New World
New Marine Headquarters
The war at Marineford had left the old headquarters in ruins—unsalvageable. After his brutal victory over Aokiji, Fleet Admiral Akainu Sakazuki relocated their stronghold to the G-1 base in the New World, a declaration of war against the Emperors themselves.
The new headquarters loomed like a fortress. Its colossal oval port, modeled after Mariejois' defenses, bristled with artillery towers. Warships patrolled the waters, their cannons hungry, as if the sea itself were a beast waiting to devour.
In the highest war room, the air was colder than the howling winds outside.
Admiral Akainu and his commanders sat rigid, their faces carved from stone. A messenger slid a top-secret dossier across the table. No one spoke. The silence was a blade pressed to every throat.
Then Akainu's voice ground the stillness to dust:
"You've all read the report."
Akainu sat upon the Fleet Admiral's throne like a smoldering volcano, the ember of his cigar burning crimson in the dim light. His military cap cast a shadow over his eyes, obscuring all but the rigid set of his jaw. Yet his voice alone—a low, seething rumble—betrayed the unease festering beneath.
No one spoke.
No one dared.
Not Sengoku, the former Fleet Admiral whose retirement had been postponed by chaos. Not even Fujitora, the blind monster recruited through the World Military Draft, whose fingers tightened around his sword's hilt. The report before them was a lit fuse.
Gol D. Roger had returned.
The implications were unthinkable—a storm that could drown the world.
Then, from the gallery, a voice cracked the silence like ice:
"Is this intelligence confirmed?"
It was Sengoku who broke the silence.
The former Fleet Admiral sat in the gallery now—stripped of command, his authority reduced to advisory whispers. Yet this news had dragged him back into the light like a ghost summoned.
Roger. His rival. His reckoning.
Vice Admiral Tsuru's voice cut through the stillness, steel wrapped in silk:
"This report comes directly from Colonel Das of Loguetown Base." Her fingers tightened around the dossier. "Top of his class at the Academy. Vetted for sensitive postings. If he confirms it..."
A pause. The weight of centuries pressed down.
"Then he's back."
Even Tsuru, the unshakable "Great Staff Officer," faltered. Her throat moved—a dry swallow against the unspeakable.
Every officer in the room knew the truth—buried beneath decades of propaganda.
Roger had never been captured.
At the height of his power, the Navy threw everything at him: Garp, Sengoku, entire fleets. Yet the Pirate King had surrendered on his own terms. Now, defying death itself, he'd returned.
The timing couldn't be worse.
The Marineford War had left the Navy bleeding. Their "victory" over Whitebeard had cost them ships, soldiers, and face. Now, with the Emperors circling like sharks and their forces stretched thin
Roger's resurrection wasn't a threat. It was an extinction-level event.
Garp's fist clenched. The Hero of the Marines, who'd once chased Roger across the Grand Line, ground out through gritted teeth:
"That old bastard was done. Why's he back now?"
Sengoku's knuckles whitened around the armrest. "Roger alone isn't the problem," he said, voice like rusted iron. "It's what his return ignites. The hunt for the One Piece—wars buried for twenty years—will erupt again."
The wrinkles on his forehead deepened into trenches. Even his gray hair seemed to age in real time. Fujitora's cane tapped once—a death knell. "And let us not forget," he murmured, "Roger's right hand still draws breath. The 'Dark King' Rayleigh waits in the shadows."
A collective shudder ripped through the room.
The unspoken truth hung heavier than cannon smoke:
The Roger Pirates had chosen to disband. Their crew—monsters like Rayleigh, Scopper Gaban—had merely faded into legend. But if their captain raised the banner anew?
The nightmare scenario crystallized:
A reborn Roger Pirates.
Buggy the Clown's chaos multiplying exponentially. Red-Haired Shanks—already an Emperor—reuniting with his captain. The Navy, still licking its wounds from Marineford, couldn't withstand such a storm.
Then Akainu spoke.
"Forget Roger."
His cigar hissed to death against his veined hand. The scent of burnt flesh mixed with gunpowder as his voice carved through the room:
"That brat Riven D. Kael is the real plague."
A pause. The implication detonated:
If Roger could be resurrected—who else? Whitebeard? Rocks? The ghosts of every buried legend now clawed at their minds.
Somewhere, a vice admiral's teacup shattered. No one bent to clean it.
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