Somewhere in the New World—
"We should be close. According to intel, Shiki was last seen somewhere in this area."
On the deck of the Marine ship, Admiral Sengoku studied the sea chart in his hand with a calm, steady gaze. Adjusting his black-rimmed glasses, he spoke slowly.
Darren narrowed his eyes and scanned the vast ocean ahead, brow furrowing.
Even with the Marine's vast intelligence network, trying to locate a pirate crew in this boundless sea was like finding a needle in a haystack.
Only now was he beginning to grasp the burden placed on officers like Sengoku.
Often, it wasn't that the Marines were incompetent, standing idle while the Great Pirate Era ran rampant. No—it was simply that this world was far, far too vast.
Communication and reconnaissance lagged behind.
Marine ships were decently fast—but compared to the sea's infinite breadth, they were practically stationary.
Even when intel came in, and they deployed immediately, it still took hours, even days, to reach the scene.
And the New World's seas? Unpredictable, volatile, dangerously capricious.
All of it made chasing pirates brutally inefficient.
A truth hard to change, bound by the limits of the world itself.
It was no wonder Sengoku was so desperate to establish an airborne Marine fleet.
The Marines didn't lack firepower—they lacked mobility.
If they had a flying fleet, their response speed would skyrocket. Pirate pursuit would become exponentially more effective.
"Wandering aimlessly isn't working. Admiral Sengoku, do we know why Shiki showed up in this area?"
Sengoku shook his head.
"No leads. Shiki is secretive, calculating. He's a master at hiding his true intentions."
Darren's brow furrowed further.
"Hmm... something seems to have happened over there."
A slow, lazy voice broke in—Borsalino.
He raised a hand and pointed off toward a patch of sea, a faint teasing smile on his face.
Darren and Sengoku followed his gesture.
Their expressions shifted instantly.
Through a thin sea mist, the outline of an island—small, nondescript—came into view.
Above it, black smoke billowed into the sky. Thick. Unrelenting.
A cold breeze carried something with it.
Darren and Sengoku's eyes contracted simultaneously.
A sharp, overwhelming scent of blood.
"Landfall!" Sengoku barked without hesitation.
The entire town on the island lay in ruin—limbs severed, simple homes crumbled into rubble. Blood soaked the earth and stained the broken stones.
Deep, terrifying sword marks crossed the ground in all directions. Every clean cut, smooth and precise—clearly the work of a true master swordsman.
The sun was setting. Twilight cast its orange light across the ruined town.
A wasteland of death and silence. Vultures picked at rotting flesh.
The stench—decay and blood—was suffocating.
The Marines who came ashore went pale. Some of the younger ones clutched their stomachs, on the verge of vomiting.
Sengoku's sudden roar shattered the silence.
His eyes were bloodshot, teeth clenched as he stared at the carnage.
Darren's expression darkened too.
There was no need to guess.
Only one man would carry out a massacre .
And with sword slashes still radiating deadly intent from the ground—
"We were too late... Shiki's already been here."
Borsalino sighed, almost regretfully.
Sengoku's voice was like steel.
"Search for clues. Look for any survivors."
Unlikely. But they had to try.
Marines fanned out at once.
"Admiral Sengoku! There's a survivor over here!"
The call came from nearby. Sengoku and several others rushed over.
Beneath a collapsed wall lay a man—covered in blood, face ashen.
His lower body was pinned beneath debris. He couldn't move.
"How are you feeling!?" Sengoku crouched, voice tight with urgency.
He shot a subtle glance at the ship's medic.
The medic shook his head.
The man struggled to open his eyes, catching sight of Sengoku's uniform.
Then—he smiled. Faint. Bitter.
"You came too late..."
Tears slid from the corners of his dull eyes, tracing down stiff cheeks.
Sengoku stiffened, gaze dimming. He spoke quietly.
The man lifted his head, expression hollow.
Then—he laughed. Cold. Mocking.
From his lifeless eyes, bloody tears began to fall.
And then—he screamed.
"WE PAID THE HEAVENLY TRIBUTE!!"
"We worked ourselves to the bone every day! Groveling like dogs to the tax agents! We didn't even dare get sick!"
"My wife—she died in bed because we couldn't afford a doctor, couldn't buy medicine!!"
"All for that damn Heavenly Tribute!!"
"And in the end?! When the pirates came, where were you?!"
"You wear pristine uniforms! Ride your glorious ships! Swagger around like gods!! But when it matters—you come here and say 'sorry'?!!"
"My father! My mother! My two children... they're all DEAD!!"
"This is your so-called justice?! Is this how the Marines protect the people after collecting their Heavenly Tribute?!"
His broken, furious screams echoed through the ruined city.
The vultures scattered.
The Marines stood frozen, heads bowed.
Sengoku opened his mouth. Lips trembled.
But he couldn't speak.
He could have said many things—
That the tribute had nothing to do with them. That most of it went to the Celestial Dragons, funding their luxurious lives.
That they'd come as fast as they could. That the sea was vast. That Marineford was far from the New World.
But to this man—who had lost everything, who would die any moment now—