The moment Gern stepped onto Marine Headquarters soil, the silence was broken by Garp.
The burly vice admiral strode forward, his booming laughter echoing across the harbor.
"Hahahaha! Kid, well done! You're the first rookie ever to make Whitebeard use Conqueror's coating!"
Gern froze for a split second. Only then did he recognize the man in front of him—his face far younger than the legends suggested, save for the scar at the corner of his eye.
Garp.
Realization hit. Instinctively, Gern's gaze shifted past Garp—to Zephyr standing behind him. The man's expression was as stern as ever, unreadable.
"You flatter me, Vice Admiral Garp," Gern said, bowing his head slightly. His voice remained calm.
"I only did what needed to be done."
"Hahaha! Too modest!" Garp slapped Gern hard on the shoulder, nearly knocking the injured man off balance.
"Come on, come on—let's get you to the medical division first. After that, you can tell me everything about that fight!"
At last, Zephyr spoke.
"Garp. Enough fooling around."
"Zeh–phyr—"
"He needs to report to me first." Zephyr's eyes shifted to Gern, his tone low and firm.
"Ensign Gern. One hour from now. My office. I'll be waiting."
Gern straightened and snapped a crisp salute.
"Yes, Vice Admiral Zephyr."
Garp pouted.
"Oi, Zephyr, don't be so stiff. The kid just crawled back from a life-or-death battle—"
"Precisely why discipline matters even more," Zephyr cut in. He nodded once at Gern.
"Go. Don't be late."
As Gern left with the medical staff, Garp scratched his head.
"You're always this strict."
Zephyr pinched the bridge of his nose.
"Garp, you know exactly what a Tremor Logia represents."
Garp's expression turned serious for a fleeting moment.
"It's just a Logia—"
"Which is exactly why it's terrifying."
The two men fell silent. The sea breeze whipped Zephyr's coat, snapping loudly.
"So?" Garp suddenly grinned again, ramming his shoulder playfully into Zephyr's.
"You planning to hand the kid over to me?"
"Don't even think about it," Zephyr snorted, already turning toward the headquarters building.
"Go keep an eye on your own son. And I hear you've taken in Kuzan lately—you've got your hands full."
Garp burst out laughing behind him.
"Hahaha! I knew it! You're really fond of that kid, aren't you?"
Zephyr didn't look back. He only raised a hand.
"Fleet Admiral's office, Garp."
"Yeah, yeah!" Garp followed lazily.
"But first, I'm swinging by Sengoku's place—I bet he's hiding something good again!"
The harbor slowly returned to noise as the two vice admirals departed. Marines glanced between their retreating figures and the direction Gern had gone, whispers rising once more.
"Did you see that? Vice Admiral Zephyr came personally for that rookie…"
"They say he fought Whitebeard head-on and lived!"
"Marineford's about to get real interesting…"
The automatic doors of Marineford's medical wing slid shut behind Gern.
He paused in the corridor, unconsciously pressing a hand against his chest—where three ribs should have been shattered.
"Unbelievable…"
Whitebeard's final blow, even restrained, had still crushed multiple ribs. Back in the West Blue, an injury like that would've meant four months bedridden at minimum.
Yet now, beneath the bandages, his skin had already healed. Only faint pink scars remained as proof of that cataclysmic clash.
"What do they use here, magic?" Gern muttered.
"No wonder Marines barely die in the stories…"
He pressed his abdomen lightly. No pain—just the faint itch of new flesh knitting together.
Memories surfaced of his early days in the West Blue: crude field hospitals, wounded soldiers screaming in agony, medicines always in short supply.
Here, even mortal injuries felt like temporary inconveniences.
From the window down the hall came the synchronized shouts of recruits drilling in the plaza below.
Gern stopped, looking through the glass at rows of Marines in identical uniforms. Sunlight lit their young faces, every one of them wearing a look of conviction.
"Even the rookies here are elite," he murmured, turning away and continuing toward headquarters.
Zephyr had given him an hour—but Gern intended to arrive early.
Punctuality was the bare minimum in Marineford.
After passing through three security checkpoints, he reached the vice admiral offices. The hallway was so quiet he could hear his own footsteps. Nameplates lined the walls.
At the very end stood a black door.
Zephyr — Marine Headquarters Vice Admiral
Gern raised his hand to knock—then noticed the door was slightly ajar.
Inside, no one.
Zephyr hadn't returned yet.
"Reporting. Ensign Gern Reginald Sigma, here to report."
After announcing himself softly, Gern pushed the door open.
The office was austerely plain: a solid wooden desk, two guest chairs, a filing cabinet stuffed with documents. No decorations.
On the desk stood a framed photograph—Zephyr and his wife, before her passing.
On the wall hung a single calligraphy piece, the ink bold and forceful:
"Non-Killing Justice."
Gern stood there, staring.
"Non-killing…" he whispered.
Back when he was still a West Blue recruit—before scraping together money to transfer to logistics—mercy had been treated as weakness.
Pirates bowed only to greater violence. Compassion often bred greater disasters.
He had seen too many Marines die because they hesitated.
"And yet…" he murmured, fingers brushing the hilt of his blade,
"This is Black Arm Zephyr's justice."
In the West Blue, Gern's reputation had been built atop corpses. Every fallen pirate was a warning to the next.
Now these four characters on the wall felt like a negation of everything he had done.
"That," a low voice said from behind him, "is my justice."
Gern spun around.
Zephyr stood in the doorway, his expression calm, emotionless.
"Vice Admiral Zephyr!" Gern snapped to attention and saluted.
Zephyr strode inside, cape swaying faintly behind him.
"Gern," he said, stopping in front of the desk without sitting.
"You once said, 'Justice that arrives too late doesn't deserve to be called justice.'"
His gaze locked onto Gern's eyes.
"Then tell me—"
"What does your justice look like?"
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