When Barlow, Roy, and Mila set off for the Grand Line, they took the Uchiha Four Retainers with them. Although they trained successors, the affairs would ultimately fall on Gwen's shoulders.
She opened her eyes and glanced at the grandfather clock in the corner.
11:45.
"Come in," she said to the door.
The door opened, and the strategist walked in.
He was wearing a dark gray West Blue -style suit, his hair was neatly combed, and his face had more wrinkles than it had a few years ago, but his eyes still had that calmness that came from careful calculation.
"Strategist, please have a seat."
The strategist sat down in the chair opposite the desk and pulled a thick stack of documents from his briefcase.
"This is a new reinforcement request. The patrol teams on the four islands near the Goa Kingdom need to replace their equipment, and the arms budget has exceeded the amount reserved last quarter."
Gwen took the document, didn't look at it, and placed it on the table.
How much more?
Twenty-three percent.
"Reason?"
"The Goa Kingdom's naval forces recently conducted military exercises in the coastal waters, using old, inaccurate shells that exploded near fishing boats on several occasions."
The strategist's tone was precise.
Fishermen are panicked, pirates are taking advantage of the chaos, patrol teams are constantly on the move, and weapon losses are unpredictable.
After hearing this, Gwen did not reply immediately. Her gaze fell, and her fingers unconsciously twirled the Fountain Pen on the table.
She looked up. "According to 25% of the quota."
The Uchiha Trading Company is never short of money.
Barlow's trade network in Orange Town monopolized the import and export routes in the East Blue, the Capone Family opened up the West Blue, and in the first half of the Grand Line, commonly known as "Paradise," almost all the port merchants' agents operated under the Fan Flag.
The head of both the legitimate and criminal worlds—this description is not an exaggeration at all.
On the white path, Damian is Marine Headquarters Vice Admiral, and the Uchiha Trading Company almost controls all shipping routes in the East Blue, West Blue, and the first half of the Grand Line. Countless goods and luxury items rely on the Uchiha Trading Company's ships for transportation.
In the underworld, Mila had long ago standardized the rules of the underground society, prohibiting human trafficking, usury on civilians, and the collection of protection fees at the docks. Violators would be met with Uchiha members.
Those people simply sit down in front of you, look at you with ordinary eyes, and ask if you've forgotten some rules.
Then you'll remember.
This is also Barlow's rule: underground forces don't need to rely on violence to maintain themselves; the name Uchiha itself is enough.
A good reputation is more effective than a fist.
The strategist put the documents away, stood up, paused at the door, and slightly turned aside.
"Mrs. Gwen, you've worked hard."
Gwen looked up, rubbed her temples with her index finger, and nodded.
The door closed softly, and she heard the strategist's footsteps descending the wooden stairs, gradually fading into the distance.
Gwen stood up from her chair, pushed aside a stack of unsigned documents on the table, stretched her stiff neck, and walked out of the office.
The corridor was carpeted in dark red, and four sketches hung on the walls: Marcus's profile as he worked in the shipyard, Damian's full-body portrait on the day he joined the navy, a transcribed photograph of Barlow speaking at the Chamber of Commerce's founding ceremony, and a sketch of Mila and Roy practicing swordsmanship in the White Wax Forest.
There is also a wedding portrait of Gwen and Damian hanging in the first-floor living room, painted by a painter from Loguetown based on Godfather Capone's description.
She heard the sound of pages turning as she reached the top of the stairs.
First floor living room.
The afternoon sun slanted in through the floor-to-ceiling windows, bathing half the living room in a pale gold hue. The shadows cast by the window frames stretched long across the floor, landing precisely at the edge of the sofa.
Gray sat on the sofa, an open book beside him, its spine thick, its title embossed in gold: <The Way of Justice: The Navy and the Government>.
This book was left behind by Garp during his last visit. On the title page is Garp's crooked signature, and below it, in another crooked line. "To my future comrade, Gray."
Gray is seven years old. He is wearing a beige shirt with the cuffs rolled up to his elbows. His black hair is cut very short with slightly curled ends, just like his father's.
He was looking down at his book, his brows slightly furrowed, an expression he shared with his father.
Have you finished reading this chapter?
A pair of slippers made a soft sound on the mahogany floor, and Gwen's voice came from the side. Her skirt brushed against the sofa armrest.
Gray looked up, closed the book, placed his hand on the cover, and bowed slightly to his mother. "Mother."
Gwen walked over, casually resting one hand on the back of the sofa, and glanced down at the page he was reading—case studies of the application of justice principles in different countries.
"Garp's book?" she asked.
"Yeah, Brother Long said last time that this chapter was too optimistic, and told me to discuss it with him after I finished reading it."
Gray flipped the book to the page he had just read and pointed to a horizontal line drawn in pencil. "This was drawn by Brother Long."
Gwen didn't respond to that.
She bent down beside the sofa, reached out and touched Gray's hair, her fingers running through Gray strands and gently stroking it.
She has been doing this for seven years, without interruption since the full moon of Gray.
Gwen's approach as a mother was completely different from her approach as a manager; she was clumsy, completely lacking in rhythm, and left Gray's hair a mess like a bird's nest.
Gray's face began to turn red, from the tips of his ears to the base of his neck.
He didn't dodge, but simply raised the book a little higher, trying to cover his face.
"Mother, could you please stop touching my head like that?" His voice was low and muffled, choked with embarrassment.
"I'm not young anymore."
Gwen withdrew her hand, bent her index finger into a hook, and lightly flicked Gray's forehead.
"Let's talk about it again when you grow up to my chest."
She pressed the book down his face, and its spine landed on Gray's knees with a dull thud.
Gray rubbed his forehead, his lips twitching downwards.
The curve was exactly the same as the curve of his father's suppressed laughter.
He picked up the book again and continued reading, his ears still red.
Gwen sat down on the single sofa next to him.
Outside the window, the sounds of patrolmen calling out commands during their changing of the guard at the distant shooting range drifted in, along with the rustling of leaves against each other in the sea breeze through the White Wax Forest.
The pendulum of the grandfather clock in the corner of the living room swung back and forth, emitting a dull but steady ticking sound.
She glanced at the book in Gray's hand.
On the pages, the word "justice" was so brightly reflected by the sunlight that the strokes were illegible.
It's no secret that Gray wants to join the Navy.
When he was five years old, Damian took him on his first visit to a warship. Gray stood on the bridge for the entire afternoon, silently staring at the sea. When they disembarked, he asked Damian a question:
"Father, why does the navy send the captured pirates back to shore? Why not put them on trial on the ship?"
Damian held Gray's hand and remained silent for a long time, thinking about how to answer.
Later, when Garp brought his son Dragon to visit White Wax Island, he heard about this incident, and Dragon laughed loudly.
He picked Gray up and placed him on the marble railing beside the fountain, looking him in the eye, and said seriously with that perpetually rebellious face, "Gray, what do you think? Do you think the trial should take place directly on the ship?"
Gray nodded.
"Why?"
"Because some of the things pirates do are not worth wasting judicial resources on, and bringing them back ashore might lead to innocent people being targeted for revenge."
After hearing this, the dragon remained silent for a moment, then smiled.
He patted Gray on the shoulder, said "promising," and turned to leave.
Gray has remembered that moment ever since.
Later, every time Dragon came to White Wax Island with Garp, he would chat with Gray.
It wasn't the fake conversation adults have when teasing children; it was a genuine chat.
We discussed why the laws of the World Government don't apply in some countries, and what "justice" is—is it the justice of the navy, or the justice of humanity?
Gray didn't understand much of what the dragon was saying, but he remembered the look in the dragon's eyes every time it spoke.
His gaze was quite different from his father's.
Damian's eyes conveyed a sense of responsibility.
It is the responsibility of "I will do it," "I will take charge," and "I will protect it."
The dragon's gaze is scrutinizing. It's a scrutiny of "why," "by what right," and "could it be better?"
Gray is seven years old this year. He doesn't yet understand how far apart those two kinds of gazes are. He just vaguely feels that the path he will take in the future may be different from his father's.
He hadn't figured out exactly what was different.
Gwen sat on the sofa, watching Gray's profile as he intently read. She didn't speak, just watched quietly, as if trying to imprint this peaceful moment in her eyes.
In a few hours, the strategist will deliver the third batch of documents that require her personal approval. There will also be a Den Den Mushi communication that evening, Koldo will report on the latest changes in customs policy at the entrance to the Grand Line.
But now, at this moment, it is quiet.
The pendulum swung, sunlight slid from one windowpane to the next, and Gray turned a page in his book, the sound of pages turning soft and clear.
"Mother." Gray didn't look up.
"Um?"
When will Father come back?
Gwen's fingers paused on the armrest of the chair. Gray asked this question every month, and every month he asked it in the same way.
They don't ask "Will you come back?", they only ask "When will you come back?"
He said last time that he would come back once this summer.
Gray nodded, turned another page, and asked no more questions.
Outside the window, the sails of the patrol boats slowly glided across the sea, and the Fan Flag fluttered in the wind.
In the distance, the sound of loggers chopping down trees echoed from the White Wax Forest, a dull, rhythmic sound.