Watching Gern stand upon the stage that commanded the gaze of the entire world—watching the corner of his lips curl in a smile he could barely suppress—the Five Elders' expressions could no longer be described as merely ugly.
It was as if they had just swallowed something foul and unspeakable whole.
Especially that proposal—to relocate Marine Headquarters.
That single move had blown straight past every line of prediction, every precaution they had prepared.
Until this very moment, aside from Sengoku—who had long since reached a tacit understanding with Gern—and Tsuru, who had vaguely pieced it together through sheer intellect, the entire sea had taken one thing for granted.
Marine Headquarters would, of course, be rebuilt upon the ruins of Marineford.
Of course it would.
But Gern had seized upon that blind spot in their thinking and played a joker no one had seen coming.
From the very beginning, the World Government had been on guard against one possibility: that Gern would recklessly seize the Fleet Admiral's seat. They had prepared layered countermeasures—public praise designed to smother him in expectations, calculated opinion-splitting, the hollowing-out of authority through a prestigious yet empty title.
And yet?
Gern had never once been interested in fighting for that still-restrained "position."
He simply stepped around the dead end.
Following the "path of honor" the World Government had so carefully paved for him, he publicly restored Sengoku to that throne before the entire world, presenting himself as loyal, restrained, and mindful of the bigger picture.
Then—
The very glittering honors and the grand title of "Supreme Commander" that the World Government had personally bestowed upon him—
Now became the hardest, most resplendent shield for every one of his so-called "unreasonable" demands.
Oppose Gern?
That would be slapping the World Government's own face.
It would be denying the "wise decision" and "supreme honor" they had just proclaimed before the entire world.
Worse still, through that incendiary speech of his, Gern had openly bound himself to the collective honor and future strategy of the Marines. He had shaped himself into the very embodiment of the World Government's glory—and the spokesman of Marine interests.
Touch him now?
It would not merely cause internal turmoil within the Marines.
It would unleash a tidal wave of public opinion.
The common citizens and rank-and-file Marines across the world would believe the World Government was "discarding the bow once the birds were gone," tearing down its own Great Wall, unable to tolerate the very hero who had just won them unparalleled glory.
Especially since every one of Gern's demands—real authority, relocating Headquarters to the New World—was cloaked in banners such as:
"For better protection of the World Government."
"For more effective suppression of pirates."
"For the execution of justice."
Refuse?
Then the World Government would appear petty. Short-sighted. Cowardly. Irresponsible toward the very security it claimed to uphold.
Approve?
That would be handing the hilt of a blade directly into Gern's grasp—and watching as he calmly rested it against the Government's own throat.
There was no winning this.
In short, Gern had masterfully weaponized "honor," wrapping every act of expansion and power consolidation in the immaculate robes of legitimacy, reason, and unwavering loyalty.
Any attempt—before the live broadcast watched across the globe—to suppress, restrict, or retaliate against him would be preemptively defined by his framing as:
"Persecution of a loyal hero."
"Trampling upon the collective will of the Marines."
"Betrayal of justice itself."
Politically and morally, the World Government had fallen into absolute passivity.
Only now did the Five Elders realize—
What they had painstakingly issued was never a sweet reward meant to win hearts.
It was a blade named "Righteousness," gripped firmly in Gern's hand—and now pressed precisely against their own throats.
Honor is a fine thing.
It can lift a man high upon a pedestal.
But once raised aloft…
Who, exactly, is the one being elevated?
...
While the world reeled, minds shaken to their core by the earthshaking revelation that New Marineford would be relocated to the New World, one figure abruptly surged to his feet.
Saint Marcus Mars.
The white-haired, long-bearded Godhead of the Environment could no longer sit idly by as Gern overturned the board so brazenly.
He stepped forward, voice stern and resonant.
"This is inappropriate! This matter is of immense consequence. Once Marineford is moved, the defenses of the first half of the Grand Line—"
He sought to block it under the banner of overall security and strategic balance.
It was a familiar tactic of the World Government—intervening from a so-called higher vantage point.
Unfortunately for him, he did not even finish his sentence.
Gern cut him off—without courtesy, without hesitation.
"The internal affairs of the Marines…" Gern turned his head slightly, his voice cooling by several degrees, "…aside from certain highest-level appointment powers, I believe the World Government has no authority to interfere in the rest."
He had invoked the unspoken yet mutually acknowledged boundary between the Marines and the World Government.
The Government controlled the ultimate appointments—such as the Fleet Admiral.
But military deployment, base construction, internal structural decisions—
Those fell under Marine autonomy.
It was a cornerstone wrested from the Government's grasp through the eras of Kong the Conqueror and Sengoku—a foundation fought for and secured over decades.
The Marines had consolidated power for this very moment.
Gern's gaze swept over Saint Mars's iron-green expression before flicking briefly toward the cameras below.
"And besides," he added, emphasizing each word, "everyone has seen it. The current Fleet Admiral Sengoku and I—the newly appointed Supreme Commander of the New World—have both agreed."
"But—"
"But what?" Gern's tone sharpened. "Do we not have the right to decide this?"
In an instant, two banners blocked the Government's interference at the door:
"Autonomy over internal affairs."
"Unanimous approval of the highest commanders."
Gern let out a cold snort and no longer deigned to argue further.
Instead, his gaze shifted to the VIP seats.
There, seated in composed silence, lips curved faintly upward—
The former Fleet Admiral.
Now the Commander-in-Chief of the entire military.
Kong.
"Commander-in-Chief Kong," Gern said with a courteous smile. "You would agree, wouldn't you?"
He tossed the final interpretative authority to the living fossil of the Marine system—the man who had helped establish its very rules.
All eyes snapped to Kong.
Kong looked at the young man upon the stage—the successor who had not only matched his predecessors but surpassed them.
He watched Gern wield the very rules Kong himself had once fought to secure as weapons in this breathtaking political duel.
The faint smile on Kong's face deepened slightly.
Then, without hesitation—ignoring the warning-laced gazes cast by the Five Elders—he rose slowly to his feet.
His voice carried across the entire venue.
"That is correct."
"According to Marine internal hierarchy and long-standing precedent, when both the serving Fleet Admiral Sengoku and the newly appointed Supreme Commander of the New World, Gern Reginald Sigmar, are in agreement…"
"They possess full authority to decide the relocation of Marine Headquarters and implement major strategic adjustments."
"This," he concluded firmly, "is a right that belongs to the Marines."
He paused deliberately.
Then turned his steady gaze toward the Five Elders.
"And the World Government… has no authority to interfere."
"!!!"
Kong's declaration fell like the final strike of a judge's gavel.
The Five Elders were rendered utterly speechless.
They had been bound by "honor," pressured by "collective will," and now—
Outmaneuvered by the very rules they had long relied upon to restrain the Marines.
Gern had not merely won the optics.
He had not merely won hearts.
He had won the rules themselves.
The match was decided.
The World Government suffered complete defeat.
The stage they built with their own hands had become the altar of Gern's coronation.
The honors they bestowed had transformed into blades turned back against them.
The rules they depended upon to preserve order had become the keys with which Gern shattered the board.
And the custodians of the old order could only watch—
Powerless.
This investiture ceremony had become Gern Reginald Sigmar's stage alone.
The ultimate mockery of the World Government's governing wisdom—
And the most magnificent coronation of his life.