God Valley — Western Navy Evacuation Point
The afterglow of sunset bathed the warships in amber light.
Marines hurried across the decks, carrying the wounded.
The air was thick with the stench of blood mixed with sea salt.
"So… it's finally over."
At the bow stood a man with short purple hair, sharp and resolute features, and a massive, muscular frame straining against a standard sleeveless Navy vest.
The dark-blue fabric was stretched taut, and behind him, a pure white cloak fluttered violently in the sea wind—the word "Justice" emblazoned upon it.
Arms crossed over his chest, Zephyr stood motionless, his presence alone radiating ironclad authority.
"Vice Admiral Zephyr!!"
A Marine rushed up and handed him a list. "These are the confirmed Navy casualties."
Zephyr frowned deeply, his gaze sweeping over the chaotic deck.
More than half the names on the list had already been crossed out.
The brutality of God Valley far exceeded expectations.
"…So be it. Prepare to withdraw. Set sail!"
"Yes, sir!"
Just as the order was about to be relayed—
"Wait! Someone's still alive!"
A Marine shouted, pointing toward the shoreline.
All eyes turned at once.
A lone figure staggered forward from the coast, drenched in blood, carrying another person on his back.
His uniform was torn to rags, yet his spine remained rigid—
as if he were forcing himself onward with the last of his strength.
Zephyr's pupils contracted slightly.
"That is…"
Gern's steps were heavy, each footfall sinking deep into the sand.
Blood covered his face, his breathing ragged, as though he might collapse at any second.
Derrick's "corpse" lay limp across his back, arms dangling and swaying with each step.
The deck fell silent—then erupted into murmurs.
"Someone actually made it out of that hell…"
"The one on his back—isn't that Ensign Derrick from the West Blue?"
Zephyr descended the gangway in long strides and stopped before Gern, his gaze sharp as a blade.
"What happened? State your name."
His voice was low, unquestionable.
"Gern Reginald Sigma."
As Gern looked up at Zephyr, he couldn't help but marvel inwardly.
So this is Zephyr at the peak of righteousness… this pressure belongs only to the strong.
But admiration aside—
this was a performance, and Zephyr was his target.
Gern's eyes looked exhausted. His lips were cracked.
His voice came out hoarse and barely audible.
"Ensign Derrick… died protecting me…
He was killed by remnants of the Rocks Pirates—Whitebeard…"
Zephyr didn't doubt him for a second.
Instead, his frown deepened.
"So that's why you were slow."
Gern hesitated—then dropped to one knee, head lowered, his voice choking.
"I… I promised him…
I promised I'd bring him home…"
He recalled every grievance he'd endured since transmigrating—
the desperation, the helplessness—
And the tears came flooding out, raw and genuine.
The deck fell utterly silent, save for the waves striking the hull.
Zephyr glanced down at the list and quickly found both names.
When he saw Gern's rank, he froze.
"A West Blue Second-Class Soldier?!"
"Yes," Gern nodded.
"I begged Ensign Derrick to bring me.
He said a real man should see greater battlefields…"
His voice broke.
"If not for me—"
Zephyr believed every word.
Because on the casualty forms, Derrick was indeed listed as Gern's beneficiary—and vice versa.
In the Navy, only people as close as family filled that column for each other.
Zephyr studied Gern for several seconds—then placed a heavy hand on his shoulder.
The hand was weighty as a mountain… yet warm.
"You did the right thing," Zephyr said quietly.
"The Navy never abandons its comrades."
Gern's shoulders trembled briefly.
"Yes, Vice Admiral."
No one saw the faint mockery in his eyes.
Nearby Marines were visibly shaken.
Some even reddened at the eyes, whispering about Gern's "heroism."
Soon, Derrick's body was covered with a white cloth.
A medic stepped forward to examine it—and froze.
"Vice Admiral… the internal organs are completely pulverized.
But the exterior is almost unharmed."
His voice shook.
"This looks like damage caused by… vibration force."
Zephyr's eyes sharpened instantly.
"Vibration?"
"Yes. It matches the characteristics of Whitebeard's Devil Fruit."
Zephyr fell silent.
Then—
"Another game for the World Nobles…
How many young lives were thrown away for it?"
He slammed a fist into the railing.
"Record the losses. Prepare to return."
That night, the warship slowly departed God Valley, cutting through the black sea and leaving a silver trail beneath the moon.
Gern stood alone at the stern.
Moonlight traced his cold profile.
Crack…
Fine fractures spread across the wooden deck beneath his boots.
He stared at the uncontrolled vibration particles, sneering softly before suppressing them.
The goal was achieved.
But a Devil Fruit alone was nowhere near enough.
No system.
No cheats.
From a man with no fruit, no Haki, no talent—
He would climb to the summit, one step at a time.
Fruit mastery.
Then Haki.
His fingers brushed the bandage-wrapped hilt of Eight Desolations.
Without question—
Zephyr was the best choice.
Sengoku was chasing promotion.
Garp was chasing Roger.
Only Zephyr—soon to become Admiral and future Instructor General—
would care to shape an ordinary soldier.
"Black Arm…"
Gern smiled faintly.
"Even now, your Armament Haki rivals Garp's."
He clenched his fist, white vibration light flashing between his fingers.
"So this is… justice."
The warship vanished into darkness.