[Marineford Headquarters – Training Grounds]
The sun blazed overhead; the sea breeze howled like a war drum.
They were four of the Navy Headquarters' most elite combat officers:
Onigumo—a ruthless demon of the Eight-Sword Style, his blood as hard as steel.
Stainless—calm and taciturn, his mind as deep as an abyss.
Doberman—a fanatical believer in justice, decisive in killing, never compromising.
Lonz—proud and aloof, his swordsmanship steady, rarely showing affection to others.
At this moment, they gathered for one reason alone—
to witness the arrival of the new standard-bearer soon to be raised in the heart of Headquarters:
Ronan, nephew of Admiral Sakazuki, hailed as the Blade of Justice.
From the direction of the port, the rhythmic clack of military boots echoed across the stone.
Ronan, Rhett, and Enel strode steadily into the training grounds.
Four sharp, assessing gazes locked onto them—warriors' eyes, honed by battle, weighing merit in a glance.
Ronan stood tall, posture immaculate, his aura restrained yet razor-edged, dark eyes cold and fathomless.
Rhett—broad-shouldered, a massive sword slung over his back, silent as bedrock.
Enel—silver hair whipping in the wind, arcs of lightning dancing at his fingertips, arrogance radiating like heat.
The air itself seemed to stiffen.
After a breath of silence—
Onigumo stepped forward, boots striking stone like a hammer. He snapped a crisp salute, voice iron-clad:
"Ronan—the one who upholds justice. Your purge of the East Blue earned our respect."
Stainless gave a slow, solemn nod:
"The blood of Admiral Sakazuki runs true. You've honored your mission."
Doberman's lips split into a sharp grin, revealing white teeth:
"Straightforward. I like that!"
Lonz gave a dry chuckle, twirling his sword once—a flash of steel—before muttering:
"Better than the loafers who think justice is a nap in the shade."
Though barbed, the words carried warmth. Camaraderie, not contempt.
Ronan's lips curved faintly. He returned the salute, voice concise and sharp:
"Upholding justice… is only the beginning."
The four exchanged glances. No further words were needed.
Among warriors of true strength, recognition needs no ceremony.
One look is enough to know if you walk the same path.
The tension melted into something fiercer—kinship forged in fire.
[Marineford – Science Division, Weapon Customization Workshop]
At Ronan's personal request—and under Admiral Sakazuki's direct order—the Science Division labored without rest.
For three days and nights, they forged a singular weapon.
Now, it lay complete: a pair of Seastone-reinforced brass knuckles, dark and dense, radiating a silent, oppressive chill.
Despite Seastone's notoriously brittle nature, the alloy had been engineered to balance hardness with structural integrity. Each knuckle weighed precisely one kilogram—light enough for speed, heavy enough to punish.
Integrated into the frame: a shock absorption and impact amplification system, allowing kinetic force to concentrate without shattering the user's bones.
Etched into the back—the silver-winged emblem of the Purge Army, sharp as talons, cold as execution.
On delivery day, Rhett seized the knuckles and slammed them onto his fists.
Bone met metal with a deep, resonant thud.
His eyes lit up. He grinned, voice booming:
"Now this—this is a real man's weapon!"
Enel scoffed, arms crossed:
"Tch. Just glorified rocks. Can't even conduct—"
CRACK!
Rhett didn't wait. A single punch tore through the air—a sonic boom ripping the atmosphere apart!
BOOM!!!
Enel's hair stood on end, ears ringing, body jolted backward as if struck by a cannonball. He staggered, eyes wide with disbelief.
"...How?!" he rasped, staring at the knuckles. "My lightning body—you hit it?!"
Logia intangibility should've rendered him untouchable. Yet that blow landed solid.
Ronan stepped forward, voice calm:
"Seastone. One of the few substances that nullifies Devil Fruit powers."
"High-purity variants suppress even Logia regeneration and intangibility—briefly, but enough."
"To users like you… it's death in solid form."
Enel's fingers twitched. For the first time, doubt flickered in his golden eyes.
The ocean was vaster—and crueler—than his sky had ever taught him.
Rhett wiggled the knuckles with a smirk:
"So, 'God'—wanna taste my Love Strike?"
Lightning crackled. Enel's hair bristled—but after a tense second, he snorted and turned away.
"...Feh. Save your childish theatrics."
A brotherly jab. A spark of levity in a world of iron and blood.
Ronan watched, silent. In the depths of his eyes—just for a moment—something softer glimmered.
[Marineford – Secret Training Ground]
The sun scorched the earth. The air still hummed with the aftershock of clashing auras.
Enel knelt on one knee, silver hair matted to his brow, sweat dripping from his chin—sizzling into mist as it struck the superheated stone.
Teeth gritted, shoulders trembling, he refused to collapse.
Opposite him, Ronan stood with his hands clasped behind his back, his expression cold and unreadable—eyes sharp as shards of winter sky.
"Get up."
"Continue."
The commands fell like ice—flat, hard, stripped of all warmth.
Enel let out a low growl and forced himself upright. Lightning crackled at his fingertips; his pulse hammered against his ribs like a war drum.
—Observation Haki (Kenbunshoku): senses expanded, threading through the air like invisible filaments.
—Armament Haki (Busoshoku): still raw from its violent awakening, every use a forge-fire searing muscle and marrow.
—Neural feedback loops: thunderous suppression, relentless stimulation—rewiring thought, will, instinct.
Each training session was less a lesson and more a crucible—tearing him apart only to hammer him back together, stronger, sharper.
Pain? Of course.
But beneath it surged something fiercer: a raw, electric exhilaration rising from his very bones.
This was how power should be wielded—not flaunted like a child with a toy, nor squandered through blind reliance on a Logia's invincibility.
No. True strength was forged in discipline. Honed in silence. Tempered until the wielder became an unbreakable blade.
At Ronan's silent signal, Enel activated his mental network—
monitoring mid-level officers' words and movements,
tracking anomalies in supply chains,
logging illicit transactions and covert exchanges between ranks.
Every whisper of corruption was archived. Every stain, remembered.
He was becoming something new: not just a warrior, but a shadow—Ronan's unseen dagger, buried deep in the heart of the system.
And together, they would scour the sea clean—not with mercy, but with fire.
[Marineford – Marshal's Office]
The afternoon sun beat down, but inside the highest chamber of Marineford, the air hung thick and still.
Fleet Admiral Sengoku sat behind his obsidian desk, golden haori unmoving in the hum of the air conditioning. His brow was furrowed—not in anger, but in the quiet weight of command.
The door opened without ceremony.
Ronan stepped in—boots striking the marble with military precision, his white coat snapping like a banner in still air. He looked less like a man and more like a drawn sword: sharp, silent, and waiting.
Sengoku lifted his gaze, studying the young officer who had already shaken the foundations of the East Blue.
After a breath of silence, he spoke, voice low but resonant:
"Commodore Ronan."
"In light of your actions during the East Blue Purge, Headquarters hereby issues the following order—"
He slid forward a sealed, cipher-locked directive, stamped with the crest of the Five Elders.
"You are appointed Special Operations Commander. Full independent authority granted under Article IX of the World Military Accord."
His eyes hardened.
"Your first assignment: cleanse the G-5 Branch."
Each word landed like a hammer on an anvil.
Ronan's eyes narrowed—just slightly. A flicker of cold resolve deep within.
G-5.
Notorious even among the Marines. A den of corruption where bribes bought promotions, where pirates walked as allies, and justice was a joke sold by the highest bidder.
Perfect.
The ideal place to strike first.
Sengoku leaned forward, voice dropping to a growl:
"Make it swift. Make it clean. No survivors of your own making—and no loose ends."
"Like in East Blue," he added, almost approvingly. "Thorough. Uncompromising."
Ronan snapped a textbook-perfect salute, voice forged in steel:
"Understood, sir."
He took the order, turned on his heel, and walked out—cloak flaring like the banner of a coming storm.
Outside, under the merciless sun, the sea breeze carried the first scent of smoke.
The purge was coming.
And G-5 would bleed first.