The piece of paper Lucian Thorn left behind was light.
But to Kuzan, it burned hotter than fire.
Blizzards swept across the torn landscape—half solidified magma, half eternal glacial ice.
This land… it might as well be his grave.
It buried everything he once was as a Marine Admiral.
Lucian was gone.
He had arrived without a sound and left just as quietly, leaving behind a single choice powerful enough to shake the world.
Kuzan lowered his head, his eyes locked onto that slip of paper.
His mind echoed with Lucian's final words.
"Your justice wasn't wrong."
"What was wrong… was the side you stood on, the one you served."
Stood on the wrong… side?
In all these decades, it was the first time he'd heard anything like that.
It wasn't that his justice was too soft.
Nor that his heart lacked cruelty.
Nor that his resolve had wavered.
No—he had been wrong from the very beginning.
The World Government he bled for… the "justice" he defended…
Had it all been fundamentally wrong?
That thought—like a black fissure—ripped through the numb, defeated fog that smothered his heart.
And he saw it.
He saw the truth he'd buried under years of compromise and struggle.
The flames of Ohara.
Saul's roar.
The hesitation in his eyes as he watched Ace and Luffy during the Paramount War.
The "compassionate justice" he believed in? It was trash.
Before this cold machine that existed solely to serve the Celestial Dragons?
A joke.
A complete and utter joke.
Sakazuki won not because his justice was "righter."
But because his "evil" was purer, more absolute, and unflinching!
Kuzan's body shook uncontrollably.
Regret, resentment, rage—rose from the marrow of his bones and twisted his soul into knots!
He had lost.
He had lost everything.
But…
Had his justice truly lost?
No!
It hadn't!
A spark flared within the ashes of his heart, reigniting his dying soul.
His justice hadn't lost!
It was this sea, this world, this rotten system… that didn't deserve his justice!
Kuzan lifted his head.
In those dull eyes, a terrifying fire lit up.
He looked at the Vivre Card.
It was a ticket.
The only ticket to the New World.
The only chance he had—to raise that sullied, mocked, shattered justice back to its feet with his own hands!
"Ah lah lah lah lah…"
A dry laugh wheezed from his throat. Gone was the numbness, gone the self-mockery—what replaced it was a mad resolve.
With his one remaining hand, he pushed against the ice, dragging his broken body forward, inch by inch, toward the slip of paper.
Every movement tore pain from his ruined leg.
And with every inch closer, the light in his eyes grew brighter.
Admiral Kuzan had died here.
But his justice… had not.
From this moment on…
He reached out.
That hand trembled fiercely from the pain.
His fingertips finally brushed against the paper, still carrying Lucian's warmth.
Then, he clenched it tight in his fist.
On the other side of the Ice-Fire Island, atop a flattened mountain peak—
The wind howled ferociously.
Garp hadn't left.
He simply stood with his back to the battlefield wreckage, silently watching the distant sea.
The sky and sea were the same color—dim gray, just like his heart.
The coat behind him, emblazoned with the word "Justice," flapped in the wind. But now, those two characters felt damn near insulting.
His mountain-like figure now looked so small, so old.
This was the Navy he'd protected his whole life? The Navy he'd boasted of all his life?
This was the "justice" he never once doubted?
Pathetic.
So damn pathetic.
Then, a quiet voice sounded behind him—flat, without warning, as though it had always been there.
"I've said what needs saying. The Navy's future… it's his choice to make."
It was Lucian.
Garp's body tensed, but he didn't turn around.
He knew this man would come back—just as he knew, he no longer had the right to raise a fist against him.
The mountaintop was still.
Only the wind spoke.
A long time passed before Garp's thunderous voice rumbled again—raspy now, and weary.
"…That boy… he's not mine to guide anymore…"
He let out a heavy breath, as though trying to purge decades of burden from his lungs.
"Luffy and Ace… and Dragon…"
His voice faltered—each word painfully slow, as if draining the last shred of pride from this so-called Marine Hero.
"…I'll entrust them to you."
Boom.
The moment those words left his mouth—this hero who once cornered the Pirate King, who stood tall for a lifetime—his back finally bent.
That was acknowledgement.
That was a passing of the torch.
That was a quiet surrender.
He had bowed… to a pirate. A man labeled the world's most heinous criminal.
What he gave up… were the people dearest to him.
Lucian looked at Garp's aged back. There was no triumph in his eyes—just a faint smile.
"Don't worry, Mr. Garp."
His voice was soft, but Garp heard every word clearly.
"What paths they walk… is their own choice."
"We have no right to interfere."
With that, he didn't linger. His figure faded into the air, turning into golden motes of light that scattered with the wind.
He had said all he needed to.
And done all he had to do.
The rest… was up to time.
Garp slowly turned around, staring at the now-empty mountaintop, at the island reshaped by ice and fire.
He opened his mouth, trying to say something.
In the end, all that came out was a long, heavy sigh.
That towering back, in the wind, looked lonelier than ever.
An era… truly seemed to have ended.
And he—this hero of a bygone age—could only watch helplessly, powerless to stop it.
Elsewhere at sea—
No longer the frozen, lifeless Punk Hazard. Here, the sea breeze was warm, and the scent of liquor hung thick.
Aboard the small Moby Dick, on the deck—
Lucian appeared out of thin air.
Whitebeard, who had arrived ahead of him, was leaning against the railing, guzzling from a massive wine gourd.
Seeing Lucian, he lowered it, wiped his mouth with his sleeve, and grinned broadly.
"Gurararara! All done?"
His gaze landed on Lucian—curious, scrutinizing.
"Judging from that face of yours, seems like it went well!"
Lucian laughed and walked over.
Whitebeard casually tossed him a smaller gourd.
Lucian caught it, popped the stopper, and—imitating him—tipped it back in one long gulp.
The fiery liquor burned down his throat, warming his belly.
"Of course, Pops."
He set the gourd down, his face relaxed.
"Let's head back."
"Gurararara!"
Whitebeard laughed heartily and waved.
"Set sail! We're going home!"
They hoisted the sail, turned the rudder.
The coated boat cut a clean arc across the sea, sailing steadily toward the Whitebeard Pirates' main fleet.
Sunlight spilled across the deck, scattering the last shadows cast by Punk Hazard.
Lucian leaned on the railing, gazing at Whitebeard's bold, fearless face—and his smile faded.
His expression turned uncharacteristically solemn.
"Pops."
Whitebeard noticed the change in tone and sobered up, his sharp eyes narrowing.
"Hm?"
Lucian's golden eyes shimmered with depth.
"When we return to the Moby Dick..."
"I have something even more important to discuss—with you, and with Marco."