In truth, Gern's argument had already begun to sway Sakazuki.
But who was Sakazuki?
A man with terminal-stage suspicion. His brows were knitted so tightly they could've crushed a Sea King. Clearly, an intense internal struggle was still raging behind those magma-scorched eyes.
Gern was no fool. The moment he sensed it, he immediately activated "silent mode," giving Sakazuki ample time to run through every possible calculation in his head.
Outwardly, Gern adopted the expression of a man grieving for the fate of the nation.
Inwardly, he counted down.
Three.
Two.
One…
Hooked.
He couldn't let Sakazuki think for too long. The atmosphere was primed—emotion stirred, logic laid bare.
So Gern suddenly barked out:
"Five years!!!"
"…Five years?" Sakazuki lifted his gaze, eyes boring into him.
"That's right. I only need five years!"
"In five years, I'll completely consolidate the New World and establish an unshakable Marine hegemony!"
"Five years from now, I, Gern Reginald Sigmar, swear upon the justice I uphold—"
"I will resign from all military positions and retire entirely!"
"When that time comes, the position of Fleet Admiral—"
"I will personally, with my own hands and my own voice, nominate you, Sakazuki, to take it!"
"And if anyone objects…"
Gern's eyes sharpened.
"I'll crush them."
The office fell into deathly silence.
Sakazuki stared at him, searching for deception.
Five years.
To a man at the peak of his power, five years was nothing.
Five years to purge a sea filled—by his standards—with little more than trash-tier pirates… in exchange for an uncontested Fleet Admiral seat, personally handed over by Gern himself?
To a man who had always desired that throne—who yearned to enforce his ideology without compromise—
The temptation was immense.
This wasn't some empty promise.
This was a deluxe supreme pizza shoved straight into his mouth.
Double cheese.
Extra magma ham.
And Gern's oath had sounded utterly sincere. He had sworn upon his "justice."
To Sakazuki—who treated justice as sacred doctrine—that carried weight.
True, Gern's "Calamity Justice" might differ slightly from his own "Absolute Justice" in factory settings.
But a vow was a vow.
Sworn upon belief itself.
In practical terms, it was as good as staking the Pirate King's head as collateral.
More importantly, Sakazuki wasn't naïve.
Trying to wrest the Fleet Admiral position from Gern right now?
Success rate: approximately zero.
But here Gern was, proactively reserving the seat for him—complete with a consolation cake for his faction.
The deal was almost too sweet.
After a long moment, Sakazuki's furrowed brow loosened slightly. He leaned back in his chair and spoke in a low rumble.
"Remember your oath, Gern."
Which translated roughly to:
"I'll eat the promise. You'd better keep the seat warm."
"Of course." Gern smiled, the picture of relieved sincerity. He straightened up.
"Then… the first half of the Grand Line is yours, Sakazuki."
He turned and headed toward the door without hesitation.
"Wait."
Sakazuki's voice halted him.
Gern paused but did not turn around, merely tilting his head slightly. "Something else?"
"My jurisdiction."
Sakazuki's tone carried that familiar, uncompromising rigidity.
He needed it in writing.
No vague understandings.
No gray zones.
There was no "approximately" in his justice dictionary.
He required clear authorization. Precise boundaries. No ambiguity that could shackle his future actions.
Gern had anticipated the question.
"Relax," he replied immediately. "At the former site of Marineford, we'll establish a brand-new, fully independent G-2 Branch—with top-tier facilities."
"You will be stationed there with full authority."
"You will oversee the entire defensive structure of Paradise and the Four Seas' entry points."
"You, Sakazuki… will be the Absolute Justice of that sea."
He emphasized the words "brand-new," "independent," "full authority," and "overall defense," granting Sakazuki enormous autonomy.
Then he added, perfectly timed:
"Think of these five years as… preparatory training."
"A pre-service internship for the Fleet Admiral position."
That final weight tipped the scale.
Independent power.
A clearly defined future.
It satisfied nearly every core demand Sakazuki held at this stage.
"…Very well."
The silence that followed was acceptance.
Gern didn't linger. He pulled open the office door and stepped out.
The instant it closed behind him, the smile on his face vanished.
He walked steadily down the corridor, mind clear as glass.
The final internal force that could have challenged his authority had been redirected outward.
—
Four days later — G-10 Base Office.
After swiftly and efficiently arranging Sakazuki and his radical faction—"assigning" them to the first half of the Grand Line with full authority—
Gern felt his tolerance for desk work had reached its absolute limit.
How did that saying go again?
At heart, I am a conqueror.
A strategist.
A man accustomed to deciding the course of battle with strength and will.
Not some office bureaucrat shackled to endless paperwork.
Six months of high-intensity coordination, planning, and internal restructuring had drained nearly all of his enthusiasm for administrative affairs.
With that thought, he slowly turned his head toward Tesoro, who was still immersed in high-speed work mode, golden pen flying across documents.
A meaningful—slightly malicious—smile crept onto Gern's face as he drawled:
"Te~so~ro~~~"
The golden pen froze mid-air.
Of course.
That tone.
That expression.
The superior officer's "slacking alert" had sounded.
Tesoro sighed in resignation without even lifting his head.
"Admiral Gern. Open the second drawer on your left."
"Oh?" Gern raised an eyebrow and complied.
Inside the drawer—no piles of documents.
Only a beautifully crafted invitation card.
He picked it up, eyes tracing the flamboyant candy bow and the bold "BIG MOM" insignia.
"An invitation to Big Mom's tea party."
Because G-10 maintained certain underworld trade channels with Totto Land—mostly managed by Tesoro—Big Mom habitually sent Gern an invitation each time she hosted a tea party, as a token of superficial "friendly relations."
She knew full well that a Marine Admiral—and de facto fifth pole of power in the New World—would never lower himself to attend a pirate gathering.
And Gern had indeed ignored every previous invitation, usually tossing them straight into the trash.
But now…
He ran his fingers along the ornate cardstock.
The light in his eyes was no longer annoyance.
It was interest.
"Heh…"
He spun the invitation between his fingers.
"Guess it's time to find out whether Big Mom's cake is really as 'sweet' as they say."
—
Gern, ever the hands-off shopkeeper, slipped away cleanly.
Almost as soon as his ship quietly departed G-10's harbor, Sengoku—wearing a floral shirt and snacking as usual—wandered in to admire Gern's supposed drowning-in-paperwork misery.
Maybe throw in a few sarcastic remarks.
He stepped into the familiar office.
Only to find it… empty.
The desk was immaculate.
No towering stacks of documents.
Just a single sheet of paper placed conspicuously at the center.
Frowning, Sengoku approached and picked it up.
The handwriting was unmistakably Gern's—wild and flamboyant, yet radiating punchable smugness.
[Marshal Sengoku]
[Life is a vast wilderness!!]
(Next to it, a crude but strangely vivid doodle of a thumbs-up labeled: "Hang in there, old man.")
"!!!"
Sengoku's pupils shrank.
An extremely bad premonition surged through him.
Damn it.
He'd been played.
Gern's half-year of diligence, of grand strategy, even his meticulous arrangement of Sakazuki—
It had all been to lull him into lowering his guard.
So he could run away without guilt.
Dumping this entire colossal mess onto the "nominal" Fleet Admiral.
Too late.
As Sengoku turned to leave—
Tesoro was already standing at the doorway.
His expression was a strange blend of sympathy, helplessness, and "finally, someone else shares my suffering."
Behind him stood several soldiers pushing multiple carts piled high with documents—so many they completely blocked the exit.
Tesoro gave a slight bow.
"Marshal Sengoku…"
"I am no longer alone in this."
Sengoku: "…"
He stared at the wall of paperwork.
Then at Tesoro's "we're in this together" face.
Then at Gern's infuriating note.
The great tactician.
Fleet Admiral Sengoku the Buddha.
Felt his vision darken.
Chest tightening.
Breath catching in his throat.
Tsuru…
You were wrong.
This isn't being sidelined.
This is being treated like a workhorse.