Two months later — G-10 Naval Base, Marine Hospital.
The sharp, sterile scent of disinfectant hung thick in the air.
Kuzan's eyelashes trembled faintly before his eyes slowly opened.
The instant his consciousness returned, a violent wave of phantom pain surged from the left side of his body—along with an unbearable, hollow absence.
Instinctively, he tried to sit up.
His movement stopped halfway.
His gaze dropped.
To where his left leg should have been.
There was nothing.
Empty.
A shadow passed over his face, sinking into something dark and impenetrable. The lazy, perpetually unfocused eyes that once carried an air of indifference now held only cold stillness—and understanding.
There was no shouting.
No furious roar.
Only silence.
The moisture in the air began to crystallize, gathering, shaping.
Moments later, a leg forged of solid ice formed where flesh and bone had once been. It anchored to him seamlessly, supporting his weight as he rose stiffly from the hospital bed.
Kuzan pushed open the door and stepped out into the corridor.
The hallway lights were harsh against his eyes.
He had barely taken two steps before he stopped.
On the long bench lining the wall sat a solitary figure.
Gern Reginald Sigmar.
He wore his usual black shirt, without the Marine coat of justice draped over his shoulders. He simply sat there in silence, watching Kuzan emerge—watching the faint vapor curl from the ice that now served as his leg.
Their eyes met.
The air between them grew heavy, dense with unspoken weight.
Kuzan spoke first. His voice was hoarse—though the tone carried that familiar hint of dry humor.
"Ahh… so I guess I lost."
He dragged the ice-forged leg forward and walked toward Gern.
Without a word of greeting, Gern flicked his wrist and tossed a bottle toward him.
"Tch." Kuzan caught it cleanly. He glanced at the label and gave a crooked, self-mocking smile. "Giving alcohol to a patient who just woke up… that's not exactly standard hospital procedure, Gern."
"Fair point." Gern didn't even look up. His voice remained calm. "Want me to swap it out for vitamins?"
"Heh." Kuzan let out a short laugh and shook his head. Cold mist seeped from his palm, instantly chilling the liquor inside the bottle. He tossed it back to Gern without drinking.
Then he lowered himself onto the bench beside him and reached into a crate that had somehow appeared nearby. He pulled out another bottle, bit the cap off with his teeth, and took a long swig.
And so the two of them sat side by side in the hospital corridor, drinking straight from their bottles in silence.
The quiet stretched.
At length, Kuzan spoke again, his voice steadier now.
"No back pain. No lingering injuries. I wake up and I'm already fit enough to sit here drinking…" He glanced sideways. "Lipo used her Heal-Heal Fruit on me, didn't she?"
He could feel it. Aside from the missing leg, the catastrophic damage to his organs and bones had been miraculously repaired.
Gern took a sip, eyes fixed on the empty corridor ahead.
"Maybe," he said. "Maybe not."
Kuzan frowned. "What kind of answer is that?"
"Damn it, Kuzan…" Gern's tone sharpened slightly. "Your leg was shattered. And you were this close to being killed."
He raised two fingers, nearly touching.
"Even with the Heal-Heal Fruit, there's no way you'd be sitting here in two months like nothing happened."
"Then…" Kuzan turned his head, confusion flickering in his eyes.
"It was Kuma," Gern said at last. "I asked him to use the Paw-Paw Fruit."
"To push out the fatal injuries and negative effects inside your body—treating them as 'pain' and 'damage.'"
Kuzan blinked. "Huh?"
Disbelief crept across his face.
"You… took that damage for me?"
His first assumption was obvious—that Gern had borne the price.
Gern shook his head and took another drink.
"It was Sakazuki."
Kuzan froze.
"That bastard…" Gern continued quietly. "You two were fighting to the death. Trying to kill each other."
"And in the end, without saying a word…"
"He used Kuma's ability to take on most of the fatal injuries and pain that should've hit you."
Gern finally turned to face him, eyes deep and unreadable.
"He still hasn't woken up."
…
The bottle in Kuzan's hand hovered in midair.
His expression stiffened—shock, confusion, and then something far more complicated surged through his gaze.
Sakazuki.
The man who preached "Absolute Justice."
The one who had tried to kill him without hesitation.
That stubborn, merciless fanatic…
Had chosen that in the end?
The corridor fell silent again, save for the faint slosh of liquor inside glass.
Time stretched.
Finally, Kuzan exhaled slowly and leaned back against the cold wall, as though releasing a burden he had carried for years.
"That extremist…" he muttered, shaking his head.
"Guess the only thing extreme about him… was his justice."
Only now did he seem to grasp it—the warped but strangely pure conviction buried beneath Sakazuki's brutality.
After a moment, he turned to Gern.
His voice was calm, devoid of resentment.
"We fought and argued for years…"
"And in the end…"
"The Marines were yours all along, Gern."
Gern did not dodge the statement. Nor did he offer hollow modesty.
"That's right."
"The Marines can only belong to me."
"Not Sakazuki. Not you."
He had expected resistance—bitterness, sarcasm, perhaps a final flash of pride.
Instead, Kuzan simply sighed.
"Ahh…"
The habitual drawl returned—but the aimless haze in his eyes was gone.
In its place was clarity.
Understanding.
And perhaps… the faintest trace of admiration.
"All these years," Kuzan said softly, "walking this path step by step… must've been exhausting, huh, Gern?"
He wasn't questioning Gern's ambition.
He was acknowledging its weight.
Gern blinked, caught off guard.
"Honestly," Kuzan continued before he could reply, "if it were me… I couldn't do it."
"I couldn't walk your road."
"Every time the pressure piled up… every time I had to face choices that heavy… I probably would've quit halfway."
He admitted it openly—his limits. His weakness.
He saw now what Gern had endured to reach this point: the calculations, the patience, the risks, the unbearable loneliness.
That road was too heavy.
Too solitary.
It had never been meant for someone like Kuzan.
At last, he raised his bottle in a quiet gesture—a silent handover.
"Gern…"
"The Marines are yours."
He drained the rest of the liquor in one swallow and stood. The ice leg struck the floor with a crisp, echoing tap.
"Have you decided?" Gern asked, still seated.
Kuzan paused.
"I think… I lost my justice somewhere along the way."
"I'm going to try and find it."
He glanced back slightly, though he did not fully turn.
"And thanks for the drink."
"It tastes like the first time we met."
"Too bad that bar we used to hang out in is gone."
With that, he walked away.
Step by step.
His silhouette, incomplete yet unbowed, receded down the corridor.
Toward the exit.
Toward a future beyond the Marines—one that belonged to him alone.
Gern remained seated on the bench, staring at the space where Kuzan had disappeared.
He didn't move for a long time.
At some point, the bottle in his hand had gone empty.
There had been no resentment in Kuzan's final words.
No bitterness.
Perhaps this…
…was the best farewell they could have given each other.