Chapter 640: Chapter 640
"Knock... knock..."
The soft, almost casual sound cut through the suffocating silence of the meeting room. Every head turned. The door opened before anyone answered, and the man who stepped inside did so with an ease that bordered on irreverence—utterly out of place in a room weighed down by dread and unspoken grief.
He was a veteran Vice Admiral, broad-shouldered and immaculately uniformed, his coat pristine despite the chaos engulfing the seas. His posture was relaxed, his expression untroubled, as though he had walked into a routine briefing rather than the nerve center of a Navy that had just suffered a catastrophic blow.
This was a man who did not belong to the room. Not truly. Within the Marines, everyone knew the truth—though few spoke it aloud. The Navy was fractured.
There were those who believed in Absolute Justice, who thought fear and annihilation were the only languages the world understood. Since his ascension to Admiral, Sakazuki (Akainu) had become the unchallenged pillar of this faction—unyielding, merciless, and unrepentant.
Then there were the Doves—those who believed justice still required restraint, who sought balance rather than domination. Kuzan (Aokiji) stood at their center now, carrying the quiet hope that the Marines could still protect without becoming executioners. And then there was the third faction.
The most dangerous one. Men who remembered—always—who the Marines truly served. The World Government’s hounds. This Vice Admiral was one of them.
He offered quick, perfunctory greetings to the Admirals and the Chief of Staff, his eyes sliding over their expressions without concern. He then stepped forward and placed a thick folder onto Sengoku’s desk with a dull thud.
"What’s this...?" Sengoku asked. His voice was calm. Too calm. Only those who had witnessed his exchange with Whitebeard understood the truth—that beneath that measured tone lay a storm of grief and rage barely held in check.
"Fleet Admiral," the Vice Admiral replied smoothly, "this is an order from Mary Geoise. It requires immediate action—highest priority."
Sengoku did not touch the folder. Did not even glance at it.
"I will look into the matter," he said slowly, "when I have the time."
It was a dismissal. A clear one. Yet the Vice Admiral did not retreat. He failed—or refused—to notice the warning in Tsuru’s eyes, her lips pressed into a thin line as she silently begged him to stop. Men like him had grown accustomed to protection from the Holy Land, to authority borrowed rather than earned. They had long stopped fearing the Fleet Admiral.
"But this directive comes directly from the Celestial Dragons," the Vice Admiral continued.
"Recent disruptions in New World trade have severely impacted supply routes. Certain... resources have become unavailable." He opened the folder himself, as though Sengoku’s consent were unnecessary.
"Rare wines. Exotic meats. Specialized artisans. Decorative stones. The absence of these goods has caused considerable dissatisfaction among the Tenryūbito. Mary Geoise demands immediate corrective measures."
The room grew colder. With every word, Sengoku’s blood boiled hotter. He spoke of luxuries—luxuries—with the gravity of famine. Outside, more than a hundred thousand Marines were about to die.
And here, in this room, a Vice Admiral dared to prioritize silks and wine over lives. Sengoku finally lifted his gaze. The air itself seemed to tighten.
"I am sure," he said quietly, "the Holy Land knows G-9 is being annihilated... and still sends this?"
The Vice Admiral hesitated—just for a fraction of a second—then nodded. "The stability of Mary Geoise takes precedence. Sacrifices are... unfortunate, but necessary."
That was it. The final insult. Not from the World Government—but from a Marine. From one of their own. Sengoku’s hand trembled as it rested on the desk. And for the first time in decades, the Buddha of the Marines felt something inside him fracture—cleanly, irrevocably.
The silence that followed was unbearable. Sengoku rose slowly from his chair. The scrape of wood against stone echoed through the chamber like a death knell.
For a moment, no one moved. Even Akainu—who had never once flinched in the face of violence—felt an instinctive chill crawl up his spine. Kuzan’s eyes narrowed, his usual lethargy gone, replaced by something wary. Tsuru closed her eyes, already knowing what was about to happen.
The Vice Admiral, oblivious—or arrogant enough to believe himself untouchable—straightened his coat.
"Fleet Admiral," he began, irritation creeping into his voice, "if you intend to delay—" He never finished the sentence. Sengoku crossed the distance between them in a single step.
No warning. No shout. Just pure, contained fury. A massive hand seized the Vice Admiral’s face, fingers digging into his jaw and skull like iron clamps. The man barely had time to gasp before Sengoku slammed him face-first into the marble floor.
BOOM.
The impact cracked the stone. Shockwaves rippled outward, rattling the walls, sending papers and chairs skidding. The Vice Admiral’s body spasmed, blood spraying across the polished floor as his consciousness shattered instantly.
Gasps echoed through the room. Tsuru’s eyes widened. Kuzan stiffened. Even Akainu’s expression shifted—not fear, but something close to awe. Sengoku did not release him. He lifted the Vice Admiral again—effortlessly, as one might lift a disobedient child—and slammed him down a second time.
BOOM.
The man wheezed, blood pooling beneath his face, his body limp in Sengoku’s grip. His legs twitched uselessly. Still alive. Only because Sengoku allowed it. The Fleet Admiral leaned down, his shadow swallowing the broken man entirely.
His grip tightened slightly—not enough to kill, but enough to make the Vice Admiral scream, a wet, broken sound that scraped across the nerves of everyone present. He lifted the Vice Admiral’s face just enough so the man could see him. Tears streamed from the Vice Admiral’s eyes. Fear—true fear—had finally found him.
"You stand here," Sengoku growled, "talking about wine and luxuries while a hundred thousand Marines are about to die screaming in the New World." His voice cracked. Just slightly.
"I have watched thousands of Marines die believing they were protecting this world." He slammed the Vice Admiral down one final time, pinning him there with a single hand. "And you dare tell me their lives are necessary sacrifices?"
The room was dead silent. Sengoku straightened, releasing the broken man at last. The Vice Admiral collapsed, unmoving, alive only because the Fleet Admiral had shown mercy he did not deserve. Sengoku turned slowly, his gaze sweeping across the room.
"Get him out of my sight," he ordered coldly. "Strip him of all authority. If Mary Geoise has objections, they can come speak to me themselves."
The Vice Admiral coughed, a wet, choking sound, blood spilling from the corner of his mouth as he tried—foolishly—to rise. His hands trembled as they pressed against the fractured marble. Bones ground against one another beneath torn muscle; the pain was overwhelming, blinding. Any other man would have stayed down, grateful simply to still be breathing.
But this man was not forged by battle. He was forged by arrogance. He dragged himself upright inch by inch, teeth stained red, one eye already swelling shut. His uniform hung in tatters, medals clinking weakly against his chest like mocking bells. Every breath scraped through broken ribs, yet his lips twisted into a sneer.
"You bastard..." he rasped, spitting blood onto the floor. "Just because you hold the title of Fleet Admiral... you think you own the Marines?"
The room froze. Sengoku had taken only two steps away when the words reached him. He stopped. Not abruptly. Not violently. He simply... stopped. The Vice Admiral laughed—a hoarse, broken sound—as he forced himself into a sitting position, even as his body screamed in protest.
"You think this ends with you throwing me around like some dockside thug?" the man continued, delirious with spite. "You think you can strip me of my authority just because you say so?"
His gaze burned with feverish defiance as he locked eyes with Sengoku.
"I don’t answer to you, Sengoku," he hissed. "I answer to Mary Geoise. To the Celestial Dragons. They are the ones who decide who rises and who falls."
Akainu’s jaw tightened. Kuzan’s expression darkened, a cold edge creeping into his eyes. Tsuru inhaled sharply—too sharply. She had seen this kind of man before. Men who mistook proximity to power for power itself. The Vice Admiral leaned back against the wall, laughing through broken teeth.
"You can beat me," he went on, voice cracking but loud, carried by sheer malice. "You can humiliate me. But when this reaches the Holy Land, it won’t be me they punish."
He raised a shaking finger toward Sengoku. "It’ll be you."
Silence fell—thick, suffocating. Then Sengoku turned. Slowly. Deliberately. When his eyes met the Vice Admiral’s, the man’s laughter faltered. Because there was no rage there. No fury. Only something far worse. Disappointment.
"You’re wrong," Sengoku said quietly. The softness of his voice made the words heavier than any shout. "I don’t think I own the Marines." He stepped closer, each footfall echoing like a drumbeat of judgment. "I belong to them." The Vice Admiral’s sneer twitched.
"I bled with them," Sengoku continued. "I buried them. I watched boys die believing the words justice and duty meant something."
He stopped directly in front of the broken man, towering over him. "You," Sengoku said, looking down at him as one might look at filth on a boot, "on the other hand have never fought for justice. You fought for comfort. For privilege. For the illusion that kneeling made you untouchable."
The Vice Admiral tried to speak again—but Sengoku raised a single finger.
"And make no mistake," Sengoku went on, his voice now edged with iron, "Mary Geoise does not protect failures." A flicker of uncertainty crossed the Vice Admiral’s face.
"Sengoku...!" Tsuru’s voice cut through the room like a blade, sharp yet steady. Of everyone present, she alone could still reach him—could still pull him back from the precipice he was standing on. No one else moved. No one else dared.
Even Akainu, whose hatred for weakness bordered on obsession, felt a visceral disgust toward the Vice Admiral crumpled on the floor. Men like that—spineless, groveling, hiding behind titles and patrons—were beneath contempt. Akainu believed in Absolute Justice, brutal and unforgiving, but he respected conviction and strength. Sengoku the Buddha embodied both. Few in history could claim to have carried the Marines on their shoulders the way he had.
"Leave him," Tsuru said as she stepped forward, placing a firm hand on Sengoku’s shoulder. Her grip was subtle but resolute, a silent plea and a calculated restraint. "He’s not worth it."
She leaned closer, lowering her voice—not for the Vice Admiral’s sake, but for Sengoku’s. "If you kill him, even you won’t be spared the repercussions. And right now... the world cannot afford to lose you."
Sengoku stood rigid, his chest rising and falling as he drew in a deep breath. Slowly—painfully—he mastered the storm raging inside him. Tsuru was right. He knew she was. Rage alone could not be allowed to decide the fate of the Marines. But restraint did not mean mercy.
"You think the Celestial Dragons will save you?" Sengoku said, his voice low, controlled, far more dangerous than any roar. He turned slightly, his gaze shifting away from the broken Vice Admiral and toward the far end of the room. "Let me show you what those you worship truly value."
His eyes settled on a man who had remained silent until now. "Tensei."
The director of the Marine Bureau of Investigation straightened instantly. A man of few words and razor focus, Tensei carried authority equal to Tsuru’s, though his influence ran in darker, quieter channels.
"Draft the names," Sengoku ordered. "Every Marine officer from the first half of the Grand Line who is known to be a supporter of the World Nobles. Commodores, Rear Admirals, Vice Admirals—every last one of them." A ripple went through the room.
"Prepare immediate deployment orders," Sengoku continued, his voice hardening. "They will be reassigned to the New World and ordered to intercept Whitebeard directly. I want to see what these rats are worth when they’re forced to stand on the front lines and face a Yonko’s blade."
Even Tensei raised his brows at that—but Sengoku wasn’t finished.
"And make it clear," he said coldly, "that refusal is not an option. Anyone who declines deployment will be court-martialed. Those holding the rank of Commodore and above who refuse... will be branded traitors and dealt with accordingly."
Tsuru shot to her feet. "Sengoku—you can’t—!" He raised a hand, cutting her off with finality.
"Vice Admiral Tsuru," Sengoku said, his tone formal now, ironclad. "As Chief of Staff, I trust you will ensure my orders are carried out to the letter." The room went deathly silent. Sengoku turned his gaze toward Akainu.
"Admiral Sakazuki," he said, "you will take personal command of this force. Reinforce our Marines in the New World. Stall Whitebeard for as long as possible while I prepare countermeasures." He paused, eyes narrowing.
"As for those who prove disobedient... or unwilling to follow orders—I leave their fate to your judgment." For the first time since entering the room, Akainu looked genuinely surprised.
This was no small force. Sengoku was handing him command over dozens of Vice Admirals, an entire faction within the Marines—men who had long hidden behind Mary Geoise’s shadow. Who they supported didn’t matter to Akainu. Only one thing did.
That they obeyed. And that they were willing to die killing pirates.
The other Admirals understood instantly why Sengoku had chosen Akainu. Where they might hesitate—where they might still see comrades—Akainu would see only assets and liabilities. He would burn them all if it meant taking Whitebeard’s head. The Vice Admiral on the floor finally understood.
His face drained of all color. Would the Celestial Dragons really care? If Sengoku framed it as a necessary redeployment to restore disrupted supply lines, Mary Geoise would likely praise him for his initiative. The nobles would never ask how many Marines died—only whether their luxuries flowed again.
That was what made Sengoku the Buddha truly terrifying. Not just his strength. Not just his authority. But his wit—and his willingness, in this moment, to consign an entire faction to the abyss without hesitation. Justice, he was proving, could be merciless.
****
The night sky stretched endlessly above me, deep and ink-black, pierced by a moon so bright it felt almost intrusive—an unblinking eye watching the world below. Moonlight spilled across the sea, turning the rolling waves into sheets of silver, but that serene beauty was violently torn apart by the vessel cutting through it.
My craft was small—no larger than a modest caravel at best—but it looked utterly alien against the familiar silhouettes that prowled these seas. There were no sails, no masts straining to catch the wind, and no reliance on currents or luck. Instead, two oddly shaped protrusions jutted from either side of the hull, resembling warped waterwheels forged by a madman who had never once cared for tradition.
And yet... they worked.
Black lightning crawled along the vessel’s surface, crackling and snapping like a living thing. It danced across etched conduits and vanished into the mechanisms embedded within the hull, feeding the rotating wheels with raw, violent energy. The sea itself seemed to recoil as the craft tore through it, splitting waves apart as though they were nothing more than paper. At this speed, the ocean wasn’t something I traveled across—it was something I violated.
The wind howled, but inside the craft there was calm. I sat leisurely near the helm, one hand resting idly while the other flipped through the evening edition of the World Times. The paper fluttered faintly in the artificial breeze, illuminated by the pale glow of the moon and the intermittent flash of black lightning.
A familiar name dominated the headlines. G9 Marine Base—Annihilated. I chuckled softly, unable to stop the grin that tugged at my lips.
"Finally," I muttered, eyes skimming the blood-soaked details, "Whitebeard is acting like how a Yonko should act..."
Calling it destruction was generous. This wasn’t a battle. This was a massacre. Initial estimates spoke of over three dozen Marine battleships reduced to wreckage—some split in half, others sunk so thoroughly that even debris refused to surface. And the lives... more than a hundred thousand Marines wiped from the board in a single, merciless stroke.
A life for a life. No—far more than that. This was Edward Newgate shedding the last remnants of restraint that had once defined him. The Whitebeard who drew lines, who held back, who believed there were limits even pirates shouldn’t cross—that man was gone. What remained was a calamity given flesh. A force of nature that no longer cared for the moral high ground when dealing with his enemies.
And the paper made sure to paint it vividly. Burning seas. Shattered harbors. Signal flares rising into the sky only to be swallowed by darkness. Marines begging for orders that never came. I folded the paper slightly, tapping it against my knee as the vessel continued its relentless advance, black lightning flaring brighter for a moment as if resonating with my thoughts.
Good. The world needed to see this. A Whitebeard unshackled was exactly the kind of chaos that would tear open the cracks already forming in the foundations of this rotten system. The balance of the seas was shifting—violently—and the World Government was finally being reminded of a truth it had long tried to bury.
Just as I was about to close my eyes and steal a short nap, the edge of my Kenbunshoku Haki brushed against something... wrong. A distant clang echoed through my senses—faint, but unmistakable.
Cannon fire.
My eyes snapped open instantly. I let my observation expand, no longer a passive ripple but a deliberate tide. The sea answered. With the monstrous range my haki now possessed, distance meant little; what was happening miles away unfolded in my awareness as clearly as if I were standing on the deck myself.
Smoke. Fire. Steel.
"Minks..." I muttered under my breath, genuine surprise slipping into my voice as my haki brushed against the distinct, feral rhythms of their presence. Dozens of miles away, beneath the same moonlit sky, a lone galleon struggled across the dark waters.
It was a proud ship once—its hull reinforced, its craftsmanship unmistakably foreign to human hands. The banners that should have fluttered proudly were torn or burned away, and the main mast lay shattered, snapped clean through like a broken bone. Splintered wood trailed behind the vessel, dragging through the sea like a corpse’s shadow.
The ship was crippled. And the hunters knew it. Half a dozen pirate galleons closed in from every angle, their silhouettes ugly and bloated against the moonlight. These were not traders. Not explorers. Their hulls were scarred black with old blood and cannon fire, their decks bristling with chains, cages, and barbed harpoons.
Slavers.
Their cannons roared in unison, the thunder rolling across the sea as iron shot tore through the night. Water erupted into towering plumes as volleys slammed into the waves around the fleeing galleon, hemming it in, herding it like prey.
The Mink vessel answered fire with fire. Cannons along its sides barked back defiantly, flashes of light bursting from its gunports. The return volleys were precise—disciplined—but desperation bled through every shot. The Minks weren’t trying to win. They were trying to buy time.
But time was a luxury they no longer had. With the mast down, the ship couldn’t outrun anything. Its sails hung useless, shredded remnants snapping uselessly in the wind. Each cannon blast from the pirates crept them closer, their ships fanning out, cutting off every possible escape route.
I could feel the Minks on board through my haki—their hearts pounding, muscles coiled tight, claws gripping weapons slick with sweat. There were warriors among them, seasoned ones... but also non combatatnts, especially humans. Young. Old. Fear mixed with fury in equal measure.
The pirates, on the other hand, radiated anticipation. Laughter. Greed. Hunger. Hooks were already being prepared. Grappling lines lay coiled like serpents, ready to bite. Slaver brands heated over open flames. In their minds, the battle was already over—the only question left was how much profit they would wring from the bodies of the defeated.
Cannons thundered again, closer this time. The Mink galleon shuddered as a shot punched through its starboard side, wood exploding inward. A howl—half rage, half pain—rang out from the deck as splinters and smoke swallowed the impact point. They were being bled dry. I exhaled slowly, eyes narrowing as the full scene settled into my awareness.
"...Tch." I couldn’t help but chuckle softly at the scene unfolding in my senses. "Imbeciles..." I muttered under my breath, a crooked smile tugging at my lips. "Trying to hunt Minks..."
My gaze drifted upward, away from the sea for a moment, toward the sky above me. The moon hung high and full—unblemished, brilliant, an argent eye watching the world below. Its light spilled across the waves like liquid silver, bathing the ocean in an almost sacred glow. The reflection shimmered endlessly, each ripple catching and scattering moonlight as if the sea itself were holding its breath.
"...especially during a full moon." Even without my haki, the omen would have been obvious.
Under that radiant moon, the presence of the Minks felt different—sharper, louder, as if their very souls were humming in anticipation. Their heartbeats thundered now, no longer purely fearful. Something else was rising within them, something ancient and wild, answering the call of the sky above.
The pirates had no idea. To them, the moon was just scenery. To the Minks, it was a summons. I let out a low, amused breath, watching the silver light dance across the water as black lightning crackled faintly along the hull of my strange little vessel as it subtly turned in the direction of the minks.
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