"Isn't that even more hateful?!"
Onigumo slammed a fist down on the table, his eyes bloodshot as he roared furiously, "Releasing so many prisoners led to the deaths and injuries of tens of thousands of soldiers... Imu... What right does that bastard have to treat so many lives like a game?! And what makes him think he stands above everyone else?!"
He had always been hot-tempered and straightforward, saying whatever was on his mind.
In the past, voicing such "treasonous" words so openly would have earned him a severe reprimand no matter what.
Yet now, no one in the entire conference room spoke up to refute him, not even Sengoku, who usually cared most about so-called "dignity" and "rules."
The cigar's ember flickered as smoke curled through the air.
Within the cold, deathly silent atmosphere, a vicious resentment that could no longer be suppressed seemed to be gathering and fermenting.
No one questioned whether Noah's words were true, nor did anyone ask where exactly he had obtained this intelligence.
Ten years as comrades, ten years on the battlefield—everyone present had absolute, unquestioning trust in the man who bore the name White Dragon.
After a long while.
"Wait until tomorrow."
Sengoku finally spoke, his voice hoarse.
"Give me tonight to write a strongly worded letter of protest. Tomorrow morning, I'll deliver it to the World Government and make them properly explain what exactly they think they're doing..."
"A letter of protest?"
Garp cut him off. "Will that thing do any good? Even if it's a handwritten letter from the great Fleet Admiral himself, what difference is there between it and toilet paper in those people's eyes?"
Sengoku fell silent.
"You're this old and still so naive. Useful protests have never relied on mouths—they rely on fists!"
Picking his nose, Garp sneered.