As Darren made his way from the military hospital to the Fleet Admiral’s Office, it was the first time in ten days that he truly saw Marineford with his own eyes.
And what he saw made his heart sink.
The military district was still a graveyard.
Wounded Marines patrolled with bandaged limbs and grim expressions, halting to salute the four figures walking past. Their eyes carried a reverence reserved for legends.
Much of the wreckage had been cleared—collapsed buildings, shattered walls, splintered steel—but the land itself remained scarred. Craters and gaping fissures tore across the ground. The horizon was lined with the skeletal remains of half-built fortresses and scaffolded frames hastily erected for reconstruction.
Darren’s frown deepened with every step.
The damage from the Golden Lion’s invasion had eclipsed even that of the Summit War Darren remembered. Half the military district was flattened, and even the civilian zones had suffered extensive collateral damage. His own quarters had been obliterated—reduced to rubble by a falling "meteorite."
Thank the stars Zephyr had responded immediately, ordering a mass evacuation that kept the death toll low.
Even so, the aftermath was everywhere.
Civilians stood weeping before the remains of their homes. Children clung to each other in silence. Marines stared blankly ahead, some sitting alone among the ruins, nursing invisible wounds.
To Shiki, this had been nothing more than a moment of cathartic chaos—a cruel joke, an act of vengeance, a casual lashing out.
But for those who lived here... it had been a disaster.
A tragedy that had stolen their families, their homes, their sense of safety.
Darren, who had long since hardened himself in the blood-soaked North Blue, felt a cold weight settle in his chest.
"Damn you, Golden Lion..." Kuzan growled beside him. His fists were clenched so tightly his knuckles turned white, veins bulging under the skin. "Marineford was fine... It was peaceful. Why the hell did he have to destroy everything?"
"If I’d been stronger... maybe I could’ve stopped more of it..."
As a student of both Zephyr and Garp, Kuzan had inherited not just their power, but their ideals.
For them, justice wasn’t about executing pirates. It was about protecting the helpless. Shielding civilians. Saving the future.
Kuzan burned with that same conviction.
His eyes shimmered with a volatile mix of grief, anger, and self-loathing. Fury at Shiki... and frustration at his own limits.
Darren placed a hand on his shoulder.
"You did more than enough, Kuzan. Without you, the death toll would’ve been catastrophic."
Darren had cleaved the falling islands with Enma, splitting the monstrous landmasses before they hit Marineford.
But the aftermath—the tsunamis those island fragments created—had been just as deadly.
Kuzan had frozen the incoming sea before it could drown half the city.
His power had saved countless lives.
Before Kuzan could respond, Sakazuki’s cold voice cut through the air.
"War brings casualties. Always has. Always will."
He didn’t stop walking. Didn’t even glance at the destruction around him.
"Instead of standing here whining," he said flatly, "use your energy to plan the next battle."
Kuzan’s jaw tightened.
"You heartless bastard..." he muttered.
Sakazuki wasn’t like them. He was forged from something harsher—some ironclad alloy of war and duty. Emotion was weakness in his eyes. Empathy, a hindrance.
He was a blade sharpened for killing.
"You know," Borsalino said lightly, "Admiral Sengoku’s been drowning in headaches lately."
He ambled along with his hands in his coat pockets, eyes half-lidded.
"Post-war compensation, housing civilians, tending the wounded, rebuilding Marineford... It’s all landed on his desk. Even the SSG’s funding got gutted."
Darren raised an eyebrow. "What about aid from the World Government?"
Borsalino let out a dramatic sigh.
"Well, Shiki did kill a Celestial Dragon. You can imagine how that news went over..."
"The Gorosei are furious. Fleet Admiral Kong’s already gone to Mary Geoise to smooth things over."
The truth was, the Marines had always operated under tight constraints.
They had no independent revenue. Their entire existence depended on funding from the World Government. Every bullet, every ship, every decision had to answer to political will.
Darren knew that all too well.
Which was why he’d built his own fleet in the North Blue. Why he’d bent rules and carved out power where he could.
Soon, they arrived at the heart of Marineford: the Central Military Fortress.
A massive hole still marred one of the walls—its steel-reinforced edges twisted and cracked. Construction crews were hard at work reinforcing the breach.
It was the very hole Borsalino had blasted through when Shiki sent him flying.
A young Marine officer marched up, saluted crisply, and announced:
"Gentlemen. The hearing is about to begin. Admiral Sengoku and the other members are waiting in the conference chamber."
This was no public trial.
It was an internal hearing—one held by the Marine high command.
A formality, in most cases.
The Marine chain of command was strict and hierarchical, stretching from janitorial staff to the triad of Admirals and the Fleet Admiral himself. Promotions were slow, often political. But Vice Admiral—especially Headquarters Vice Admiral—was a threshold.
It was the gateway to the Marines’ real power structure.
Only those who reached it could access core strategic decisions. Only those who passed it could command flagships, lead operations across the Grand Line, and wield the infamous Buster Call.
These were the Marines known as the "Backbone of Justice."
Today, Darren would step into their ranks.
He looked up at the towering silhouette of the Fleet Admiral’s Office, its facade battered but unbowed.
And in his eyes, the fire of ambition burned bright.
He knew what this day meant.
The doors to real power were about to open—just a crack.
And he was ready to step through.