Marineford, Grand Line
Clack... Clack...
The sound of boots echoing softly against the polished marble floor of Marineford's inner sanctum was unnerving in its rhythm—calm, unhurried, yet somehow ominous. Each step that resounded through the corridor carried an unnatural weight, not in volume but in presence.
The Marine officers, all seasoned men hardened by war, couldn't help but feel a coil of tension tighten in their spines as they escorted the figure through the sacred heart of justice. The man walked like he had every right to be there—not as a guest, not as a prisoner, but as something beyond those titles.
He had arrived days earlier at Enies Lobby, unannounced and without fanfare. What he did bring, however, were the severed heads of fourteen elite giant pirates, their once-proud visages now lifeless trophies sealed in tarred boxes. These were not just warriors—they were legends of Elbaf. And he had slaughtered them all alone.
With the heads came a single statement, scrawled in elegant ink:
"This is my offering. I await your reply."
— Mashal D. François
The world had known nothing of him until then. And now? Now whispers of his name flooded the Grand Line, always accompanied by dread. He walked the halls of Marineford not like a pirate in chains but like a pilgrim admiring the ruins of an ancient church.
His tall, imposing frame was clad in a simple but pristine black coat, hemmed with silver, its collar high and folded neatly. What chilled the observers the most, however, was his mask—an ornate yet expressionless piece of ivory-white iron, smooth save for a single vertical slit that allowed him to breathe. There were no eyeholes, no mouthpiece, and no indication of humanity beneath it.
Just silence.
They said he wore the mask because his face had been burned beyond recognition, the result of a betrayal by his own crew, who had allegedly tied him to his own mast and set his flagship ablaze. Others claimed it wasn't fire, but divine punishment, that the man beneath the mask was no longer a man at all.
The rumor mill churned ceaselessly in Marineford. And now that the man was here, none dared to ask... until one did.
"D-Do you think the rumors are true?" a young officer whispered to the Rear admiral beside him, unable to peel his eyes from the masked figure's back. "That his whole face... it's gone?"
There was a moment of silence. Then—a pause. The footsteps halted.
Clack.
The masked man turned slowly, his movement graceful and deliberate, like a puppetmaster toying with invisible strings. The Marines froze. Every hand went to a weapon instinctively—but none drew. A moment passed. Then the man's voice came, low and velvety, like silk dragged over broken glass.
"Would you like to see?"
The air in the corridor seemed to thicken. The temperature dropped by several degrees. The masked man tilted his head ever so slightly as if pondering the sincerity of his own offer. A beat passed in silence—no one dared breathe.
The officer who had spoken dropped his gaze in terror, sweat beading on his brow, while the others held their stance but didn't respond. The masked pirate gave a soft chuckle, like a whisper of wind against dead leaves.
"No… I suppose you wouldn't."
He turned back around and resumed walking, the clack of his boots once again resounding like a metronome counting down to something terrible. The officers exchanged anxious glances, none daring to utter another word.
As they passed under the towering corridor that led to the inner office of the Fleet Admiral, one of the older Vice Admirals muttered under his breath.
"There's something wrong about that one. He walks like he's waiting for us to remember him..."
The steady rhythm of footsteps against polished stone announced the arrival of the man who had shaken the world with his recent actions. At the doors to the Fleet Admiral's office, the Rear Admiral accompanying him hesitated, hand raised to knock—but it was too late.
Creeeaaak—
Without waiting for permission, the masked figure pushed the heavy door open and strode in uninvited, as if he belonged there. The tension in the room spiked instantly.
Inside sat the triumvirate of Marine authority—Fleet Admiral Sengoku, Vice Admiral Tsuru, and Admiral Sakazuki, the latter's lava-arm beginning to hiss and bubble on reflex. Akainu's scowl was molten fury, ready to strike down the insolent pirate for his disrespect.
But a firm gaze from Sengoku held him back. Not out of mercy. Out of instinct. Because the moment the masked man stepped into the room, Sengoku's skin prickled. A cold sensation crept down his spine, warning him that this was no ordinary man—this was something other. Even his observation haki, sharpened over decades, hadn't caught the moment the door moved. He had felt nothing.
Which meant this man's presence could slip beneath his perception. That was no accident. Akainu grunted, withdrawing his seething arm reluctantly, but his glare didn't waver. The room fell into silence, all three senior officers watching as the stranger dragged a chair unceremoniously across the floor and seated himself with the casual arrogance of a man who had nothing to prove.
The Rear Admiral followed with a hasty salute. "Fleet Admiral, he barged in before we could react— Sengoku raised a hand. "That's enough," he said, his eyes never leaving the masked man. Because he hadn't sensed him either.
"So," Tsuru said sharply, breaking the silence, her steely voice slicing through the air like a blade, "You are Mashal D. François. A man who appeared from nowhere, handed us the heads of the Giant Pirates, and demanded recognition as a Shichibukai."
She tossed a folder onto the table. "No known history. No known crew. A ghost. I find it difficult to believe someone capable of annihilating an entire war band of Elbaf elites could've remained unknown for so long."
The masked figure tilted his head slightly, as if amused. "Well," he said, his voice muffled but smooth, almost taunting,
"I spent years recovering from my... condition. Before that, I was never exactly a headliner. There were too many monsters prowling the seas back then—men whose names swallowed the light. Men like Whitebeard, Roger, and—" he paused, the corner of his lips twitching beneath the mask "—others."
His tone was laced with irony, as if there was a joke none of them understood. But Sengoku did not laugh. That name—the D. He hadn't missed it. Neither had Tsuru. A pang of unease struck his heart. D... Not many bore that initial, and fewer still wore it openly.
And yet the Cipher Pol had reported no leads. They'd investigated. Extensively. Allegedly even verified that beneath the mask was a face burned beyond all recognition, a visage scorched by betrayal—his own crew setting fire to his ship with him still aboard.
But Sengoku had lived too long to trust reports alone. Because no matter how grotesque a mask might hide, it couldn't hide the weight of a man's presence. And this man's presence felt like a tide returning after decades lost at sea.
"So," the man continued, casually, "is there some sort of hypocritical oath I must sign? Some blood-stained scroll that legitimizes my leash?" He chuckled—a quiet, sardonic sound. "Or is it just a handshake and a smile before I'm unleashed on your enemies?"
Akainu's fists clenched, molten veins rippling beneath his skin. But Sengoku remained motionless, studying him. Watching. Trying to remember.
Because something about the man's posture… the weight in his voice… the way he carried himself with quiet dominion, not flamboyance… it echoed from a different era. From a nightmare long buried.
"The World Government has approved your inclusion in the Shichibukai ranks," Tsuru said bluntly. "You are granted limited immunity. Your crimes, present or past, will not be pursued—as long as you adhere to the restrictions."
"Yes, yes," François said, waving a hand dismissively. "I'm allowed to burn and pillage to my heart's content, provided I don't disrupt your little world order. And when the bells toll, I come running like a loyal beast, teeth bared."
There was a pause. Then he leaned forward.
"But let's not pretend this is anything more than what it is. You need a sword you can't control. And I need a stage."
Tsuru's lips thinned. Akainu took a step forward, but Sengoku raised a hand again, this time more gently—but his eyes never left the mask.
"Your confidence is amusing," Sengoku said calmly. "Most pirates who walk into this room know their place. You don't seem to."
"Oh, I know exactly where I stand, Sengoku the Buddha," François replied softly. "I've seen the mountain from the top before. The only difference is… none of you remember."
The chill that spread through the room was like frost on ancient stone. The air grew heavy.
Sengoku's heartbeat thudded in his ears. There was no killing intent. There was no threat.
But there was something far worse—recognition.
The cadence. The arrogance. The command. Somewhere deep within Sengoku's memory, a whisper stirred, carried by the ghosts of the past.
Could it be him...? It can't be... He died at God Valley...
"Is something wrong, Fleet Admiral?" François asked, cocking his head. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
For a long moment, Sengoku said nothing, his eyes lingering on the masked man before him. Shadows of memories flickered behind his stern gaze—ghosts of God Valley, screams swallowed by fire, the echo of a name too dangerous to utter.
But he dismissed them. It was impossible. That man was dead. The World Government had buried him without ceremony, without remorse—even sacrificing Celestial Dragons to erase his existence.
No... this couldn't be him. It had to be coincidence. Paranoia. Nothing more. Finally, Sengoku spoke, his voice low, restrained, but sharp as a drawn blade: "No. Just an old memory."
Then, without warning, his tone shifted. "Remove your mask." The room stilled.
Even Tsuru, ever composed, turned to him with a flicker of surprise. It was an unusual demand, especially after the Cipher Pol had already delivered their report—thorough, conclusive. The man before them was said to have been horribly disfigured, betrayed by his own crew and set aflame, left to die. That was the story. And more than that, the World Government didn't care who he was—only what he could do.
They needed a monster, a weapon. A name to freeze the seas. A bounty to make the weak tremble. But Sengoku wasn't looking for proof. He was listening to his instincts—those old battle-worn senses that had never once failed him.
Across the desk, François didn't flinch. He tilted his head slightly, almost amused.
"Are you sure, Sengoku?" His voice was calm, laced with dry humor. "I'm not quite the charmer I used to be." Sengoku's eyes didn't move. His silence was answer enough. François gave a soft chuckle, then reached up slowly.
"As you wish..."
Click.
The mask's clasps came undone. With a practiced motion, he lifted it away. Gasps echoed through the room. Even Akainu's fists faltered. Tsuru's eyes narrowed, her lips parting in a rare moment of visible shock. What lay beneath the mask was not a face—it was a ruin.
His flesh was melted and blackened, like burnt driftwood. Where once there had been features, now there were warped and twisted ridges of skin—scorched beyond recognition. His eyes were gone, burned away completely, leaving only empty sockets. His mouth and nostrils had clearly been cut open, forcibly, crudely—self-inflicted, by the look of it—to allow him to breathe and speak.
The result was monstrous. Inhuman. There was no expression. No identity. Just a grotesque parody of a man's face, one forged in fire and pain. François calmly slid the mask back on, fastening it with a casual precision.
"I hope that cleared your doubts."
But Sengoku's unease only deepened. Because whatever that man had endured, he had survived. Endured it. Willingly, even. That kind of suffering should have broken a man. But the one before them… it hadn't weakened him. It had refined him. Hardened him into something else—something inhuman. Something ancient.
"So… is that all?" François asked, as if the mask reveal had been a party trick. His tone remained light, but his presence weighed on them like a storm front.
Tsuru recovered first, reaching into her folder. She pulled out a fresh bounty poster, the ink still fresh, and slid it across the table.
"This is your official bounty, issued by the World Government. As per protocol, it is now frozen. It will remain so as long as you uphold the responsibilities and restrictions of a Shichibukai."
François reached out, fingers brushing the paper using his sense of touch to decipher its content. But Tsuru noticed something in the motion—a pause, barely perceptible. A flicker of disappointment.
WANTED
DEAD OR ALIVE
MARSHAL D. FRANÇOIS
1,290,800,000 BERRIES
He scoffed. "Tch... I expected better. Maybe next time I should burn all of Elbaf. That would turn some heads." Without hesitation, he crumpled the poster and tossed it aside, like discarded trash.
Sengoku's jaw tightened, but he said nothing. He just wanted this thing out of his office as quickly as possible.
"Now that your title has been formalized," Sengoku said, voice firm, "there is an assignment."
François leaned forward slightly, drumming his fingers on the table just to irritate them.
"Straight to business. I like that. So what do the world's great keepers of justice want from their newest demon?"
Tsuru spoke next, tone all business—though her fingers subtly curled on the desk, as if bracing for something.
"There's a kingdom in the New World. Formerly a World Government affiliate. But they've recently declared independence, citing instability and a lack of protection. They've cut ties. Publicly."
"The world government wants to send a message," she continued. "You will be that message."
"Let the world see what becomes of those who turn their backs on the World Government." Tsuru's voice was calm, deliberate. "But it would be best if your actions persuaded them to rejoin… willingly. Publicly. Let them join back the coalition on their own volition. And make sure to keep the damage to minimal, we cant have the World government's prestige tarnished because of your excessive actions."
A thick silence settled. Then— François's laughter rumbled through the chamber like distant thunder, low and cold.
"You people…" he said, shaking his head with mock admiration. "You're colder than the Calm Belt. And here I was foolish enough to believe pirates were the true villains."
Tsuru didn't flinch. Her gaze remained level."It's not villainy. It's necessity. Without order, this world would burn. A pirate should know that better than most."
François tilted his head ever so slightly, as if weighing her words. Then he gave a half-smile beneath the mask.
"A shame, then," he mused, "that the only way to keep order is by feeding it chaos."
He stood slowly, straightening his long, dark coat with a flourish that made the silver embroidery along its edges shimmer ominously in the candlelight. Even his most casual movements exuded a quiet authority—the air of a man used to bending fate itself.
"Well then, I suppose I shouldn't waste time. From the look of things, your grip on the New World is… slipping," he said, his tone dripping with mockery. "And let's be honest, you don't really have any other choice, do you? Not with half your fleets licking their wounds and the other half buried under the waves."
The insult landed hard—and Akainu surged forward, his magma-coated arm igniting with fury.
"Watch your mouth, pirate!" he growled, his voice like an erupting volcano. But before he could take a step, François moved. There was no flourish, no warning, no haki-filled blast.
He simply placed a hand on Akainu's shoulder. And in that instant—the world shifted. Akainu's magma sputtered out like a dying flame. His eyes widened in disbelief as a suffocating pressure crashed down on him. He felt as though he were sinking into the ocean itself, his body sluggish, his strength evaporating, his haki drowned.
François leaned in, his tone low, almost friendly.
"Be careful who you bare your fangs at, boy…" he whispered, his hand still resting gently on Akainu's trembling shoulder. "Not everyone on these seas is as merciful as me."
Akainu couldn't move. He couldn't breathe. He could only stand there—drenched in sweat, his knees threatening to buckle under the weight of something dark.
Tsuru and Sengoku both stood frozen, not out of fear, but out of instinct—the kind honed from decades of facing death—and this… this was something far beyond death.
A presence. A pressure. A relic from a time long buried. François turned, removed his hand, and walked toward the exit, tapping Akainu's shoulder once more like a man brushing dust from his coat.
"See you soon, gentlemen. Oh—and if the New World starts trembling…just remember: You let me off the leash."
And then he was gone. The room remained still, the air thick with a silence more oppressive than any roar. Akainu sank into the nearest chair, still shaking, the embers of his power refusing to reignite, but it wasn't fear that coursed through him; rather, it was humiliation for being caught completely off guard.
Sengoku stared at the closed door, heart pounding, his voice quiet: "This isn't just a pirate…"
Tsuru answered without looking at him. "No. That man… is a calamity in disguise."
The silence after François's departure lingered like a storm cloud that refused to break. The only sound in the room was the faint breathing of the three present in the room—however the tension seemed to mount as seconds passed in the wake of the presence that had just left.
Sengoku stood with his arms folded behind his back, staring long and hard at the closed door. His brows were knit in thought, but behind the steel of his expression, there was a weight… something far older than fear. It was instinct. A whisper from a buried past.
"Tsuru," he said at last, his voice lower than usual, but laced with unmistakable urgency. "Reach out to Garp. I want him back at Marineford immediately. No excuses. Pull him out of whatever hole he's found. I don't care if he's in the middle of a warzone."
Tsuru gave a slight nod, already pulling a den den mushi from her cloak. She, too, had felt it—that unnatural pressure, as if the room had briefly been pulled into the depths of the sea itself. Whatever that masked pirate was, he wasn't simply strong.
He was wrong. Unnatural. Ancient. Sengoku turned toward the wide windows overlooking the sea, his gaze distant.
"Also… summon Admiral Raylene and Admiral Ginshimo. Recall both of them to headquarters. I want their fleets back. The tides are shifting. The balance is tipping. If we don't start reforming the Marines from the inside out... we won't survive what's coming."
Behind him, Akainu stirred, rage still boiling in his blood. His jaw clenched tight, fists trembling. He couldn't erase the feeling—that moment when his powers had been snuffed out like a matchstick. When his pride had been humiliated in front of the highest authority in the Marines.
He stepped forward, his voice hard.
"Let me go to the New World," Akainu said through gritted teeth. "Let me bring back our influence. Let me make the world remember what it means to cross the Marines."
Sengoku didn't turn. He remained still, staring at the horizon.
"We'll discuss that after Garp returns."
There was a long pause. The words were not rejection—but they were not permission either. It was a command laced with calculated caution. Because Sengoku wasn't just preparing for war.
He was preparing for something worse, the change of an era.
"And one more thing," Sengoku added sharply, his eyes narrowing with renewed focus. "Have Tensei look into this man's identity—personally. Make it absolutely clear: he is to proceed with extreme caution and prioritize his safety above all else."
His voice held an edge that Tsuru hadn't heard in years—not since the days when legends still roamed the seas unchecked.
The moment Sengoku spoke the name Tensei, Tsuru paused, visibly surprised. Mobilizing the Director of Marine Bureau of Investigation was no small matter. Tensei wasn't just the head of their most elite covert branch—he was an Admiral candidate, a ghost within shadows, feared by both pirate lords and corrupt kings alike. If he was being brought into this... it meant Sengoku suspected something far beyond what the dossiers had shown.
Still, Tsuru knew better than to question Sengoku when he spoke like this. His instincts—sharpened over decades at the helm of justice—had never failed them in times of looming crisis.
"Understood," she replied curtly, folding her arms as the weight of this new assignment settled into her thoughts. "I'll deliver the directive to Tensei myself."
She turned to leave the office, her mind already racing through what protocols to invoke. Despite her calm exterior, Tsuru couldn't help but feel the weight of the command. To send even Tensei into the shadows of this mystery was to admit the darkness was deeper than they could yet comprehend.
And yet, if there was anyone who could uncover the truth behind the mask of Marshal D. François—anyone who could survive the process—it was Tensei.
"Let's just hope," Tsuru murmured as the heavy doors of the office closed behind her, "that even he is enough…"
Tsuru placed the receiver to her ear, her voice professional but grim as she began relaying the orders. The gears of Marineford had begun to turn—but were they moving fast enough?