At the same time—
In the waters of the New World, a large warship—its identifying markings mostly stripped away, its hull sleek and streamlined—cut through the waves at astonishing speed, racing away from New Marineford toward Egghead Island.
On deck, the atmosphere was… peculiar.
At the very top of the mast, perched on the lookout pole, Enel sat cross-legged, bare-chested. One hand propped up his chin, while the other casually tossed an apple into the air and caught it again and again.
His gaze drifted lazily across the vast, azure sea below—beautiful on the surface, yet hiding turbulent currents beneath.
He seemed to be searching for something worthy of divine punishment.
Or perhaps… he was simply bored.
Occasionally, a Sea King would surface in the distance, its massive back breaking through the water. Each time, a faint spark of electricity flickered at Enel's fingertips—
Only for him to click his tongue in disappointment, as if those creatures weren't even worthy of being judged by a "god."
At the center of the deck, beside a hastily set-up table, Admiral Kizaru—Borsalino—lay sprawled in a reclining chair with absolutely no regard for dignity.
He was still wearing that slightly ridiculous striped patient uniform—clearly dragged straight out of a hospital room.
In his hands was a steaming bowl of ramen, rich with aroma, which he slurped with great enthusiasm… despite the unmistakable look of grievance plastered across his face.
"Oh dear, oh dear… Fleet Admiral Gern, I'm a seriously injured patient, you know~" Kizaru drawled, stretching his tone as he pointed at the bandages wrapped around his body with his chopsticks.
"My bones haven't even healed yet, and you've already hauled me out of bed to eat dust in the sea breeze…"
"Isn't this mistreatment of a decorated officer? I might just file a complaint with Inspector General Sengoku, you know~"
Despite his complaints, his chopsticks didn't slow down in the slightest. If anything, he ate faster—while barking orders at the nearby Navy cook.
"More chili oil! Double the scallions and cilantro! And make the noodles firmer!"
At the very front of the ship, beside the figurehead, Gern Reginald Sigmar stood shoulder to shoulder with Dracule Mihawk.
Gern had changed out of his usual Fleet Admiral uniform. In its place, he wore a dark shirt suited for movement, the blade Eight Desolations hanging at his waist. Draped loosely over his shoulders was his signature admiral's coat.
In his hand… was also a bowl of ramen.
From the same pot as Kizaru's.
Mihawk, on the other hand, remained as he always was—dressed in a classical aristocratic style. A black coat, a wide-brimmed hat, a small cross-shaped dagger hanging at his chest.
He stood straight as a spear, the Supreme Grade blade Yoru resting across his back. His sharp, golden eyes gazed calmly toward the distant horizon where sea met sky.
The complaints behind him, and Enel's idle antics—
He ignored them all.
"It's you, me, Kizaru… and Enel."
Mihawk spoke first. His tone was calm, steady—yet carried the weight of a simple statement of fact.
"The force you've mobilized this time is… considerable, Gern."
It wasn't a question.
Just an observation.
One was the world's greatest swordsman.
One was a top-tier admiral, a Logia user of the Glint-Glint Fruit.
And the last—a self-proclaimed "god," equally at the peak of admiral-level power, perhaps even possessing Conqueror's Haki infusion, with a Logia ability to match.
This combination…
Could easily annihilate the core forces of a Yonko crew.
Perhaps even wage a war capable of destroying a nation.
"Can't be helped, Mihawk."
Gern lowered his head and took a long slurp of noodles. His cheeks puffed slightly as he chewed, only answering after swallowing.
"The situation on Egghead…" he said with a casual smile, "I figured if I went alone, I might not be able to 'handle' everything."
Mihawk tilted his head slightly, a faint flicker of curiosity passing through his golden eyes.
He looked at Gern—
The man now widely acknowledged as standing at the very peak of the world's power.
A "king-level" existence.
A man who had captured both Red-Haired Shanks and Monkey D. Dragon in a one-against-two confrontation.
A man who could move freely, almost effortlessly, against any Yonko crew.
"And yet," Mihawk said evenly, "there are situations even you cannot 'handle' with your current strength?"
The question was clear, though his tone remained composed.
From Mihawk's perspective, Gern's strength had already reached an absurd level. In direct combat, there was likely no one in the world who could reliably defeat him.
Even Mihawk himself—or monsters like Bullet—
In their usual sparring, it often took the two of them working together… sometimes even with Sengoku joining in… just to push Gern into a "satisfying" fight.
(Though such battles usually ended with the destruction of an uninhabited island.)
A man like that—
What could he possibly be wary of on Egghead?
Blackbeard? Straw Hat? Or the hidden forces of the World Government?
Faced with Mihawk's question, Gern took another mouthful of noodles.
"In a straight fight, I'm not worried," he said lightly, though there was a deeper meaning beneath his words. "But in the end… I'm just one person, Mihawk."
"And what Egghead needs right now isn't one person sweeping everything aside…"
He paused, lightly tapping the rim of his bowl with his chopsticks.
"It needs… insurance."
"Insurance?" Mihawk repeated, turning the word over in his mind.
"Yeah. Insurance."
Gern nodded—but didn't elaborate further.
Ensuring the Navy's interests were maximized.
Preventing any single faction—the World Government, Blackbeard, Straw Hat, or even the Revolutionary Army—from monopolizing or destroying key technologies.
Maintaining a baseline of order amid extreme chaos.
And… preparing for "unexpected variables" that might exceed all conventional expectations.
He didn't say any of that out loud.
The topic clearly touched on deeper strategic considerations.
Instead, Gern suddenly turned around and shouted toward Kizaru, who was still happily slurping noodles.
"Hey! Borsalino-senpai!"
"How many times do I have to tell you—stop dumping all that heavy seasoning into the pot?!"
"It's way too salty! What are you, a sentient salt shaker?!"
Kizaru looked up slowly, adjusting his sunglasses with a lazy motion.
"Oh my, Fleet Admiral… your taste is just too bland~" he replied in his usual drawn-out tone.
"The Navy's food standards have to meet an Admiral's needs, you know~ slurp!!"
He took another satisfied gulp of broth.
Gern rolled his eyes, clearly unwilling to argue further.
"By the way," he said instead, "can you still get in touch with Sentomaru and Vegapunk?"
"I need the latest internal situation before we land."
At the mention of those names, the careless expression on Kizaru's face faded slightly.
He set down his bowl and glanced at the Den Den Mushi beside him—a finely crafted one, bearing Vegapunk's signature design.
It lay there quietly, eyes closed.
Unresponsive.
Kizaru tapped the shell in a specific rhythm.
Once.
Twice.
No reaction.
The Den Den Mushi remained asleep—no expression, no sound.
Gradually, the lightness on Kizaru's face disappeared.
His brows drew together, slowly… deeply.
Behind those ever-half-lidded eyes—eyes that usually seemed indifferent to everything—there was, for once, a trace of gravity.
And concern.
Sentomaru—
A subordinate he had always treated like family.
Vegapunk—
One of the few people he could speak with as an equal, someone whose genius—and loneliness—he truly understood.
What had happened to them on that island…?
For even emergency communications to be completely severed…
Kizaru silently put away the Den Den Mushi and looked out toward the horizon in the direction of Egghead.
His earlier complaints about being "forced to work overtime" had all but vanished.
All that remained was the weight carried by the sea breeze, tugging faintly at the hem of his patient uniform.
Gern watched the shift in Kizaru's expression—but said nothing more.
He quickly finished the rest of his noodles, handed the empty bowl to a nearby soldier, and wiped his mouth.
"Full speed ahead."
He turned toward the helmsman, his voice returning to the cold authority of a Fleet Admiral.
"Pass the order."
"Once we enter the waters surrounding Egghead—highest alert."
"The warship is not to approach the island."
"It will await my command."