Faced with Garp's near-collapse, that desperate plea trembling on the edge of breaking, Gern Reginald Sigmar offered neither promise nor answer.
Or rather—it wasn't that he didn't want to respond.
Reality had long since stripped him of the right to.
He simply raised his hand and once more gave Garp's shaking shoulder a firm, heavy pat.
In that wordless gesture lay far more weight than any spoken comfort could ever carry.
As his palm felt the tremor running through the old Marine's body, another voice echoed clearly in his mind—words spoken not long ago inside the Fleet Admiral's office. Sengoku's voice. Just as heavy. Just as burdened. And tinged with something close to despair.
...
"Gern, there's no turning back for the Marines now!"Sengoku had said, exhaustion and helplessness bleeding through his tone."This is an open scheme laid out by the World Government. We have no choice but to see it through! I have no solution… truly, I have none."
"So you're worried about Whitebeard?" Gern had asked at the time.
"No."
The answer had been immediate—and unexpected.
Sengoku had lifted his gaze and fixed it squarely on Gern, speaking each word with deliberate clarity.
"I'm not worried about Whitebeard… I'm worried about Garp."
"If… if during that public execution… in the middle of that war… Garp loses control of himself and chooses to act… chooses to rescue him…"
He had paused.
"Gern, then I ask you… I ask you to personally—"
He hadn't finished the sentence.
He didn't need to.
Gern had understood instantly what the unfinished words meant.
Suppress him.
Or even… execute him.
Because Gern already knew how events were meant to unfold, he understood one thing with certainty—Garp would not make a move.
But Sengoku did not have that certainty.
He could not measure the storm raging inside his old friend. His comrade. His brother-in-arms of decades.
And so, that request had been the most cruel—and the most helpless—form of preparation a Fleet Admiral could make against one of the Navy's greatest powers… who was also one of his dearest companions.
Now, standing here and watching this old man—tears streaming down his face, stripped of all pretense and strength—what could Gern possibly do?
On one side stood Sengoku's trust, the grand "justice" of the Marines, the so-called greater good.
On the other stood Garp's agony… and the unbreakable bond of family.
And Gern—caught squarely in the middle—carried his own calculations, his own designs.
So he could not answer Garp's question of "What should I do?"
Because perhaps… he himself had already become part of that answer.
...
Three days later—
The bowstring that had been drawn tighter and tighter, straining to the point of snapping, finally broke.
And with it came a thunderclap that shook the entire world—so violent it seemed the seas themselves trembled beneath it.
Through an extra-edition headline from the World Economy News, and through official announcements issued by the World Government, a single piece of news spread like wildfire—racing across the Four Blues and every corner of the Grand Line.
[The Navy Headquarters will, one month from today, publicly execute "Fire Fist" Portgas D. Ace at Marineford Plaza!!!]
Beneath the announcement, his true lineage was conspicuously omitted.
Instead, the emphasis was clear:
Second Division Commander of the Whitebeard Pirates.Successor to Whitebeard.Core pillar of one of the Four Emperors' crews.
"Whitebeard Pirates!"
"Full-scale war!"
"Public execution!"
"And at Marine Headquarters—Marineford!"
Each phrase struck like a warhammer against the hearts of countless people.
The Four Seas fell silent.
Paradise shook.
The New World… boiled.
Newspapers scattered like snowfall across islands and ships alike. News Coo cried out overhead. Den Den Mushi lines crackled endlessly as the message transmitted from shore to shore.
Taverns fell abruptly quiet mid-cheer. Pirate crews stood frozen on their decks. Civilians whispered in fear. Underworld magnates narrowed their eyes in calculating silence.
Everyone understood.
This was not merely an execution.
It was a declaration of war.
A challenge cast by the World Government and Navy Headquarters in the most direct and merciless manner possible—aimed straight at the man hailed as the "Strongest Man in the World."
Whitebeard—Edward Newgate.
An unavoidable gauntlet thrown at his feet.
The remnant of an old era… and the colossal machine that ruled the world… were about to collide head-on at Marineford in a clash destined to reshape the future.
Since the dawn of the Great Pirate Era, no wave had surged higher than this.
The storm was no longer avoidable.
...…
New World.
Aboard the Moby Dick.
In stark contrast to the outraged roars and incredulous arguments erupting among the commanders upon reading the paper, Whitebeard himself was quiet.
His enormous frame sat upon a specially constructed chair. In his massive hand, he held the newspaper that declared his son's death sentence.
IV tubes still dripped steadily into his aging body, medicine sustaining a life worn thin by time.
Inside the cabin, across the deck, his sons shouted in fury and panic—but it was as though he stood in another world entirely. A world of silence.
After a long while, the emperor moved.
There was no explosive rage.
No thunderous roar.
Calmly—yet with unshakable resolve—he reached up and tore every tube from his body.
The needles pulled free, drawing beads of blood to the surface of his skin.
He did not so much as glance at them.
Instead, his hand closed around the massive naginata at his side—Murakumogiri.
When Whitebeard planted the blade and slowly rose to his feet—
The towering silhouette, vast as a mountain, seemed to silence the entire ship.
From division commanders to the lowest deckhand, every member of the Whitebeard Pirates fell quiet at once.
All eyes converged on that single figure.
They waited.
For their father.
For their emperor.
For his command.
There was no fiery pre-battle speech.
No denunciation of the World Government.
Whitebeard looked upon the familiar faces before him—his family—and spoke only one sentence, calm and steady:
"My sons… I'm going to bring your brother home."
He paused, his gaze sweeping across each and every one of them.
"To bring back my son."
"Pops!" Marco stepped forward immediately, concern etched across his face. "G-10… Gern…"
"Gurarararara…!"
Whitebeard's laughter rolled out, cutting off Marco's worry.
"That bastard Gern…"
His grip tightened around Murakumogiri, and his voice rose—brimming with supreme, overwhelming dominance.
"If he dares to stand in the way of a father going to retrieve his child…"
"Then let him come!!!"
"Because a father who sets out to bring his child home…"
"…does not fear—"
"…nor does he bow before—"
"—any so-called 'natural disaster'!!!"
..
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