[Grand Line – Marine Patrol Vessel, En Route to Marineford]
The sea wind howled across the deck, snapping taut white sails as a standard-issue Marine warship sliced through the waves. Its course: straight for Marineford—the heart of the World Government's military might, fortress of justice, and bastion of order in a lawless ocean.
Inside the ship's command center, an encrypted military-grade Den Den Mushi sat nestled on a steel console. Its shell bore the crest of the Marine Headquarters—elegant, severe, unmistakable. The creature blinked slowly, antennae twitching in quiet anticipation.
Before it stood Lieutenant Ronan.
His uniform was immaculate, pressed to razor-sharp precision. A dark cloak draped from his shoulders, stirring slightly with the ship's motion. At his hip, his sword remained sheathed—but its presence was felt like a coiled serpent.
Expression unreadable, Ronan reached out and pressed the connection switch.
—[Beep—Line Secure]—
A voice issued forth, crisp and cold:
"Naval Headquarters. Admiral Sakazuki's office."
[Marineford – Admiral Sakazuki's Private Office]
Sunlight blazed over the snow-white spires of Marineford, but inside Sakazuki's chamber, the air shimmered with oppressive heat—as if the very walls were sweating magma.
Sakazuki sat at his desk, flanked by stacks of intelligence reports. His general's coat hung over the chair behind him, abandoned mid-task. A Den Den Mushi's faint buzz cut through the silence.
He didn't look up immediately. Only when the vibration persisted did his thick fingers—calloused from battle and command—press the receiver.
From the other end came a voice: young, steady, stripped of ornament.
"Lieutenant Ronan. The East Blue pacification is complete. We're en route to Marineford. ETA: three days."
No flourish. No boast. Just facts.
Sakazuki's quill froze mid-stroke.
For a heartbeat—just one—the granite mask of the man known as Akainu cracked.
Not a smile. Not quite.
But something flickered in the depths of his eyes: a spark beneath the ash.
"Tch… You brat," he muttered, voice rough as pumice. "Finally coming home, huh?"
Inside, a storm surged—not of anger, but of pride long denied outlet.
[All this time… and he's surpassed even my expectations.]
[East Blue? Cleaned out faster than I did at his age.]
[Ruthless. Precise. Uncompromising.]
[My blood. My legacy.]
[The Navy's future… is in his hands.]
Sakazuki snapped the report shut with a sharp crack.
"Order!" he barked, voice booming off marble walls.
"All mid- and high-ranking officers—assemble for a Level-One welcome protocol."
"No fanfare. No speeches. Full readiness, silent formation."
"Notify Fleet Admiral Sengoku."
"And tell the gate watch—I'll greet him myself."
The duty officer paled, snapped a rigid salute, and vanished like smoke.
Sakazuki rose. His shadow stretched long across the floor as he stepped toward the window, gaze fixed on the endless sea.
His cloak flared in the wind.
And beneath the furnace of his resolve, something softer burned:
"You're the last one I've got… I won't let the world take you from me too."
[Marineford – Elsewhere in Headquarters]
Fleet Admiral Sengoku's Office
Sengoku stood by the window, arms crossed. His expression was calm, but his eyes held the weight of foresight.
"Ronan's return… is both a blessing and a test," he murmured.
"Pacifying the East Blue in record time proves his capability—but his methods… they echo Akainu's fire too closely."
"Justice without restraint becomes tyranny. I hope he sees that before it's too late."
Vice Admiral Tsuru, seated nearby, adjusted her glasses with a sigh.
"He's efficient, yes. Brilliant, even. But he charges like a bull through porcelain—no nuance, no patience."
"The Navy isn't just a blade. It's a system. And systems break when wielded like hammers."
Vice Admiral Garp, leaning against a doorway with a grin, shrugged.
"Bah! Let the kid swing hard! The sea's full of monsters who deserve a good thrashing."
"Besides…" His grin softened, just slightly. "He's got fire in his gut. Reminds me of someone I used to know."
"I'll be watching. With popcorn."
Admiral Aokiji's Quarters
Kuzan lay sprawled in a hammock, one eye cracked open as a messenger delivered the news.
He exhaled through his nose—half-laugh, half-sigh.
"Ronan's back? Hah… peace was never gonna last."
"Kid's got ice in his veins and fire in his fists. Worst of both worlds."
"Hope he doesn't make me choose sides again…"
He closed his eyes, already dreading the storm rolling in with that ship.
While he didn't object to Ronan's methods outright, he preferred compromise and peace—disliking Ronan's tendency toward radical, world-shaking solutions.
[Admiral Kizaru's Office]
When Kizaru heard the news of Ronan's impending return, he idly twirled his golden sunglasses and let out a soft sigh.
"Ha… so he really is coming soon…"
He chuckled, gazing out the window, his expression distant yet thoughtful.
"That kid… he's certainly strong."
But his smile never wavered—still carrying that familiar air of detached nonchalance.
Kizaru rarely involved himself in the Navy's internal power struggles or its external politics. To the world, he remained the same lazy, enigmatic admiral—wise beneath the surface, but never eager to show it.
[Cruising Warship – Command Room]
As dawn broke, the Grand Line churned beneath a salt-laced wind. Warships cleaved through the waves like arrows aimed at the heart of the world—Marineford.
Inside the command center, Ronan stood motionless in his immaculate uniform, his dark cloak fluttering faintly in the draft.
His face was calm. His eyes—deep, unreadable—betrayed nothing.
The East Blue has been pacified.
That much, he chose to reveal.
But the truth ran deeper:
The unification of Skypiea.
The recapture of Enel.
The integration of the Ark Proverb.
These were world-shaking achievements.
And they would remain hidden… for now.
Ronan slowly curled his fingers, knuckles tapping once against the console.
The sound echoed like distant thunder—a quiet herald of the storm to come.
"…See you at headquarters."
The Den Den Mushi clicked off. The line went dead. His expression returned to its usual blank neutrality.
Snap!
The connection severed completely.
Ronan turned, his black cloak slicing a sharp arc through the morning mist—like a blade drawn in silence.
By the door, Rett waited with obvious impatience. He grinned, hefting his heavy saber over his shoulder.
"All done, Boss? What's headquarters' reaction?"
Ronan raised an eyebrow, a faint, icy smile touching his lips.
"What else could it be?"
"Those old men at HQ… waiting to see us make fools of ourselves."
His tone was casual—but beneath it coiled a quiet, lethal intent.
Rett barked a laugh, slinging his saber onto his back.
"Perfect! I've been itching for a real fight!"
"We'll see who ends up embarrassed—them crying and groveling, or us?"
His eyes blazed with unshaken confidence.
Around them, the crew straightened their uniforms, their own gazes sharp with resolve.
These were warriors who'd followed Ronan through fire and blood. They knew glory wasn't given—it was carved from the bones of enemies.
Meanwhile, in the shadows by the bulkhead…
Enel stood with arms crossed, earlobes twitching irritably as he muttered under his breath:
"I… I am a god deserving of reverence. How dare those Marines underestimate my divine might—"
Smack!
Rett's palm cracked against the back of Enel's head, nearly sending the former tyrant stumbling forward.
"Cut the act, Private First Class! You're a Marine now—act like one!"
Enel's eyes flared with lightning-fueled fury, his earlobes swelling violently. He opened his mouth—ready to unleash a storm of judgment—but Rett shot him a glare so sharp it could've cleaved steel.
Enel swallowed his thunder. For now.
The moment passed—almost comical.
But everyone knew: this was only the calm before the tempest.
The real battlefield wasn't the sea.
It was behind those white walls of Marineford.
Among the high-ranking officers who spoke of justice while hoarding power, plotting in silence beneath their polished uniforms.
The wind howled. White-capped waves stretched like ribbons across the ocean.
Warships surged forward, flags snapping in the gale.
And ahead—bathed in the pale gold of morning—Marineford's silhouette began to rise.
That island, the supposed bastion of "world justice"…
…was about to be baptized in fire.
At the bow, Ronan stood alone—black hair tousled by the wind, cloak billowing like a war banner.
In his eyes, the coming storm already burned.
This time…
he would tear true justice from the rotting roots of this world—with his own hands.