The waves churned as Whitebeard's pirate ship slowly steadied itself amid the lingering aftershocks.
Marco drew in his blue flames, landing beside Whitebeard. A trace of confusion—and concern—was etched between his brows.
"Pops," he finally said, unable to hold it in, "that last strike… you could've shattered that Marine ship into dust. Why did you stop?"
"Hm?" Whitebeard planted Murakumogiri on the deck and burst into his trademark laughter.
"Gurararara! Marco, didn't you hear him?"
"When that brat reported his name, he said—"
"He said the name Gern would one day resound across the seas!" Whitebeard repeated, his eyes blazing as his voice boomed.
"So of course… I'm looking forward to it. And more than that—what surprised me was that his raw strength could actually match mine from my younger days."
Seeing that same excitement Whitebeard wore whenever he first took in a new "son," Marco's eyelid twitched. A strong sense of foreboding crept up his spine.
He rubbed his temple instinctively and sighed. "Hey… Pops. Don't tell me you're—"
He took a deep breath, then groaned out the conclusion.
"—thinking about taking that Marine in as your son again, are you?!"
"…."
The air froze.
Whitebeard's hearty grin stiffened, then shifted into a slightly awkward expression—like a man caught red-handed. He stroked his crescent-shaped mustache and threw his head back in laughter, trying to cover it up.
"Gurararara! You saw right through me, didn't you?"
"Pops!" Marco rolled his eyes so hard it nearly hurt. "I knew it! Every time you meet a promising newcomer, this habit of yours kicks in!"
Whitebeard didn't mind in the slightest. Instead, he cheerfully slapped Marco on the shoulder.
"What, jealous? Don't worry—you'll always be my finest son!"
"Who's jealous?!" Marco brushed his hand away in exasperation.
"I'm saying that guy's a Marine! A Marine!
And he's a monster rookie who can clash head-on with you—without Haki—using just his Devil Fruit and raw strength!
And his Devil Fruit ability is way too similar to—"
"Ah-la!" Whitebeard cut him off with a grin, gazing out across the distant sea.
"So what if he's a Marine? Didn't that bastard Roger wear a Marine uniform once too?"
"Gurararara! As long as you carry the sea in your heart, one day—"
"That was just Roger fooling around when he raided a Marine base!" Marco snapped.
"Eh?!" Whitebeard blinked. "Was it?"
Then, as if struck by a new thought, he asked, "Marco… do you believe in fate?"
"Pops, you haven't even been drinking today!"
"Gurararara!" Whitebeard waved it off. "Same difference."
"And besides… I really am looking forward to that Marine brat named Gern."
Watching him like this, Marco could only shake his head helplessly—though the corner of his mouth lifted despite himself.
"Seriously… I can't do anything with you."
He turned and walked toward the railing, ready to see to the repairs.
But the moment Marco's back was turned—
Whitebeard's smile vanished.
In its place settled a deep, solemn gravity.
His rugged brows drew together as his gaze locked onto the restless sea.
"That sword…"
In his mind rose the image of the weapon in Gern's hands—a blade pitch-black like an abyss, riddled with dark crimson fissures.
Setting aside the vibration particles wrapped around it, those ominous red cracks…
and that oppressive presence, forged by a familiar Haki—one that felt as if it could swallow everything whole—
"I wouldn't mistake it," Whitebeard muttered, his voice barely audible, laden with shock and complicated emotion.
That was Rocks' blade.
The weapon of the man who once ruled the seas—
the man who made even the World Government tremble:
Rocks D. Xebec.
"Why…"
"Why is it in the hands of that Marine brat?"
Whitebeard's fist clenched unconsciously, Murakumogiri humming faintly in response.
Countless possibilities flashed through his mind. In the end, he let out a slow, heavy sigh, something conflicted glinting in his eyes.
"How ironic, Rocks…"
"You hated the Marines and the World Government more than anyone…
and yet now, your blade is in the hands of a Marine—
shaking the seas once more."
...
Three days later, aboard a Marine warship's infirmary.
Wrapped head to toe in bandages, Gern slowly opened his eyes. The sharp scent of disinfectant filled his nose, while a dull ache throughout his body reminded him of the earth-shaking clash not long ago.
He flexed his fingers experimentally.
Good. Still there.
"That was reckless…"
Staring at the ceiling, Gern calmly replayed the battle in his mind.
Facing Edward Newgate at his absolute peak—and choosing to clash head-on—had been nothing short of gambling with his life.
If it had been someone like Shiki, cruel and merciless, there would have been no mercy. He would already be dead.
But soon, a sharp smile tugged at his lips.
—He'd won the bet.
Muffled voices drifted in from outside the cabin door.
"Did you hear? Ensign Gern crossed blades with Whitebeard for three whole exchanges!"
"That's nothing—I saw it myself! Whitebeard even acknowledged him!"
"That guy's definitely future-admiral material…"
"Honestly? I think he's stronger than those three monster rookies from HQ."
Gern listened in silence, his gaze growing deeper.
Compared to his so-called "achievements" hunting fodder pirates in the West Blue, this battle was what truly carved his name into the sea.
These were Headquarters Marines—direct witnesses. The news would spread through Marineford like wildfire.
Slowly, Gern sat up. Eight Desolations rested beside the bed, its blade reflecting the sharp light in his eyes.
"Tremor Gern…"
He reached out instinctively and began wrapping the blade in white cloth.
From today onward, that name would define him.
No longer the hollow title of "pirate hunter" from the West Blue—
but a codename acknowledged by the World Government, by Marine Headquarters, and by the great pirates of the sea.
"With no background to rely on," he murmured, tightening the final wrap, "fame itself becomes a form of capital."
He clenched his fist.
If he was going to step onto the Marine's grand chessboard, he had to secure a high starting position from the very beginning.
Today's battle had surely already landed on the Fleet Admiral's desk.
Those officers who once looked down on him for being West Blue–born, for bypassing the Marine academies—
were undoubtedly reassessing this "newcomer" now.
"But it's still not enough…"
Gern turned his gaze toward the rolling sea beyond the porthole.
That final strike—Whitebeard's blade wreathed in overwhelming, destructive Conqueror's coating—replayed endlessly in his mind.
That crushing realm.
That supremacy that towered above all.
"Heh…" Gern chuckled softly.
"I really can't wait to get my hands on Haki."
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