its massive outer walls weren't the usual gray-black stone used by the Marines; instead, they were coated in carefully maintained white paint that gleamed in sunlight like a palace carved from jade.
The harbor berths were arranged with meticulous order. On the left, rows of brand-new heavy warships sat docked—each one looked freshly launched. The paint on the rails shone, the canvas was snow-white, even the cannon mouths were polished to a reflective sheen.
"Tch—tch—"
Smoker leaned on the rail, staring at the scene, and snorted through his nose. The two cigars in his mouth bobbed as he spoke.
"This is the so-called 'model branch' G-17? If I didn't know better, I'd think we pulled into some allied kingdom's royal port. Those walls are whiter than my face."
Rain stood beside him without speaking, quietly watching the Marine flag at the top of the base building—its edges trimmed with gold thread.
At that moment, one of Gion's personal aides—a sharp-looking female major with short, neat hair—walked over with a briefing file. Adjusting her glasses, she explained:
"This is the busiest 'golden route' in the first half of the Grand Line. The wealth carried by merchant ships passing through here each day exceeds the treasury of a small nation."
Her tone turned complicated as she looked at the gleaming base.
"As the Marines guarding this point, G-17 receives an astronomical amount in 'donations' every year. If they're even slightly… flexible, the 'oil' that slips through their fingers is enough to paint the whole base in gold."
She paused, then added, "With that much money, of course the façade has to look good. This is a model branch HQ uses for appearances—something to show to the 'important people' up top."
As the warship eased toward the dock, a group already waiting on the pier immediately hurried to greet them.
A red carpet.
Yes—on a dock covered in cargo and ropes, a bright red carpet nearly a hundred meters long had been laid out, leading straight to the gangplank.
Along both sides stood two lines of ceremonial guards holding the newest repeating muskets, chests out and heads high. Their uniforms weren't just crisp—there wasn't a single wrinkle. Even their buttons were gold-plated, glittering painfully under the sun.
And the man at the front radiated "wealth" so hard it was almost aggressive.
He was slightly overweight, his large "Justice" coat stretched taut over him.
His rosy, well-fed face had none of the roughness sea wind should have carved into it—only pampered smoothness.
On his ten fingers, at least three gemstone rings sparkled.
The insignia on his shoulder flashed: Rear Admiral.
This was the top officer of G-17—Rear Admiral Nelson.
"Ahaha! I've been looking forward day and night—finally, finally you've arrived!"
Before Gion even stepped down the gangplank, Nelson's overly enthusiastic voice came up. He jogged forward, the flesh on his face jiggling with each step, grinning so broadly it felt oily. Despite outranking Gion, he showed not the slightest hint of arrogance.
He looked less like a rear admiral commanding troops… and more like a shrewd merchant greeting an important customer.
"Marineford's famed Rear Admiral Gion! Your presence truly brings honor to our humble branch!"
Gion came down the gangplank with Rain and Smoker. Her boots sank slightly into the plush red carpet, and her brows tightened almost imperceptibly.
The feel underfoot made her uncomfortable.
"Rear Admiral Nelson. A pleasure." Gion's tone was cool. She didn't take the hand he offered—only nodded politely. "We're here for routine inspection and resupply. No need for this kind of show."
"Show? Not at all!"
Nelson didn't look embarrassed in the slightest. He smoothly withdrew his hand and turned it into an exaggerated "please" gesture.
"This is basic etiquette! You represent Marineford! If we failed to welcome you properly, wouldn't that be slapping Headquarters in the face?"
His words were slick and airtight. His tiny eyes, squeezed almost shut by fat, glittered with calculation.
"As for resupply—" Nelson patted his chest grandly. "Rear Admiral Gion, rest assured! Ammunition, fresh water, even the finest ingredients—I've had it all prepared. I'll make sure our brothers from HQ eat and drink well!"
As he spoke, his gaze lingered on Gion—from her refined face to her long, poised figure. A flash of open admiration flickered in his eyes, mixed with a hint of greedy appraisal—gone in an instant.
Then his eyes slid past Gion to the two behind her.
When he saw Smoker, smoke curling from his mouth as he scowled at everything, Nelson's expression carried a clear trace of disgust—like Smoker was trash about to stain his carpet.
As for Rain, who looked mild-mannered and unremarkable, Nelson simply ignored him.
Just two of Gion's followers, nothing more.
In Nelson's worldview, anyone below field-grade officer rank wasn't worth a change in expression, let alone conversation.
"Rear Admiral Gion, this way please!"
Nelson fully ignored Rain and Smoker, turning sideways and leading with an ingratiating smile.
"You've traveled a long way, you must be tired. I've prepared a modest reception in the base to welcome you—please, do me the honor!"
Gion stopped, instinctively wanting to refuse such pointless socializing.
But then she glanced back—quietly—at Rain.
Rain's face was blank, but he gave her a tiny left-eye wink.
The message was obvious: Go see.
Gion's mind stirred. Tsuru's "full supervision" order came back to her.
If the person she was supposed to supervise wanted to "take a look," then as his supervisor, this was the perfect chance to see what he was after.
Of course, if Gion knew Rain's "deep meaning" was simply that he wanted to mooch a good meal, that familiar hand-chop would have landed on his forehead again without mercy.
Gion understood, turned back, and gave Nelson a faint, polite smile.
"Since Rear Admiral Nelson insists, we'll trouble you."
Past the ornate iron gate, inside the base, the luxury was even more blatant.
The hallways were covered in thick wool carpet. Expensive oil paintings hung on the walls. Elegant porcelain vases were placed every few meters. If not for the occasional patrol passing by, it might as well have been a royal palace.
The "modest reception" was arranged in the banquet hall at the top of the base.
Massive floor-to-ceiling windows made from the most expensive clear glass offered a full view of the bustling harbor.
A long dining table was draped in white silk. Silverware gleamed under crystal chandeliers.
When dish after dish was carried out, even Smoker—who'd already tasted plenty of good food thanks to Rain—couldn't help widening his eyes.
A whole roasted cow sizzled with dripping fat, releasing a scent that could drive people insane.
A mountain of deep-sea caviar—each bead plump and glossy—costing "gold by the gram."
And thick-armed lobsters—rare to the point of absurdity—piled up as if they were worthless.
Aged red wine that only nobles could afford was poured like water into decanters.
"This…" Smoker stared at the table that looked like it cost more than ten years of his salary, his throat bobbing once.
"Come, come! Rear Admiral Gion, please take the seat of honor!"
Nelson sat at the head seat, beaming as he invited her.
~~~
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