Marineford—the heart of world justice, headquarters of the Marines, the symbol of global peace.
Yet today, the harbor of this center of justice was unusually lively.
Morning sunlight refracted off the iconic, towering word "Justice" and the Marine emblem carved into the headquarters buildings. As the safest place in the world, everything here usually felt serene—the sea glittered softly, the breeze gentle and warm.
But the Marines on harbor duty had no mind to appreciate the view.
Their eyes kept drifting toward the two towering figures standing at the very front.
Zephyr—Black Arm Zephyr.
Monkey D. Garp—Iron Fist Garp.
"Hey… what's so special about today?" a headquarters ensign about to head out on patrol whispered, unable to stop glancing in their direction.
"I've got no idea either," the lieutenant beside him replied, just as puzzled.
"But if both Black Arm and Iron Fist are personally waiting at the harbor… maybe Vice Admiral Sengoku or Rear Admiral Tsuru is arriving?"
"That can't be it. Sengoku's warship departed yesterday for G-1, and he took Tsuru with him to deal with Golden Lion!"
Whispers spread across the docks. Everyone was burning with curiosity about who could warrant such a reception.
At the front of Marineford's military harbor, Zephyr stood with arms crossed, posture straight as a pine. His signature short purple hair didn't stir in the sea breeze, and his gaze was locked on the distant horizon—so severe that nearby Marines instinctively kept their distance.
"Oi, Zephyr, loosen up a bit!" Garp suddenly slung an arm around Zephyr's shoulder, shattering the tense silence.
"That kid pulled off something huge, you know!"
Zephyr frowned slightly at Garp's lack of decorum but didn't shake him off. His voice remained deep and controlled.
"Garp, mind your conduct. This is the harbor, not your office."
"Hahahaha!" Garp's laughter boomed even louder, drawing looks from all around.
"What's the problem? The guy you personally wrestled from the Fleet Admiral is something else entirely!
Stronger than those three monsters who just graduated from the Academy!"
He leaned closer, voice somehow still loud enough for half the dock to hear.
"I snuck a peek at Sengoku's desk a few days ago—can you believe it? That brat actually dared to attack Whitebeard. Not only that, he clashed with him!
And he even forced Whitebeard to use Conqueror's coating! Man, kids these days have guts!"
The harbor exploded.
"Whitebeard?!"
"Conqueror's coating?!"
"Wait—are they talking about that West Blue ensign?"
"The one with all the buzz lately—Gern Reginald Sigma?!"
Zephyr's brow creased deeply as the murmurs erupted. He lowered his voice.
"Garp. You're too loud."
"Ah, relax!" Garp waved him off.
"They were gonna find out anyway. That kid survived against Whitebeard, hahahaha!
That's way more impressive than Sakazuki and the others—when they were sixteen, they were still stuck in classrooms!"
Zephyr finally let out a heavy sigh and turned to Garp, his expression serious.
"Sakazuki and the others may have graduated, but ever since they gained their Devil Fruits, they've leaned on them too much.
Gern is the same. I know his ability better than anyone—this time, he relied almost entirely on his fruit."
"Oi, oi, don't be so harsh," Garp replied, his grin softening but his admiration intact.
"Standing his ground in front of Whitebeard isn't something you can do with just a Devil Fruit. That takes nerve."
"Nerve?" Zephyr snorted. "That was recklessness."
"If he'd run into Shiki instead of Whitebeard, he'd be rotting at the bottom of the sea by now."
"You and I both know—the New World isn't a place where Devil Fruits alone carry you.
Haki is the true path of the strong."
"Alright, alright, you win!" Garp laughed again and slapped Zephyr's back hard.
"And that's exactly your job as a vice admiral, isn't it?
Otherwise why'd you argue with the Fleet Admiral just to keep the kid by your side?
Train him properly—make him into the real deal!"
Garp's strength sent Zephyr stumbling a step forward. Zephyr shot him a look, exasperation clear in his voice.
"Garp, you—"
Just then, a lookout shouted from the tower:
"Warship entering the harbor! It's the West Blue escort vessel from G-14!"
"They're here." Every gaze turned seaward.
A battered warship slowly came into view, its hull lined with obvious fractures—silent testimony to a brutal battle.
"Would you look at that," Garp whistled. "Seems the fight was rougher than the report said."
Zephyr said nothing. His eyes were fixed on the deck.
"…Gern," he murmured, the name carrying a weight of concern and expectation.
Garp glanced sideways at him, grinning.
"What, regretting pulling him from the Fleet Admiral? I say that kid's better than my own son!"
"No," Zephyr replied, shaking his head, voice firm.
"Precisely because of that, his thinking must be corrected.
Devil Fruits are tools. True strength comes from oneself."
"Hah! Same old Zephyr," Garp laughed.
"But for you to care this much… guess that brat really is special.
You've taught countless students at the Academy, but you've never had a true disciple, have you?"
"…That's true," Zephyr admitted quietly.
His thoughts drifted back three days—to the moment that battle report landed on his desk.
A young Marine, barely at headquarters, challenging a man said to possess the power to destroy the world.
Shock had given way to deep unease.
Zephyr knew the terror of the Tremor-Tremor Fruit better than most. He also knew the danger of overreliance on such power.
And now—an even more terrifying Tremor Logia had appeared… in the hands of a Marine rookie.
Power like that could easily breed arrogance.
"Zephyr. They're docking," Garp said, pulling him back to the present.
The warship came to rest. The gangway lowered.
The harbor fell silent.
Soldiers and junior officers disembarked first, their faces still pale with lingering fear. Then the mission commander—a headquarters ensign—stepped down and immediately snapped to attention when he saw the two vice admirals.
Finally—
A tall, slender figure with short black hair and bandages wrapped across his body appeared at the top of the gangway.
Gern Reginald Sigma.
His injuries hadn't fully healed, the bandages glaring under the sunlight, yet his stride was steady and unwavering.
The black blade Eight Desolations, wrapped in white cloth, rested on his back—still faintly humming, as if alive.
When Gern's eyes met those of the two vice admirals, the harbor fell utterly silent, save for the waves against the pier.
"Marine Headquarters," Gern said calmly.
"I'm here."
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