Swart continued calmly.
"His Majesty will evaluate far more than the amount of merit you've accumulated."
"He will consider your loyalty to the Divine Kingdom—whether you genuinely serve its interests or merely pretend to."
"He will consider the value of your contributions. There is a difference between helping when victory is already assured and stepping forward when the kingdom truly needs you."
"Your character and aptitude will matter as well. Whether you possess the resolve to endure hardship, whether you can be trusted with greater power, and whether you have the temperament required to carry greater responsibility."
"And finally, His Majesty will consider your future potential—whether granting you greater strength will allow you to make even greater contributions to the Divine Kingdom in the years ahead."
Swart's gaze moved between Apoo and Hawkins.
"Merit is important."
"But it is not the only standard."
"If His Majesty does not personally recognize you, then no matter how high your merit total becomes, you will never receive that particular blessing."
Those words hit Apoo like a bucket of ice water.
Most of the feverish excitement that had been burning inside him vanished on the spot.
His grin froze awkwardly.
For a moment, his lips moved without producing any sound.
Then he forced out a dry laugh.
"Apapapa… So His Majesty himself still has to approve it…"
The disappointment in his voice was impossible to hide.
Hawkins reacted far more quietly.
He slid one tarot card back into his sleeve.
The imagery on its face depicted Judgment and The Hermit.
His eyes flickered thoughtfully.
This changed the equation.
Simply completing missions and accumulating merit would not be enough.
If he truly wanted access to something as extraordinary as a second Devil Fruit ability, then he would have to make himself impossible to overlook.
He needed to demonstrate value.
Ability.
Reliability.
And, more importantly, loyalty convincing enough to earn Ron's personal approval.
Swart watched the subtle changes in both men's expressions before continuing.
"So remember this carefully."
"Completing your assignments and accumulating merit should indeed be your immediate priority."
"But more important than that is what you prove through those assignments."
His tone remained calm.
"Show the Divine Kingdom that you are useful."
"Show that you are loyal."
Then his expression cooled ever so slightly.
"The Divine Kingdom has no use for dead weight."
"Those who contribute nothing and spend their days merely taking up space will eventually be cast aside."
A faint chill seemed to enter the room.
"And we have even less use…"
Swart paused.
"…for those who appear obedient on the surface while harboring other intentions underneath."
The warning settled over the room like a blade hanging above their heads.
Apoo and Hawkins exchanged a glance.
Both understood the same thing.
This was not some empty promise designed to lure them in.
The rewards were real.
The path toward obtaining them was real.
But it was also far more difficult than simply completing a handful of missions and cashing in points.
The treasure stood visibly at the end of the road.
Especially that almost fantastical reward—
the qualification to possess the power of a second Devil Fruit.
But reaching it would require far more than strength.
They would have to win the favor and recognition of the one man who actually held the authority to grant it.
Ron.
That realization placed an invisible bridle around the ambition that had just begun running wild inside both men.
They could pursue power.
They could compete for merit.
They could rise through the Divine Kingdom's hierarchy.
But they would have to remain careful.
Because ultimately, the person holding the key to their greatest reward was not some impersonal merit system.
It was the Divine Sovereign himself.
And everything they did from this point onward could influence how he judged them.
...
Marineford.
For generations, Marine Headquarters had stood as the very heart of Marine power.
It represented the institution's belief in justice and the authority it projected across the seas.
Towering fortifications rose over the island.
Massive defensive structures surrounded the harbor.
Flags bearing the word Justice flew from nearly every prominent position.
This was the sacred stronghold of the Marines.
Or at least, it had been.
Now the entire fortress seemed buried beneath a suffocating atmosphere of grief and oppression.
The harbor that had once been constantly crowded with warships had fallen eerily quiet.
In the past, Marineford had been alive with disciplined activity.
Warships entered and departed one after another in perfectly organized formations.
Orders rang across the docks.
Marines moved constantly between ships, barracks, command posts, and supply depots.
Everything had carried the energy of the world's largest military power.
But now—
that familiar vitality was gone.
...
Swart raised his head slightly, his eyes carrying unmistakable reverence toward the Divine Sovereign.
"When His Majesty makes a decision, he considers every relevant factor."
...
Marineford.
There had once been a time when the harbor here never seemed to rest.
Warships cut through the water one after another, sunlight turning the spray thrown up by their bows into flashes of gold. Bugles sounded across the docks while Marines shouted orders in powerful voices, the entire fortress radiating the strength and vitality of the world's greatest military organization.
Now, only a handful of surviving warships limped into port.
They looked less like mighty vessels of war and more like battered corpses that had somehow crawled back from a battlefield.
Cannon holes riddled their hulls.
Black scorch marks covered their sides.
Masts had snapped.
Sails hung in tatters.
The ships moved painfully slowly, as though every additional meter required whatever little strength they had left.
On shore, the Marines who had remained behind stood in orderly formation.
Their backs were straight, but there was no hiding the grief in their eyes as they watched wounded comrades being carefully helped down from the returning ships.
Many of the survivors were wrapped almost completely in bandages.
Dark blood had already seeped through the thick layers of gauze.
Their eyes were hollow.
Lost.
Whatever conviction had once burned inside them had been replaced by exhaustion and despair.
Behind them came the coffins.
One after another, they were carried solemnly down the gangways, each draped beneath the flag of the Marines.
The banners snapped in the sea breeze, but their bright colors could do nothing to dispel the grief hanging over the harbor.
The Marines watching from shore could barely comprehend what they were seeing.
Men who had left Marineford beside them only days earlier, full of confidence and fighting spirit, were now returning inside coffins.
...
The atmosphere inside the Fleet Admiral's office was even heavier.
The cold silence felt almost solid.
Portraits hanging along the walls seemed to watch the room in mute concern, while stacks of reports and documents covered the desk without anyone showing the slightest interest in reading them.
Sengoku sat behind the broad desk with his brows drawn tightly together.
His gaze drifted through the window toward the turbulent sea outside, as though searching the horizon for an answer that simply did not exist.
The senior staff around him remained equally silent.
Every person in the room understood the magnitude of the losses they had suffered.
What none of them knew was where the Marines were supposed to go from here.
The only sound was the steady ticking of the clock on the wall.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
It felt almost like a countdown to some unavoidable turning point in the Marines' fate.
In the command room, Sengoku's face had turned nearly black with fury.
His bloodshot eyes remained fixed on the enormous desk before him.
Both hands were planted against its surface, veins standing prominently across the backs of them as he struggled to contain the rage and frustration boiling inside him.
Directly before him lay the latest casualty report, the ink barely dry.
Every number on the page felt like another knife being driven into his chest.
The contents were horrifying.
Admiral Kizaru—confirmed captured.
The man who had left Marineford with that familiar relaxed smile and a body capable of becoming light itself was now a prisoner of the Eternal Divine Kingdom.
Admiral Fujitora—captured.
Issho, whose calm presence and formidable swordsmanship had made him one of the strongest pillars supporting the Marines, had likewise fallen into enemy hands.
Admiral Candidate Momousagi—captured.
Gion had been expected to become one of the Marines' brightest future pillars.
She had not escaped either.
And worst of all—
Admiral Ryokugyu—confirmed dead.
Aramaki had not merely been defeated.
He had been killed outright.
Sengoku could still remember the sight of those six top-level fighters departing Marineford.
How imposing they had looked.
How much confidence their presence had inspired.
They had boarded their warships as the highest fighting force of the Marines, each of them carrying enough power to terrify ordinary pirates merely by appearing on the battlefield.
And now?
The force returning to Marineford looked like the remnants of an army that had barely survived annihilation.
The only Admiral who had returned in anything resembling one piece was Aokiji Kuzan.
Even he had suffered grievous injuries.
Half his body was wrapped beneath thick bandages, several already stained dark with blood. His normally formidable presence had weakened considerably, leaving him pale and exhausted.
Magellan had returned alongside him.
He too had been pushed to his limits. His face was grim, his reserves badly depleted, and almost none of his usual imposing edge remained.
Beyond those two, only a scattering of senior officers had made it back.
Vice Admirals Momonga and Strawberry.
Smoker.
Hina.
And several others.
Not one had returned unharmed.
One Marine had an arm immobilized in a cast and sling.
Another had thick bandages wrapped around his forehead, blood still seeping through.
Some limped so badly that walking without assistance had become difficult.
Their morale had fallen to rock bottom.
The confidence and fighting spirit they had carried when departing Marineford were nowhere to be found.
And then there were the fifty thousand elite Marines.
That force had represented years of careful training and investment.
They had marched into battle with dreams of victory, promotion, and glory.
Fewer than one in ten had returned aboard the surviving ships.
Some of those who never came back would remain forever on foreign soil.
Others might still be imprisoned somewhere within the Eternal Divine Kingdom.
The mere thought made Sengoku's chest tighten.
The price had been unbearable.
The meeting room remained silent for a long time.
Eventually, an older Vice Admiral spoke.
His voice was hoarse and drained, forced painfully through a dry throat.
"The cost…"
He swallowed.
"…was far too great."