The Deputy Chief of Staff let out a long, exhausted sigh.
The boss wasn't reliable.
The subordinates weren't reliable.
Even the reserve staff weren't reliable.
Understandable, of course. The best strategists were always assigned to the Grand Line, where manpower shortages were most severe.
Looking at his amateur subordinates.
Looking at his amateur self.
Then looking at his professional—but catastrophically blunt superior.
The Deputy Chief knew that if anyone was going to defuse this suffocating awkwardness, it had to be him.
With the courage of a man about to self-destruct, he voiced the doubt that had bothered him from the start.
He pointed at the tavern bartender's hand-drawn portrait of Louis and the bounty poster beside it.
"Are these really the same person? They… don't look that similar."
The Intelligence Chief froze.
He stared at him, momentarily at a loss for words.
Not similar?
By what standard?
Was it because one wasn't wearing a hat?
Or because one wasn't wearing glasses?
The resemblance was over ninety percent.
The only difference:
On the bounty poster, Louis wore a white magician's top hat pulled low enough to shadow his face. His right eye was covered by a monocle.
Knowing that many people in the seas relied heavily on superficial features for identification, Louis always donned those accessories before battle to confuse observers.
He had started with normal glasses.
They slipped too easily.
So he switched to a monocle he could clamp in place using cheek and eye socket pressure.
Efficient. Practical. Annoying for investigators.
Vice Admiral Gust noticed the Intelligence Chief's silence and tapped the table.
"That's a valid question. If they aren't the same person, the entire deduction collapses. If the Deputy Chief hadn't mentioned it, I wouldn't have noticed either. On what basis did Intelligence determine they're the same individual?"
Truthfully, Gust had noticed.
But since no one else questioned it earlier, he assumed everyone could clearly tell they were identical—and he hadn't wanted to embarrass himself over something "minor."
Now that the Deputy Chief had spoken up?
Excellent. A shield.
The Intelligence Chief opened his mouth.
One person couldn't tell.
Two people couldn't tell.
Had he… misidentified him?
He glanced at his subordinates.
They looked equally confused—confused at the confusion.
He asked cautiously, "You… don't think they're the same person?"
The entire intelligence section exchanged looks.
What kind of question was that?
Of course it was the same person.
Seeing their expressions, both Gust and the Deputy Chief slowly realized they had just asked something profoundly stupid.
The Chief of Staff gave the images a glance and said bluntly:
"You can't tell that's the same person? Are you idiots?"
No.
No.
This meeting was spiraling.
The Deputy Chief slapped a hand over the Chief of Staff's mouth.
Please stop telling the truth.
Forcing a transition, he hurriedly continued:
"So Medica's plan is to boost his prestige by attacking G-12… strengthen the crew by recruiting the Marine Hunter… and use Louis Bardell to manage the soon-to-be-formed pirate alliance?"
He exhaled.
"He's courting death. Even if he succeeds, Marine Headquarters won't sit idly by."
The Intelligence Chief restrained himself from firing back again.
After all… it was his own superiors sitting across the table.
He merely sighed.
"Those who crave power rarely let go—even when the road ahead is clearly a dead end."
Gust, meanwhile, remained outwardly composed.
A perfect demonstration of why he was the base commander.
Skipping over all lingering awkwardness, he cut to the core.
"So. Your recommendation?"
"Proactive strike? Or defensive hold?"
All eyes turned toward the only actual professional strategist in the room.
Reluctantly, the Deputy Chief removed his hand from the Chief of Staff's mouth.
The Chief of Staff answered without hesitation.
"We must strike first. If we stay inside the fortress, we lose. This location is easy to attack and difficult to defend. Whoever selected the site—and whoever supervised construction—must have had brain parasites."
Gust immediately coughed loudly.
"Let me clarify," he said stiffly, turning to the Intelligence Chief. "All major branch bases were approved by Fleet Admiral Kong and Admiral Sengoku under high-level strategic guidance from the World Government."
He cleared his throat.
"The location is vital. That is why the fortress exists here. When the Chief of Staff said 'brain parasites,' he meant… something else."
The Intelligence Chief nodded flatly.
"I heard nothing."
"Vital location?" the Chief of Staff continued, undeterred. "This is a three-way dead zone. Pirates avoid it. No trade routes pass through. The only time it's busy is when the Celestial Dragons' Heavenly Tribute convoys split and regroup nearby. Other than that, it's a wasteland."
"Intelligence Chief," Gust said darkly, "turn off the recording Den Den Mushi."
This meeting could not continue.
If it did, Gust suspected he might be arrested before he even had the chance to shout "Long live the Revolutionaries."
Dying for the Marines was one thing.
Dying because his strategist lacked a filter?
Unacceptable.
He slammed the table.
"Regardless of the Tequila Pirates' intentions, it is Heavenly Tribute season. Stability overrides everything. Better to kill wrongly than let one escape. We eliminate them first."
The Chief of Staff immediately drafted three detailed operational plans, each adaptable to the pirates' movements.
Strategy finalized.
Meeting adjourned.
As the others filed out, Gust hesitated.
He approached the recording Den Den Mushi.
Picked it up gently.
Examined it with exaggerated concern.
"This Den Den Mushi appears unwell. I'll send it to the mess—medical ward. Yes. Medical."
The Intelligence Chief let out a quiet snort and closed his eyes.
He saw nothing.
He heard nothing.
This was the eternal conflict between Intelligence and Strategy.
Intelligence officers were not only information gatherers.
They were also the visible eyes of Marine Headquarters within each branch.
Any violation.
Any anti–World Government sentiment.
Any inappropriate speech.
All had to be reported.
Yet the G-12 Chief of Staff—despite his catastrophic lack of tact—saved countless Marine lives through sheer strategic brilliance.
Because of him, West Blue casualty rates had dropped noticeably.
Sometimes, under Gust's pressure—and for the sake of reducing deaths—the Intelligence Chief had to look the other way.
It violated his duty.
But the lives of the Marines beside him… mattered more than distant headquarters and abstract authority.
Still.
That did not stop him from disliking the Chief of Staff.
Or the entire staff system, for that matter.
Meanwhile—
Somewhere on the sea—
Medica had absolutely no idea that he had just been designated:
Aspiring Pirate Admiral of West Blue Co-conspirator of the Marine Hunter Architect of a G-12 Fortress assault And strategic mastermind behind an impending war
All because Louis bought some information.
And some rum.