Fleet Admiral Kong sat at his massive, ornate desk within the very heart of the Marine Headquarters in Marineford. Though aged, his imposing physique still spoke of immense power, a testament to his former glory as a Marine Admiral, now standing at the apex of military command. His face, usually a mask of stoic determination, was etched with a grim weariness that bespoke recent, unprecedented turmoil.
He was, indeed, still the Fleet Admiral, a figure of absolute authority, yet even he seemed overshadowed by the two objects on his desk.
Before him lay two wanted posters. One, is bounty of a Child that's not supposed to be there. The other, however, was what commanded his full, unsettling attention.
It was the most striking, the most disturbing wanted poster he had ever seen.
It depicted no face, no discernible form. Just absolute darkness, a swirling void that seemed to absorb the light of the room. Yet, within that darkness, faintly, chillingly, one could perceive shadowy, screaming human faces, contorted in agony and terror.
Not just one face, but many faces, fused into the very blackness.
Below this disturbing imagery, stark and unblinking, was a bounty: ฿150,000,000. Dead or Alive.
"Are you certain he can use Haki?"
Kong's voice was a low, dangerous rumble, directed at the two men standing before him.
Vice Admiral Sakazuki, a figure of uncompromising justice and barely contained volcanic fury, stood stiffly before Kong's desk. His right arm was heavily bandaged, the pristine white linen already beginning to dampen and stain with fresh blood and pus, seeping from beneath the wraps. The wound, a deep, jagged gash, a cleaving strike from the Dragonslayer, refused to heal cleanly, festering with an unnatural corruption that hinted at something far beyond a mere physical injury.
"I am certain, sir," Sakazuki answered, his voice a harsh grind. Then continue:
"I confronted that black-armored man directly. And... about his Devil Fruit, sir. Not only did his body recover from destruction, but his armor as well."
He was still radiating a raw, seething anger.
Across the room, seated on a plush sofa, Vice Admiral Kuzan sat with his head bowed, his usual relaxed posture replaced by a profound weariness.
His very presence seemed to drain the warmth from the air.
His belief in absolute justice, once as solid as ice, had been shattered, crumbling with the ashes of Ohara.
He had lost a friend, Jaguar D. Saul, and with him, a significant piece of his own conviction.
He was here not to report, but to resign.
"What do you make of that, Kuzan?"
Kuzan slowly raised his head, his eyes cold, devoid of their usual lazy humor. "Sir, if you won't accept my letter of resignation, could you at least refrain from asking anything about Ohara?"
His voice was flat, carrying an unspoken weight of trauma.
"Heh. Still defending those terrorists, eh, Kuzan?"
Sakazuki sneered, a cruel glint in his eyes.
Instantly, the temperature in the office plummeted.
Frost bloomed rapidly across the ornate, wooden walls.
The sofa Kuzan was sitting on creaked ominously as it began to freeze solid, and half of Kuzan's body was already encased in glistening ice, his form stiffening.
A frigid mist swirled around him, his patience worn thin.
"I'm not in the mood to play with you, Sakazuki. Don't test my patience."
Kuzan's words were delivered with chilling calm.
Sakazuki's left hand immediately transformed into molten magma, the intense heat radiating outwards, pushing back against the encroaching cold and raising the room's temperature once more.
He stood ready, a volcanic counterpoint to Kuzan's icy fury.
"ENOUGH!"
Kong bellowed, his voice rattling the very foundations of the building. He slammed his fist down onto his desk.
The unfortunate piece of furniture, unable to withstand the force of his wrath, split clean in two, timber splintering and crashing to the floor.
Kong took a long, shuddering breath, visibly forcing himself to regain control.
"Out of the 345 Marines I sent, only 41 survived,"
he stated, his voice now a low, pained growl. He let out another long sigh, the weight of the immense loss pressing down on him. Before the Ohara incident, Kong had been steeling himself, preparing for a long-anticipated promotion, but now...
"What happened to Spandine?"
Kong asked Sakazuki, his gaze sharp.
"Heh. He went insane, sir. He's in the ward for the mentally unstable,"
Sakazuki replied with a cynical smirk.
"His conviction was too weak,"
He muttered under his breath, barely audible.
Spandine, however, was not alone. Many of the surviving Marines had begun to lose their minds, plagued by horrific nightmares, and consumed their sanity. visions of Inferno where they tortured every time they closed their eyes.
"Both of you. Get out. I need to discuss this with the Five Elders,"
Kong commanded, his voice now firm, dismissive.
Kuzan was the first to move, his form still slightly stiff from the sudden chill, his face a mask of cold resignation as he silently turned and exited Kong's shattered office. Sakazuki, after one last contemptuous glance at Kuzan's retreating back, also departed, leaving Kong alone in the wrecked room.
After they were both gone, Kong leaned back in his chair, ignoring the shattered desk. His gaze fell once more upon the disturbing wanted poster clutched in his hand.
The Black Swordsman. Dead or Alive. ฿150,000,000.
*
Shell Island.
Three months.
Three months had passed since the sea monster had deposited Guts and Robin onto the shores of Shell Island.
Three months since the inferno of Ohara, three months since Guts had felt Arapu's soul finally find peace.
In that time, a strange, quiet routine had settled over their lives.
One moonless night, just weeks after their arrival, Bonal, the grizzled, cautious mayor of Shell Island, had approached Guts's usual campsite in the woods.
Guts, ever vigilant, had been resting with the Dragonslayer plunged into the earth beside him.
Bonal, a lantern shaking in his hand, had stumbled, nearly becoming two halves under the swift, instinctive swing of Guts's colossal blade before Guts held back.
"Please! I mean no harm!"
Bonal had pleaded, his face pale.
He offered a desperate bargain.
A band of pirates had taken over their small, peaceful village, terrorizing the inhabitants.
Bonal, having seen the hulking stranger's immense sword and grim demeanor, hoped for a miracle.
If Guts would help them, he and his daughter, Nico Robin, would be welcomed into the village.
Bonal even offered them a vacant house at the farthest end of the village, a secluded spot that suited Guts's nature.
Guts knew.
His Brand, a constant, searing itch on his neck, had reacted more than once, sending tremors through his very being.
He'd had to slip away into the shadows on a few occasions, his Dragonslayer cutting down the zealous, deluded bounty hunters who, lured by whispers of a "black-armored monster," had stumbled too close.
He and Robin were still hunted, still pursued by the World Government.
But looking at Robin, pale and withdrawn, her small frame still trembling even in sleep, Guts felt a rare pang of something akin to pity.
He couldn't keep her living like a wild animal in the woods forever.
He accepted Bonal's offer.
The pirates didn't last long. Guts, a whirlwind of black steel and raw power, drove them not just from the village, but literally "to hell."
The sounds of their terror, their screams, were a grim echo of Ohara for those who heard them.
Now, three months later, Guts found himself in a local pie shop.
"Guts! Buying apple pie for Robin again?"
Jumoi, the plump, kind-faced pie seller, let out a familiar sigh.
She was a middle-aged woman, her apron dusted with flour.
"It's not healthy, Guts, feeding Robin apple pie every day!"
Jumoi scolded the silent, intimidating man. Her words, though gruff, carried a warmth he hadn't heard directed at him in years.
The first time Guts had stalked into her shop, his massive frame filling the doorway, she had been scared half to death.
But Jumoi had grown used to him.
What was so scary, after all, about a man who spoiled "his" little girl with apple pie every single day?
"Wait here, Guts."
Jumoi bustled to the back, returning moments later with a covered food carrier in her hands.
"Here, Guts, I made some chicken soup. Give it to little Robin, okay?" she said, handing him the carrier.
"Thanks, Moi. I'll tell Robin,"
Guts rumbled, his voice gruff but sincere, accepting the container before turning to leave for their temporary dwelling at the edge of the village.
His pouch, once empty, was now thick with Beri, Bonal having regularly helped Guts exchanged the heads of the slain pirates for their bounties.
Unknown to Guts, or Bonal for that matter, those same pirate heads, now mounted grimly at the Marine outpost on a neighboring island, shrieked and wept every night, terrifying the Marines stationed there with their spectral wails, haunted by the memory of the "Black Swordsman" who had sent them to an otherworldly demise.
Arriving at the secluded house, Guts knocked on Robin's bedroom door.
A soft invitation to eat together.
Robin emerged, her usual quiet self, into the living room, which was still largely empty of furniture, save for a worn carpet.
After lighting the fireplace, its flames casting dancing shadows, Guts glanced out the window; the sun was beginning to set, painting the sky in hues of orange and purple.
Guts spread their evening meal on the carpet: various fruits, fresh bread, twelve bottles of rum (for Guts to drink alone), Jumoi's steaming chicken soup, and of course, a fresh apple pie.
Robin, still reserved and quiet despite their shared life, waited patiently for him to begin.
Together, Guts and Robin ate their dinner, savoring the normal, peaceful day, a fleeting comfort they both knew couldn't last forever.