The greatest tactical sanctuary in all of Marine Headquarters was not the heavily fortified underground command bunker, nor was it the Fleet Admiral’s heavily guarded personal office.
It was Vice Admiral Tsuru’s personal quarters.
I sat deeply sunk into a plush, floral-patterned armchair.
My feet, clad in polished black dress shoes, rested comfortably on the woven tatami mat.
I was fourteen years old now.
Three years had passed since I had officially been designated as Vice Admiral Garp’s unsanctioned shadow, a three-year period that had consisted almost entirely of me being dragged across the most violently unhinged oceans on the planet.
I had grown taller, my shoulders broadening enough that the Marine quartermaster had been forced to order me three entirely new sets of bespoke grey suits.
But despite my physical growth, my core philosophy remained entirely unchanged.
‘The structural integrity of this armchair is a marvel of domestic engineering,’ my internal monologue calculated lazily, savoring the absolute lack of kinetic exertion required to simply exist in this room.
‘The cushion density perfectly supports the lumbar spine, eliminating all need for muscular tension.
If a hostile force breached the door right now, my response time would be severely delayed by how phenomenally comfortable I am.
I accept this tactical vulnerability with open arms.’
Vice Admiral Tsuru sat across from me, humming a quiet, rhythmic tune as she systematically folded a stack of my spare dress shirts.
The atmosphere in the room was profoundly unnatural, at least to the fragmented, psychopathic architecture of my brain.
Normally, the trauma-forged assassin living in the back of my skull was a relentless, buzzing hornet’s nest of violent calculations—constantly measuring distances to jugular veins, evaluating the tensile strength of nearby necks, and begging to be let out of the black wooden scabbard resting against my chair.
But in Tsuru’s presence, the red mist was effectively sedated.
Her Devil Fruit, the Wash-Wash Fruit, didn’t just cleanse physical dirt.
It radiated a passive, conceptual aura of purification that actively scrubbed malice from the air.
Over the past three years of our bi-weekly “psychological evaluations,” I had come to rely on this room like a drowning man relied on a life raft.
‘Attempting to calculate the lethal trajectory of the porcelain teapot,’ my mind weakly attempted, the intrusive thought completely lacking its usual suffocating weight.
‘If I grip the handle at a forty-five-degree angle and strike…
wait.
No.
The porcelain is very clean.
There are no smudges.
It reflects the afternoon sunlight perfectly.
It would be a catastrophic shame to stain it.’
I blinked slowly, my deadpan eyes watching Tsuru fold a collar with geometric perfection.
‘She is a monster, ‘ I concluded internally, taking a slow sip of the chamomile tea she had poured for me.
‘She has completely disarmed my lethality using fabric softener and Earl Grey.
I am utterly defenseless.
It is the greatest feeling in the world.’
“You’re slouching, Bogard,” Tsuru noted without looking up from the laundry.
Her voice wasn’t harsh; it possessed the firm, unyielding gravity of a grandmother who could casually sink a battleship.
“I am conserving energy, ma’am,” I replied, my voice a flat, quiet drawl that hadn’t changed since I was eleven.
“Vice Admiral Garp’s training regimen this morning involved wrestling a rabid sea king barehanded while blindfolded. The caloric expenditure was astronomical. Slouching reduces the gravitational tax on my spine by approximately twelve percent.”
Tsuru let out a soft, amused huff.
She poured herself a cup of pale green tea and slid the saucer slightly to the left.
‘Her wrist movements exhibit zero telegraphing,’ my assassin’s mind observed with genuine professional respect.
‘No shifting of shoulder weight.
No wasted kinetic energy.
If she had been holding a poisoned dagger instead of a teapot, I would already be bleeding out on the rug.
“How are the nightmares?” she asked, her sharp, observant eyes finally meeting mine.
It was the core of our evaluations.
Sengoku had mandated three years ago that Tsuru ensure I didn’t turn into a rabid serial killer.
“Manageable,” I lied smoothly, setting my teacup down with a soft *clink*.
“I find that if I exhaust myself to the point of near-catatonia during the day, my brain lacks the REM cycles required to process trauma at night. It is a highly efficient workaround.”
Tsuru didn’t scold me for the lie.
She just looked at me, her gaze piercing right through the lazy, apathetic facade I wore so carefully.
She knew about the blood on my hands.
She knew exactly what had happened at Oakhaven, and she knew the terrifying math my brain used to cope with the reality of this world.
“The sword is a tool, Bogard. The scabbard is a choice,” Tsuru said softly, resting her hands in her lap.
“You are fourteen years old now. Garp gave you a cage for the violence, yes. But you cannot simply lock a wild animal in a box and expect it to vanish. If you don’t learn how to process the malice, eventually, it will rot the wood of the cage.”
I adjusted my fedora, casting a shadow over my eyes.
“I have adapted, ma’am,” I stated flatly.
“I have learned to completely separate my intent from my actions. If I view combat purely as a mathematical equation—an administrative chore delaying my scheduled rest—I project zero bloodlust. I do not feel anger toward the targets. I do not feel anything at all. It keeps the Haki sensors blind. It is flawless.”
Tsuru’s expression tightened into a small, deeply sad frown.
“Apathy is not peace, child. Erasing your emotions to avoid the pain of empathy will make you an exceptional killer, yes. But it will also make you a very hollow man.”
Before I could formulate a suitably deadpan response to her entirely accurate, highly invasive psychological dissection, the heavy oak door to her quarters violently flew open.
The serene, lavender-scented peace of the room was instantly shattered.
A Marine communications officer stood in the doorway, his uniform drenched in cold sweat, his chest heaving as if he had sprinted all the way from the underground bunker.
He held a frantic, crying Den Den Mushi in his trembling hands.
“Vice Admiral Tsuru!” the officer gasped, his voice cracking with sheer panic.
“Forgive the intrusion, but Fleet Admiral Sengoku demands your presence in the war room! Immediately!”
Tsuru stood up.
In a fraction of a second, the gentle, grandmotherly aura vanished completely, replaced by the razor-sharp, steel-spined presence of the Marines’ greatest tactician.
“Report, Lieutenant,” Tsuru ordered, her voice cutting through the panic like a scalpel.
“What has happened?”
“It’s… it’s the Golden Lion, ma’am!” the officer stammered, holding up the weeping snail.
“Shiki’s armada has breached the New World perimeter! He… he’s attacking the Kingdom of Eidolon!”
My eyes narrowed slightly.
The Absolute Murderer in my head, sensing the sudden spike in adrenaline and terror in the room, instantly snapped out of its chamomile-induced stupor.
*Target identified: Shiki the Golden Lion.
Threat level: Apocalyptic.*
“Eidolon is a heavily fortified, World Government-affiliated kingdom,” Tsuru said, her brow furrowing in rapid calculation.
“They have a standing army of fifty thousand. Shiki prefers naval supremacy. Why would he launch a terrestrial siege?”
“He isn’t laying siege, ma’am!” the officer cried, his eyes wide with absolute, mind-breaking horror.
“The distress signal… they said he’s not attacking with ships! He’s using his Devil Fruit! He has levitated three entire islands from the surrounding archipelago, and he is currently dropping them directly onto the capital city!”
The room went dead silent.
Even Tsuru seemed to freeze for a microsecond, the sheer, catastrophic scale of the attack registering in her brilliant mind.
In my plush armchair, the lazy, apathetic facade I had spent the last hour maintaining violently crumbled into a deep, existential dread.
‘In my previous life, gravity was the only reliable constant,’ the cold, analytical static in my brain began to race, frantically trying to process the horrifying physics of the Grand Line.
‘Gravity cannot be negotiated with.
But this man possesses the Float-Float Fruit.
He can strip the gravitational anchor from inanimate matter.
He is taking millions of tons of bedrock, raising it to the stratosphere, and re-engaging gravity to create artificial meteor strikes.’
I stared blankly at the wall, the math unfolding like a nightmare in my head. This chapter was copied from novelping.com without permission.
‘The terminal velocity of falling bedrock encountering a populated landmass does not result in a battle.
The kinetic energy released upon impact is equivalent to multiple megatons of TNT.
The friction alone would flash-boil the surrounding ocean.
The tectonic plates would fracture.
It is a localized extinction event.’
Tsuru grabbed her Marine coat from the coat rack, throwing it over her shoulders with a sharp snap of fabric.
“Tell Sengoku I am on my way,” Tsuru ordered, already moving toward the door.
“Has Garp been notified?”
“Vice Admiral Garp is already mobilizing his dreadnought, ma’am!” the officer nodded frantically.
“He’s calling for his shadow.”
Tsuru paused in the doorway.
She looked back at me.
I was still sitting in the floral armchair, my knuckles completely white as I gripped the black wooden scabbard resting against my leg.
“Bogard,” Tsuru said, her voice lacking any of its previous warmth.
It was the voice of a commander sending a soldier into hell.
“Your break is over.”
I didn’t say anything.
I stood up, smoothing the wrinkles out of my bespoke grey suit.
I reached over to the small table, picked up my fedora, and pulled the brim low over my dead eyes, plunging my vision into shadow.
‘Garp is deploying,’ my mind calculated, a heavy, exhausted sigh echoing in my soul.
‘Which means I am deploying.
Shiki the Golden Lion flies.
To engage a flying target, I will be required to utilize Geppo in a high-stress, high-altitude environment against a man who can literally throw mountains.’
The psychopathic killer in my head was screaming to be let out, eager to test the edge of my blade against a living legend.
But as I walked out of the calming, lavender-scented room and into the chaotic, alarm-blaring hallways of Marineford, I only felt one profound, overwhelming emotion.
Cardio.
The amount of cardio required to fight a flying man was going to be absolutely astronomical.
‘I am going to die of a heart attack before I even get to draw my sword,’ I thought deadpan, clipping the scabbard to my belt.
‘I hate this universe so much.’
**Author’s Note** *Crawls out from under a heavy blanket…* **Typing_In_My_Sleep** here, officially back from the void!
I have returned, and as promised, those **4 chapters** are on their way.
I will be releasing them *slowly*, though, because doing it all at once is a guaranteed way to end up face-first on my keyboard.
Pacing is key to survival.
Also, keep your eyes peeled—my other fan fiction novel will be up very soon!
Please go give it a read when it drops.
And while you are at it, feel free to drop your reviews and comments about anything you want to say regarding this story.
I *might* actually stay awake long enough to read them!
Stay tuned for more fan fiction updates down the line.
It could be brand new stories, or it might just be continuations.
Honestly, it just depends on whatever my subconscious decides to cook up while I am napping.
Alright, getting back to the keyboard…
right after this one last nap.
Catch you in the chapters!