The appearance of Red-Haired Shanks didn't just stop the war; it acted like a sudden blast of industrial-grade Freon, instantly flash-freezing the boiling magma of the Marineford battlefield.
He hadn't drawn a weapon. He hadn't fired a shot.
He simply stood there, radiating an aura of such overwhelming "cool" that everyone—from the lowliest grunt to the bloodthirsty Admirals—felt compelled to lower their weapons.
It was the ultimate buzzkill for the warmongers, but a divine intervention for everyone else.
"That's enough."
Those two casually spoken words carried more weight than all the cannons the Marines had fired that day.
On the high execution platform, Fleet Admiral Sengoku stared down at the newcomer.
A thick blue vein throbbed dangerously at his temple, threatening to burst and end his career right there.
Sengoku's eyes darted around the board.
He looked at Fire Fist Ace, who was disheveled and burnt but undeniably alive, standing beside his brother.
He looked at Whitebeard, the dying monster who, despite having a wound in his chest, remained standing tall like an ancient deity.
He looked at Blackbeard, the wildcard traitor.
And finally, his gaze fell upon the dazed-looking Marine grunt standing in the middle of the plaza, holding a bright red loudspeaker and leaning against a high-tech hotdog cart.
'A salesman', Sengoku thought, his soul weeping. 'A war that staked the Marine's entire dignity... hijacked by a clown selling soda and band aid.'
But Shanks had arrived.
The board was flipped.
Though Red-Haired Shanks was known for being a pacifist who disliked causing trouble, no one dared to take his words lightly.
If the fighting continued now, the exhausted Marine forces would have to face the remnants of the Whitebeard Pirates and the fresh, full-strength Red Hair Pirates simultaneously.
It was a logistical nightmare. It was suicide.
"...Stand down."
Sengoku practically squeezed the words through gritted teeth, his voice filled with the exhaustion of a man who just wanted to go home and feed his goat.
"The war... is over!"
With the Fleet Admiral's command, the hours-long slaughter finally came to an absurd, grinding halt.
The tension snapped.
The Pirates began assisting their wounded, retreating in an orderly, if somewhat hurried, fashion toward the port.
The Marines also relaxed, weapons clattering to the ground as they started to tend to their comrades.
No one cheered. No one wailed. An eerie, confused silence enveloped the corpse-strewn plaza.
Everyone was bewildered by this dramatic conclusion.
Everyone, that is, except for Putin.
Putin couldn't care less about the geopolitical implications of a Yonko standoff.
He didn't care about the shift in eras. He didn't care about Justice or Freedom.
His entire focus—his body, soul, and spirit—was immersed in the shimmering holographic icon on his system panel.
It was a picture of a small, innocent-looking, chibi-style two-person tent.
[Item: Mobile Safe House (Initial Form)]
[Description: A trans-dimensional sanctuary for the weary soul.]
[Features:]
Climate Control: Eternal 22°C (72°F) constant-temperature air conditioning.
Connectivity: Ultra-high-speed "God-tier" WiFi signal transmitter (10-meter range). Low latency. No lag.
Entertainment: PS69 Limited Edition Gaming Console (Pre-loaded with the entire multiverse game library).
Comfort: Double Simmons Mattress (Cloud-soft edition).
Sanitation: Self-cleaning bidet (Warm water function included).
[Energy Source: Point conversion. Note: As long as Host has system points, the air conditioning will never shut down. Entropy is ignored.]
Putin read the description three times.
Air conditioning... WiFi... Gaming console... A Simmons mattress...
Tears welled up in Putin's eyes.
They weren't tears of sadness; they were tears of pure, unadulterated religious ecstasy.
What had he worked himself to death for in his previous life?
Why did he endure the 9-9-6 work culture, the shouting bosses, and the instant noodle dinners?
Wasn't it just to afford a toilet-sized studio apartment in a first-tier city that could fit these exact things?
And now? Not only did he have them—they were portable!
'This isn't just a tent', Putin thought, trembling. 'This is a Mobile Castle! A walking Promised Land! This is the Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs condensed into a polygon!'
What Pirate King? What One Piece? What "Great Treasure"?
Could any of that gold and glory compare to lying on a Simmons mattress in a 22-degree room, drinking chilled cola, and playing video games with zero ping?
"My life... is complete..."
Putin sniffled, wiping his nose on his sleeve.
He murmured the words sincerely from the bottom of his heart.
"I have reached the summit."
However, his small movements naturally didn't escape the notice of the monsters surrounding him.
"Zehahahaha..."
Not far away, a familiar, unsettling laughter rang out like gravel in a blender.
Blackbeard, Marshall D. Teach, hadn't left yet.
Instead of rushing to pursue Whitebeard to steal his power, he was standing atop the rubble, curiously examining Putin and his brand-new, shiny pushcart.
"That kid... is quite interesting," Teach muttered.
He licked his lips, his eyes gleaming with a greedy, predatory light.
Teach didn't understand words like "drones" or "WiFi."
He was a pirate, not an IT technician.
But he understood results. He saw a grunt who had confused an Admiral and healed a Yonko.
'This must be some unknown, powerful Devil Fruit ability!' Teach theorized. 'Or perhaps an ancient weapon!'
"I want it," Blackbeard whispered. "I, Marshall D. Teach, must obtain that power!"
Putin felt a sudden chill run down his spine, sharper than Aokiji's ice.
He looked up.
To his right, Blackbeard was looking at him like he was a roasted ham.
To his left... He met Akainu's gaze.
He was angry.
And he was staring directly at Putin with eyes that promised nothing but slow, painful incineration.
Splash.
Instantly jolted from the joy of property ownership, Putin felt as if a bucket of ice water had been poured over him.
It's over, he realized. I'm cooked.
He had thoroughly offended the Marine's top combat power.
He had humiliated the Admiral in front of the world.
He looked down at his Marine Uniform.
It suddenly felt very heavy, and very conspicuous. It felt like wearing a target.
"Staying here until the war completely ends is suicide," Putin muttered, his brain shifting into survival mode.
"What happens next? Court-martial? Torture in Impel Down? Or just being directly vaporized by Akainu's 'Great Eruption' to save on paperwork?"
He didn't want any of those outcomes.
He had a tent to sleep in!
"I have to run!"
Just then, the Red Hair Pirates began their retreat.
The tension broke as Shanks turned to leave.
As the Emperor passed by Putin, he paused for a moment.
Shanks, with his flowing cape and single arm, stopped right in front of the "Multiverse Groceries" cart.
He glanced at the welded insulation box, then at the megaphone still clutched in Putin's hand.
A relaxed, amused smile spread across the Yonko's face.
"Young man," Shanks spoke.
His voice wasn't loud, but it carried a strange, convincing charm that made you want to listen to him.
"The things you sell are quite interesting. You have a unique way of fighting."
He winked.
"Next time we meet on the sea, I'll definitely buy a bottle of that... what did you call it? Happy Water?"
With that, Shanks laughed heartily and turned to leave, his retreating figure exuding a carefree elegance that said, 'I just stopped a war, no big deal.'
Putin stood frozen in place, his mouth hanging open.
He hadn't processed what happened.
Did... did Shanks just promise to be a returning customer?
But there was no time to celebrate his networking skills.
The Whitebeard Pirates were preparing to board their ship.
The Moby Dick was ready to cast off.
"Let's go! Move it!"
Ace, supported by Marco, was limping toward the ship.
But he didn't rush to board. Instead, he stopped.
He turned around and walked directly up to Putin.
Fire Fist Ace.
The man the whole world had fought over.
His expression was extremely complex—filled with gratitude, confusion, and the bewilderment of having his worldview completely reshaped by a soda salesman.
He stared at Putin, his mouth opening and closing for a long moment, struggling to find the words.
Finally, he managed to say:
"Um... thank you. Although I don't know how you did it... and I have no idea what a 'beauty filter' is... you indirectly saved me."
"Gurararara..."
A shadow fell over them. Whitebeard's towering figure approached.
The cute bear-patterned band-aid on his chest looked both ridiculous and endearing on his massive, scarred frame.
It was a tiny speck of whimsy on a mountain of tragedy.
Whitebeard looked at Putin.
He didn't bring up the "become my son" offer again—the situation was too chaotic for adoption paperwork.
Instead, he fixed the young man with a deep, knowing golden gaze.
"Brat," Whitebeard rumbled. "Your courage is bigger than my ship. We owe you a life."
"Pops! Hurry! The Marines are coming!"
A division commander shouted urgently from the deck.
Putin snapped his head around.
In the distance, a squad of Marine officers, led by a particularly angry-looking Vice Admiral, had noticed the unusual gathering.
They were charging over, swords drawn.
"HALT!" the officer screamed. "YOU THERE! THAT THIRD-CLASS SOLDIER! YOU ARE SUSPECTED OF COLLUDING WITH THE ENEMY, TREASON, AND DERELICTION OF DUTY! SURRENDER IMMEDIATELY FOR JUDGMENT!"
Putin's hair stood on end.
'Judgment? Bullshit!'
That wasn't judgment; that was a one-way ticket to the afterlife!
His gaze swept rapidly across the scene, analyzing his terrible options.
To the left: The Marines, charging like tigers eyeing a fat rabbit.
They wanted to dissect him.
To the right: Blackbeard, still lurking, wanting to steal his "power."
And right before him: The Whitebeard Pirates, about to set sail, who owed him an enormous favor.
Was there even a choice?!
"Um!"
Putin, quick-witted in a crisis (and desperate to keep his tent), grabbed Ace's arm.
He plastered on his most sincere, shiny, professional business smile.
"Sir! Hello! Valued Customer!"
Ace blinked. "...Huh?"
"Would you like to learn about our extended after-sales service package?" Putin shouted, speaking a mile a minute.
"After... sales...?" Ace looked at Marco, confused.
"Yes!" Putin pointed seriously at the band-aid on Whitebeard's chest, spouting nonsense with a straight face.
"You see, for this 'Absolute Defense Band-Aid' on your father's chest, it requires complex maintenance! I need to regularly monitor its adhesive data to ensure its effectiveness! I also offer a full range of follow-up treatment services! It's a delicate medical procedure!"
Marco, standing nearby, twitched at the corner of his eye.
He was the ship's doctor.
He had eaten a Mythical Zoan fruit.
In his decades of medical practice, he had never heard of a band-aid requiring after-sales service and data monitoring.
"This guy is shamelessly trying to hitch a ride," Marco realized.
But then, Marco looked at the charging Marines.
He looked at the desperate plea in Putin's eyes.
"So..."
Putin gripped the handlebars of his beloved cart—which carried his future happiness (the tent)—until his knuckles turned white.
He looked at Ace and Whitebeard with puppy-dog eyes, full of anticipation.
"Can I... come aboard to perform these checks?"
He held his breath.
"Gurararara!" Whitebeard laughed. "Get on!"
"Don't fall behind!" Ace grinned.
But Putin wasn't fast enough. The Marines were closing in.
"I'll help you!"
Suddenly, Putin felt his collar tighten. A massive hand gripped him like a kitten.
It was Diamond Jozu.
The massive, diamond-skinned Commander of the 3rd Division didn't have time for stairs.
He tucked Putin under his massive arm like a football and grabbed the "Multiverse Groceries" cart with the other hand.
"Quit yapping! Let's go!" Jozu grunted.
He leaped.
"HEY! MY CART!! BE CAREFUL! THAT'S MY WIFE!"
Putin's screams traced a pathetic arc through the air as Jozu launched himself from the ice to the ship.
THUD.
They landed steadily on the deck of the Moby Dick.
Putin scrambled up immediately.
He ignored the pirates, ignored the sea, and rushed to his cart.
He checked the wheels. He checked the paint. He wiped down a smudge on the counter as if it were a priceless antique.
"Oh, thank god," he whispered. "The Playstation is safe."
He looked back.
The coastline of Marineford was receding into the distance.
The shouts of the Marines were fading. Akainu's face, twisted with rage as he watched his prey escape, became a blur.
The war was over. He had survived.
Putin let out a long, shuddering sigh of relief and plopped down onto the wooden deck of the pirate ship.
He had finally made it past the death point.
He was alive. He was rich (sort of).
And he had air conditioning!
Gazing at his intact cart and the retreating hellscape of Marineford, a happy, genuine smile spread across his face.
"Maybe..." Putin murmured, patting the side of his cart. "Maybe this pirate life won't be so bad after all."