**Sea Calendar: 1497**
The dawn crept over the lands with a hush that gnawed at the morning's edges, a stillness so sharp it felt poised to erupt. Above the glassy waves, a shadow swelled—a flock of news coo birds tearing through the sky, their wings thrumming like a war drum's echo. They streaked from the Grand Line's jagged heart to the quiet shores of the four seas…, beaks clamped around papers that tumbled down like leaves before a gale. In Logue Town, a fisherman's rough fingers snagged one from the air, his weathered face creasing as he peered at the ink. In Water 7, a shipwright's hammer slipped from her grip, the clang lost in the rustle of a crowd pressing tight. The world held its breath, then shattered.
In the New World, where the seas churned with storms that swallowed ships whole and islands trembled under the weight of unseen kings, the news struck first.
Aboard the Moby Dick, anchored in the New World's churning depths, Whitebeard sat enthroned on his massive chair, the sea's roar a dull pulse beneath his steady gaze. A news coo landed on the rail, its paper fluttering free. Marco snatched it mid-fall, his eyes narrowing as he read aloud: "Gol D. Roger, captured." The crew stilled, but Whitebeard's laugh rumbled low, a sound like thunder rolling over the horizon. "Roger, you fool," he murmured, gripping his naginata tighter, its blade glinting with unspoken weight. "What game are you playing now?"
In a shadowed fortress atop Onigashima, Kaido sprawled across a throne of twisted metal, his breath reeking of liquor and menace. A subordinate staggered in, thrusting the paper forward with shaking hands. "Pirate King—caught!" Kaido's gaze flicked to the headline, then darkened. He snatched the sheet, his growl echoing like a beast unchained. "Garp thinks he can cage a king?" he spat, tearing the paper to shreds, fists trembling with a hunger for war.
On a sugar-crusted balcony in Totto Land, Big Mom loomed over a table groaning with pastries, her laughter and a rolling thunderclap. A news coo landed on the railing, its paper fluttering down. Prometheus flared as she grabbed it, reading aloud: "Roger, nabbed for execution!" Her grin split wide, eyes glinting with manic delight. "Good riddance!" she bellowed, tossing the paper into the flames, her voice dripping with greed. "His throne's mine now!"
High above the Grand Line, Golden Lion Shiki stood on the deck of a floating isle, his mane of hair whipping in the wind. A news coo landed beside him, its paper caught by a subordinate who stammered, "Boss, Roger's—" Shiki snatched it, his golden eyes blazing as he read: "Captured… to be executed in Logue Town." His grin vanished, replaced by a scowl that cracked like thunder. "That bastard Garp?" he spat, crumpling the paper in his fist. "No one takes Roger but me!" The island trembled beneath his fury, a storm brewing in the sky he ruled.
The headline blazed across the page in letters sharp as broken glass:
**"GOL D. ROGER, THE PIRATE KING, CAPTURED!"**
Beneath it, smaller but no less fierce:
**"TO BE EXECUTED IN LOGUE TOWN IN 15 DAYS!"**
**"CAPTURED BY NAVY HERO MONKEY D. GARP!"**
Below the words, an etching stared out—a man with a grin wide and reckless, as if he'd just laughed in the face of fate. His mustache flared outward, wild and thick, curling up like it spilled from his nose, framing a face carved by salt and sun. In his right hand, he gripped Ace, the sword of legend, its blade catching the light with a quiet, deadly gleam. A battered hat sat crooked on his head, the skull stitched into its brim leering like a promise of chaos.
In an Alabasta market, dust swirling around his sandals, a merchant pressed the paper to his chest, his voice a dry rasp. "It's done," he whispered, as if afraid the words might unravel. A girl at his side tugged his sleeve, her eyes wide with questions she couldn't voice. On Sabaody's bubble-strewn paths, a vendor let her cart roll unattended, the pop of a bursting sphere snapping her from her daze. She didn't need to read it—the murmur racing through the air was enough, a tide of shock and relief.
But in a Grand Line tavern, where the air hung heavy with rum and despair, the news landed like a spark on dry tinder. A pirate with a face like cracked earth drove his fist into the bar, wood groaning as rum splashed across his knuckles. "Roger? Caught?" he growled, the words tasting of bile. "By a Marine mutt?" His crew shrank back, but their eyes glinted with the same raw fury. Across the room, a cloaked figure tipped his head back and laughed—a sharp, jagged sound that cut through the haze like a blade. "Then I'll see the bastard die myself," he said, voice low and hungry. He crushed the paper and flung it into the fire, the flames swallowing Roger's grin as he stood.
An old man at the bar's edge didn't stir. His scarred fingers traced the rim of his glass, his murmur barely audible over the crackling hearth. "Where there's a fall… a storm is sure to follow." The words lingered, cold and heavy, as the room seemed to shrink around them.
Sails snapped taut across the Blues that day, rising from merchant docks and thrill-seekers' wharves, but most of all from the dark hulls of ships that had hunted Roger's wake for years. Logue Town beckoned—a spark, a gallows, a reckoning.
---
"--- Grand Line, Marine Headquarters ---"
The walls of Marine Headquarters rose from the Grand Line like a cliff forged in defiance, gray stone drinking in the midday sun. Inside the grand conference hall, the air pressed down, thick with the weight of unspoken words. No victory horns sounded, no fists pounded in triumph. Only the faint creak of chairs broke the stillness as officers settled into their places, faces drawn tight with something sharper than pride.
Fleet Admiral Kong loomed at the head of the oak table, his broad frame a wall unto itself, his mohawk spiking upward like a jagged crest. Shadows pooled beneath him, stretching across the flickering sconces. To his right, Admiral Sengoku sat with hands steepled, his gaze cutting through the room like a blade honed by years of war. To his left, Vice Admiral Tsuru perched, her slim form coiled with a quiet grace, her eyes glinting like steel in the dim light. Around the table, Vice Admirals and Rear Admirals filled their designated seats, each chair marked by rank—white coats crisp, shoulders squared, a silent assembly of the Navy's might. Their presence was a fortress of discipline, yet the tension in their eyes betrayed the cracks beneath.
And then there was Garp.
"Crunch, crunch…" The sound scraped through the tension from the back corner, where Monkey D. Garp sprawled across a chair, a fistful of senbei disappearing into his grinning maw. Crumbs dusted his chest, catching in the folds of his uniform as he chewed with the glee of a man at a festival. "These are damn good today," he muttered, popping another cracker into his mouth, oblivious to the stares boring into him.
Kong's eye twitched, a vein throbbing at his temple. "Garp, you lazy bastard!" His roar shook the table, rattling the den den mushi perched at its edge. "Get your ass to the front! The Five Elders are hounding me because you won't take the damn Admiral post!"
Garp froze mid-chew, head tipping back. His eyes fluttered shut, and a snore erupted—deep and rumbling, like a cannon misfiring. The senbei slipped from his fingers, hitting the floor with a soft patter as a snot bubble swelled from his nose, glistening in the lamplight.
"GARP!!!" Kong's fist slammed down, the table's edge cracking under the blow. The bubble popped, and Garp lurched upright, fists swinging at the air. "Who's there?! Come at me, you coward!" he bellowed, wild-eyed, as if pirates had stormed the room.
Sengoku sighed, massaging his temple. "Marshal, just let him be. It's a lost cause."
Near the front, three figures sat in a row, their contrasts stark. Sakazuki's red suit strained against his rigid frame, his jaw tight with barely contained fury. Borsalino, in yellow, slouched with a lazy smirk, fingers tapping a rhythm only he heard. Kuzan, in blue, leaned back, hands deep in his pockets, his breath fogging faintly in the cool air.
"Garp-san's something else," Kuzan murmured, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "Tossing away the Admiral title like it's trash…"
Sakazuki's eyes narrowed, his voice a low growl. "He's a disgrace. Justice demands authority—how else do we burn out the filth?"
Borsalino tilted his head, his smirk sharpening. "Ooh, scary… Garp-san's too strong to care about rules, huh?"
Kong's hand crashed down again, silencing the room with a thud. "Focus! We're here for one purpose: Gol D. Roger, the Pirate King, bounty 5,564,800,000 berries, captured by Vice Admiral Garp." His eyes swept the hall, hard as flint. "He found the Final Island. He claimed the One Piece. And in fifteen days, we end him in Logue Town—where he started this madness."
A ripple of whispers broke, then died as Kong pressed on. "This is no mere execution. It's a warning. Sengoku, you're in command. Kuzan, you're with him. No slip-ups."
Sengoku gave a sharp nod. "It'll be done, Marshal."
Kuzan raised a hand, thumb flicking up. "Got it, Marshal."
Kong rose, his shadow swallowing the light. "The rest of you—full alert. Pirates will crawl over each other to reach Logue Town. Dismissed."
---
Hours later, Kong stood alone in his office, the sea beyond the window a sheet of molten gold streaked with red. His hands locked behind him, fingers digging into his palms. The den den mushi sat quietly now, its earlier barrage from the Five Elders a dull ache in his skull. He exhaled, a rough, weary sound.
"Roger, you mad bastard," he muttered, voice scraping like gravel. "Your era is ending. And I just hope… whatever comes next doesn't drown the world in fire.."