The air inside the Fleet Admiral's private office was thick—not with smoke or heat, but with a tension so palpable it felt like the very walls were listening.
Vice Admiral Monkey D. Garp, the "Hero of the Marines," stood with his arms crossed, his jaw tight, his brow furrowed deeper than usual. The gleam in his eyes was not of mirth or mischief today—it was steel. And it was directed straight at the man behind the desk.
"So what plans do you have prepared for Whitebeard…? Because last time I checked, I didn't seem to remember any agreement with that man like you just conveniently mentioned in the meeting earlier."
His voice was low, gravelly, but carried the weight of a cannon blast.
"You do know he's not the kind of man who backs down once he's made up his mind, Sengoku."
The Fleet Admiral didn't look up. His hand moved slowly across the papers laid out before him, organizing folders, reviewing maps, jotting notes. But Garp wasn't fooled by the calm exterior. He'd known Sengoku too long. Too well.
Earlier that day, in front of the top brass of the Marine High Command, Sengoku had declared—with careful confidence—that Garp had "managed a settlement" with Edward Newgate, the man known to the world as Whitebeard.
Garp had said nothing then. Not in front of the others. Not in that room where loyalty was often measured in silence. But now—behind closed doors—he was no longer silent.
"You used my name, and worse, you lied to everyone. We both know there is no such agreement, Sengoku. You gave them hope—false hope—and you didn't even tell me your plan."
Sengoku sighed, long and heavy, like the weight of the seas rested on his shoulders.
"I had no choice."
Garp's fist slammed into the wall—not with his full strength, but enough to rattle the bookshelf and cause a few Marine commendation plaques to crack against the stone.
"Don't play that card with me…! I have known you throughout my marine life… You knew exactly what you were doing in there—painting me as the bridge to peace, while you've already drawn the map to war, a scheme that you are not even willing to share with me!"
Sengoku finally looked up. His face was stern, lips pressed into a tight line. But in his eyes was fatigue—not from age, but from the burden of command. The burden of knowing there are no good answers.
"Garp…" he said slowly, measured, "You and I both know Whitebeard wouldn't step aside out of kindness. He's guarding the gates to the New World because he knows—he knows what we did. What the World Government did… to Oden."
That name lingered in the air like a curse. Oden Kozuki. A samurai whose legacy haunted marines and pirates alike. And whose death had fractured more than just the land of Wano. Garp's voice lowered. The weight in it was immeasurable.
"If you think Whitebeard can be reasoned with—talked down—without blood being spilled, you don't understand him at all. That man's heart bleeds for the brother he's lost. And like you just mentioned, he knows. You expect him to just sit across the Redline and let us pass into New World without a war… and ask him to forget his promise to Oden's memories? To forget Wano? That's a fool's errand."
Sengoku stood slowly, his hands flat on the desk.
"No, Garp. I don't expect you to make him forget."
He walked around the desk, the creaking of his coat the only sound between them now.
"I expect you to buy us time."
Garp narrowed his eyes.
"Time for what?"
Sengoku paused—just for a second—and then pulled open a folder labeled "New World Strategic Recovery—Operation Tidefall."
"Whitebeard… Doflamingo… and now Scarlett. Three monsters tightening their grip around the New World."
He pointed to marked zones—regions where pirate flags had long replaced the World Government's standard.
"Our influence is shrinking. We've lost the entirety of New World territory. We've lost most of our agents. And morale is spiraling. If our forces find out Whitebeard's still a threat, we'll have chaos. Half the Marines would hesitate to even venture into the New World, and with each day we forego control of the New World, it would simply breed chaos... revolutions. Pirate uprisings. So yes— I used your name."
His gaze hardened.
"Because your name still means something. To the Marines. To everyone."
Garp didn't flinch, but the fire in his chest didn't abate either.
"That still doesn't help us in countering Whitebeard…. And Doflamingo?" he asked. "You think you can keep him in check too?"
Sengoku's lips thinned.
"He'll be handled, and so will Whitebeard. All the pieces have been moved into place; we just need to worry about Scarlett's forces and establish a foothold in the New World once more…. And I need you at the Vanguard to do that."
That answer didn't sit right with Garp. It stank of the World Government's deeper plans, of secrets buried under layers of protocol and silence.
"This is a Elder Council order, isn't it?" Garp muttered. "This whole operation… has those old crooks fingerprints all over it."
Sengoku didn't deny it. And that told Garp everything.
The silence between the two men was cold. Old friends. Brothers-in-arms. Legends forged in the same fires—now standing on opposite sides of the moral divide. Sengoku turned back to his desk, his voice quieter now, but not weaker.
"We can't fight three emperors at once. Not with the resources we have. If we regain control of even a part of the New World, we buy ourselves time to reinforce. Rebuild. Reclaim."
He looked up.
"All I'm asking… is that you keep Scarlett and her crew distracted long enough for us to do what we must."
Garp's fists clenched at his side. Scarlett, an old acquaintence from the time of Rocks era was not one to be 'kept in check' like some pawn on a board.
"Unless you tell me what exactly you have planned… I am not going to be a part of this. If you think I would simply follow orders like before after everything that has happened all these years…
You've lost your damn mind, Sengoku."
But the fleet admiral didn't answer. He went back to his folders, writing notes, issuing silent commands to an unseen network of strategy and blood.
The silence between them stretched for long, heavy minutes. Only the gentle scratch of Sengoku's pen filled the void, but even that seemed to echo unnaturally in the stillness of the Fleet Admiral's private office.
Sengoku exhaled slowly.
He knew this silence. Knew Garp's stubbornness like he knew his own heartbeat. If the old dog had planted his feet, no amount of persuasion or title would move him. Not unless he saw the entire hand.
With a resigned grunt, Sengoku leaned forward and pressed a sequence of buttons beneath his desk—a secure compartment slid open, its polished steel groaning slightly. From inside, he retrieved two thick, sealed folders, marked with the crimson stamp of Top World Government Clearance. He didn't speak. He simply slid the files across the desk and returned to his paperwork without another word.
Garp didn't move at first.
Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, the legendary vice admiral dragged a chair forward and sat. He flipped open the first folder. Then the second. And with every passing second, the air around him grew heavier, as if the room itself were being suffocated by the weight of the truth written on those pages.
Then— "YOU BASTARD!"
The explosion of Garp's fury was instantaneous and volcanic, his voice a roar of betrayal that rattled the windows and made the walls tremble. Paperwork flew from the desk as he slammed his fist down, splintering the wood beneath in a spiderweb of cracks.
"You've lost your damn mind, Sengoku!"
He was on his feet now, trembling with rage, the folders gripped so tightly in his fists that the edges curled and tore.
"Have you learned nothing from the past? Nothing from Ohara? From God Valley? From the children buried under the rubble of nations wiped from the map?!"
Sengoku didn't look up. But the lines in his face deepened, his pen slowing to a stop. Garp continued, his voice thunderous.
"They're planning to erase an entire kingdom, Sengoku. Not conquer. Not dismantle. Erase. Just because they declared independence. Because they refused to bow to the World Government. And you want the Marines to support this madness? To lend our name and our justice to this genocide?!"
He hurled the folders to the floor. Pages scattered across the stone tiles—classified reports, satellite images, and orders signed by the Five Elders themselves, all detailing a campaign of destruction, swift and total, on a kingdom whose only crime was claiming sovereignty.
"What separates us from the pirates if we back this?" Garp snarled. "No. Worse. At least pirates don't pretend to be righteous while burning the world!"
At last, Sengoku met his gaze. And though his face was composed, there was a shadow in his eyes. The weight of a man forced to navigate a sea of monsters while trying to keep the ship afloat.
"You think I don't know that?" he said quietly. "You think I haven't screamed the same thing behind closed doors? But you need to understand this Garp those not under the World governments banner , dont technically get protected by the marines. Thats the risk they take by severing ties with the world government."
He stood now, slowly walking over to the window. Outside, the flags of Marineford fluttered in the wind, proud and unyielding.
"But this isn't just about a kingdom anymore, Garp. It's about the balance. The World Government is teetering. We've got Emperors gaining power, territories lost, rebellions igniting like wildfire. If this kingdom becomes a beacon, dozens more will follow. The moment we can't enforce order… it's over. We lose everything."
Garp scoffed, eyes full of fire. "So what? We burn the world to save our version of it? And worse, we are going to use a pirate to do the dirty deed...?"
Sengoku didn't answer immediately. When he did, his voice was low and tired.
"It's not justice anymore. Not really. It's survival."
Garp's fists clenched again—but this time, not in rage. In sorrow.
"Then maybe we've already lost."
The silence that followed was deafening. No fire. No shouting. Just the echo of ideals cracking under the weight of politics and war. After a moment, Garp turned to leave. He paused at the door, casting one final look back at his old comrade.
"If you think I'm going to sit by and watch while we wipe out another country full of innocent people for the sake of your 'balance'—you don't know me at all."
Then, he was gone, his footsteps like drumbeats down the corridor of power. Sengoku remained by the window, unmoving, his reflection lost in the storm clouds gathering above Marineford.
****
Dawn Island , East Blue
The forest loomed around him like a living giant—its canopy thick, gnarled branches weaving together high above to blot out the moonlight. Midway Forest, they called it. A stretch of untamed wild between the decaying sprawl of the Gray Terminal and the foot of a mountain that guarded the village beyond.
A place where few dared to tread alone. And here, in the heart of it all, walked a small boy no older than five, his tiny boots crunching uncertainly over fallen leaves and moss-laden roots. Sabo tugged his tattered cap low over his forehead, hoping it would shield him not just from the creeping cold, but from the shadows that danced just outside his vision.
He paused—every twig snap, every rustle of leaves made his heart leap into his throat. But he didn't run. Not this time.
"Don't be scared," he whispered to himself, though his voice trembled. "You're not going back. Never again."
He'd run away before. More than once. But this time was different. This time, he had a purpose. A hope. He was searching for him—the boy with the black eyes and the fire in his spirit, the one who had stood between Sabo and those soldiers as if the gap in their ages meant nothing at all. Sabo hadn't even learned his name then, just a face burned into his memory like sunlight through closed eyelids. A boy who had fought for him when his own family hadn't.
Sabo's breath came out in little clouds. The forest was damp and cool, and despite the blanket he'd tied to his back like a makeshift cloak, the chill was setting in. He stumbled, nearly falling over a tree root, and caught himself on the rough bark of an ancient tree. His hands were scratched, his knees bruised, but his spirit—while shaken—was not broken.
They're replacing me...
That thought came unbidden. The bitter taste of it worse than any of the tears he hadn't allowed himself to cry. His noble parents, frustrated by his defiance and disgusted by his disdain for their teachings, had finally made their decision. They were going to adopt another child—one who would smile for the guests and wear the mask of a noble without hesitation. Someone who would grow into the noble posture and parrot their twisted ideals.
Someone who isn't me.
Sabo sniffled, blinking hard as he wiped his nose on his sleeve. He didn't care about riches. He didn't care about titles. He only knew that everything they were teaching him was wrong—that the world they showed him from behind stained glass windows was a lie.
The real world was out here—muddy, cruel, loud... and free.
But now... now he was beginning to doubt himself. Everything around him looked the same. Twisting trails and mossy rocks and trees that seemed to shift positions when he turned his head. He'd kept walking, certain he'd find the path eventually, but he was lost, and the creeping fingers of despair were beginning to scratch at the back of his mind.
His legs trembled. His breath hitched.
"Maybe… maybe I was wrong," he whispered to no one, voice barely audible over the distant hoot of an owl. "Maybe I'm just a stupid kid…"
He felt it then—the sting in his eyes. The burn in his chest. Not from fear of the dark, but from the weight of being unwanted. A child cast aside by his own blood. And just as he was about to fall to his knees, to finally cry and give in to the night—
"HEEEEYYYY! GET BACK HERE, YOU DAMN MONKEY!!"
The voice rang through the trees like a cannon blast, sudden and wild and impossibly loud. Birds exploded from the canopy above in a flurry of flapping wings. Sabo blinked. A voice...? Not in his head. Not imagined.
Then another: "I AIN'T SCARED OF YOU! BRING IT ON!!"
This one was much clearer—raw and reckless and unmistakably human. His heart skipped. Somewhere through the dense brush, past the twisting maze of trunks and shadows, there were people. A boy yelling, shouting, laughing even.
He didn't hesitate. Every ounce of fear was burned away in an instant, replaced by a desperate kind of hope. He stumbled forward, pushing through thorny undergrowth, heedless of the scratches it left across his skin.
Please... let it be him...
Branches whipped at his arms. Brambles caught on his shirt. He tripped once, twice, scrambling back up, eyes scanning wildly for the source of the voices. Then, at last, he saw it—
A flicker of light. A fire burning in a crude ring of stones. And two figures darting between the trees—one throwing what looked like stones, the other chasing with an iron pipe held high like a sword. And there, for a moment, silhouetted by the fire's glow, was that same boy—wild hair, dark eyes full of fire, his face twisted in laughter and defiance.
Sabo's breath hitched. He was real. He was still here. And in that instant, Sabo knew he'd made the right choice. He wasn't alone anymore.
Just as little Sabo stood frozen, caught in a whirl of thoughts and memories, a roar shattered the silence of the forest.
"You damn monkey! Give it back—that's my dinner!!"
The voice was unmistakable—wild, hoarse, and full of righteous fury. Ace, barreling through the underbrush, was in hot pursuit of a chattering monkey clutching a half-eaten piece of roasted meat. The monkey zigzagged between trees, agile and mocking, but Ace was relentless. His eyes gleamed with a predator's focus as he leapt forward, tiny fists clenched in fury.
With a grunt, he swung the thick iron pipe like a club. The monkey dodged, screeching, but the sheer force of the strike snapped the trunk of a young tree, sending the top half of the broken branch crashing down in a shower of splinters and leaves.
From where he stood in the clearing, Sabo watched with awe—eyes wide, lips slightly parted. It was him. The same boy. The same fire. His heart swelled, the fear momentarily washed away by hope. But he didn't notice the change in the air behind him. He didn't notice the sound of cracking twigs, the shift in the rustling leaves.
But Ace did.
Mid-sprint, his instincts screamed. Ever since he had begun training under the harshest conditions, his senses had become razor sharp—a beast honed by survival, forced to recognize danger even before it showed its fangs. His eyes flicked to the side, past the monkey, past the broken tree—
And locked onto Sabo. Him...? What's he doing here again...?
But then his gaze shifted—and his breath hitched. Behind Sabo, rising from the shadows like a nightmare carved from the forest itself, stood a hulking shape. Its fur was matted, fangs yellow and dripping, claws the size of carving knives. A bear—thrice the size of any normal beast, its black eyes fixed on the small, unaware boy.
Sabo hadn't even turned around. And in that moment—Ace moved.
Without a second thought, he hurled the tree branch aside and twisted mid-air, slamming his feet into the nearest trunk, the bark cracking beneath the force of his leap. The world blurred around him as he launched himself like a bullet across the clearing, wind screaming past his ears.
Too close. Too close.
The bear roared and rose to strike, one massive claw sweeping down like a guillotine—
And Ace arrived like a storm. He collided with Sabo, wrapping his arms around the boy and twisting in midair to shield him as they both went down. The bear's claw slashed through empty space, tearing the earth just inches from where they had stood.
They hit the ground hard, tumbling over roots and dirt. Ace grunted, absorbing most of the impact, and then sprang up between Sabo and the bear, fists clenched, eyes alight with fury.
"Don't. Touch. Him."
His voice was no longer that of a child. It was steel. It was fire. Ace gripped the iron pipe tightly, knuckles white, his young body tense like a coiled spring. Despite his training, he knew—he wasn't strong enough. Not for this.
This wasn't just any bear. It was one of the forest's overlords—an apex predator feared even by other beasts. Ace recognized it immediately by the deep scar carved down the side of its face, nearly blinding one eye. It was a creature hardened by countless battles, and now its gaze was locked on him.
Ace didn't falter. He positioned himself protectively in front of Sabo, shielding the smaller boy with his body as he cautiously stepped back, inching toward the fire crackling at the center of the clearing. His breathing slowed, steady. He had fought wild beasts before, but this was different. This wasn't just survival—this was responsibility.
The bear snorted, muscles rippling beneath thick, matted fur. It didn't charge—not yet. It was wary. Though the child before it was small, it remembered him. This boy had lived in the forest, tamed its rhythm, walked paths other predators avoided. The bear had seen him before—and felt the unseen presence that sometimes loomed nearby when the boy was threatened. Something ancient, something dangerous.
Still, hunger clawed at its gut. And now, the boy stood between it and a potential meal.
With a bone-rattling roar, the beast reared onto its hind legs, towering above the children like a mountain of muscle and fury.
"RRROOOOOOAAAARRRR!"
The sound shook the trees, but Ace held firm. He continued moving backward, drawing the beast's attention away from Sabo, every muscle taut, pipe raised, eyes sharp. He didn't blink. He didn't look back.
Then—the bear charged. It lunged with terrifying speed, one claw swiping at Ace like a scythe through wheat. But Ace was already in motion—dropping low, rolling under the strike in a blur of motion. Dirt flew as he hit the ground, and in the same fluid movement, he sprang back to his feet.
With all his strength, he swung the pipe, angling it low, slamming it directly into the bear's hind leg, right at the joint.
"CRACK…!"
The impact echoed through the clearing. The iron pipe shuddered in Ace's grip. The bear howled, staggering as pain shot through its leg.
"RAAAARRGGHH!"
Its eyes blazed with fury now. All sense of hesitation was gone. It had been wounded—by a child. Unforgivable. The beast pivoted sharply, now fully focused on Ace. Sabo, having scrambled beside the fire, watched wide-eyed as the massive creature bore down on the boy who had saved him—not once, but twice.
"Nooo!!"
And then Sabo moved. Desperation ignited his courage. He spotted a burning piece of timber lying by the fire—still smoldering at the end. Without thinking, he grabbed it with trembling hands, ignoring the searing heat that bit into his skin. The bear roared again, raising a paw to crush Ace.
But Sabo had already sprinted forward, tiny feet thudding against the ground.
With a cry that was half fear and half defiance, he jammed the burning wood right into the bear's hindquarters.
"GO AWAY!!!"
The bear screamed. A thunderous, pain-filled bellow tore from its throat as it leapt away from the fire, thrashing wildly. Smoke curled from singed fur. It spun in circles, trying to escape the searing pain, then turned its gaze on Sabo—rage mixing with confusion.