Translator: PapaSmurf0700
Not far from the naval headquarters of Marineford, a fleet of twenty warships stood guard around a small, forgotten island. The force, double the size of a standard Buster Call, wasn't there to conquer. It was there to guard a single man—the fuse for the war that would set the world ablaze.
Portgas D. Ace, Second Division Commander of the Whitebeard Pirates.
Deep beneath the island's surface, in a solitary, lightless cell, Ace had wasted away for a month. He received only the barest essentials for survival: food and water. Nothing more.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
The sound of approaching footsteps echoed down the stone corridor, followed by voices.
"Akainu. Leave him to me."
Ace's head snapped up. He knew that voice anywhere. It was Garp. The old man.
A cold, hard voice replied, dripping with zealous fury. "Vice-Admiral Garp. The war is upon us. I trust you remember which side you fight for. Do not attempt anything foolish."
"Every last pirate must be purged," the voice continued, unwavering. "Only through absolute annihilation can true justice prevail."
There were few men in the entire Navy who dared to speak to the Hero of the Marines with such contempt.
"Sakazuki..." Garp's voice was low, dangerous. He looked up, his eyes beneath the brim of his dog-head hood boring straight into Admiral Akainu. A grim, unsettling smile stretched his lips.
"You are in no position to lecture me on my justice."
Silence fell outside the cell once more. Then, Ace heard Akainu's final, chilling threat.
"If Fire Fist Ace is not on that execution platform on schedule, not even Fleet Admiral Sengoku will be able to save you."
Click.
The heavy cell door swung open, and a towering figure filled the doorway.
"Grandpa... old man." Ace bit his lip, the words catching in his throat. He didn't know what to say. If he had a choice, he'd almost rather die by Garp's hand than be made a spectacle. But their last conversation in Impel Down had stripped him of the ability to say anything cruel to the man before him.
Garp's demeanor was strange. It wasn't the rage Ace had expected. It was a heavy, somber intensity, a calm that was more unnerving than any storm.
"Ace," Garp began, his voice a low rumble. "From this moment on, you keep your eyes open. And you listen. You listen carefully."
He leaned closer. "Luffy and his crew… for you… they are tearing this world apart."
Ace's pupils contracted. Luffy? His friends?
Tearing the world apart?
A single, overwhelming thought consumed him: What in the hell happened while I was rotting in here?
-----
As Garp personally escorted Ace toward Marineford, the rest of the world made its final preparations.
On Grove 1 of the Sabaody Archipelago, a place once synonymous with hedonism and slavery, an enormous crowd had gathered. In front of a massive, newly erected broadcast screen stood a throng of reporters, clutching Visual Den Den Mushi, notebooks, and pens. Their faces, especially those who had witnessed the Priest's last broadcast from this very spot, were alight with feverish anticipation.
Behind them were locals and curious onlookers, all drawn to the spectacle.
"So this is the human auction house that Straw Hat Luffy destroyed?" one person muttered.
"It is. But why would the World Government set up a broadcast screen right here, on the very symbol of their failure?" another replied.
A cynical old man scoffed. "It's about saving face, you idiot. The Straw Hats challenged the world from these ruins. By forcing everyone to watch their defeat here, the Government plans to erase that memory. If Luffy dies at Marineford, it's as if his defiance never happened. The World Government becomes the righteous ruler of the seas once more."
"Hey, keep your voice down!" a nervous merchant hissed. "The Marines are just a few groves over. You want to get arrested for treason?"
The cynic spat on the ground. "Hmph. After that last broadcast, I've seen the truth. The World Government, the Marines… they're just the biggest, most successful pirate crew in the world. If they were truly just, how could they tolerate the existence of scum like the Celestial Dragons?"
Such conversations were happening all over the globe, wherever a broadcast screen had been erected. But in a shadowy corner on Sabaody, a different kind of audience watched in silence. If anyone had looked closely, they would have frozen in terror.
Eustass Kid. Killer. Capone Bege. A gathering of the worst of the new generation, supernovas with bounties well over 100 million. They had all postponed their journeys into the New World for this. They were here for one reason: to witness history.
Suddenly, the giant screen flickered to life. But the image wasn't of Marineford. It was the Holy Land, Marijoa, perched atop the Red Line.
Outside the opulent residences of the Celestial Dragons, thousands of Marines in immaculate white uniforms stood at attention. At their head stood the top brass, their Justice coats billowing in the wind. Leading them all was Admiral Kizaru, Borsalino, looking as lazy and unconcerned as ever.
The purpose of the broadcast became clear: the Navy had come to escort the two thousand slaves, freed by pirates, to safety. For a fleeting moment, the word "Justice" on their backs seemed to shine with genuine meaning.
The massive iron gates of the Celestial Dragon district groaned open.
And the people began to file out.
They were no longer slaves, but they were not yet free. They wore rags that barely concealed their bodies. Their exposed skin was a canvas of horror—bruises, welts, and the tell-tale brands of ownership seared into their flesh. But it was their eyes that silenced the crowd. Empty. Hollow. Devoid of hope.
On Sabaody, Eustass Kid let out a low, guttural laugh. "Damn. Leave it to the Celestial Dragons to expose their own vile nature to the entire world without even trying."
Meanwhile, in the Pangea Castle, the Five Elders watched the same broadcast, and their composure cracked.
"Those fools," the portly Elder spat. "Did we not instruct them to make the slaves presentable?"
The blond Elder sighed, adjusting his glasses. "Considering their nature, we are fortunate they agreed to release two thousand at all."
"You conveniently forget we promised them three thousand new ones to replace them," the bald, sword-wielding Elder pointed out, cutting to the cold truth of the matter.
"Enough," the bearded Elder interjected, his voice silencing them all. "The cost is irrelevant. The compliance of the Celestial Dragons is paramount. This is a necessary price to maintain order."