[Marineford Headquarters – Control Room]
The scorching sun blazed over the harbor of Marine Headquarters, the air shimmering with heat.
High above, the Banner of Justice snapped in the wind—its stark white fabric fluttering against a sky heavy with silence, as if the world itself held its breath before the storm.
Inside the vast and solemn control room, a strategic realignment was underway—one that would reshape the very direction of the Marines.
And presiding over it was neither the Fleet Admiral nor an Admiral.
It was Ronan.
His arrival was no mere personnel reshuffle.
It was a black blade slicing through the rot of the old order.
Outside, on the training grounds,
hundreds of elite soldiers stood in precise formation—fully armed, silent, and resolute.
These were no ordinary troops. They were the core of the Navy's hawkish vanguard, handpicked by the highest echelons:
Recommended by Vice Admiral Onigumo,
Vouched for by Vice Admirals Doberman and Momonga,
Personally vetted for unwavering conviction.
Some were cold and taciturn; others ruthless and unyielding.
Yet all shared one creed:
"Loyalty to Absolute Justice—no compromise, no corruption!"
At the head of the formation,
Ronan stood with his hands clasped behind his back, his uniform immaculate, black hair rippling in the wind.
His gaze—sharp as a cutlass—swept slowly over the ranks.
To his left stood Rett, the heavy sea-prism brass knuckles at his waist gleaming faintly, his presence as immovable as a fortress.
To his right loomed Enel, silver hair lashing like live wire, arcs of restrained lightning dancing along his fingertips—his power coiled, silent, inevitable.
The edge of discipline had been honed to a razor's point.
A breath of silence.
Then Ronan spoke—his voice deep, resonant, echoing like a war drum beneath the vaulted sky:
"From this moment on—
you answer to me."
"Your mission: Purge G-5."
"Your target: one."
"Leave no trace of filth behind."
His words struck like thunder.
For a heartbeat, the world stilled.
Then—
BOOM!
Hundreds of boots slammed the earth in perfect unison. Eyes blazed with righteous fury. Chests heaved with the weight of oath and purpose.
"YES, SIR!"
The roar tore through the air, shaking the very ramparts of Marineford.
Even the Banner of Justice seemed to bow in acknowledgment.
And above them all, a new standard unfurled—
the banner of the Purification Army: black as midnight, silver wings outstretched like judgment descending from the heavens.
The Purification Fleet was born.
[Grand Line – Flagship of the Purification Fleet – Three Days Later]
Three days later, beneath a merciless sun,
the Purification Fleet departed from Marineford's First Pier—cutting through white-capped waves like a blade through shadow.
Dozens of warships fanned across the Grand Line, their prows aimed at the heart of corruption.
At the fore, the flagship surged ahead,
its mast crowned by the Purification Army's sigil: a black field, silver wings aflame in sunlight—harbinger of a reckoning.
On the bridge,
Ronan stood at the bow, cloak billowing like a war banner, black hair whipping in the gale.
His eyes—calm, calculating—scanned the endless blue.
Not of a conqueror, but of a hunter waiting for the flaw in his prey's stance.
To his left, Rett marched with the rhythm of thunder, every step echoing steel and resolve.
To his right, Enel stood silent, silver hair crackling with latent storm, lightning humming beneath his skin like a god's whisper.
Together, they formed the Purification Triad.
Three figures beneath sun and storm—
three black spears poised to cleave the world anew.
A fierce wind swept across the sea, the bow of the lead ship cleaving through the waves with unwavering resolve.
The banner of the Purification Fleet flew high—its black standard emblazoned with a silver sigil of judgment—bearing down on the Grand Line's most infamous, most corrupt outpost: G-5.
[Grand Line – Purification Fleet Route]
The scorching sun beat upon the restless ocean. In the distance, a strong sea breeze churned the water into frothing layers, but the Purification Fleet pressed on like a tide of black iron, silent and unyielding.
Just before they crossed into G-5's territorial waters, a shadow cut across their path.
A pirate ship—bold, brash, and foolish.
Its Jolly Roger bore a grinning skull wreathed in flames. The deck teemed with swaggering cutthroats, swords drawn, laughter sharp with arrogance.
"Hey, Marines!" one bellowed through cupped hands. "Hand over your supplies, and we might let you live!"
Their taunts carried on the wind, dripping with mockery.
But the only reply was silence.
Not a soul aboard the Purification Fleet stirred. On the bridge, every Marine stood unmoving, faces blank as stone—as though watching insects scurry before a storm.
Enel, lounging near the mast with arms crossed, tilted his head. "Are all pirates on the Grand Line this reckless?"
Before the last word left his lips—
Rett stepped forward.
His heavy boots thudded against the deck, joints cracking like dry timber. He flexed his fingers around a massive Seastone-reinforced knuckle duster, its dark surface humming with suppressed energy. (Unlike ordinary Seastone weapons that merely nullify Devil Fruit powers, this one was engineered for brute impact—dense, non-conductive, and devastating.)
"You dare block the path of the Purification Fleet?" Rett snarled.
He didn't wait for an answer.
With a thunderous CRACK, he launched himself forward—timbers splintering beneath his leap—as if fired from a cannon.
"Get lost!"
His fist blazed through the air, trailing a shockwave that warped the very space between ships.
BOOM!!!
The punch struck the pirate ship's prow like divine retribution. Wood exploded inward. A jagged gash tore through the hull from bow to middeck. Dozens of pirates—still frozen in laughter—were hurled skyward like broken puppets, limbs flailing amid splinters, blood, and twisted metal.
"W-what the hell—?!" screams erupted from the shattered deck.
But their terror had only just begun.
Far above, Enel stood motionless, silver hair rippling in the wind, eyes colder than the void. With a lazy flick of his fingertips—
ZZZT!
A spear of silver-blue lightning coiled into existence in his palm, crackling with apocalyptic voltage. He tossed it as casually as one might flip a coin.
ZZZT—BOOM!!!
The lightning spear pierced the enemy's mainmast—then detonated.
Fire erupted skyward. Electricity surged through soaked wood and iron, turning the ship into a writhing cage of flame and voltage. Hull plates buckled. Masts collapsed. Within seconds, the vessel disintegrated—not sunk, but unmade—into ash, smoke, and screaming echoes.
The sea churned, boiling where lightning struck. Not a single pirate survived to beg for mercy.
In under three minutes, the ship was gone.
Silence returned—thick, heavy, final.
Only drifting wreckage and acrid smoke remained.
Above it all, the Purification Fleet's banner snapped in the wind, stained now with soot and sea spray—but still unbowed.
On the command bridge, Ronan stood with hands clasped behind his back, dark eyes scanning the carnage without a flicker of emotion. No pity. No triumph. Only resolve.
The Purification Fleet needed no proclamations.
Their justice was written in thunder, forged in iron, and delivered without hesitation.
[Grand Line – Outer Waters of G-5]
The sun blazed overhead as the fleet approached its destination.
Ahead, rising from the haze like a scar upon the world, stood the G-5 Naval Base—a monstrous sprawl of rusted steel, crumbling towers, and twisted ambition.
Once a symbol of Marine authority, now a den of decadence.
Pirate flags fluttered alongside the banners of Justice.
Wrecked warships—some Marine, some pirate—littered the perimeter like discarded toys.
Sailors in tattered uniforms lounged on barrels, gambling, drinking, trading with smugglers right at the gate.
Black markets thrived in broad daylight. Discipline? A forgotten word.
G-5 wasn't merely corrupt—it was rotten to the core.
Yet for all its depravity, it remained feared.
Because within its ranks gathered the Navy's most dangerous outcasts:
—Captains who'd slaughtered entire crews and walked free for their "results."
—Lone wolves who answered to no order but their own code.
—Soldiers so brutal, so effective, they were exiled from every other branch… yet kept, because they got the job done.
They lived by G-5's infamous creed—The Three No's:
No Surrender: Pirates are executed on sight.
No Records: After-action reports vanish. No paper trail. No accountability.
No Limits: Poison, terror, false flags—any method is valid if it secures victory.
They were wolves in Navy coats—ruthless, efficient, and utterly untamable.
But even wolves can carry disease.
And the cancer in G-5 ran deep.
[Purification Fleet – Command Bridge]
The fleet now floated at anchor just beyond G-5's reach, black banners rippling in the hot wind.
On the bridge, Rett snapped his seastone brass knuckles shut. His gaze cut like a blade, killing intent radiating from him in palpable waves.
Beside him, Enel stood with his hands folded behind his back, arcs of silent lightning coiling in his palms. His silver hair whipped in the wind, eyes sharp as an eagle's—calm, yet brimming with storm-born fury.
At the forefront, Ronan's black cloak billowed violently in the gale, snapping like the edge of a blade poised to split the sky itself. His eyes remained fixed on the G-5 branch ahead—still, unreadable, yet razor-sharp beneath their calm.
"These people aren't without value," he thought. "Purge the rot—strip away the corruption—and what remains will be the sharpest fangs this world has ever known."
Slowly, deliberately, he raised his right hand.
Then, with the precision of a headsman's axe, his palm sliced downward through the air.
His voice, low and final, carried the weight of execution:
"—Purge begins."
BOOM!!!
The fleet surged forward, iron prows cleaving through raging waves. Under the blazing sun and salt-laced wind, the black armada tore across the sea like a blade through a decaying world—directly toward the heart of G-5.
The storm of purification had arrived.
This battle would decide G-5's fate:
total annihilation…
or rebirth from the ashes.