—The morning light tore through the sea fog, and the waves of the Grand Line roared with untamed fury.
Marineford—the stronghold of the World Government, bastion of the Marines, and symbol of "Absolute Justice"—stood unmoved upon the cliffs, its white stone walls gleaming coldly in the dawn.
Yet beneath its stoic surface, something stirred.
A massive alarm bell tolled slowly through the mist, its deep, resonant chime rolling across the sea like a warning from the gods themselves.
[The East Blue Purifier—Lieutenant Ronan, returning to port.]
High-ranking officers had already assembled on the docks.
Rows of snow-white naval uniforms stretched toward the horizon, rigid as blades, gleaming under the pale sun.
At the forefront—
Fleet Admiral Sengoku, draped in his golden ceremonial cloak, stood with the unshakable calm of a mountain rooted in bedrock.
Admiral Sakazuki, arms crossed, his crimson cloak rippling in the wind, eyes simmering with the heat of molten rock.
Admiral Kuzan, half-lidded and seemingly bored, yet his sharp gaze missed nothing.
Admiral Borsalino, golden glasses catching the light, a faint, unreadable smile tugging at his lips.
Behind them stood the Deputy Chief of Staff, the Vice Admirals, and Rear Admirals from every branch—rank upon rank of hardened warriors. Their expressions varied:
Some brimmed with curiosity.
Others betrayed quiet wariness.
A few concealed thinly veiled unease.
And into this sea of silence, a standard-issue Marine warship sliced through the waves.
At its bow stood three figures, unmoved by wind or spray.
—Ronan.
His uniform immaculate, cloak snapping like a war banner, black hair lashing in the gale. He stood like a blade sheathed in ice—cold, precise, lethal. His eyes, sharp enough to split clouds, scanned the fortress before him without flinching.
—Rett.
Broad-shouldered and coiled like a spring, a massive battle sword slung across his back. His glare burned with restrained violence—less a soldier, more a storm given human form. Every muscle hummed with a killer's discipline.
—Enel.
Silver-blue hair whipping like lightning, arcs of electricity dancing between his fingers. A smirk played on his lips—defiant, amused—but the rigid posture of a Marine private betrayed the thin leash on his divine arrogance.
The three stood side by side: three black nails driven into the heart of power.
"Warship arriving at berth! Prepare to dock!"
The adjutant's voice boomed across the deck. Ropes tightened, anchors crashed into the water, and the ship slid smoothly into its mooring.
—The bell tolled a third time.
Silence fell like a guillotine.
Thousands of eyes locked onto the central figure—
The Purifier.
He who had drowned the East Blue in blood.
He who had severed pirate bloodlines like rotten vines.
He who now returned—not as a soldier, but as a reckoning.
The wind howled. The banners snapped like whips.
Ronan descended the gangplank, each step deliberate, unyielding.
Rett and Enel followed—one a shadow of steel, the other crackling with suppressed storm.
Their footfalls echoed like hammer strikes on an anvil.
At the center of the formation, Ronan halted. The air itself seemed to constrict.
A crushing aura—cold, disciplined, steeped in war—poured from him, thick enough to choke on.
After a breathless silence—
Fleet Admiral Sengoku stepped forward. His voice, deep and resonant as temple bronze, shattered the quiet:
"East Blue Purge Task Force—Lieutenant Ronan. Lieutenant Rett."
"Return to port… confirmed."
He paused. The world held its breath.
"In light of your exceptional conduct and decisive victory in the East Blue campaign—and following thorough review by Marine Headquarters—effective immediately…"
"Lieutenant Ronan is hereby promoted to Brigadier General."
"Lieutenant Rett is promoted to Lieutenant Colonel, and assigned as his adjutant."
Boom—!
The proclamation struck like cannon fire.
Gasps rippled through the ranks.
Young recruits' eyes flared with awe.
Veteran officers exchanged glances—some approving, others wary.
And deep in the rear, World Government agents narrowed their eyes, fingers twitching toward hidden cipher poles.
At the front, Sakazuki allowed himself the ghost of a smile—satisfaction, ambition, and something darker gleaming in his molten gaze.
But on the dock—
Enel stiffened.
His earlobes—those divine orbs—twitched violently. His smirk vanished, replaced by a storm of indignation.
"…Brigadier General Ronan… Lieutenant Colonel Rett…"
"And I'm still… Private First Class?!"
He gritted his teeth, voice a furious whisper:
"This human hierarchy is an insult to godhood…"
Before he could finish, Rett turned, clapped a heavy hand on his head, and grinned.
"Shut it, you smug little lightning rod."
[Admiral Akainu's Private Office, Marineford]
Midday sun.
The Marine Headquarters gleamed like a blade drawn from its sheath—white stone blazing under the merciless glare, every edge sharpened by light. The entire complex radiated cold authority, a fortress forged in justice and fire.
Inside the Admiral's office—one of the most potent seats of power in the world—the air hung thick, heavy as churning lava.
Sakazuki sat rigid behind an obsidian desk, his military coat immaculate, his Admiral's cloak draped over the chair like a banner of war. The crimson flame emblem on the wall cast a faint, bloody glow across the room, staining the silence in shades of warning.
Resting his chin on a clenched fist, his knife-sharp gaze cut through the three standing before him:
Ronan. Reit. Enel.
They stood like spears driven into the earth—unmoving, disciplined, their auras sharp enough to draw blood from the air itself.
A beat of silence.
Then Sakazuki lifted his head. His voice rolled like magma beneath stone—deep, slow, and scorching.
"Reit… I remember you, brat."
"But who the hell," he growled, eyes narrowing at the silver-haired youth beside him, "is this private first class acting like he owns the sea?"
The air trembled.
Enel's earlobes twitched. A spark of lightning flickered in his pupils—impatience, arrogance, the ghost of a god unused to being mocked.
He opened his mouth—
—only for Ronan's hand to clamp down on his shoulder like an iron vice. Cold. Unyielding.
Enel stiffened. Swallowed the thunder on his tongue. Lowered his head.
Ronan didn't flinch. His voice was calm, resonant, cutting through the tension like a war drum:
"Logia-type. Rumble-Rumble Fruit."
"Unified Skypiea. Cleansed the East Blue in his wake."
"Arrogant. Dangerous. A storm in human skin."
"He's not ready—but I brought him anyway. Suppress him now. Train him later."
Silence snapped shut like a guillotine.
Sakazuki's fingers tapped once against the desk. Then twice.
Heat bloomed. The air above his skin shimmered—magma bubbling beneath flesh. The temperature spiked. Sweat would've beaded on lesser men.
Logia?
Skypiea?
A mere private first class?
If anyone else had stood in that room, they'd already be a crater in the floor.
But this was Ronan—the nephew who'd carved entire pirate fleets into ash with his bare hands.
Sakazuki's lips curled. Not a smile. A predator's baring of teeth.
"…Well done."
Decisive. Ruthless. Absolute.
This was the pro-war faction's creed: strength first, loyalty second, and the world burning third.
Beside Ronan, Enel watched Sakazuki with burning intensity.
Fiery.
Oppressive.
A weight like a collapsing sky.
One glance—and Enel felt it: not just Haki, not just Devil Fruit power, but the crushing weight of a thousand battles won in blood. The aura of a man who'd stared down gods and called them weak.
His heart didn't race with fear—it surged with ecstasy.
Deep in his eyes, lightning coiled like serpents.
Good.
This is the sea worth conquering!
Sakazuki's gaze snapped to Ronan.
"You didn't come back just for a promotion, boy."
Ronan lifted his eyes. Dark. Unbroken. Sharp as executioner's steel.
"No, Uncle."
"I came to cleanse the Navy."
"To burn out corruption. To purge betrayal."
"Then set sail—"
"And drown every pirate in the ocean beneath absolute justice."
The words struck like a warhammer on an anvil.
Reit's fists clenched—iron-bound, trembling with fervor.
Enel's grin widened—crackling with live voltage, his spirit alight.
The room ignited.
And Sakazuki—laughed.
Not a chuckle. A volcanic roar that shook the walls.
"HAHAHA—!!! GOOD!!!"
He surged to his feet. His cloak flared like wildfire. The floor cracked beneath his boots.
"THAT'S what I want to hear!"
"THAT'S the Navy I built!!"
He crossed the room in three strides, seized Ronan's shoulder in a grip that could melt bone—and smiled.
"From this day forward?"
"Do whatever you damn well please."
"I'll burn anyone who stands in your way—World Government, Elder, Celestial Dragon…"
"All of them."
Flame roared. Fury ascended.
In that moment, the wills of two generations—uncle and nephew, fire and storm—fused into a single, unbreakable blade.
And behind them, Reit and Enel stood straighter.
They felt it.
The tides had turned.
The old world would not survive what came next.