Beside Garp, Sengoku's face had gone as dark as a storm cloud.
Ace truly was Roger's son.
He could not understand it. They had thought they had cleansed the root — every pregnant woman accounted for, every possibility cut off. How had one slipped through the net?
Two years pregnant… the phrase struck Sengoku like a blade. Of course. The Marines' raids on Baterilla had stretched on for nearly two years. Ace's mother must have carried the child through the entire siege, holding on until the Marines withdrew.
Sengoku fell silent. Even a man of his measure had little to say when faced with that stubborn, human endurance.
But one thing remained clear: the blood of the Pirate King could not be allowed to continue. If Roger's line persisted, peace would never hold.
"Raise Portgas D. Ace's bounty to one billion," Sengoku ordered, voice hard and final. "We shall not permit the son of Gol D. Roger to threaten this world again."
Ace's bounty — formerly five hundred and fifty million — doubled instantly. No one questioned the command; none would risk opposing it. A son of Roger could grow into another scourge.
Garp kept silent. He had braced for this. Ace, look after yourself, he thought. If Sengoku's net reached him, the Summit War the projection foretold could move from prophecy to bloody reality.
Sengoku rubbed his chin, thinking aloud. "Ace's mother died in childbirth… then how did the boy survive? Where did he live all these years? Why is there no trace?"
By ordinary reckoning, a newborn left without guardians could never know the name of his father — unless someone else knew and chose to hide the truth.
Garp started to whistle, off-key and uneasy, as if to distract himself. Sengoku glanced at him oddly, but the broadcast pressed on.
Aboard the Moby Dick, suspended between sea and sky, the projection resumed.
The unseen man's voice was calm, absolute. "Now, third question: Who adopted and raised the newborn Ace? You have one minute. The clock begins now."
Sengoku's eyes flared. This was the answer he'd wanted — the name of the man who dared shelter Roger's child, who raised him into a pirate and let that will live on. If that man were found, Sengoku would see him punished without mercy.
His aura tightened, sharp and hungry—the determined wrath of a Marine who would burn any ember of rebellion.
And in the plaza, Garp felt the world tilt.
That question cut closer than any blade. He had survived riots, wars, and loss — but this? This threatened everything he had tried to hide and protect. The system's cruelty was clear: wrong answers would be corrected publicly. There would be no safe concealment.
Garp's mind raced. I'm in Marineford, surrounded by my comrades, and the truth will be spilled. What do I do? Think, think!
He slid a step back, then another, trying to find some small sliver of space. The surrounding ranks of Marines tightened like a tide; there was nowhere to slip away.
"Garp, where are you going?" Aokiji's lazy voice cut through the tension. Heads turned. Even Sengoku looked over.
Garp forced a laugh that cracked on the edges. "Ah—nothing. Just stretching my legs. Can't stand in one place too long, you know." He shot Aokiji a gnarled look. You ungrateful pup — this is on you, too. He swallowed the rest and stayed put.
Some truths are heavier than justice, he thought, the weight settling into his shoulders as if the world itself had leaned on him.
Across the seas, the common people watched, breath held and anger simmering. Those who had suffered through the age Roger ignited wanted a name — the man who had allowed the Pirate King's blood to remain. Their grief turned quickly into a hunger for retribution.
On the Moby Dick, the crew had no idea their every word and motion were being cast across the world.
Below the broadcast noise, Garp stood silently, the pressure of what he carried eclipsing the official duty he bore. His shoulders sagged beneath a weight that was not law but love.