Vice Admiral Tsuru did not speak immediately.
She simply sat quietly in her chair, using the natural light from the window to look over the thin file in her hand. In a flat tone, she slowly read it aloud:
"Name: Aiden.
Age: 15.
Background: war orphan, adopted by the Loguetown Branch... A year and a half ago, officially took over the position of branch executioner."
The file ended there.
After she finished reading, a long silence fell over the office. Those sharp eyes moved away from the file for the first time and landed on Aiden, as if trying to see through him from the inside out.
"Aiden," Vice Admiral Tsuru spoke slowly, asking a seemingly irrelevant question, "Are you afraid of your job?"
Aiden's heart skipped a beat, but his face remained a mask of the restrained calm typical of a young person meeting a high-ranking official.
"Reporting, ma'am," Aiden bowed slightly, "This is my duty. I am not afraid."
The corner of Tsuru's mouth seemed to twitch into an imperceptible arc.
"You have fulfilled your duties very well." She picked up another document from the desk. "In this year and a half, you have carried out twenty-one execution missions, all completed successfully. For a newcomer—and a teenager of fifteen or sixteen at that—this record is quite impressive."
Her tone shifted, becoming sharper.
"So, answer me, Aiden. Why did you choose this job?"
Aiden's mind immediately started grumbling:
Of course she's asking why. That old fox has my file in her hands—she knows exactly why I'm stuck doing this. No connections, no backing, so the dirty, exhausting work lands on me. She's playing dumb and making me spell it out.
But none of it showed on his face. Not even a flicker. Without hesitation, he answered in the flat, disciplined tone that fit him best:
"Ma'am… because it was an order."
At that, the sharp gleam in Tsuru's eyes softened—just a fraction. She stopped probing him, leaned forward slightly, and her voice turned grave.
"Good. Then I have a more important order for you."
Tsuru skipped the small talk and went straight for the throat.
"We need an executioner," she said, "someone psychologically hardened enough to carry out Gol D. Roger's sentence without hesitation. I chose you."
She didn't give Aiden time to answer.
"And to make a statement—to show the world Marine justice—there will be no mask," Tsuru continued, every word carrying the weight of command. "You will stand before the public with your face uncovered."
Aiden's pupils tightened.
Tsuru read it the wrong way, as if he were calculating the risk.
"I know what that makes you," she added, almost generously. "A target. Pirates across the seas will remember your face. But you won't be left empty-handed." She leaned back, calm as ever. "When this is done, I'll file commendations in your name and push an exceptional promotion. Captain. Enough to get you out of Loguetown."
From Seaman Apprentice to Captain—an absurd leap.
Inside, every alarm bell in Aiden's head screamed at once.
Captain? Are you serious? I'm trying to stay invisible. I want to do my job quietly—be the guy nobody remembers. If I climb the ranks, I stop being a nobody. And if I stop being a nobody… I stop being the executioner.
He reacted fast.
Aiden snapped to attention and saluted. His face lit up with the bright, eager expression of a young Marine overwhelmed by "honor."
"Ma'am," he said loudly, "I request permission to decline the reward."
For the first time, surprise flickered across Tsuru's eyes.
Aiden pressed on, voice trembling just enough to sell it.
"To personally execute the Pirate King and rid the world of its greatest evil—there is no higher honor for a Marine. I don't want promotions. I don't want rewards." He swallowed, as if steadying himself. "I only want… to do my duty. As an executioner."
Tsuru studied him. The boy in front of her looked flushed, earnest, almost radiant with purpose.
She'd seen plenty of Marines hungry for status and money. She hadn't seen this kind of devotion in a long time.
"…Good," she said, and then, softer, "Good." A genuine, satisfied smile appeared. "The Marines need soldiers like you. Request approved."
She didn't press further—but she filed the name away anyway.
Aiden, she thought. A sapling like that shouldn't rot in a backwater like Loguetown.
Meanwhile, Aiden was celebrating internally.
That was close. I actually dodged it. Promotion avoided. Mask or no mask—I'd do it bare-faced if I had to. Just don't stick me behind a desk with a title.
Tsuru rose and crossed the room, her tone sharpening again into steel.
"Go. Prepare properly. The execution is in three days. Until then, you do not leave the base."
"Yes, ma'am."
Aiden saluted once more and left.
Outside, Captain Stock still stood in the corridor like a nailed-down post. The moment Aiden appeared, Stock grabbed him by the arm and dragged him into the shadow of an alcove.
Low voice. Sharp edge.
"Kid. Stop right there. What did that VIP want with you?" Stock's eyes searched his face. "You didn't say anything stupid in there, did you?"
Aiden almost laughed. Stock looked like a man praying not to be noticed by history.
Outwardly, Aiden was all calm.
"Nothing," he said, flat as a weather report. "She asked about routine work."
"Routine," Stock repeated, clearly not buying it.
With half a brain, he could guess what this was really about—three days from now. He stared at Aiden's expressionless, annoyingly composed face and felt a spike of irritation he couldn't explain.
He flicked his hand like he was shooing a fly. "Get lost. And for the next few days, keep your head down. Don't cause me problems."
Aiden nodded, said nothing else, and walked away, leaving Stock behind to stew in equal parts dread and hope.
…
The night before the execution.
Aiden sat alone in his cramped dorm room. Moonlight spilled through the window, pale and cold across his face—calm as still water.
His standard execution rifle lay completely stripped on the table. Piece by piece, he wiped it down with oil and a clean white cloth until every surface gleamed.
His movements were steady. Precise. No wasted motion.
One component after another slid into place with clean, satisfying clicks—mechanical, crisp, final.
When the last part locked in, the weapon was whole again.
Aiden lifted it, brought the sights up, and aimed through the iron at the moon, half-hidden behind drifting cloud.
He held that line for a long time.
Then, quietly so quietly it might have been for the rifle, or for himself he spoke.
"Gol D. Roger…"
A pause.
"Let's see what the 'Pirate King' is really worth."
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