Night had fallen.
The dormitory building of West Blue Branch 133 lay in utter silence.
After his promotion to sergeant, Gern finally had a private room of his own.
He sat quietly by the window. Silvery moonlight filtered through the glass and spilled across the desk, illuminating the black blade wrapped layer upon layer in white bandages—
Eight Desolations.
"One of the Twelve Supreme Grade Blades…" Gern murmured.
His left hand lifted slightly. Trembling particles gathered in the air, condensing into an invisible wave of vibration.
"And on top of that… a Logia-type Heavenly Tremor Fruit."
His gaze lingered on the black blade, deep and restrained.
With his current status and strength, this sword could not be revealed lightly.
After all—it had once belonged to Rocks.
Until he possessed enough power, caution was not a choice, but a necessity.
Gern understood his situation better than anyone.
No system.
No cheats.
Every step forward was like walking on thin ice.
So his plan going forward was crystal clear.
First—fully develop the abilities of the Heavenly Tremor Fruit and strengthen his combat power.
Second—hunt pirates across the West Blue and accumulate military merit and reputation.
Third—rewrite the origin of his Devil Fruit through time and circumstance, blurring "God Valley" into "a chance discovery in the West Blue" to avoid unnecessary scrutiny.
Most importantly—
At this point in time, corruption ran rampant throughout the West Blue branches. In this era, the West Blue was known within the Marines as a "land of exile."
He had to escape the marginalization of branch duty and rise to Marine Headquarters.
Only there would he gain true access to Haki training.
And the favorable impression he'd left with Zephyr would become a crucial bargaining chip for the future.
"The era of Rocks is over…"
After a long silence, Gern exhaled softly and looked up at the night sky, moonlight reflecting in his pupils.
"What comes next will be the legendary era of Whitebeard, Roger, and Golden Lion—three powers standing in balance."
No shortcuts.
No miracles.
Gern lowered his gaze. His fingers brushed lightly over the hilt of Eight Desolations as vibration flowed quietly through his palm.
"Every step from here on…"
"I'll advance carefully. One move at a time."
…
Time passed swiftly.
One year later.
Sea Circle Calendar, 1485.
West Blue waters.
A pirate ship.
On the deck, barrels rolled freely. The scent of charred meat mixed with cheap rum hung thick in the air.
Pirates raised their cups, laughing wildly as they celebrated another successful raid.
"Hahaha! What Marine branch?"
"Didn't see a single one! Those useless Marines only know how to take bribes—pay enough, and they turn a blind eye!"
Captain Hawk of the Golden Blade Pirates threw his head back in laughter, his gold tooth glinting greasily in the firelight.
"The West Blue is my sea!"
"That's right!" the lackeys echoed loudly. "Those trash Marines aren't even fit to lick our boots!"
But just as the noise reached its peak—
"Don't you think you're celebrating a bit too early?"
A cold voice cut through the revelry like a blade.
The pirates froze and whipped their heads toward the source.
Atop the ship's cross mast, a tall figure was crouched casually.
Blinding sunlight outlined his shadowed silhouette. A long blade wrapped in white bandages was slung diagonally across his back.
"Who's there?!" Hawk barked, the alcohol in his blood instantly sobering.
One sharp-eyed pirate suddenly went pale.
"That… that sword… white bandages…"
"Could it be—Pirate Hunter Gern?!"
Silence.
The name exploded across the deck like a bomb.
The smiles on the pirates' faces froze solid.
"Don't be ridiculous…" Hawk forced out a grin, cold sweat beading on his forehead.
"That Marine monster who wiped out fifteen pirate crews alone in a single year—why would he come after us?!"
"Pirate Hunter…"
Gern covered his face lightly.
This wasn't the Great Pirate Era yet—there wasn't even such a title.
And yet somehow… it had been pinned onto him.
"Marines catching pirates is normal, isn't it?" he said mildly.
"Why does that make me a hunter?"
Hawk swallowed hard and yanked out his curved saber.
"Damn it! We're the famous Golden Blade Pirates of the West Blue!"
"I'm worth twenty-three million Beli!"
"There's only one of him! Get him—all of you!"
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Gunfire erupted in an instant.
Dozens of lead bullets tore through the air, pouring toward the figure on the mast.
Gern smiled faintly.
His body blurred within the rain of bullets.
Rounds pierced through his chest, his forehead, his throat—
Yet it was as if they passed through an illusion, leaving behind only transparent ripples of vibration in the air.
"A… a Logia?!"
Hawk's gold tooth rattled audibly.
"Are you kidding me?! How could the West Blue possibly have—"
Before he could finish—
Gern straightened.
The moment his foot stepped down, a high-density vibration track formed beneath it.
Using the reverse shockwave, his body vanished instantly.
"Tremor Shift · Slide Rail."
BZZZ—!
A piercing sonic boom ripped through the sea wind.
The pirates saw only twisted, transparent tracks appear in the air—
—and then, like waves cleaved apart by an invisible blade, the shockwave blasted outward, hurling pirates from both sides of the deck.
"Where did he go?!"
Hawk had just raised his saber when icy pressure brushed his back.
"Sorry," Gern's voice whispered.
"I have to carry out tremor-justice."
"Twenty-three million Beli—'Gold Tooth' Hawk," Gern said calmly.
"Your head is mine."
Before the words finished falling—
A pure-white tremor compressed to stellar density was already pressed against the side of Hawk's head, gathered at Gern's raised left foot.
Crack!
A dull, flesh-piercing impact exploded together with a sound like shattering glass.
Hawk's pupils dilated violently.
In his fading vision, the air itself fractured into spiderweb-like cracks—
as if space had been shattered.
"Pff—!"
His head twisted unnaturally as blood mixed with fragments of pulverized organs sprayed from his mouth.
Though the strike landed on his head, his entire body had already been crushed into mush by internal shockwaves.
Dead silence fell across the deck.
The remaining pirates stood frozen, weapons slipping from numb fingers and clattering onto the planks.
"Captain Hawk… twenty-three million Beli…"
"Killed in… one move…"
They stared at Gern's back in sheer terror.
Gern slowly lowered his raised leg. The vibration particles hadn't even fully dispersed.
"M-monster…"
One pirate collapsed limply, the stench of fear spreading beneath him.
"Tch."
Gern clicked his tongue.
"Still a bit rough. The technique modeled after Kizaru's light-speed kick isn't perfect yet."
"It works for short, straight-line sonic-speed movement, but…"
"It can't move as freely as real light."
As he spoke, his left hand lifted Hawk's cooling corpse. In his right palm, a pure-white tremor sphere silently formed.
"But this is enough."
He hurled the sphere upward.
"Tremor Step · Air Tread."
BOOM!
The compressed vibration detonated the instant he stepped down.
A ring-shaped shockwave exploded outward, launching Gern into the air.
Below him, violent tremors rippled like expanding waves. The ship's planks, mast, and cannons—
—everything they touched disintegrated into dust.
The pirates' screams never had time to escape.
The ship collapsed like fragile glasswork, shattered remains swallowed instantly by the surging sea.
High above, Gern's figure leapt from burst to burst of tremor.
Each step twisted the air itself, invisible stairs carrying him swiftly into the distance.
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