Chapter 2: The Fourth Admiral
Fortunately, the scene at Marine headquarters had no outside witnesses. No spies, no journalists, no wandering eyes. If the world had seen it—the greatest military fortress on the planet brought to its knees in an instant, with only three men left standing—the uproar would have been catastrophic.
Even in non-combat periods, the concentration of power at Marineford was immense. For a single, unseen force to leave only Sengoku, Garp, and Kizaru conscious was not just an attack; it was a statement. A terrifying one. If that news spread, it would not just cause ripples; it would trigger global tsunamis of panic and reassessment. The Four Emperors themselves would not be able to sit still. They would demand answers. What, exactly, had happened at the heart of the World Government's strongest enforcement agency?
The World Government had many branches, many powers. But the spearhead, the unquestionable fist, was the Marines. And that fist had just gone limp.
After a tense, hurried discussion in Sengoku's office, the three titans had reached a shaky conclusion. It was Conqueror's Haki. A form of it, at least. A version so natural and overwhelmingly powerful it felt like a force of nature itself. The evidence was in Kizaru's own reaction; his Logia body, which should have allowed him to disperse into light instinctively under threat, had been utterly locked in place, unable to elementalize. Ordinary Conqueror's Haki couldn't do that. Only the most advanced, rarest form—the kind that could be woven into tangible, crushing attacks—theorized but seldom seen, could possibly have such a profound physical effect.
But even that theory didn't seem to fully capture the sheer, soul-crushing weight of what they had felt. It was something more.
Three hours later, chaos gave way to a groggy, bewildered order. Marines across the base, aided by the first to wake—usually those with stronger wills or stationed farther from the epicenter—stirred and rose. Their confusion was absolute. Waking up scattered across the ground like casualties of a war no one had fought was disorienting enough.
Then they heard the news.
By the time the officers of Rear Admiral rank and above were summoned to the highest strategic conference room, a surreal new reality had been stamped upon them. Sitting at the head of the long table was Fleet Admiral Sengoku, his expression unreadable. Flanking him were Vice Admiral Garp, uncharacteristically silent, and Admiral Kizaru, whose usual lazy smirk was absent. Around them sat the other high-ranking officers who had recovered: Vice Admirals Dalmatian (the Flying Squirrel), Momonga, and others, including the ever-composed Vice Admiral Tsuru.
"Marshal Sengoku," Vice Admiral Dalmatian began, his voice strained with disbelief, "is this some kind of joke? We have a fourth Admiral? At headquarters?" He had woken up with a headache, been rushed to this meeting, and now faced this. His mind reeled. He'd blacked out, and when he came to, the very structure of the Marines had apparently changed. It felt less like a promotion and more like the world had skipped a chapter.
The other Vice Admirals shifted in their seats, their faces a mixture of shock, confusion, and thinly veiled discontent. This went against every rule, every tradition. The Three Admirals were a cornerstone of Marine power and public image. A recruit—a recruit—leaping directly to that pinnacle was unthinkable. They had clawed their way through the ranks for decades, with Admiral being the distant, gleaming peak for only the most exceptional. Now, it seemed, a spot had simply been created out of thin air.
"Marshal," Vice Admiral Momonga (the Ghost Spider) added, his tone careful but firm, "even for a prodigy, leaping from recruit to Admiral violates every protocol. And the structure of headquarters has always revolved around three Admirals. What is the meaning of this?"
The murmur of agreement around the table was quiet but palpable.
Vice Admiral Tsuru, her hands folded calmly before her, cut through the murmuring. "Is this related to the unusual Conqueror's Haki pressure we all experienced earlier?"
The room went still. In their shock at the announcement, they had momentarily pushed aside the terrifying prelude. Tsuru's question brought it crashing back. The two events were not separate; they were cause and earth-shattering effect.
Sengoku's gaze swept over them, understanding their turmoil but allowing no room for debate. "I am aware of your doubts," he stated, his voice leaving no room for interruption. "But if any one of you can unleash a Conqueror's Haki like that—a Haki that can render every person below Admiral rank in this entire fortress unconscious—then I will personally hand you my Marshal's cap."
The silence that followed was heavier than the pressure they had felt. He had confirmed it. The unimaginable force that had felled them was Haki, and it belonged to the person they were now discussing.
"This… is truly…" Dalmatian whispered, his earlier frustration evaporating into awe-colored dread. A special Devil Fruit ability, however powerful, was a known quantity. But a Conqueror's Haki of such magnitude? It redefined their understanding of the very word "power." To be a Vice Admiral, a master of Armament and Observation Haki, and to be extinguished like a candle flame without any chance of resistance… It was humbling in the most terrifying way.
"He asked that question himself," Sengoku said, a complex look in his eyes—a mix of stern authority, deep shock, and something softer, almost paternal. He raised his voice slightly, calling toward the double doors at the end of the room. "Gion. Levi. Come in."
The doors swung open.