Shichibukai-Fujitora!

The warship's cafeteria was bustling with people.

Conrad's words and actions hadn't stirred even a trace of Haki, and though Issho was blind, their measured cadence still passed through his ears and echoed inside his skull.

Issho murmured, repeating the words to himself. "Do good deeds, and don't worry about what lies ahead?"

"That's right!" Conrad raised an eyebrow, each word cutting. "As a swordsman, if you can't even tell what you should and shouldn't do, and you avoid dealing with things, can your sword still be sharp? Can you still hold it steady?"

Issho's right hand, gripping Gambler's Fireline, suddenly trembled. His fingers opened and closed, and for a moment, he didn't know how to hold the sword.

At that moment, Conrad suddenly reached out, grabbing for the middle of Gambler's Fireline's scabbard.

Only then did Issho's instincts kick in. His aura turned fierce, and he tightened his grip on the hilt.

By the time Conrad drew his hand back, Issho was sweating. His distracting thoughts had nearly interfered with the honed instincts of a swordsman.

Conrad remained seated upright, speaking calmly. "I bought your freedom for two reasons. First, it was part of the mission—you were in my way. Second, I believed it was the right thing to do."

"As for what I want you to do for me, I've never given it a thought. So although I'm your creditor, you're as good as free. Just act with integrity, and address me respectfully in public. That's all I ask. Understand?"

Issho gritted his teeth and bowed his head. His throat convulsed with a ragged sob, then his whole body began to shake uncontrollably.

After finishing the mountain of food on his plate, Conrad walked over to Issho and patted his shoulder. "People have to learn to take responsibility for themselves. You're no spring chicken. Don't make me, a young man, teach you that."

With a sob, Issho slammed his face onto the table and pressed both palms against it.

He couldn't help thinking of the foolishness of blinding himself. Though he had later mastered blind swordsmanship, his strength was still inferior to what it would have been with his eyes intact. There was even less he could do for the world now.

"Issho... Issho..."

Conrad rose, slung his spear across his back, and walked away without turning around.

Whoosh!

A shadow shot toward Conrad's back. He caught it with his other hand. It felt smooth and solid in his grasp.

"I can never repay your great kindness! Please accept this sword for now. It has been with me for many years, so it should be enough as collateral. Once I've saved up two billion Beli and found the swordsmanship I want to devote my life to, I'll come back to redeem it! Or... serve you!"

Conrad looked down at the sword in his palm. Its dark-brown wooden scabbard was unadorned. It was Gambler's Fireline, one of the twelve Supreme Grade Swords.

He smiled, looked at his spear—the Army-Breaking Overlord Spear that belonged to Baby-5—and pushed the sword back toward Issho.

"A sword is a swordsman's life. You have to take responsibility for your own life." Conrad strode toward the cafeteria doors. After seven or eight steps, he reached the threshold, then paused as if he'd remembered something.

"If you can't let this go and really have to do something for me, let me give you a name."

"What name? Please, go ahead!" Issho lifted his bushy, stubbled face from the table. His beard glistened with tears.

"Fujitora." Conrad stepped through the doorway and turned the corner, laughing. "Ha ha, I'm used to calling you that."

"Fujitora..." Issho repeated the name to himself, considering it word by word. The more he pondered it, the more profound its meaning seemed. Whether it meant a tiger among vines or a tiger freed from its cage, it was an excellent name.

He stood, leaning on his Cane Sword. "From this day forward, Issho shall be called Fujitora. I'm... unworthy of it."

Fujitora calmly cleared the dishes, placed them in the storage box, and slowly walked onto the deck, where he stopped.

Aokiji sat on the railing one level above. No one knew how long he'd been there. He had a Den Den Mushi in his arms and held its receiver.

"Your status as a war criminal has been confirmed. You committed a grave offense, but you once served your kingdom as an Army Commander, so you did your duty for your country. Given your strength, the World Government will probably give you a chance."

Fujitora shook the Seastone handcuffs on his wrists. Ordinary Devil Fruit Users became weak and powerless at the touch of Seastone, but he could still move freely, a testament to his strength.

But with his Press-Press Fruit power restrained, he could no longer hope to stand against Aokiji with just his sword.

"Go on."

Aokiji casually tossed something over. The dark, greenish object spun through the air and landed in Fujitora's hand. One feel was enough to tell him it was a handcuff key.

Aokiji pulled out a bottle of liquor. He drank as he snored, "Think it over before you hear me out. If you haven't made up your mind..."

Fujitora had boarded the warship of his own accord. No one had asked him to come, so Aokiji had put him in handcuffs.

Adrift on the vast ocean, a Devil Fruit User without a ship had little chance of escape.

But now Aokiji was offering him the key, making it clear that he was willing to let him go.

Click.

Fujitora unlocked the handcuffs and lightly leaped beside Aokiji, landing as if he were floating. "Please, go on."

"Your best option is to join the Navy. There's room to rise through the ranks, and you'll have plenty of power."

Aokiji tapped the railing rhythmically with his index finger. "But unfortunately, the next batch of top contenders is pretty crowded. The Admiral positions are practically spoken for. Given your background and seniority, there's no room for you."

Fujitora smiled. "For example, you, Aokiji?"

Aokiji neither confirmed nor denied it. He knew he was certain to be a candidate for Admiral in the next round.

"Kizaru and Akainu, those two monsters, have been running missions all over the world without a break. They've earned so many medals, they can barely fit any more on their uniforms."

Fujitora nodded. "I've heard as much."

"But there's been a shortcut these past few years." Aokiji pulled out a newspaper from beside him and unfolded it.

<Alabasta's "National Hero," the Desert Crocodile, Shichibukai—Sir Crocodile!>

Knowing Fujitora couldn't see, Aokiji read it aloud.

"You mean I should apply to join the Shichibukai?" Fujitora sounded uncertain and furrowed his brow. "But I've never been a pirate, and I just promised Conrad I'd do good deeds..."

Aokiji crossed his legs. "That's what he suggested to me yesterday. He recommended you for the Shichibukai, and said you'd definitely be up to the job."

Fujitora froze. He covered his eye sockets, and they grew hot again. So Conrad had said he didn't need him to do anything, yet had chosen a name for him and arranged his path forward?

Aokiji continued, "The Shichibukai don't just get to be pirates; they can also hunt pirates. You could form your own group and do good deeds under the name of a pirate crew—spend your time wiping out pirates and protecting civilians."

"Did Conrad say that too?" Fujitora tightened his grip on his sword.

"Half and half." Aokiji's words tended to be vague and open-ended, while Conrad spoke with certainty. It was easy to tell when he was repeating Conrad's words.

The seas of the Four Blues were mostly calm. There weren't many fierce storms, unlike the Grand Line, where the weather was unpredictable, the seasons were reversed, and natural disasters could erupt at any moment.

Now, the clouds drifted in long stretches, and a gentle breeze carried them across the sun, cloaking the warship in shade.

Fujitora stood silently in the shade for a long time. Then he understood the lesson Conrad had wanted him to learn!

"Right and wrong aren't decided by who you are! A king who should protect the people can brutalize them, while a pirate who pillages and kills can still be a man of honor!"

"What matters isn't who you are! It's what you choose to do! I, Fujitora, hold a sword in my hand! So I should use it to kill those who deserve to die!"

Caught up in the moment, Fujitora's rough face flushed red. As the clouds passed and a sliver of sunlight broke through—

Gambler's Fireline slid fully from its scabbard. The single blade of forged steel caught the light as he swung down, cleaving through the sea. The blow crashed down like a meteor, its power immense and its edge razor-sharp.

Wrapped in a surging force, it split the West Blue's surface open, cleaving a straight line to the horizon. Waves roared, and countless fish and shrimp thrashed in the depths.

But the force of gravity continued to plunge downward, as though it would reach the seabed and carve out an abyss. Sharks, octopuses, whales, and even Sea Kings panicked and darted away.

Fujitora sheathed his sword, and only then did the sea begin to close.

Aokiji and Fujitora had fought through the night. Since they were on an island crowded with people, neither had unleashed their full power, but Aokiji had still realized their abilities were closely matched.

Yet that one slash, with the Press-Press Fruit enhancing the force of a Supreme Grade Sword, had made him feel deeply threatened. Before he knew it, he had turned into ice.

"This guy would be more than qualified to join the Shichibukai."

After seven days at sea, Aokiji's warship returned to Marineford. Ships came and went in Moon Bay, and the city remained peaceful.

It was as though the Mafia in West Blue had been nothing but a dream, so distant that it seemed made up. If the children who grew up in this city heard about the 80th Branch's tragic fate, they would surely call it an exaggeration, an impossible tale.

With the Marine Headquarters so powerful, who would dare bully the Navy?

Conrad disembarked and stood in the harbor once again, looking up at the main city of Marineford as if he'd come home.

Every time he saw those upturned eaves and grand halls, he found them magnificent and imposing. He could clearly feel the way architecture and culture blended with history.

He had won one hundred million Beli at the casino and still had ten million left. He'd given the other ninety million to the Marines who had lent him money.

Ten million was enough for him to live on. All he needed was food and drink. But it wouldn't be nearly enough for something big, like building a fleet.

Besides, Conrad wasn't strong enough yet to handle vast sums of money or a powerful force. He could only be called an elite soldier beginning to show promise. He still had to train hard.

As for training, he was nine-tenths—no, a hundred percent—confident he'd never slack off.

Just then, a rough, smoky voice rang out.

"Hey, kid! You're back?"

Conrad looked up and saw Smoker pulling at the sail of a small naval vessel.

The rank on his shoulder was already that of a lieutenant commander.

It seemed he'd graduated from Zephyr's training ship without a hitch. Their class had been new recruits for three years, and once the year ended, they'd be heading to the training ship at the start of the next one.

Conrad waved. "Get down here. I've got something good for you."

Smoker raised an eyebrow. "Out of money?"

"Don't be ridiculous!" Conrad lifted a black suitcase and slapped it hard. "Cigars! A specialty from the big shots in West Blue!"

A thick plume of smoke came flying down from the ship. Smoker ruffled Conrad's red hair, the corners of his mouth curling around his cigar until his eyes narrowed with a smile. He took the suitcase. "Good kid. You haven't forgotten who looked after you."

He shook it hard to listen to the contents. When he opened it, there were no cigars—just a layer of banknotes.

While Smoker stared in disbelief, Conrad grabbed two bundles of one hundred Beli each from the case and ran off, calling, "Go buy whatever you like to smoke!"

"Hey! Where'd you get all that money?" Smoker turned his hand into smoke and reached for Conrad's collar.

But Conrad had been ready. He swung back with a Whale-Slaying Tyrant Fist, blasting out Haki that dispersed the white smoke, then leaped onto a rooftop.

"I won it fair and square! Spend it without worry! Think of it as a going-away present."

With that, he leaped over the rooftops.

Smoker stared at the suitcase, which still held eight bundles—eight million Beli. He scratched his neck and puffed smoke.

"How did that kid know I was leaving Headquarters? Honestly... sigh..."

Smoker couldn't stand the restrictions and red tape at Headquarters, so he'd decided to head out and serve at a base. Once he made captain, he'd return to his hometown in the East Blue and take charge as a branch director.