"Stealing our rice bowls… no, no—Global Draft, right…"
Kizaru's tone shed a bit of its teasing edge as he continued.
"It sounds grand and imposing. But when you strip away the title, isn't it just pulling so-called 'standouts' straight from the militaries and royal guards of the World Government's member nations to pad the numbers?"
Gern took a sip of black tea without replying.
Because Kizaru wasn't wrong.
The so-called "Global Draft" carried a resounding name, but it wasn't some open recruitment aimed at the masses. Its scope was essentially limited to the internal ranks of World Government–affiliated nations.
More than anything, it resembled a redistribution of power within an existing system—a controlled siphoning of talent.
And with Gern's current authority within the Marines—particularly as Grand Commodore of the New World, wielding near–Fleet Admiral-level power—
If he refused to approve it, not a single recruit would successfully transfer into the Marine structure.
The final authority over personnel appointments and troop reinforcements had, subtly but unmistakably, tilted toward him.
But he couldn't refuse.
Gern set down his teacup and released a faint sigh.
"You only realize how expensive rice and firewood are once you run the household yourself, Senior Borsalino."
"At Marineford, Fleet Admiral Sengoku deployed a full hundred thousand Marines. Those weren't random soldiers—they were elites drawn from branches all over the world."
"And what was the result?"
"We lost more than half."
He rubbed at his brow before continuing.
"For over a year now, Headquarters—no, the entire Marine system—has been scrambling to replenish manpower, training new recruits nonstop."
"But training a competent Marine takes time. Training an officer capable of standing on their own takes even more—real combat, real tempering."
"The gaps left by the fallen… those aren't holes you can just patch overnight."
"And that's just the personnel issue." His tone shifted. "Sakazuki took his core faction to the first half of the Grand Line. On paper, it's an independent defense zone. But pirate activity there surged the moment Headquarters relocated."
"Requests for reinforcements. Demands for additional supplies and weapons. They come in almost daily."
"We have to expand our foothold in the New World. Consolidate G-10's defense zone. Digest the territory we've secured. And we can't ignore the 'Paradise' side either…"
By the end, Gern looked at Kizaru, a flicker of pragmatic helplessness in his eyes.
"Right now, we're tearing down the east wall to patch the west."
"If the World Government is willing to 'draw blood' from its member nations to reinforce us—then even if not every recruit is top-tier, it at least eases the immediate shortage at the grassroots level."
"This 'gesture of goodwill'…"
"I can't afford to reject it."
That was the reality.
Even with strength capable of rivaling the Four Emperors. Even with immense authority and influence.
When it came to rebuilding the Marines—maintaining a colossal military machine battered by the brutality of the Paramount War—
Gern had no choice but to compromise.
The Marine warship, after surviving the devastation of Marineford, was facing an unprecedented period of weakness—and a dangerous generational gap in talent.
Kizaru studied Gern's expression—the same heavy, weary look Sengoku once wore as the Marines' tactician-in-chief, burdened by the operation of a vast institution.
As if he had discovered something tremendously amusing, the smile Kizaru had briefly suppressed returned.
Brighter than before.
And laced with unmistakable schadenfreude.
"Eh? How strange~" Kizaru tilted his head in that lazy drawl of his. "The ones sitting in the office every day, buried under mountains of paperwork, are Fleet Admiral Sengoku and that capable subordinate of yours, Tesoro, aren't they~?"
He began counting on his fingers, itemizing Gern's supposed leisure.
"Look at you. Sitting here drinking tea. Even going off alone to 'relax' by challenging a Yonko."
"So why do you look more stifled than you did back when you handled the Ohara incident?"
The more he talked, the more amused he became—especially when thinking about Sengoku's current situation.
"And Sengoku-san? He's in the Fleet Admiral's office all day, technically helping you manage administration."
"But compared to before? He's super~ relaxed."
"The last time I went to report in, you know what I saw?"
"The justice coat he was wearing—the back used to say 'Justice,' right? He'd swapped it out."
"It said 'Retirement' in big bold letters!"
"Every day he's still sitting in the Fleet Admiral's chair, but he's wearing colorful beach shirts underneath, sipping tea, reading newspapers. That life of his? More comfortable than a vacation~!"
Watching Kizaru poke at sore spots with that shameless grin, Gern shot him an irritated look.
He didn't bother arguing about appearances.
His voice carried fatigue.
"Because he's just working. Work in the literal sense."
He paused.
"Stamping. Signing. Processing routine procedures."
"That's execution-level 'work.'"
"Eh? Isn't that still work, Gern-kun~?" Kizaru blinked. "And heavy work at that."
"It's different."
Gern shook his head.
He saw, in memory, the Sengoku of old—the Buddha of the Marines—walking a tightrope in the Fleet Admiral's seat.
"Back then, every decision Sengoku made required careful deliberation. Every judgment meant weighing countless interests."
"His hesitation wasn't incompetence."
"It was because he had too much to consider."
"He bore the future of the Marines. The lives of countless soldiers under his command. The fragile balance with the World Government."
"That weight—that constant, grinding mental strain—came from responsibility."
His voice lowered, resonating with lived understanding.
"But now… he only needs to stamp and sign."
"The important decisions. Strategic direction. Hidden crises. Long-term positioning…"
"The kind of thinking that drains the mind and carries enormous risk—"
"He doesn't have to shoulder that anymore."
Gern didn't finish the sentence.
He didn't need to.
Kizaru looked at his expression and understood instantly.
All the pressure.
All the risk.
All the burden of standing at the highest vantage point—overseeing the whole board and taking responsibility for every move—
It had shifted.
As the saying went: the one who bears the risk finds it hardest to place the piece.
Once, Sengoku had borne that weight.
Now, Gern had taken the mantle—and with it, the crushing burden capable of breaking ordinary men.
On the surface, he had shed tedious administrative tasks and gained freedom of action.
But the true role of the one holding the chessboard—the strategist whose decisions determined the fate of the entire organization—
That responsibility rested on him alone.
The smile on Kizaru's face gradually faded.
For once, he didn't answer with mockery.
He lifted his now-lukewarm tea, took a slow sip, smacked his lips thoughtfully.
"Power…" he murmured lazily.
"It's a strange thing, isn't it~~"
..
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