"You are qualified…"
"…to speak with Mu."
"Speak about what?" Gern asked in a low voice.
His tone was tight, forcibly restraining the storm of thoughts churning in his mind.
He raised Bahuang horizontally before his chest, maintaining a guarded stance. Yet he neither attacked nor retreated recklessly.
Facing an existence that was completely unknown—one that might even possess the power to control will itself—charging in like a brainless hothead would be suicide.
What he needed now was information.
He needed to understand this "enemy," even if only through fragments of words.
Imu did not answer immediately.
Its gaze—it felt like the more accurate term—seemed to drift slightly downward, settling upon the blade clenched in Gern's hand: Bahuan.
"...Tch."
A faint clicking of the tongue.
"The relic of a failure?"
The tone was calm, almost casual. Yet the words pierced straight through the veil of time, pointing unmistakably to the blade's former master—
Rocks D. Xebec.
In Imu's mouth, that legendary man—the one who had once tried to conquer the entire world and unleash a tidal wave of chaos upon the seas—was reduced to nothing more than… a failure.
And seeing Rocks' sword now in Gern's hands seemed to evoke neither surprise nor interest in Imu. It merely mentioned the fact in passing.
Gern pressed his lips into a thin line and said nothing.
But the gravity in his gaze deepened.
Imu paid no attention to Gern's silence or vigilance. Its inhuman voice continued speaking, as if delivering a quiet monologue.
"To be honest… Gern Reginald Sigmar."
For the first time, it spoke Gern's full name.
"You are… somewhat surprising to Mu."
But the hollow voice immediately added, without the slightest change in tone:
"…Yet you have not stirred even the faintest ripple within Mu's heart."
Over the past several years, Gern had shaken the seas.
He had reshaped the Marines.
Challenged the Four Emperors.
And today, he had even defeated Saint Nusjuro.
Yet to Imu—whose gaze had spanned centuries—those feats were merely a wave slightly more remarkable than the rest.
A wave that would eventually settle all the same.
"A military organization such as the Marines producing a 'variable'…"
"In the long ages of Mu's rule over this world… was inevitable."
"It was only a matter of happening sooner… or later."
"If, back then, Harald had not committed such a foolish mistake…"
"If he had succeeded in completely transforming the giant nation of Elbaf into a military power serving the World Government…"
"Then," Imu continued calmly, its voice carrying the merciless judgment of an entity that treated human effort as pieces on a board,
"…the Marines themselves would have become a piece Mu could discard at any moment."
To Imu, the Marines—and even the World Government—appeared to be nothing more than tools.
Tools used to maintain rule and balance.
Their existence depended only on whether they were useful… and whether they were obedient.
The so-called eight hundred years of order might have been, in Imu's eyes, nothing more than an extraordinarily long and meticulous act of management.
As Gern listened, the chill in his heart deepened.
But he also caught a crucial piece of information.
Elbaf.
Gern drew a slow breath, forcing his voice to remain steady.
Interrupting Imu's detached reflection on history, he asked the core question:
"What exactly do you want to talk about?"
He needed to know.
The being who sat above the Empty Throne, who ruled over everything, had descended personally to stop him.
Not to kill him immediately—but to talk.
What was its true objective?
Those dark crimson eyes finally lifted from Bahuang and focused fully on Gern's face.
"Talk…"
Imu's voice stretched slightly, as though choosing its words.
"About your… choice."
"And about this world's true… future."
"…Future?" Gern frowned.
Meanwhile, Imu—still controlling the body of Saint Nusjuro—slowly raised its recently restored right hand.
Its fingers spread.
Then gently pressed against the neck of its own body.
And then—
Rip.
A wet, tearing sound.
Bone cracked. Flesh split.
With its own hand, it ripped off the bald, aged head of Saint Nusjuro—one of the Five Elders—from his neck with absurd ease.
No blood sprayed.
At the severed neck, thick black substance flickered and pulsed.
After Imu's descent, this body had already become nothing more than a temporary puppet formed from energy and flesh.
Imu held the head casually in its palm, like someone idly examining an object.
Then—
A new head began to grow from the neck.
Its shape was sharp and pointed, its face impossible to perceive.
Those same dark-crimson eyes with rotating reincarnation patterns opened calmly.
They gazed at the head resting in its palm.
Inside that severed head's eyes, a trace of consciousness had not yet fully faded.
They were filled with extreme shock…
…and something else.
A gray, resigned understanding.
Perhaps the last remnants of Nusjuro's awareness were witnessing everything through those eyes.
The scene was cold.
Grotesque.
Enough to make anyone watching feel the hairs on their body stand on end.
This was how Imu treated one of its most loyal and powerful agents.
Like a broken tool that could simply be discarded.
Holding the head in its palm, Imu spoke again. Its voice remained calm, yet carried a chilling sense of sincerity—the kind that only absolute power could offer as a gift.
"Mu already said it."
"You are merely a wave slightly more remarkable… yet destined to settle."
"But…"
"You are strong."
It paused briefly.
Those crimson eyes turned toward Gern.
"Stronger… than Mu anticipated."
"And these five old men…"
Imu glanced at the head in its palm.
Mu's tone was indifferent.
"Mu feels they have become somewhat… outdated."
"They cannot keep up with the new tides."
"And they cannot handle the new 'variables.'"
Then Imu presented its condition.
An offer so overwhelming that any ambitious figure or mighty warrior upon the seas would tremble with madness at the thought of it.
The ultimate temptation.
"Gern Reginald Sigmar."
"If you are willing now… to deliver the Mother Flame into Mu's hands."
The hand holding the severed head lifted slightly, as if presenting a gift.
"Mu can grant you… the same blessing."
It deliberately emphasized the level of the contract.
"Not the consumable power of the God's Blade."
"Nor the burdened role of the God's Knights, who must serve as guardians."
"But the true… complete…"
"Eternal youth and immortality."
"And through this blessing…"
"Your strength will transcend the boundaries of your current level."
"You will ascend to a new height… one beyond your imagination."
But that was not all.
Imu continued painting the blueprint of the future.
A future that, for Gern, seemed almost within arm's reach—perfect.
"Mu will allow you… permanently and completely… to rule the Marines."
"The Marines will belong entirely to you."
"They will become an extension of your will, the foundation of your power."
"There will be no more restrictions from the World Government."
"No more interference from the Five Elders."
"And even…"
"If you wish…"
"Mu may bestow blessings upon the disasters who follow you."
"Allowing them to become new God's Knights."
"Gern Reginald Sigmar."
Finally, Imu added the heaviest weight to this temptation.
Its hollow, majestic voice sounded like a proclamation announcing the birth of a new sovereign of the age.
"You will officially… rise from being a wave that must one day settle…"
"And become…"
"Eternal."