"Rather than letting our light disappear like stars drowned out by the moon, we might as well take a chance and use some of their brilliance to illuminate the road toward the goal we both share.
"After careful consideration, I've made my decision. We'll immediately send our most capable representative to the Eternal Divine Kingdom and open formal talks with them. We'll explore just how far cooperation between us can go."
The entire cabin fell silent.
Only the occasional crackle from the kerosene lamp broke the stillness.
Everyone understood the weight of Dragon's decision.
This was no minor adjustment. It meant the Revolutionary Army was about to make a fundamental change in strategy, like a ship abruptly altering course in the middle of an unknown sea. No one could say what dangers or opportunities awaited them along the new route.
Dragon clasped his hands behind his back and walked slowly toward the window.
Beyond the glass stretched an endless black sea, restless waves rolling beneath the night sky.
His gaze remained firm as he stared into the darkness, as though he could already see through the distance and glimpse the faint outline of that mysterious, powerful kingdom.
After a moment, Dragon turned around.
His voice was low but decisive, carrying the resolve expected of the commander of the Revolutionary Army.
"Tell His Majesty Ron this: in a world buried beneath darkness, perhaps the dawn is something we should bring forth together."
His gaze sharpened.
"If we join forces, there's every reason to believe we can break through that darkness and usher in a new era."
...
At the horizon, the setting sun burned like blood.
Its crimson-orange light spilled across the harbor of Marine Headquarters at Marineford, casting a bleak glow over a place that had once embodied authority and order.
Several warships slowly emerged from the sea.
They were among the few vessels that had survived the battle in good enough condition to remain afloat.
Thick black smoke trailed behind them like the dying breaths of wounded beasts as they limped toward the harbor.
Their once-imposing hulls were scarred beyond recognition.
Deep cracks ran across their sides where cannon fire and powerful attacks had struck. Huge sections had been burned black, while the sails that had once gleamed white beneath the Marine flag now hung in shredded tatters.
Some had been torn apart completely.
Others drooped lifelessly from their masts.
The decks were packed with wounded Marines.
Exhaustion and despair covered their faces.
Their eyes were hollow, as though part of them had never truly returned from the battlefield.
Uniforms once kept immaculate were now stained with blood, soot, and dust until their original colors were barely visible.
Many of the survivors no longer had the strength to stand.
Some leaned heavily against one another, barely managing to walk with the support of their comrades.
Others simply sat collapsed against the deck, curled inward as though they wanted nothing more than to shut out the world around them.
Broken weapons and ruined equipment lay scattered nearby, silent evidence of what they had endured.
A suffocating silence covered the entire harbor.
The air itself seemed frozen.
There was no breeze.
Even the birds appeared to have abandoned the area, leaving only the relentless waves crashing against the rocks below.
The dull impact of water against stone echoed again and again through the harbor.
From the approaching warships came the uneven rumble of damaged engines, sputtering weakly as though the vessels themselves were mourning the defeat.
High above the harbor, Fleet Admiral Sengoku stood on the platform like a statue.
His back remained straight.
His Justice coat still rested across his shoulders, as immaculate and imposing as ever.
Once, that coat had represented his authority, experience, and confidence.
But none of that confidence remained on his face now.
Instead, Sengoku seemed weighed down by something almost physical.
A crushing heaviness had settled across his shoulders, while grief and exhaustion were plainly visible in his eyes.
His gaze moved slowly over the returning forces.
The number of soldiers who had come back was pitiful.
Not even one in ten of those who had departed seemed to have returned in fighting condition.
Those who remained were wounded, exhausted, and ragged.
Fear and confusion had replaced the confidence they had carried when they set sail.
The Vice Admirals were hardly better.
Nearly every one of them had suffered injuries.
Some needed crutches simply to remain upright.
Others leaned against fellow officers for support.
The dignity and imposing presence they normally carried had disappeared entirely.
Sengoku looked from one face to another.
Perhaps some part of him was searching for an answer.
Or merely something that could still be called hope.
He found neither.
Eventually, his gaze dimmed.
A long, almost inaudible sigh escaped him.
Sengoku slowly closed his eyes.
Memories of the fleet's departure surged through his mind.
What a magnificent sight it had been.
Warships filling the sea in perfectly ordered formation.
Marine flags snapping proudly in the wind.
Tens of thousands of soldiers standing at attention, their morale so high that their shouts seemed capable of shaking the sky itself.
Marine Headquarters had appeared invincible.
Its reputation towered over the seas, enough to make countless pirates tremble at the very mention of its name.
And at the center of that tremendous force had stood six Admiral-level combatants—
the supreme fighting power of the Marines.
Each had carried themselves with absolute confidence.
Each possessed extraordinary strength and the ability to command entire battlefields.
They had been the pillars supporting Marine Headquarters.
The greatest weapons the organization possessed.
And when they had departed for the Eternal Divine Kingdom, none of them had imagined that so many would never return.
...
Reality, however, struck Sengoku like a brutal slap across the face.
Kizaru had been captured, his fate now unknown.
Fujitora had likewise fallen into enemy hands and become a prisoner.
Aokiji had barely escaped the battlefield alive. He now stood at the head of the returning officers, severely wounded, his face pale and his presence so weak that he looked as though even a strong gust of wind might knock him over. The relaxed composure he normally carried was nowhere to be seen, replaced entirely by exhaustion and pain.
Momousagi had also been captured, her condition uncertain.
Ryokugyu was dead, killed on the battlefield without even a body left to recover.
At least Magellan had returned.
But even that small piece of good news could not come close to making up for everything the Marines had lost.
Sengoku remembered the six Admiral-level fighters when they had departed.
They had been confident, imposing, and certain of victory, each of them prepared to crush the Eternal Divine Kingdom beneath the full might of Marine Headquarters.
And now?
Only a badly wounded Aokiji and Magellan had returned alongside the battered remnants of the fleet.
"Cough…"
A strained cough escaped Sengoku's throat.
His fists clenched tightly at his sides until his knuckles turned white.
The muscles in his weathered face twitched as grief, fury, helplessness, and bitter frustration churned together inside him.
Since the founding of the Marines, they had endured countless storms.
But never had they suffered a blow this devastating.
Most of their highest-level combat power had been wiped away in a single campaign.
Their senior officers had suffered crippling losses.
Tens of thousands of elite Marines had been buried at sea.
This was no longer simply a matter of casualties.
The very prestige and confidence of the Marines had been shattered.
The organization that had once seemed untouchable now stood exposed before the entire world, its former glory reduced to a memory and the faith supporting it beginning to crack.
Yet Sengoku knew he could not allow himself to collapse.
Not yet.
Someone still had to lead the survivors.
Someone had to pull the Marines back onto their feet and somehow restore the pride they had lost.
His gaze slowly moved across the faces of the younger soldiers.
Many of them were little more than boys and girls, their features still carrying traces of youth.
Now those faces were marked by fear and confusion.
Their eyes held the haunted look of people who had only just awakened from a nightmare, only to discover that reality offered them no comfort.
The officers beside them were hardly better.
Defeat and unwillingness burned together in their eyes.
They had entered the war full of determination, convinced that victory belonged to them.
None had imagined they would return like this.
The confidence that had once defined them had been buried beneath exhaustion and grief.
Looking at them, Sengoku felt a sharp pain drive through his chest.
His breathing grew heavier.
"The future… of the Marines…"
He murmured the words so quietly that no one else could hear them.
There was a weariness in his voice that had never been there before.
And uncertainty.
For perhaps the first time in a very long time, Sengoku genuinely did not know what came next.
The dying sunlight stretched his solitary figure across the harbor stones in a long shadow.
Marineford had once stood as the very heart of Absolute Justice.
To countless Marines, this place had been sacred—a symbol of order, honor, and overwhelming strength.
Now an oppressive gloom hung over it.
The fading sunlight washed Marineford in a thin veil of red-gold, almost like a curtain being drawn over the glory of the past while exposing the misery of the present.
The harbor plaza was silent.
Every Marine there—whether returning from battle or stationed at Headquarters, officer or ordinary soldier, lightly wounded or barely able to stand—gradually stopped what they were doing.
No one had ordered them to.
They simply did.
Wounded soldiers leaning on crutches gently pulled themselves free from the medics supporting them.
Their bodies trembled with weakness, but they gritted their teeth and forced themselves upright.
Logistics personnel carrying supplies slowly lowered the heavy crates in their arms.
One after another, they removed their caps.
Sengoku stood on the raised platform above them.
His expression was solemn.
Slowly, he reached up with both hands and removed the seagull-shaped cap that had accompanied him throughout his years as Fleet Admiral.
It represented countless memories.
Countless victories.
Countless years of command.
Now he held it tightly against his chest and bowed his head.
Perhaps he was mourning the dead.
Perhaps he was thinking about every decision that had led them here.
Or perhaps he simply had no words left.
A faint wind stirred the edges of his coat, but it could do nothing to lift the weight pressing down on him.
Marineford remained deathly silent.
The lively Headquarters of the past seemed almost like another world.
Only the sea wind continued to howl through the harbor, low and mournful like a grieving song.
It caught the torn and battered coats marked with the word Justice, whipping the ruined fabric through the air.
Once, those coats had symbolized authority and strength.
Now every flutter seemed like a requiem for the men and women who would never return.
The smell of blood still lingered everywhere.
Gunpowder clung stubbornly to the air, dragging everyone's thoughts back toward the battlefield they had barely escaped.
And heavier than either was the silent grief pressing down on every person in the harbor.
Every face was covered in dust and dried blood.
Faces that had once been lively and determined now looked exhausted, weathered, and far older than they had only days before.