Shichibukai - Fujitora!

The warship cafeteria was bustling with a surging crowd.

Although Conrad's words and actions did not trigger a shred of Haki, and despite Fujitora being blind, those rhythmic, resonant words echoed clearly within Fujitora's skull.

Fujitora repeated the words in a low murmur: "Do good deeds, and ask not of the future?"

"That's right!" Conrad raised an eyebrow, his words striking like nails: "As a swordsman, if you don't even understand what should be done and what should not, and you use avoidance to handle your affairs, can your blade still be sharp? Can you even hold your sword steady!"

Fujitora's right hand, gripping the Gambler's Fireline, suddenly trembled; his five fingers loosened and tightened, suddenly unsure of how to hold the hilt.

At this moment, Conrad suddenly reached out, snatching at the center of the Gambler's Fireline's scabbard.

Only then did Fujitora rely on instinct, his aura turning sharp and fierce as he tightened his grip on the hilt.

By the time Conrad withdrew his hand, sweat was already beading on Fujitora's forehead; his stray thoughts had nearly interfered with the sword-wielding intuition a swordsman had honed through thousands of trials.

Conrad remained seated as steady as a spear, speaking eloquently: "I redeemed you, firstly because of my mission—you were blocking my path. Secondly, because I believe this was the right thing to do."

"As for what I want you to do in return, I have never even considered it. So, although I am your creditor, you are no different from a free man. You only need to act with integrity, and if you address me with respect when we are out in the world, I shall be satisfied. Do you understand?"

Fujitora gritted his teeth and bowed his head, a choked sob bubbling in his throat, before his entire body began to tremble uncontrollably.

Conrad finished his mountain-like plate of food, walked over to Fujitora, and patted him on the shoulder with his right hand: "A man must learn to be responsible for himself. You are at such an age; don't make me, a young man, have to teach you."

Accompanied by a sob, Fujitora slammed his face onto the dining table, his palms pressing hard against the surface.

He couldn't help but recall the foolishness of blinding himself. Although he had later mastered the art of the blind sword, his strength was ultimately inferior to when he had his sight, and the things he could do for the world had become fewer and smaller.

"Fujitora... Fujitora..."

Conrad raised his hand, slung his spear onto his back, and did not look back.

Whoosh!

A black shadow shot straight toward Conrad's back. Conrad caught it with a backhand grip; it felt rustic and smooth to the touch.

"I have no way to repay such great kindness! Please, sir, accept this blade for now. This sword has followed me for many years; it should be enough as collateral. Once I have saved up two billion Beli and understood the sword-heart of my life, I will come to redeem it! Or... to serve you!"

Conrad looked at his palm. The dark brown wooden scabbard was unadorned—it was one of the twelve Supreme Grade Swords: the Gambler's Fireline.

He smiled, looked at his own weapon—Baby-5's Army-Breaking Overlord Spear—and pushed the sword back with a backhand motion.

"A sword is a swordsman's life; one must bear the weight of one's own life." Conrad strode toward the cafeteria door. After seven or eight steps, he reached the threshold and paused as if remembering something:

"If you feel uneasy in your heart and must do something, let me give you a title."

"What title? Pray, speak!" Fujitora lifted his stubbled, thick-browed face from the table, water droplets clinging to his beard.

"Fujitora." Conrad stepped out of the cafeteria, turned a corner, and laughed: "Haha, I'm just used to calling you that."

"Fujitora..." Fujitora read it silently, analyzing it character by character. The more he pondered, the more he felt the profound weight of the name. Whether it was a tiger climbing a vine or a tiger breaking out of a cage, it was absolutely an excellent title.

He stood up, leaning on his cane-sword: "From this day forth, I shall be known as Fujitora. To accept this... I am unworthy..."

Fujitora leisurely cleaned his tray, placed it in the collection bin, and walked slowly onto the deck, where he stopped.

Aokiji was sitting on the railing above, though it was unclear how long he had been there, holding a Den Den Mushi in his arms and gripping the receiver.

"Your status as a war criminal has been confirmed. Although you committed a grave error, considering you were once a captain of the kingdom's guard, it can be counted as service to the country. Based on your strength, the World Government will likely give you a chance."

Fujitora shook his Seastone shackles. Ordinary Devil Fruit users would go limp and powerless upon touching Seastone, but he could move with ease, showing the depth of his strength.

However, with his Gravity-Gravity Fruit restricted, he could no longer contend with Aokiji using only his sword.

"Pray, continue."

At this moment, Aokiji tossed a dark, cold object that spun and landed in Fujitora's hand. By the shape, he knew it was the key to the shackles.

Aokiji took out a bottle of liquor, drinking while snoring: "Think it over before you listen. If you haven't thought it through..."

Fujitora had boarded the warship voluntarily at the time; no one had forced him, which was why Aokiji had placed him in shackles.

In this vast ocean, as a fruit user, he would have found it difficult to escape without a ship.

But now, Aokiji had voluntarily given him the key, and his willingness to let him go needed no further explanation.

Click.

Fujitora unlocked the shackles and leaped lightly, landing beside Aokiji as if floating: "Please, speak."

"The best choice is naturally to join the Marines. There is room for advancement, and the authority is great."

Aokiji tapped the railing rhythmically with his index finger: "But it's a bit unfortunate. There are quite a few strong contenders for the next term, and the Admiral positions are almost locked in. Based on seniority and background, it won't be your turn."

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

Aokiji was noncommittal; he knew he was inevitably a candidate for the next Admiral.

"Kizaru and Akainu—those two monsters have been executing missions all over the world without pause. Their uniforms are almost too small to hold all their medals."

Fujitora nodded: "I have heard of them."

"But there has been a shortcut in recent years." Aokiji pulled a newspaper from beneath him and opened it to the side.

<The "Hero of the Nation" of Alabasta, the Desert Captain, Shichibukai—Sir Crocodile!>

Considering Fujitora could not see, Aokiji read it aloud.

"Are you suggesting that I apply to become one of the Shichibukai?" Fujitora asked, his brow furrowed in doubt. "But this humble one has never been a pirate, and I have only just promised Conrad that I would do good deeds..."

Aokiji crossed his legs and said, "It was he who brought it up to me yesterday. He recommended you for the Shichibukai, saying you were more than capable of the role."

Fujitora froze, his eyes growing warm once more. So, while he had claimed he didn't want him to do anything, he had already decided on a title for him and arranged his path forward.

Aokiji continued, "The Shichibukai don't just have to act as pirates; they can also eliminate them. You could easily form your own group, acting for justice under the banner of a pirate crew, dedicated solely to purging pirates and protecting the populace."

"Did Conrad say this as well?" Fujitora's grip on his blade tightened.

"Half and half, I suppose." Aokiji's words were often vague and open to interpretation, whereas Conrad's statements always carried a sense of certainty, making them easy to distinguish.

The seas of the four blues were generally calm, lacking the treacherous, unpredictable storms of the Grand Line where the seasons could invert and natural disasters could strike at any moment.

At that moment, a stretch of drifting clouds happened to block the sun, casting a cool shadow over the warship.

Fujitora stood silently in the shade for a long time. He understood—he finally grasped the lesson Conrad had been trying to impart!

"In this life, one's actions and morality are not determined by one's status! A king who should protect his people may oppress them, while a pirate who burns and loots may yet be a man of honor and justice!"

"The key is not who you are! It is what you choose to do! I, Fujitora, hold a sword in my hand! Therefore, I must use this sword to strike down those who deserve it!"

Carried away by his inspiration, a red glow flushed across Fujitora's rugged face. As the clouds drifted by, a sliver of sunlight broke through.

Gambler's Fireline was fully unsheathed. The straight, forged-steel blade caught the light, and with a single swing, he cleaved the sea. The strike was as massive as a falling meteor, yet sharp beyond measure.

Carrying a torrential momentum, it carved a path through the West Blue all the way to the horizon, leaving waves churning and countless fish and shrimp tossing in the wake of the abyss.

Yet the gravity continued to descend, as if probing the very seabed to create a chasm, sending sharks, octopuses, whales, and even Sea Kings fleeing in panic.

Fujitora sheathed his blade, and only then did the sea begin to fill the void.

Aokiji and Fujitora had fought for an entire night; though neither had unleashed their full power due to the crowded island, they both knew their strength was evenly matched.

But this single strike, combining his Devil Fruit ability with a Supreme Grade sword to amplify the blade's intent, made Aokiji feel genuinely threatened, causing him to instinctively turn into ice.

"This guy is more than qualified to be a Shichibukai."

After seven days of sailing, Aokiji's warship returned to Marineford. The crescent-shaped bay was bustling with ships, and the city remained as peaceful as ever.

It was as if the mafia of the West Blue were merely a dream, so distant it felt fictional. If a child raised in this city were to hear of the tragedy at the 80th Branch, they would surely call it an exaggeration, something utterly unrealistic.

With such a powerful Marine Headquarters, who would ever dare to bully the Marines?

Conrad stepped off the warship and stood on the pier once more, looking up at the main city of Marineford as if he had returned home.

Every time he looked at those soaring eaves and towers, he felt their majesty and dignity, clearly sensing the fusion of architecture and human history.

He had won one hundred million Beli at the casino and still had ten million left; the other ninety million had been distributed among the Marines who had lent him money.

Ten million was enough for his needs, as he only required food and drink. He was still far from achieving his grand ambitions, such as building a fleet.

Moreover, Conrad's current strength was not yet enough to command vast wealth or a major faction. He was merely a promising soldier who still needed to train diligently.

As for training, he had ten-tenths—or at least nine-tenths—confidence in himself, for he had never once slacked off.

Just then, a rough, smoky voice rang out.

"Hey, kid, you're back?"

Conrad looked up to see Smoker pulling on the sails of a small naval vessel.

The rank on his shoulder was already that of a Lieutenant Commander.

It seemed he had successfully graduated from Zephyr's training ship. After all, their class of three-year recruits would be boarding the training vessels at the start of the year once the previous year ended.

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

Smoker raised an eyebrow. "Out of money?"

"Don't be ridiculous!" Conrad hoisted his black leather case and patted it firmly. "Cigars! A specialty from the West Blue, straight from the big bosses!"

A thick cloud of smoke drifted down from the ship. Smoker ruffled Conrad's blood-red hair, his mouth curling into a smile around his cigar as he took the case. "Good kid, I didn't look after you for nothing."

He shook the case hard to hear the contents, but when he opened it, he didn't see cigars—he saw stacks of cash.

While Smoker stood in shock, Conrad grabbed two stacks of one-hundred-count Beli from the case and turned to run, shouting over his shoulder, "Buy whatever you want to smoke with that!"

"Hey! Where did you get this money, kid!" Smoker's hand turned into smoke, reaching out to grab Conrad's collar.

But Conrad was prepared. He countered with a Whale-Slaying Tyrant Fist, the surging Haki scattering the white smoke as he leaped onto a rooftop.

"Won it through legitimate channels! Don't worry about spending it! Consider it a parting gift from me."

With that, he vaulted over the eaves.

He left Smoker staring at the remaining eight stacks—eight million Beli—in the case, scratching his neck and exhaling a cloud of smoke as he muttered:

"How did this kid know I was leaving Headquarters? Seriously... sigh..."

Smoker could no longer stand the rigid constraints of Headquarters and had decided to transfer to a base. Once he was promoted to Captain, he would return to his home in the East Blue to serve as a branch commander.