"Sorry…"
"Heh… heh heh…"
"Garp… I'm really… so tired."
Sengoku let go.
It was as if every ounce of strength had drained from his body. He shoved Garp back into the sofa, not violently, but heavily — like a man who could no longer carry what he'd been holding.
He himself staggered half a step, catching the edge of his desk just to keep from falling.
These past days…
He truly was exhausted.
Garp slumped into the couch, head bowed. His hands gripped his knees so tightly his knuckles turned white. The dog-faced cap he always wore sat crooked on his head.
He didn't argue.
He couldn't.
Every word Sengoku had just spoken was like a dull blade carving into a heart already riddled with wounds.
Just like his justice — wavering, uncertain.
Sengoku didn't look at him again. His gaze drifted out the window instead, unfocused, toward the harbor of Marineford — the symbol of Marine justice and order.
Only now did he truly understand the meaning behind the words once spoken to him by Kong when he first began assuming command.
Kong had placed a heavy hand on his shoulder and said solemnly:
"The position of Fleet Admiral is far heavier than you imagine.It is not a throne.It is a burning stake bound by countless chains."
And now that fire was scorching Sengoku's sanity — and his soul.
Internally, he had to dance on a tightrope.
He had to maintain the delicate equilibrium between Gern Reginald Sigmar's near-independent kingdom of G-10 and Marine Headquarters itself.
He needed G-10's fangs to intimidate the New World.
But he also had to ensure that beast never slipped entirely beyond control.
Within Headquarters, he had to exhaust himself mediating the growing conflict between Sakazuki's increasingly radical faction of "Absolute Justice" and Kuzan's more restrained, questioning ideology — a philosophy that harbored doubts about the current order.
One misstep, and the Marines would fracture from within.
Externally, he walked on thin ice.
The five shadowed figures atop the World Government — the Five Elders — had never stopped coveting Marine authority, seeking to absorb it entirely.
Every decision he made, every troop movement he authorized, required painstaking calculation.
He had to demonstrate the Marines' strength and value.
And at the same time, he had to guard the fragile military autonomy he had fought to preserve after the Holy Land Incident — autonomy that could be stripped away at any moment.
"Balance…"
The word clung to him like fate itself.
Back when Kong and the World Government selected him as Fleet Admiral, it was precisely because of his exceptional ability to balance forces and view the broader picture.
And throughout his tenure, he had indeed walked a taut wire, scrambling to maintain a fragile equilibrium among all powers.
But now—
Ace's identity exposed.
A full-scale war with Whitebeard looming.
That thunderbolt had shattered the illusion of balance he had painstakingly maintained.
"This position… has passed through three generations…"
The pattern formed clearly in Sengoku's mind.
The Era of Kong — Strength.
With iron will and overwhelming force, Kong had propped up the Marines through the chaos at the end of Roger's age and the dawn of the Great Pirate Era.
Then Gern had burst onto the stage, dismantling the shackles the World Government had placed upon the Marines, laying a new foundation brick by brick.
The Era of Sengoku — Balance.
Through complex internal and external tensions, he steered the Marine warship through treacherous waters, even carving out more space for the institution amid political suffocation.
"And the next one…"
His eyes deepened.
With a total war approaching — one that could overturn the existing world order.
With the World Government's manipulation growing more blatant.
With internal contradictions festering beyond suppression…
"The next era will no longer need balance…"
His gaze sharpened.
"It will require destruction — and rebirth."
It would require a blade sharp enough, resolute enough, to sever the tangled knots of this world. To shatter the old framework and establish something new.
And looking around—
Kuzan, who upheld "Burning Justice," yet often drifted into hesitation and doubt.
Sakazuki, who worshiped "Absolute Justice," ruthless to the extreme, willing to sacrifice anything and anyone.
"They… are not the optimal choice to lead the Marines through such a transformation."
Kuzan lacked the resolve to break everything apart.
Sakazuki might drag the Marines into irredeemable extremity.
So that blade…
Could only be that man.
Kong's words from years ago now returned like a boomerang, striking Sengoku squarely in the present.
...
New World — G-10
Under the dual influence of Lipo's Heal-Heal Fruit and Trafalgar Law's Op-Op Fruit—
The humiliating symbol embedded in the skull of the Golden Lion, Shiki — the ship's rudder that had plagued him for over a decade — was removed flawlessly.
No complications.
No lingering side effects.
As he felt an unprecedented lightness flood his body — a clarity in his thoughts he hadn't known in years — Shiki rolled his neck and let out a satisfied exhale.
He said nothing resembling thanks.
Instead, he cast Gern Reginald Sigmar a complex look and snorted.
"I need to get used to this… long-lost feeling."
With that, he strode off, wandering through G-10's New World territory.
Gern watched his departing back with a faint, meaningful smile.
He made no move to stop him.
"Go on. Take a good look. Feel it well…"
"You don't just need to adapt to your new body."
He needed Shiki to grow accustomed to this place.
He also needed that restless, untamed heart of his to begin nurturing… different thoughts.
Then Gern shifted his gaze to the side.
Dracule Mihawk stood there, arms folded, clearly having wanted to challenge Shiki to a dual-sword duel before the latter left.
Gern arched a brow.
"I heard that the green-haired swordsman from the Straw Hat crew — the one who plays with three swords — got smacked flying by Bartholomew Kuma and landed on that… nostalgic island of yours in the Grand Line?"
Mihawk's brow twitched almost imperceptibly at Gern's pointed provocation.
"That was Bartholomew Kuma's unilateral decision," he replied flatly.
Gern acted as if he hadn't heard the deflection.
"So… you're really not going to 'guide' him a little?"
He smiled faintly.
"After all, there aren't many swordsmen whose names you bother remembering."
Mihawk maintained his aloof persona flawlessly.
"The path of the sword," he said calmly, "may appear to branch endlessly, but it never strays from its root.
All advanced techniques originate from the most basic principles — slash, cut, thrust, guard.
If the foundation is unstable, any higher teaching is nothing more than a castle in the air."
Hearing that textbook-level, sword-manual rhetoric, Gern couldn't help but chuckle softly.
"So after all that grand circling around the topic…"
He looked at Mihawk with open amusement.
"You've just never dealt with a wild 'Three-Sword Style' before, so you don't actually know how to teach it. Right?"
Mihawk: "…"
(The world's greatest swordsman fell into rare, brief silence.)
After a moment, he gave a quiet snort — practically an admission.
"In any case, until he can rely on his own strength to thoroughly conquer — crush — the baboons on that island who imitate my swordsmanship, there is nothing to discuss."
He paused.
"When that time comes… I may, perhaps, acknowledge that he did not abandon the sword even in the depths of despair."
"And then," Mihawk's golden eyes sharpened slightly, "I might offer him a single piece of guidance."
"About the true meaning of Haki… for a swordsman."
"Oh? Just one sentence about Haki?" Gern stroked his chin, his smile deepening.
"I see…"
He said nothing more.
But the meaning in his eyes was unmistakable.
Beneath the skies of G-10, a legend of the old era was learning to live again in a body reborn.
And in unseen corners, beyond the notice of the world, the seeds of a new age were quietly taking root — waiting for the "chance" guidance of the strong to awaken them.