Meanwhile, in MarineFord...
The silence in Fleet Admiral Sengoku's office at Marineford was like a fragile, paper-thin thing, stretched taut over a chasm of impending chaos. Though, it was shattered by the first, insistent brrrring of a Den Den Mushi. Then another.
And another. Within thirty seconds, every single transponder snail on his massive, paperwork-buried desk was ringing, chirping, and wailing in a dissonant chorus of panic.
Reports from Sabaody. From Cipher Pol. From local Marine bases. The sound was like a physical assault, each ring was a hammer blow against his already frayed nerves.
He stared at the cacophony, his face a stony mask, but the vein throbbing at his temple betrayed the storm raging within. He knew. He didn't need to answer a single one to know what had happened. It was him. That damnable upstart, that vortex of trouble, Vortex D. Ragnar.
Before he could even reach for the most urgent line, a specific Den Den Mushi, one with a pristine white shell and a golden crown emblem, the direct line from Pangaea Castle, lit up. Its ring was different: a slow, imperious, demanding tone that brooked no delay.
Sengoku's jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached. He took a deep, steadying breath that did nothing to steady him, and picked up the receiver.
The voice that erupted from the snail was not that of a calm, calculating elder. It was the roaring, apoplectic bellow of Topman Warcury, distorted by the snail's mimicry into something even more monstrous.
"SENGOKU!" the snail roared, its face contorted in fury.
"WHAT IN THE NAME OF THE ANCESTRAL GODS IS HAPPENING ON SABAODY?! ARE YOU ASLEEP AT YOUR POST?! A CELESTIAL DRAGON, A SAINT! WAS PUBLICLY BEATEN AND LEFT FOR DEAD IN THE STREET! HIS ESCORT, CP5, ANNIHILATED!"
"AND NOW WE HAVE REPORTS OF AN ATTACK ON THE AUCTION HOUSE! SAINT ROSWALD AND HIS DAUGHTER ASSAULTED! THIS IS UNPRECEDENTED! THIS IS ANARCHY!"
Sengoku opened his mouth to speak, to explain the logistical nightmare of tracking a single, hyper-mobile pirate crew, to mention the sheer, terrifying power this "Ragnar" possessed, but Warcury gave him no opening.
"YOUR FAILURE IS ABSOLUTE! THE WORLD GOVERNMENT'S AUTHORITY IS BEING SPAT UPON, AND YOU ARE SITTING IN YOUR OFFICE DOING NOTHING! THIS 'SEA SCOURGE' MUST BE MADE AN EXAMPLE OF!"
"I DON'T CARE WHAT IT TAKES! SEND THE ADMIRALS! SEND ALL OF THEM! CAPTURE HIM! CRUSH HIM! BRING ME HIS HEAD OR DON'T BOTHER RETURNING!"
The line went dead with a final, deafening CLICK.
Sengoku slowly lowered the receiver back into its cradle. The other Den Den Mushis continued their frantic ringing, but he no longer heard them. His vision swam with a red haze of pure, undiluted fury. He stood up, his fists planted on his desk, his head bowed.
"That… that… BASTARD!" he snarled, the word tearing from his throat. He began to pace, a caged lion in a room suddenly too small. "Ragnar! Ragnar! Ragnar! A hundred times, you cursed son of the sea! How is this my fault?!"
"How am I to blame for your suicidal ambition and the fact that those pampered, idiotic Celestial Dragons were stupid enough to be in your path?! You think I can just snap my fingers and have an Admiral teleport to wherever you decide to cause a scene?!"
He cursed the Five Elders for their unreasonable demands. He cursed the Celestial Dragons for their existence. But most of all, he cursed Ragnar, the unpredictable variable that had turned the entire balance of power on its head.
This wasn't like dealing with Whitebeard, a known quantity with a defined territory. This was a hurricane that could appear anywhere, at any time, and strike at the very heart of the World Government's legitimacy.
After several minutes of furious, muttered curses that would have made a seasoned pirate blush, the storm within him began to subside, leaving behind the cold, hard reality of his position.
He was the Fleet Admiral. His job was not to complain; it was to act. He walked back to his desk, the weight of his rank feeling heavier than any sea stone block. He pressed a button on his intercom.
"Send in Admirals Kizaru and Aokiji," he said, his voice now flat and drained of all emotion.
The door opened moments later. Kuzan, Admiral Aokiji, entered first. He was no longer the lazy, napping philosopher. His posture was rigid, his usual sleepy eyes sharp and focused, burning with a cold fire.
The humiliation of his defeat at Ragnar's hands was a brand on his soul. The memory of his ice being effortlessly unmade, of being laid low and spared out of what felt like pity, was a constant, gnawing ache. He wanted revenge. He needed it. This was not a mission; it was personal redemption.
Behind him, Borsalino, Admiral Kizaru, ambled in, his hands in his pockets, his expression one of detached bemusement. "Ohhh~? Trouble in paradise, Sengoku-san?" he drawled. "The little upstart causing problems again~?"
From the corner of the room, a sound cut through the tension: the loud, contented crunch of a rice cracker. Monkey D. Garp, the Hero of the Marines, leaned back in his chair, feet propped up on a spare crate, happily munching from a large bag.
He seemed utterly oblivious to the world-shattering crisis unfolding around him, a small, amused smile playing on his lips as he watched Sengoku's meltdown.
Sengoku's eye twitched. The sight of Garp's nonchalance, especially now, was the final straw.
With a speed that belied his age and rank, Sengoku strode over, snatched the bag of rice crackers from Garp's hands, and proceeded to shove a handful into his own mouth, staring his old friend down as he chewed with aggressive finality.
Garp's jovial expression vanished, replaced by utter, childlike betrayal. "HEY! THOSE WERE MINE, YOU GOAT-BRAINED OLD FOOL!" he roared, launching himself from his chair, his fists clenched. "I'LL MAKE YOU PAY FOR THAT!"
He was about to lunge when the office door opened again, and a calm, weathered voice cut through the room. "That's enough, Garp."
Vice Admiral Tsuru stood there, her hands folded in the sleeves of her coat, her gaze serene yet commanding. Beside her was her granddaughter, the young and promising Marine, Peacock.
Her presence was like a bucket of cold water. Garp, who feared no enemy, visibly deflated under Tsuru's disapproving stare. He grumbled, shooting a last, furious glare at Sengoku, but sat back down with a huff, crossing his arms and pouting like a scolded toddler.
Tsuru's eyes softened as she turned to Sengoku. "It's not easy on you, Sengoku," she said, her voice carrying the weight of decades of shared experience. "This Ragnar… he is a different kind of problem. He doesn't play by the rules we've spent our lives enforcing."
Sengoku sighed, the anger finally draining away to be replaced by a profound, bone-deep weariness. He slumped into his chair, ignoring Garp's continued sulking.
"I know, Tsuru. But the orders from above are clear." He then looked at the two Admirals.
"Kuzan. Borsalino. You are to proceed to the Sabaody Archipelago with all speed. Your objective is the capture of the pirate Ragnar, captain of the Vortex Pirates. Use any and all force necessary. He has just assaulted three World Nobles. The message must be sent."
Aokiji gave a sharp, grim nod. "Understood." There was no hesitation, only purpose, he wanted his revenge.
Kizaru merely tilted his head. "Ooooh~? Capture, you say~? What if he resists~? Quite strongly~?" A faint, golden light began to gather at his fingertips.
"You know the protocol for a threat of this magnitude," Sengoku said in a ruthless tone. "Just get it done."
As the two Admirals turned to leave, Tsuru's granddaughter, Peacock, remained by the door. Her eyes were not on the departing Admirals or the fuming Garp.
They were fixed on the fresh bounty poster that had been delivered that morning, now pinned to Sengoku's main bulletin board. It was Ragnar's photo, his golden eyes seeming to stare right through her, the epithet "Sea Scourge" printed in bold, threatening letters below.
A small, unreadable smile touched her lips. Her thoughts were her own, a mystery hidden behind a facade of Marine discipline. Was it apprehension? Curiosity? Or something else entirely?
….
High above the clouds, aboard his flying news-ship, Morgans was in a state of ecstatic frenzy. The air in his printing press cabin hummed with tangible energy. Scrolls of blank newsprint flew through the air of their own accord, feeding into presses that ran without human hands.
Ink pots swirled, their contents forming images and headlines with impossible speed and clarity. This was not mere machinery, but this was the divine power of the Angel of Propaganda in its purest form.
Morgans stood at the center of it all, his wings, now fully manifested as great, white-feathered appendages, spread wide.
His eyes glowed with a zealous light as he channeled his will. He was creating the narrative, shaping reality itself through the power of information.
"KAHAHAHA! YES! PERFECT!" he cackled, as the first front page slid, still warm, from the ethereal press.
The headline was a font size reserved for the end of the world: "THE SEA SCOURGE DESCENDS! CELESTIAL DRAGONS DEFILED!"
Beneath it was the first image: a perfectly captured, crystal-clear shot of Ragnar's axe kick connecting with Charlos's head, the bubble helmet exploding into a thousand pieces, the Dragon's face a comical mask of shock and pain mid-flight. It was an image of visceral, brutal disrespect.
Another press whirred to life, spitting out the second edition. This headline was even larger: "GODS HELPLESS! SAINT ROSWALD AND HEIR IN THE GRIP OF THE SCOURGE!"
The accompanying photograph was the one he had taken personally. It was a masterpiece of propaganda. In the foreground, Ragnar stood, impossibly calm, holding the two struggling, terrified Celestial Dragons aloft by their throats.
His expression was one of sublime boredom, as if he were holding two sacks of garbage. And in the beautifully blurred background, one could just make out the divine wrath of his crew, Robin's glowing arms of judgment, Nami's localized hurricane, the chaos and liberation they were unleashing.
"KAGAGAGAH! THIS IS IT! THE STORY OF THE CENTURY!" Morgans bellowed, snatching the fresh papers from the air.
"THE WORLD WILL WAKE UP TOMORROW TO A NEW REALITY! THEY WILL SEE THAT THE GODS CAN BE TOUCHED! THAT THEY CAN BE BEATEN! THAT MY CAPTAIN'S DECLARATION IS NOT MERE WORDS, BUT A PROMISE WRITTEN IN THE BLOOD OF THE WORLD NOBLES THEMSELVES!"
He gestured wildly, and thousands of copies of the newspapers began bundling themselves, tied with an ethereal string, ready to be loaded onto his fleet of News Coos.
By dawn, these papers would be in every port, on every ship, in the hands of every king, revolutionary, and common fisherman across the four seas and the Grand Line.