The Sand Crocodile who had made countless pirates tremble now looked like a dried salted fish left too long beneath the Alabasta sun.
His massive fur coat was torn beyond recognition, his slicked-back hair a tangled ss of blood, dust, and mud.
The golden hook that once symbolized his deadly nace had been removed, secured separately with seastone cuffs, and hung beside him like a cheap prop stripped from a broken stage play.
The man was still breathing.
Barely.
That was already the greatest rcy Zaraki had shown him.
King Cobra stood frozen, the Den Den Mushi in his hand still connected to Marineford.
For several seconds, the ruler of Alabasta simply stared, struggling to reconcile the nightmare that had choked his kingdom for years with the half-conscious criminal lying at his feet.
"This is… a Warlord?" The question slipped out before he could stop it.
No one answered.
Standing beside her father, Vivi pressed both hands over her mouth.
Her eyes were red, but no tears fell; perhaps they dried before they could surface, or perhaps the sheer shock was too imnse for grief to properly catch up.
Crocodile had been a suffocating shadow over her country.
A monster hiding behind a hero's mask.
A man who had smilingly pushed Alabasta into the fires of civil war.
And now, he lay there like a discarded puppet, dragged by a young Marine who looked more annoyed than victorious.
Zaraki stopped five steps away from Cobra and casually let go.
Thud.
Crocodile hit the ground, kicking up a ring of dust.
"Stop yelling," Zaraki muttered, digging his little finger into his ear. "It's giving a headache."
He jerked his chin toward the Den Den Mushi in Cobra's trembling hand, speaking as casually as if he had just returned from buying dinner instead of tearing apart one of the Seven Warlords!
"Old man Sengoku, what was that you were saying got damaged? If you an the wear on my shoe soles, yeah, I'd like to submit that for reimbursent."
The air froze.
The voice on the other end of the Den Den Mushi stopped completely.
The golden snail mimicking Sengoku's face widened its eyes in a comically exaggerated stare, its shell seeming to forget how to breathe.
Only the faint hiss of static remained.
"Za… Zaraki?" After several seconds, Sengoku's voice returned, warped so badly by disbelief that his usual authority nearly vanished.
"That was you just now? Then what about Crocodile?"
"He's lying on the ground." Zaraki glanced down at the twitching Warlord, considered the matter for a second, then added, "Most of him is still intact. His hook's off, but that thing was already replaceable. By the way, what's the recovery value on a Warlord-grade criminal? If he's not worth hauling back, I'll just bury him here as fertilizer. No point wasting storage space on the ship."
The silence beca even stranger.
Vivi stared blankly.
Cobra's mouth opened and closed several tis, but no sound ca out.
On the other end of the line, the silence dragged on so long Zaraki could almost hear the air being sucked out of the Fleet Admiral's office.
It was the sound of a worldview collapsing into dust.
"Well?" Zaraki nudged Crocodile's head lightly with his boot, already losing patience. "Say sothing, Fleet Admiral. Are we taking this thing or not? I really will bury him."
...
Marine Headquarters. Marineford.
The Fleet Admiral's office doors were sealed tight against the sounds of drills and marching outside.
The atmosphere inside was so suffocating that even the Vice Admirals carefully regulated their breathing.
Behind his desk, Sengoku remained frozen with the receiver in hand for nearly half a minute.
The golden Den Den Mushi still wore the exact expression Zaraki held before the line went quiet: drooping eyelids, downturned mouth, and the unmistakable air of a man entirely uninterested in negotiation.
With a soft click, the snail closed its eyes and retreated slightly into its shell.
"Bury… bury him?" Sengoku finally found his voice, but it was dangerously unstable.
His gaze drifted from the receiver to the towering stacks of reports on his desk, and finally to the old man across from him, happily chewing rice crackers as if the fall of a Warlord was no more serious than bad weather.
"Garp!" Sengoku slamd his palm onto the desk, rattling his teacup and splashing hot tea over freshly stamped docunts.
"This is the fine brat you trained?! That was one of the Seven Warlords! One of the Three Great Powers the World Governnt established to balance the seas! What does he think Crocodile is, scrap tal?! And he wants reimbursent for shoe soles?!"
The roar made the massive "Justice" banner on the wall tremble.
Sengoku had witnessed every flavor of disaster the sea could produce, but Zaraki's way of thinking was bizarre even by Garp's family standards.
Troubleso Marines disobeyed orders, beat up pirates too hard, or ignored paperwork.
That brat went out once, pried loose an entire cornerstone of the world order, and then casually asked if the prisoner was worth the shipping costs!
Crunch.
On the sofa, Garp bit through another rice cracker with total unconcern, crumbs spilling onto the Justice coat draped lazily over his shoulders.
"Don't get so worked up, Sengoku." He blew crumbs from his fingers and grinned. "The kid won fair and square. Besides, crocodile has been acting up in Alabasta for years. Dance Powder, rebel armies, an entire kingdom turning into a wasteland—don't tell you haven't heard any of it."
"That is not the point! This is politics!" Sengoku's temples throbbed as he furiously polished his glasses.
"If the World Governnt pursues the matter, unauthorized removal of a Warlord and attacking a governnt ally is enough to bury him under charges before he even finishes dinner! The Five Elders have been waiting for exactly this kind of excuse!"
The Vice Admirals exchanged tense glances, none daring to speak.
Vice Admiral Tsuru sat calmly to the side, shuffling a deck of cards, though the faint crease between her brows proved she was far from relaxed.
The fall of a Warlord ant severe damage to the delicate triangle balancing the Marines, the Warlords, and the Four Emperors.
Even if Crocodile deserved it, the timing, thod, and public consequences mattered deeply.
"Then don't give them the chance to pursue it."
All at once, Garp dropped the joking expression.
He tossed his bag of rice crackers onto the table, leaning forward as his voice dropped into a dangerous rumble.
"Since the fight's already over, make it ironclad. Crocodile's been scheming in Alabasta for years, and Pluton is involved. The Heavenly Tribute was part of the ss too. Define this as a first-rate criminal conspiracy: a Warlord attempting to seize tribute ant for the Celestial Dragons, destabilize a mber kingdom, and locate an Ancient Weapon."
Sengoku's hand froze halfway through wiping his glasses.
Most days, Garp acted like a fool who only knew fists.
But Sengoku knew better than anyone that the man who had repeatedly refused promotion to Admiral saw the board with frightening clarity whenever he actually bothered to look at it.
"Didn't Zaraki say it himself? He acted to protect the country." Garp leaned back and picked up another rice cracker.
"A special observation trainee under Headquarters evaluation, acting alone with no support, sees through a Warlord's plot and defeats him to protect justice and the people of a mber nation. Sounds like a heroic Marine story to ."
"You an… force the Five Elders into accepting it?" Tsuru stopped shuffling and looked at Garp thoughtfully.
"Exactly." Garp grinned. "Put the hero's crown on Zaraki's head before the World Governnt decides whether to punish him, then dump Crocodile's cris on the table—real ones, proven ones, and anything the evidence can possibly support. For the sake of their own dignity, the Five Elders will have no choice but to swallow it."
Sengoku fell silent. It was dangerous and reckless.
And it was the only move left.
Better to strike first and present a fait accompli than to sit and wait for punishnt to descend from Mary Geoise.
Pururururu—
Without another mont of hesitation, Sengoku snatched a white, secure Den Den Mushi from his desk.
"This is Sengoku." His voice had returned to its cold, commanding calm. "Get Morgans. Tell that oversized bird I have an exclusive on a rising Marine star crushing a Warlord's plot to seize a kingdom and tamper with the Heavenly Tribute. I want the front page cleared. I don't care if a Celestial Dragon sneezed pure gold today—his story goes underneath mine."
He hung up and let out a long breath, sinking heavily into his chair.
Outside the window, a News Coo flapped past with a bright cry.
...
Far beneath the sea, Fish-Man Island shimred beneath the softened light refracted through the roots of Eve. Wrapped within giant, double-layered bubbles, the undersea kingdom glowed in deep amber and blue.
At its edge floated a massive white ship shaped like a whale: the Moby Dick.
There was none of Marine Headquarters' suffocating tension here.
The deck rang with the noise of a banquet—clashing cups, booming laughter, and the sharp scent of strong liquor.
"Gurararara! Jinbe, your drinking's gotten worse!"
Edward Newgate—Whitebeard, the strongest man in the world—sat cross-legged on his massive seat.
Despite the IV tubes attached to his body and the nurses hovering near the monitors, he threw liquor down his throat in massive gulps.
Across from him sat the Knight of the Sea, Jinbe, one of the Seven Warlords. He lowered his cup and wiped his mouth, offering a helplessly good-humored smile.
"Old man, you've only just started recovering. You really ought to drink less. Marco was glaring at like he wanted to set on fire a mont ago."
"Don't mind that pineapple-head. He worries too much!" Whitebeard waved a huge hand and laughed, making the air itself hum. "More importantly, what about that brat Ace? I hear he's been causing a fair bit of noise in the New World lately."
At the ntion of Ace, Jinbe's expression grew serious. "He's spirited. He has developed the Fla-Fla Fruit well, and although he is hotheaded, the look in his eyes when he faces stronger enemies without backing down… it reminds of you when you were younger."
"Gurararara! Like , is he? Then he should definitely beco my son!"
On another side of the deck, several division commanders sat with rum and chunks of at, the mood loose and easy.
"Speaking of which, Boss Jinbe is a Warlord too," a young pirate said around a mouthful of food while picking his teeth.
"That title is an iron rice bowl. The Marines won't arrest you, and the Governnt looks the other way. As long as you don't openly attack mber nations, it's basically legalized piracy."
"Yeah," another pirate agreed enviously. "Outside the flags of the Four Emperors, there's nothing more solid than the title of Warlord. Anyone who lays a hand on one is slapping the World Governnt directly in the face."
In that relaxed atmosphere, the words Seven Warlords still represented absolute stability and privilege.
In the pirate world, it was a gilded title—a towering wall ordinary pirates would never dream of touching.
Jinbe heard the chatter, shaking his head slightly before taking another sip.
Even he had to admit the delicate balance had lasted for years, long enough for everyone to assu it would last forever.
"Old man! Sothing's happened!"
A frantic shout shattered the banquet's harmony.
Third Division Commander Jozu ca striding out of the cabin, clutching a fresh newspaper that still slled of ink.
His usually steady face was wide-eyed with disbelief.
The noisy deck fell instantly silent. Pirates stopped chewing. Marco's half-lidded eyes snapped fully open.
Every gaze locked onto Jozu.
If Jozu looked like that, it wasn't a trivial matter like running out of booze on a random island.
"Why the panic?" Whitebeard frowned slightly, his cup perfectly steady. "If the sky falls, I'll hold it up."
"It's… not the sky." Jozu's chest still heaved from running. "It's the sea that's about to change."
He stepped up to Whitebeard and, without another word, unfolded the paper.
The headline photo devoured half the front page. It showcased a desert ruin in complete devastation.
At the center stood a young Marine with one hand in his pocket, dragging a blood-soaked man so battered he barely resembled the arrogant figure the world knew.
Even with his face swollen and distorted, the iconic golden hook tied securely beside him was instantly recognizable.
"That's…"
Crack.
A hairline fracture split across Jinbe's beloved sake cup.
His pupils contracted.
All noise on the deck vanished.
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