Time flew swiftly, and at last, the day of the world's most anticipated execution arrived. The morning sun was rising slowly.
On the wall, covered with brown wallpaper, a clock ticked steadily.
The short, thick hour hand pointed to the Roman numeral "Ⅸ." The long, thin minute hand was fixed at "Ⅻ." The second hand moved lazily around the dial.
"Nine o'clock in the morning," Hina murmured, brushing aside the pink bangs that covered her smooth forehead, tucking them to one side. The small act made her look a bit more spirited. "Only six hours until the public execution of Portgas D. Ace. Hina has waited a long time."
Hina's poised, cold beauty was like that of a rose covered in thorns—few dared approach her.
She strode through Marineford's bustling command hall, hands tucked in the pockets of her spotless Marine coat, white gloves on her fingers.
This place was crowded with Marine Headquarters' finest. Reports said one hundred thousand personnel and fifty warships had been assembled—forces that dwarfed even the dreaded Buster Call.
Sailors rushed past with stacks of documents. Others hunched over telephones, voices tense. Some argued heatedly with colleagues. Not a single man or woman had a moment to rest.
Hina herself only had a breather now because she had risen at four in the morning to prepare, finishing her duties just moments ago.
Tashigi, noticing her bloodshot eyes and the dark circles under them, had pushed her out of the office, urging her to get some fresh air.
"Tina thinks Tashigi is far too meddlesome," she muttered. Yet there was no real irritation in her tone. She knew Tashigi was simply worried about her health, which had indeed been declining.
Stepping into a quieter corridor, Hina slipped a cigarette from her pocket, lit it with a flick of her lighter, and drew in a breath. Smoke curled slowly into the air.
Will the Whitebeard Pirates truly come to Marineford? Can this war be won? How many familiar faces will be lost—and how many strangers?
Her recent days of gnawing anxiety burned away, if only briefly, with each drag of her cigarette.
Suddenly, from the far end of the corridor, came a wave of raucous noise.
"Fuffuffuffuffu… You'd better get out of the way. Otherwise, I can't promise what might happen."
The voice was sinister and mocking, unforgettable once heard.
Tina turned. Marines were stepping hastily aside, clearing a path for a group of men and women walking forward with arrogant swagger.
The shrill voice belonged to a man clad in a flamboyant pink feathered coat.
"The Seven Warlords of the Sea…" Hina muttered under her breath as she recognized them. "Hina does not like these pirates. They always scheme too much, give too little."
Like her or not, they had answered the summons. And since the Warlords were officially invited, the Marines were obliged to show them respect. No ordinary sailor dared provoke them—should a skirmish break out here and a few Marines die, Headquarters would not hold the Warlords accountable.
The group moved toward their assigned lounge.
"Hawk-Eye" Dracule Mihawk, with his black hat and the great black blade across his back.
"Tyrant" Bartholomew Kuma, towering and silent, Bible in hand.
The peerless beauty, "Pirate Empress" Boa Hancock, a great serpent draped around her statuesque form.
And the flamboyant "Heavenly Yaksha," Donquixote Doflamingo, grinning behind his red sunglasses.
This was the Warlords' contingent for the war. Once, their numbers had been greater.
But Crocodile had been stripped of his title. Moria was slain in the Devil's Triangle. Jinbe was imprisoned in Impel Down's lowest level. And the newest Warlord, Blackbeard Marshall D. Teach, had suddenly vanished.
Thus the lineup had thinned considerably. Still, even this reduced force could prove a dangerous thorn in Whitebeard's side.
The real question was whether they would fight seriously. Neither Tina nor Smoker believed they would.
After all, this was ultimately Marine Headquarters' war against Whitebeard. The Warlords had no reason to risk their lives. As long as they hindered Whitebeard's assault to some degree, they could claim their part was done.
The ones truly fated to fight to the death were the Marines.
This was a once-in-a-lifetime chance. No matter the outcome, the war would reshape the balance of the New World. What they fought for was the future.
That was Sengoku's goal as well: to expand the Navy's influence deep into the New World, to establish overwhelming deterrence, and to end the exhausting game of chasing crises.
Now, the three Admirals were like beasts of burden—whenever the New World flared up, one was dispatched to douse the flames. It was far too reactive, far too risky.
If even one Admiral were ambushed by a Yonko and badly wounded, the loss would be catastrophic.
This war was meant to break that cycle.
If fear of casualties had been greater than resolve, then they never should have provoked Whitebeard to begin with. They could have freed Ace, yielded Marineford, and ceded their foothold in the New World—bowing their heads to Whitebeard outright.
But surrender would only buy temporary peace, followed by the slow agony of decline.
The Marines would bear eternal disgrace.
The Warlords passed out of sight. Hina turned away, leaning against the balcony railing, watching the last tendrils of smoke drift toward the ceiling.
Such was the Navy's reality: they needed the Warlords. Without their support, the balance of this war would tilt against them.
When her cigarette burned down, she stubbed it out firmly and tossed the butt into the ashtray beside the trash bin.
She lingered a while, then lifted her gloved right hand, staring at her palm beneath the leather.
She knew all too well what lay hidden there.
At first, back in Water 7, it had only been small black speckles. But a few days ago, they had spread—covering her entire palm. Painless, itchless, but impossible to erase.
The nightmares had followed, relentless, leaving her gaunt. Even Smoker, blunt as he was, had noticed the weight she'd lost. She knew it all tied back to Davy Jones.
Perhaps Smoker and Tashigi suspected too, but she would not speak of it, and they had no words to offer.
She had recently heard that Moria's death was at Davy Jones's hands—and afterward, his crew vanished without a trace.
It was as though they had some unnatural power that let them slip beyond all of the Navy's and World Government's surveillance.
Unbelievable. Horrifying. It meant that wherever they appeared, whatever they intended, Headquarters would have no warning.
If that was true… then by now, they must already be in the New World.
Hina clenched her fist, her gaze cold and steady.
What would Davy Jones do there, under cover of this war?
If she were lucky enough to survive, Hina vowed she would seek him out herself. She would uncover the truth—and banish these nightmares once and for all.
So she resolved.
And like a fuse burning fast, the hours slipped away until afternoon, when the execution drew near.
In the depths of the sea, strange beasts stirred in the gloom, bubbles gurgling past. Now and then, even a Sea King appeared, though Rayleigh had spotted only two so far.
He stood on the deck of the Terror Ghost, his tattered cloak fluttering. Stroking his silver beard thoughtfully, he studied the ship that moved freely beneath the waves without the need for coating.
It was extraordinary. But even more astonishing was the vessel's interior—its labyrinthine halls, vast and uncanny, beyond the bounds of reason.
Rayleigh smiled faintly, watching the eerie green lights shimmer across the walls, lost in thought. A sound from behind pulled him back.
"Yo-heave-ho, yo-heave-ho!" Hachi emerged from the hold, all six arms straining to carry cannonballs. He lumbered toward the deck cannons, stacking them in place.
The ship's guns could be fired either by Buggy himself or by the Terror Ghost's own power. But the ammunition had to be prepared first.
"Here, let me take two of those." Rayleigh stepped over, lifting two cannonballs from Hachi's arms. He noticed that each one was painted with Bucky's trademark jester emblem.
That cowardly boy from Roger's ship, who had always feared battle… was now throwing himself into the fight for Ace with such zeal. Rayleigh could hardly believe it.
The Davy Jones Pirates had acted quickly, too. Leaving Kraken and Momoo guarding Fangtooth City, the Terror Ghost had set out with the crew aboard.
Were they precise and deliberate—or simply reckless? Rayleigh couldn't tell.
"Thank you, Rayleigh-san," Hachi said earnestly.
"Think nothing of it. Just set them here, right?"
"Yes."
Rayleigh's kindness wasn't reserved for Buggy or Hachi. He treated everyone on board with warmth, never once flaunting his status as the "Right Hand of the Pirate King."
What had begun as awkwardness among the crew, when they first learned of his and Buggy's identities, had now settled into familiarity.
Their journeys with Davy Jones, and the bizarre ordeals they endured, had forged their hearts strong.
As Rayleigh set down the cannonballs, Hachi added:
"Rayleigh-san, we're about to watch the live broadcast from Marine Headquarters. Would you like to join us?"
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