West Blue — Marine Branch 153
Early morning.
As was his daily routine, Base Commander Colonel Dolan stood before the floor-to-ceiling windows of his office overlooking the parade grounds, sipping a hot cup of coffee sweetened with fresh milk while watching the new recruits drill.
"Ah... now this is the life," Dolan sighed, taking another satisfied sip.
BAM!
The heavy oak doors burst open without warning. A young seaman stumbled into the office, gasping for air, his face pale with panic.
"Colonel Dolan! We have a crisis!"
Dolan clicked his tongue in mild annoyance, though he maintained a composed, aristocratic posture as he set his mug down. "Young man, learn some composure. Speak slowly. What could possibly be so urgent?"
"Keya Town, sir! Last night... a massive firefight broke out between the Fire Tank Syndicate and the Junkrat Gang!"
THUD!
The coffee mug clattered onto the desk, spilling hot liquid across expensive, imported lace tablecloths. Dolan completely ignored the stain, his voice jumping an octave as he rounded on the sailor.
"What?! Aren't those two crews supposed to be locked in an alliance?! Why would they open fire on each other?! Why didn't our intelligence network pick this up?! Who won?! How many civilian casualties are we talking about?!"
The flurry of questions left the young sailor momentarily dizzy.
Dolan's panic was entirely justified.
Branch 153 was strategically stationed on the border between the Kingdom of Bellis and the Kingdom of Shessaly. Because both sovereign states were heavily dominated by powerful underworld syndicates, free-roaming pirates rarely dared to cause trouble in these waters. Consequently, the branch's primary mandate was simply monitoring the mafia factions to prevent wide-scale territorial wars.
In fact, Dolan himself had secretly facilitated the quiet truce between Capone Bege and "Junkrat" Hammy two years ago. That single political stroke had turned his assigned sector into a "clean sea," earning him top-tier performance evaluations year after year. He was practically on the verge of being promoted to Marine Headquarters in Marineford, where he could retire in comfort.
Yet right before his final annual review, Bege and Hammy had gone and initiated an all-out bloodbath. How was he supposed to stay calm?!
"The situation is still fluid, sir," the seaman stammered, wiping sweat from his forehead. "Our advance scouts are gathering details, but initial reports indicate a total collapse of both leadership structures. First, Capone 'Gang' Bege executed Hammy, the boss of the Junkrat Gang, in the middle of the arena."
The seaman paused, taking a breath. "Then, a mysterious third party stepped in and killed Bege on the spot. The surrounding district suffered catastrophic collateral damage... nearly twenty percent of Keya Town was razed to the ground."
"A mysterious third party?"
With his military career on the line, Dolan's mind raced at hyper-speed. "Do we have a photo? Any verified intelligence on who this person is?"
"We have a photograph, sir. A local news reporter near the stadium managed to snap a clear shot before fleeing. The reporter claims the individual goes by the name 'Ornn,' but our West Blue criminal database has zero record of anyone matching his description."
The seaman retrieved a fresh photographic print from his coat pocket and handed it across the desk.
Dolan looked down. His eyes widened as he stared at... well... a terrifying, crimson-furred goat-man.
The figure in the photo possessed an immense, seven-meter-tall frame, dark-purple metallic arms, a roaring beard of deep flame-red hair, a heavy forge hammer in his right hand, and a fist glowing with molten, liquid gold magma in his left.
Gasp...
Just looking at the sheer, wild intensity of the expression in the photo brought a cold drop of sweat down Dolan's neck.
This guy looks like an absolute monster!
Dolan stared at the image, resting his chin on his thumb and forefinger as a sudden, desperate scheme began to take shape in his mind.
If an unknown monster killed Bege, can I use this photo to save my own skin?
Allowing an all-out mafia war to erupt under his jurisdiction was an undeniable failure of duty that would ruin his record. But what if the narrative changed? What if an ambitious, monstrous pirate—possessing strength far beyond the baseline of the West Blue—invaded the island, leveled the town, wiped out both syndicates to demonstrate his power, and barely escaped the heroic, outnumbered blockade set up by Branch 153?
No one can blame an old Colonel if the overall combat capability of the West Blue Marine forces is simply outmatched by a grand-line level threat, right?
The more Dolan mulled it over, the more brilliant it sounded. He straightened his uniform and gave a stern, unyielding directive.
"Issue an immediate order: recall the investigation unit from Keya Town back to base. Make sure they bring that reporter with them."
Dolan gestured toward the photo with authority. "Based on my decades of tactical experience, this pirate named Ornn is an extremely dangerous, high-threat individual. Moving forward, our priority is securing our perimeter, not wasting Marine lives investigating an already resolved incident."
"Sir...?" The seaman hesitated, feeling an instinctive wrongness with the sudden shift in narrative, but meeting the Colonel's stern, unquestionable glare, he snapped a salute. "Understood, sir!"
Once the door closed, Dolan rushed to his desk, grabbed a pen, and drafted a dramatically embellished report. Attaching a copy of the photograph to the bottom margin, he transmitted the file directly to Marine Headquarters via secure fax.
Breathing a massive sigh of relief, Dolan unlocked his floor safe, pulling out a heavy briefcase packed with Berries. "A quiet payout to that reporter should ensure the narrative remains consistent..."
Marine Headquarters — Marineford
"Fleet Admiral Sengoku! We just received an urgent high-threat priority document from the West Blue!"
A green-haired officer wearing a sharp white-and-blue striped suit—Major Brannew, his hairline already beginning to recede under the weight of global intelligence processing—marched into the Fleet Admiral's office, carrying a sealed folder.
Sengoku, sitting behind a heavy wooden desk stacked with paperwork, raised his head and took the document from Brannew's hand.
Initially, Sengoku's expression carried a hint of mild disdain. Every month, he reviewed at least twenty exaggerated, panic-riddled reports sent from branch commanders across the four seas. Over his decades of service, he had developed a keen eye for separating bureaucratic fiction from genuine threat vectors.
However, as Sengoku scanned the text and his eyes landed on the attached photograph, his face hardened.
He stared at the molten, golden magma swirling around the left fist of the goat-man in the photo for a long, heavy moment.
Sengoku let out a deep, measured sigh. "A Mythical Zoan... It seems a true monster has emerged from the West Blue."
Reaching into a bag of senbei crackers on his desk, Sengoku chewed two down before looking up at the young officer. "Brannew, you've read the file. What figure do you propose for this 'Ornn's' initial bounty?"
Brannew, the future architect of Marine bounty assessments, pursed his thick lips in thought before offering a measured assessment.
"While a Mythical Zoan user is nearly impossible for a local West Blue branch to contain, judging by his physical appearance—particularly the graying accents and weathered facial features—he appears to be well past his physical youth. At his age, his latent potential has likely reached its peak."
Brannew straightened his posture. "Therefore, I recommend setting his opening bounty at 70,000,000 Berries. Furthermore, I advise instructing the West Blue branches to avoid direct engagement. Our best strategic option is allowing him to cross into the Grand Line, where Headquarters forces can handle him directly."
Sengoku considered the logic for a moment, then gave a slow, decisive nod. "Proceed as suggested."
That very night, the printing presses in the Marine Bounty Division ran at full capacity.
By sunrise, hundreds of News Coo gulls took to the skies, scattering freshly printed posters across every corner of the world:
WANTED DEAD OR ALIVE
ORNN
70,000,000 -
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