The midday sun was harsh, glittering off the sea in rippling shards of light.
With a long, deep blast of the horn, the large warship that embodied Marine Headquarters' authority slowly entered G-17's military harbor.
Rain stood at the bow, looking down as he evaluated the base that was about to become his.
He had to admit it—Nelson, that dead fat bastard, might've been a cowardly, worthless piece of trash… but when it came to indulging himself, he'd had a gift.
No matter when you looked at it, G-17 was always… different.
It didn't feel like a fortress guarding the throat of the Grand Line. It looked more like a white palace planted on the shore.
The snow-white walls gleamed so brightly in the sun they almost looked luminous. The domed architecture screamed aristocracy, and even the edges of the gun emplacements were inlaid with purely decorative flourishes.
"Tch."
Smoker stood beside Rain, staring at the glowing-white fortress with open disgust as he blew out a smoke ring. "No matter how many times I see this dump, it pisses me off. This doesn't look like a Marine base—this is a royal resort."
Gion walked over as well, a cup of black tea in hand, expression calm. "Nelson spent every last budget allotment on cosmetic 'face' projects. It looks glossy on the outside, but like we saw, it's rotten to the core. What you're inheriting is a genuine disaster."
"A disaster?"
Nelson might be dead, but the berri he'd squeezed out over the years hadn't vanished with him. His "secret" vault was practically lit up under Rain's Observation—easy to pinpoint, like it wasn't defended at all.
Those hundreds of millions of berri had already been moved, quietly, during the earlier chaos, into Rain's storage ring—sitting neatly inside, untouched.
With that kind of money, no mess was unfixable.
Rain straightened his brand-new colonel's coat and let a faintly amused curve lift one corner of his mouth. "Good. If it's rotten… then it'll be easier to tear it down and rebuild it properly."
The warship docked. The gangway had barely clanked into place when Acting Base Commander Colonel Moore came jogging up with a cluster of officers in tow.
"Salute—!!"
Moore shouted at the top of his lungs. The line of officers snapped straight, movements crisp and synchronized.
And under their boots, that bright, obnoxious red carpet was back—rolled out from the pier all the way to Rain's feet.
It was even longer and wider than the one Nelson had used.
"Welcome, Base Commander Rain, to G-17!!"
Moore wore a pasted-on smile, sweat beading on his forehead. He bowed deeply and made an exaggerated, almost servile "please" gesture—trying to disguise his fear with flattery.
Behind him, the other officers kept their heads lowered… but their eyes flickered.
Nelson was dead. Victor was dead. The old umbrella had fallen—but the Golden Route still flowed. Every day, countless merchant ships loaded with wealth passed through. This place was a gold mine that literally bled coins.
In their eyes, the new commander might have a fearsome reputation… but he was still only eighteen.
Give him enough face. Give him enough money. Find a new umbrella. With the higher-ups turning a blind eye like they always did, maybe the good old days could continue.
Rain stood on the gangway and didn't move.
He looked at the red carpet stretching toward the horizon, then at Moore's oily, eager smile, and let out a quiet sigh.
"Colonel Moore."
Rain's voice wasn't loud, but it carried cleanly across the suddenly silent dock.
"It seems Nelson died too fast. There are still a few things you haven't had time to understand."
Moore blinked, not yet grasping what Rain meant.
"Snap."
Rain lifted a hand and snapped his fingers once—sharp and crisp.
"Bzzzt—!"
A thin, scorching thread of blue electricity leapt from his fingertips and struck the expensive wool carpet.
Fwoom—!
Flames exploded outward.
With the sea wind feeding it, the hundred-meter carpet became a roaring fire-dragon in an instant. The heat wave forced the officers lining both sides to stumble back in panic, their neat formation collapsing into chaos.
"Ah—fire!! It's on fire!!"
Moore fell backward onto his ass, staring in horror as the "welcome ceremony" turned to ash before his eyes.
Rain's face stayed blank.
When the flames finally died, he stepped down the gangway, walking over the still-smoking ashes, until he stood directly in front of Moore—who was shaking like a leaf.
Rain looked down at the frightened colonel, his tone flat. "This is a Marine base. A fortress built for war. Not an opera house."
He brushed a bit of ash off Moore's shoulder like dust. "I don't want to see this disgusting pageantry a second time. Understood?"
"U-understood!! Yes, sir!!" Moore nodded furiously, sweat soaking his back in seconds.
"Good." Rain turned away. "Now take me to the conference room."
He didn't even glance at Moore again, striding into the fortress.
The former base commander's office was too lavish for Rain's taste. He didn't bother using it—he requisitioned the largest conference room instead.
Now, officers with real authority in G-17 filled both sides of the long table.
The air was so heavy it felt hard to breathe.
Rain sat at the head and didn't speak right away. He unhooked his Ryō Wazamono from his belt, laid it across his knees, and took out a clean white cloth, slowly polishing the sheath's patterns with meticulous care.
Gion, the "inspector," sat elegantly on a sofa off to the side, flipping through a magazine like she was merely an observer. Smoker stood behind Rain with arms crossed like a gate guardian, two cigars in his mouth, smoke rising in an aggressive haze.
"Um… Base Commander, sir."
At last, a lieutenant colonel with a greasy face forced himself to stand. He was the base logistics chief—and one of Nelson's old favorites.
He walked up with both hands presenting an ornate purple-sandalwood box, smiling so hard it looked painful. He set it gently on the table.
"You've had a long journey, sir. Hard work. This is just a small token from the brothers here—to welcome you."
He lowered his voice with the kind of hint everyone understood. "Also… inside is a copy of our financial report. It notes a few… ahem… methods we've used to handle accounts in the past. If you find no issue, perhaps we can continue with the same… rules?"
He cracked the lid open just enough to reveal thick stacks of high-denomination berri checks, and a ledger.
A test.
A probe for the new commander's appetite… and his bottom line.
Every officer in the room stared at Rain, holding their breath.
Rain stopped polishing the sheath.
He lifted his head and looked at the smiling lieutenant colonel, then swept his gaze across the room.
Then he smiled.
"Rules?"
Rain leaned forward slightly and tapped the sheath with one finger. "You think I came all this way… for scraps like that?"
The lieutenant colonel froze, smile stiffening. "T-then… what does sir mean…?"
Too little?
"You've misunderstood one thing."
Rain's smile vanished—replaced by a suffocating, glacial cold.
"I didn't come here to split cake with you."
"Bzz—BOOM!"
A brilliant surge of lightning erupted from Rain's fingertips without warning.
The purple-sandalwood box—checks, ledger, all of it—was pierced and vaporized in a heartbeat by terrifying heat and electricity.
"AH!!"
The lieutenant colonel shrieked and collapsed backward onto the floor, staring at the scorched mark on the table—Rain's strike had been frighteningly precise, scorching the box out of existence without even damaging the tabletop.
Rain stood, his gaze like a blade sweeping the room.
"Put away your petty little tricks." His voice was calm, but every word hit like a hammer. "Money isn't the problem. I have plenty."
He paused, letting the silence crush them.
"From today onward, G-17 doesn't need businessmen."
"It needs real Marines."
~~~
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