"What the hell is he doing?!"
Kong shot a glance at his watch, his brow furrowing ever deeper. His voice, though measured, carried a sharp undercurrent of irritation.
The ceremony was supposed to begin within minutes. The guests were seated. The dignitaries were in place. The red carpet had been rolled out, the soldiers standing at attention.
And yet—Darren, the linchpin of the entire affair, was nowhere to be seen.
If it were anyone else, the ceremony could have gone on without issue. But Darren wasn’t just anyone.
The hero of Marineford. The one who had single-handedly destroyed the Golden Lion’s infamous Flying Fleet. The unrivaled top graduate of the Elite Officer Training Camp.
A prodigy. A war hero. A symbol of the Marines’ future.
He was the reason the world’s press had descended upon Marineford. The reason the ceremony had been elevated to a global broadcast. The one person whose presence—and whose speech—could lift the sagging morale of the Marines and reignite their fractured spirit.
Without him, this wasn’t a celebration.
It was a hollow performance.
Sengoku stood frozen, sweat beginning to bead along his hairline. "Fleet Admiral Kong, I’ve already dispatched someone to look for him," he said quickly. "Darren’s never been one to shirk duty. I’m sure something just—"
Kong exhaled slowly, smoke hissing from his nostrils. He didn’t speak, but his silence thundered louder than words.
His recent trip to the Holy Land had tested every ounce of patience he had left. Begging for funding from the World Government while enduring the Gorosei’s sneering mockery had felt like swallowing broken glass. He’d done it for the sake of the Marines. For the fallen. For justice.
"Then we wait," Kong said at last, voice tight.
By fifteen minutes, Sengoku’s back was soaked with sweat. His throat was dry.
"Fleet Admiral," he began cautiously, "perhaps we should start. Darren’s segment is at the end. He can still appear before the close."
Kong’s jaw clenched. A vein pulsed on his temple.
"...Fine," he said curtly.
Sengoku signaled the staff.
And with that, a low, solemn note from a military bugle rippled through the square.
The crowd quieted. The air seemed to still. Excitement simmered just below the surface, held in check only by the weight of ceremony.
Then a tall figure rose from the front row.
Short-cropped purple hair. Dark sunglasses. A cloak billowing softly in the breeze. He moved with calm, deliberate steps, every motion echoing dignity and command.
The Black Arm himself.
The reporters surged forward, cameras clicking like gunfire as he climbed the steps to the central dais.
Facing the sea of Marines and civilians before him, Zephyr raised a hand in crisp salute.
"I am Zephyr," he declared, voice resonant. "Chief Instructor of the Marine Headquarters Elite Officer Training Camp."
"I now officially declare the graduation ceremony for the Third Elite Officer Training Camp... open!"
The moment the words left his mouth, the plaza erupted.
A storm of cheers thundered from every corner. Marines sprang to attention. Civilians shouted, waved, cried. Even the far-flung corners of the world, watching through the glowing screens of Visual Den Den Mushi, felt the tremor of history unfolding.
This was more than a ceremony.
It was a declaration.
Zephyr opened his arms wide, a rare laugh escaping his lips. "Now—let’s welcome the graduating class of the Elite Officer Training Camp!"
At the far end of the crimson carpet, a line of young figures emerged.
Their steps were sure. Their uniforms gleamed. The white of their cloaks caught the sunlight and turned it into banners of hope.
They looked like they were walking out of legend.
"That’s Commander Gion—our ’Marine’s Flower’! Gorgeous and deadly!"
"Kuzan! Captain Kuzan’s really here! He froze half the battlefield during the war!"
"Is that Yamakaji? He looks like he walked out of a tea shop!"
"Doberman! Look at that sword! That guy’s as serious as they come!"
"Wait—shorts? Who shows up in shorts?!"
"Shhh! That’s Tokikake! They say he’s as strong as a Vice Admiral already—don’t let the toothpick fool you!"
The crowd buzzed like a living thing.
Gion walked with elegant precision, her high ponytail swinging behind her like a banner.
Kuzan yawned mid-step, hands in his pockets, eyes half-lidded with sleep.
Tokikake strolled like he owned the world, flip-flops slapping and toothpick bouncing.
Yamakaji smiled politely, a little overwhelmed.
Doberman’s hands twitched, sweat beading along his palms.
Dalmatian adjusted his spotted cap with a quiet nod.
Onigumo glared straight ahead, his cold gaze unmoving.
The Golden Generation.
The names that would echo across the seas.
The crowd cheered as if welcoming royalty. Marines straightened their backs. Reporters practically threw themselves at the front lines, clicking and scribbling as fast as their hands could move.
Sengoku’s hands came together in a slow, thoughtful clap.
His eyes didn’t move from the young officers.
So much like we were... back then.
He could see himself in them. Could see the fire. The foolishness. The ideals.
The decades had passed in a blur—friends lost, enemies risen, battles waged again and again. From Rocks to Whitebeard. From Big Mom to Kaido. The tides never stopped.
Only the names changed.
A loud chewing noise snapped Sengoku from his thoughts.
He turned, already knowing what he’d find.
"Garp! For god’s sake—would you stop eating during the ceremony?!"
Garp gave a lazy grin, munching cheerfully on a fistful of senbei.
Some things never change.