"What… what is that?"
"It's nothing like the helicopters we've seen before."
"Vice Admiral, this must be your teaching, isn't it?"
Captain Doll stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling glass, eyes wide, unable to look away from the vast black silhouette dominating the naval base's square. The B-2 bomber, hand-rubbed into existence by Douglas Bullet, seemed more like a predator than a machine.
Its wings stretched out like the shadow of a bird of prey, its body humming with a faint purple aura that spoke of the Fusion Fruit's power.
Vice Admiral Rosen gave no immediate answer. He only nodded once, the faintest confirmation.
Doll exhaled slowly, then caught sight of something even stranger: Bullet pressing both hands against the bomber's black hull. The purple light spilled from his palms again, and his body began to merge into the creation. In the next moment, man and machine fused as one.
Boom.
The roar shook the glass. Air split apart. The runway itself—something Bullet had forged just moments before from spare steel and stone—lit up under the tremendous pressure. Then the bomber surged forward, its wings cutting through the air, the thunder of its engines echoing like a storm across the entire base.
In the blink of an eye, the B-2 bomber climbed, higher and higher, until the massive structure looked no larger than a hawk against the horizon. Within minutes, it vanished from sight altogether.
"So fast…" Doll's voice trembled, her hand gripping the edge of the glass. Her face had paled. "It's nothing like those helicopters."
"Of course it's not comparable to a helicopter," Rosen replied. His tone was calm, but there was the faintest trace of pride beneath his words. "Before, he merely copied a civilian chopper. Now, it's a B-2 bomber."
Doll swallowed. She knew enough to understand the implication. The bomber wasn't even a machine known for speed, yet even so, its velocity approached the speed of sound.
"Vice Admiral…" she began carefully.
"Forgive my frankness, but aren't you worried? You've given him everything. You've indulged him, taught him, allowed him to refine his Fusion Fruit. You've seen it yourself—Bullet is far stronger now than when he crawled out of Impel Down. What if, one day, you can't rein him in?"
Her words hung in the air like smoke.
She had lived alongside them for months, eating in the same mess, training on the same grounds. She had seen Bullet's hunger firsthand. The endless drills, the brutal self-inflicted sparring, the scars layering over his body like scales. He had only grown more dangerous. And Rosen—far from restraining him—had poured fuel into the fire.
Just now, seeing the Demon's Heir rubbing a bomber into existence with his bare hands, she had been struck by a chilling realization. This man, already terrifying when he first clashed with Rosen after escaping Impel Down, had become something worse. Something monstrous.
If the Navy one day had to stop Douglas Bullet again, how many lives would it cost?
Rosen finally turned his head toward her. There was a faint smile on his lips. Not mocking, not cruel—just amused.
"Doll," he said quietly. "You're not wrong. Bullet has grown stronger."
He leaned back into his chair, folding one hand under his chin, eyes gleaming with something sharper than confidence. "But tell me… when did you start to have the illusion that I haven't grown stronger too?"
Doll froze. Her pupils contracted.
"You said it yourself. Bullet is far more powerful now than when he fought me back then. True enough. But have you considered the possibility that I have also grown? Compared to Bullet's growth, my own pace is far greater?"
The words carried no arrogance—only fact. And in that moment Doll remembered. She remembered the man who had cut through warlords and pirates, who commanded Marines not through titles but by sheer presence. The man whose Observation Haki could peel apart minds and whose weapon fruit could conjure blades that bent reality.
She had grown accustomed to his strength, to the ease with which he crushed obstacles. She had forgotten that he was not static. Rosen was always refining, always pushing further.
Her breath caught. "Forgive me, Vice Admiral. I was overthinking."
She bowed her head, chastened. She knew now—whatever terror Bullet inspired, Rosen's shadow would always loom larger.
Above them, cutting through the sky, Bullet laughed. His voice merged with the thunder of the engines as he became the bomber itself. Unlike Doll, he never forgot. Rosen would never stagnate. Rosen would never fall behind. That was why Bullet stayed. That was why he followed. Because someday, Rosen was the fight he longed for most.
Stronger, always stronger.
The sensation of flight consumed him. Not the crude leaps he had once managed with his fruit, not the awkward gliding of makeshift contraptions. This was true flight—supersonic, roaring, free.
The wings weren't metal; they were his arms. The cockpit wasn't a seat; it was his chest. He was the bomber, and the bomber was him.
Clouds ripped apart before his advance. The ocean spread endlessly beneath. Even at these speeds, it took time to cross the vast North Sea.
But Bullet felt no impatience. For the first time in years, he felt exhilaration simply in the act of moving, in the rush of wind against steel that was his skin.
Finally, on the horizon, a vast shadow emerged. A floating kingdom, built upon colossal snail ships bound together into a fortress nation. Towering castles pierced the sky. Forests sprawled across artificial decks. Streets twisted with life, markets and alleys suspended above the waves.
Germa 66.
Bullet's grin stretched across the bomber's steel frame.
"Found you."
He folded his wings and dove.
The impact came like a meteor strike. Bullet cloaked the bomber's body in Armament Haki, hardening steel with obsidian gloss. Then he slammed into Germa's heart.
Bang!
The explosion tore through streets and walls. Buildings crumbled like paper. The kingdom itself groaned as snail ships were ripped free from their moorings, several nearly dragged under the waves. The shockwave scattered soldiers and citizens alike, a storm born of one man's arrival.
BZZZZT—
Sirens blared across the kingdom. Red lights flashed from every tower.
From alleys and barracks, from towers and fortresses, the swarm responded. Rat-cars screeched through the streets, wheels shrieking as they spilled clone soldiers onto the pavement.
Dozens. Hundreds. Each one identical: same height, same eyes, same lifeless expression. Their rifles snapped up as one, muzzles gleaming. Gatlings spun, belts of ammunition rattling like chains.
The air stank of gun oil and cordite.
And from the highest castle, a figure streaked into the sky. Blond hair whipped behind him, combat uniform gleaming. Vinsmoke Judge himself rose above his army, gaze cold, expression unreadable.
The order hadn't yet been spoken, but it was there in the tension, in the way every rifle locked onto the smoke-shrouded crater.
The next heartbeat would decide whether the Germa Kingdom unleashed its storm of bullets.