2:00 AM, deep within the Alabasta desert.
Beneath a vast sand dune lay the remnants of a Marine outpost, once a well-organized temporary camp capable of housing hundreds, now reduced to a battlefield scarred by chaos. Craters and blackened scorch marks littered the sand, remnants of fierce clashes between elite fighters and heavy cannon bombardment. The area had been devastated beyond repair.
Tents were burnt to ash, thick black smoke choking the air. Marine corpses lay strewn across the camp, blood soaking into the desert floor, with dismembered limbs, shattered weapons, and broken rifles scattered among them. Over a hundred brutish-looking men prowled the wreckage, scavenging for survivors and supplies. Their bare chests and tattooed skull emblems left no doubt—they were pirates.
"No wonder they're called the Navy's elite. Nearly half of them actually got away," grumbled Oliver, scowling as he wiped blood off his swords, Nagamitsu and Yubashiri, both still dripping crimson.
Bang!
Next to him, Dimitri casually fired a round into a wounded Marine, then blew the smoke from his pistol's barrel and walked over with a smirk. "Could've been worse. We only had 200 men ambushing 400. Most of the Marine officers stayed behind, though. Poor bastards were scared out of their minds."
"When... the Cap'n wakes... up," rumbled the massive Backan, hefting a steel axe as big as a wagon wheel onto his shoulder, "we really gotta... get more people for... the crew. Ain't... enough muscle."
"Too bad that Rear Admiral and Commodore got away," muttered a bloodstained Arlan, face grim. "If they'd fallen, the rest wouldn't be a threat."
He'd just finished a grueling fight with Commodore Cray, and to his surprise, the man had mastered Armament Haki, catching him off-guard. Though Arlan's strength ultimately gave him the upper hand, the close call left a bitter taste.
"If it weren't for the cannons, we might not've broken them at all," said Dimitri, wiping his beastfang dagger before sliding it back into its sheath. His grin turned wicked. "Still, we left 'em gutted. With the way that old guy was bleeding, I doubt he survives the night."
"Bwahahaha!"
The crew burst into cruel laughter, their earlier tension dissolving in a wave of sadistic satisfaction. Their mission had been accomplished.
...
Morning—10:00 AM.
Marine Headquarters, Marineford—Fleet Admiral's Office.
Yawn.
Sengoku let out a long yawn, bleary-eyed as he sat behind his grand rosewood desk. A steaming cup of tea sat untouched beside him. He'd worked until past 3:00 AM, buried under an avalanche of urgent dispatches from the New World. He had barely gotten a few hours of sleep.
"You were up late again?"
Vice Admiral Tsuru, seated on the couch nearby, sipped her tea and squinted at him.
"Yeah," Sengoku muttered, flipping through more paperwork. "An urgent report came in last night, Sakazuki's Second Expeditionary Fleet had an unexpected run-in with the Red-Haired Pirates near Raijin Island. Turned into a full-on skirmish. Luckily, Garp's First Fleet arrived in time, so the damage was minimal. Sakazuki only took a minor hit."
"If Sakazuki was injured, then it must've been Red-Haired Shanks himself," Tsuru said, arching an eyebrow as she put down her cup. "Even if our losses were 'minimal,' these small skirmishes are piling up. In just half a year, we've lost over 40% of the Grand Expeditionary Fleet. That's after we replenished the troops and ships. And the pirates... they're only getting stronger."
Sengoku said nothing. He kept his head down, signing documents. What could he say?
The Marines were in a dire bind. The World Government, pulling strings from the shadows, had issued ironclad orders via the Five Elders, and the Marines had made global vows to the people—to crush piracy and restore order. But their forces were mired deep in the chaos of the New World, and even the first half of the Grand Line was growing unstable. Pirate activity was surging on every front.
The Four Emperors had grown even more entrenched. Marines were dying by the day, despite backing from the World Government. Meanwhile, the Revolutionary Army was spreading its ideology like wildfire, inciting rebellions that strained the Government's resources, cutting their support more and more each month.
One wrong move, Sengoku knew, and the entire structure might collapse.
BAM!
Suddenly, the double doors to the office slammed open.
"F-Fleet Admiral Sengoku! Urgent report, priority level 10!"
A young officer in Justice whites dashed in, clutching a document, his face pale and frantic.
Sengoku looked up from his paperwork, frowning with a sense of foreboding.
"There's no need to panic," Tsuru snapped, her eyes narrowing. "The seas still belong to the Navy."
"S-Sorry, Vice Admiral!"
The officer took a deep breath, trying to calm himself.
Sengoku put his pen down and spoke in a calm, grave voice. "All right. What's happened?"
"Report from Rear Admiral Zoka, stationed in Alabasta," the officer began, chest heaving. "The operation to eliminate the Chris Pirates has failed. Over half the task force has been wiped out. Vice Admiral Syrons is critically wounded and unconscious, his condition is near fatal."
Silence.
The air froze in the Fleet Admiral's office. Outside, the distant cries of Marines finishing their morning drills were the only sound.
"…That's impossible," Sengoku muttered hoarsely, eyes wide in disbelief.
Tsuru raised her teacup, took a slow sip, then asked coldly, "Any detailed intel? What's the current status of Rear Admiral Zoka's unit?"
"Still unclear," the officer shook his head. "I checked with our intelligence unit embedded in the Alabasta Kingdom, they only confirmed that a fierce battle broke out just outside Rainbase, roughly a kilometer out, in the Sandstone Basin. The entire area is in ruins."
Pere… pere… pere…pere...
Suddenly, the den-den mushi on Sengoku's desk began to ring, a peculiar one, sporting a bushy mustache that quickly shifted into a long, narrow face.
"…This one," Sengoku frowned and picked it up.
"Moshi moshi. Sengoku speaking."
"Fleet Admiral Sengoku, this is Zoka. Apologies for using Vice Admiral Syrons' den-den mushi, but the situation demanded it…"
Zoka's voice crackled through, raspy and weary. You could hear the exhaustion dripping from every word.
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