"If we rank them by battle merits, this reward is rightfully yours."
White Bird adjusted his glasses, his gaze behind the lenses landing on Damian's face.
Damian didn't speak; he stared at the fruit, suddenly remembering what Barlow had said.
That day in the study on White Wax Island, Barlow laid a Devil Fruit Encyclopedia on the table, pointed to the table of contents, and said, "We possess the power of the Uchiha. Chakra, Sharingan, Fire Release, Uchiha Style Swordsmanship —our foundation is already solid enough. Devil Fruit aren't a high priority for us. For an ordinary person, eating a useless fruit would be a disaster; for us, it's even more of a loss."
"Unless you encounter a top-tier Devil Fruit, such as Mythical Zoan or the highest-ranking Logia Fruit, don't waste this opportunity. Once you're soaked in seawater, you'll become a cripple, and that price is too high for the Uchiha."
Damian looked up.
White Bird was looking at him, her gaze behind her gold-rimmed glasses filled with waiting—the patience unique to someone who had experienced enough waiting.
"Admiral White Bird," Damian spoke, his voice steady, the same tone he used when reporting on patrol, "Give this fruit to Garp or Sengoku."
White Bird didn't speak; he gently tapped the lid of the wooden box with his fingers resting on the edge, producing a soft knocking sound.
Have you thought it through?
"With your current strength, plus this fruit, becoming Admiral in the future is a certainty. Mythical Zoan are extremely rare, and the next Devil Fruit the World Government sends will most likely not be of this quality."
Damian looked away from the fruit and stared directly into the White Bird's eyes.
"However, this fruit is not suitable for my fighting style. I have already developed a complete tactical system. Rashly adding another system would weaken our combat power in the short term. Giving the fruit to someone who needs it more will maximize the overall combat power of the Navy."
White Bird took off his glasses, pulled a velvet cloth from the pocket of his suit vest, and slowly and deliberately wiped the lenses, his movements extremely slow, as if he were using this action to buy himself time to think.
Are you sure?
"Sure."
White Bird put his glasses back on his nose and looked at Damian again; a few breaths passed in silence.
Then White Bird reached out and closed the lid of the wooden box. The latch clicked shut, and he placed his hands on the lid, exhaling.
"Since you insist, I respect your decision."
Damian stood up, put his cap back on, stood at attention, and saluted.
The White Bird waved its hand, indicating that he could leave, and then its hand returned to the lid of the box, its knuckles tapping unconsciously twice.
Damian turned and walked toward the door, his steps as steady as when he came. As he opened the door and stepped into the corridor, the door behind him closed gently, shutting out the warm afternoon sunlight and the silent gaze of the White Bird.
The corridor was quiet; the waxed floor reflected the image of his military boots as he walked.
The portraits of Admiral on the wall watched him descend the stairs with the silent gaze of a century ago. His military boots clattered as he walked down the marble steps, the sound of his footsteps echoing softly in the empty stairwell.
What happened next was none of his business.
Damian met Sengoku a few days later in the corridor; to be precise, Sengoku had come specifically to find him.
That afternoon, Damian had just reached the corner of the corridor when he ran into Sengoku.
He still had beads of sweat on his forehead, looking like he had just returned from training. His square face always wore a serious and tired expression, and his hair was starting to recede from the middle, revealing an increasingly wide forehead.
"Strategist"—that's what the Marine Headquarters called him. It was a title of respect and a way of defining his position, something Sengoku himself understood best.
"Damian," Sengoku called out to him.
Damian stopped and turned around.
Sengoku walked up to him, and the two stood face to face. There was no one else in the corridor.
"Admiral White Bird told me," Sengoku said without any pleasantries, "You gave me that Buddha-Buddha Fruit."
There was something very complex in the eyes of the Sengoku, something heavier than the sum of gratitude and guilt.
"Garp, Tsuru, Zephyr, you, and I—the five of us are collectively known by Headquarters as the Navy's Golden Generation."
Sengoku's tone was steady, but this steadiness was different from White Bird Admiral's calm steadiness; it was a steadiness that was barely maintained after suppressing all emotions to the bottom.
"Garp can fight any Devil Fruit user with his iron fists, Tsuru's Wash-Wash Fruit and naval tactics are unmatched, Zephyr's Armament Haki is unparalleled within the Navy, your special abilities have long been written into the rules of the New World pirates, and me..."
He paused, and the sound of new recruits marching in unison echoed from the training ground outside the corridor—one, two, three, four—each step striking Sengoku's heart with unmistakable force.
Sengoku lowered his eyes, and for a moment his shoulders seemed to slump by half an inch.
"They all call me the 'Strategist.' They consult me when formulating battle plans, analyzing enemy weaknesses, and deciding which sea area to deploy defenses in."
"But when it comes to truly facing a great pirate, when someone needs to step up and confront them head-on, they won't think of me."
Sengoku stretched out his calloused hands, examined them from all angles, and the smile on his lips was tinged with bitterness.
"Over the years, I've been thinking that the title of 'strategist' might be a reflection of my declining strength. Garp earned his status on the battlefield with his fists, a position I can never catch up to with my brains."
After saying this, Sengoku took a deep breath.
He didn't deliberately emphasize any words, but each word resonated like a stone falling into a deep well, producing a dull, heavy echo.
Damian stood before him, watching the man, more than ten years his senior, look down at his own palm, and suddenly thought of his father.
When Marcus was building that White Wax Wood sailboat, he would sometimes stare at his palms like this, looking at the thumb joint that had been bent by the hammer and the old scar where a piece of flesh had been cut off by the plane.
An aging man stares at his hands, wondering what he can still do.
"But this fruit can change everything." Sengoku's voice tightened as he looked up.
"Human-Human Fruit, Mythical Zoan, Buddha Form. It will drastically change my combat power. From today onwards, I can rush in and fight alongside Garp when he's holding off the main fire, instead of standing at the back of the battle line using binoculars to judge wind direction and artillery angles. I know this application was submitted by Admiral White Bird, but he told me, 'You gave it up.'"
Sengoku took a step forward, and that step compressed the air between the two men into something that needed to be faced with seriousness.
"So I've come to express my gratitude, not for the fruit itself, but for the fact that you gave it to 'Sengoku,' not 'the wise general of Warring Sengoku,' but simply 'Sengoku.'"
Sengoku, he extended his hand very formally.
Damian looked at the hand; the palm was broad and rough, the base of the fingers and the back of the palm were covered with thick calluses from years of holding a knife, and there were old cuts on the side of the thumb from years of reviewing documents.
It's true that the owner of this hand is a strategist; but first and foremost, it's a soldier's hand, no different from the hands that Garp, Zephyr, and Tsuru have shaken, except that it's gripped more tightly than anyone else's.
Damian grasped that hand.
"You're more suited for it than I am," Damian said. Although he wasn't as completely unguarded with his colleagues as he was with his family, his tone remained refined and unhurried.
"Giving the right person to the right job isn't a waste. The fruit is just a tool, and the value of a tool depends on the person using it. What you just said, rushing in to fight alongside Garp when he was blocking the main fire, shows that you already know how to use him. What I need is a comrade who can fight alongside me, not someone standing in the back with binoculars."
Sengoku gripped Damian's hand tighter, an instinctive reaction that required no words. Something flashed in his eyes, then was quickly suppressed by the reflection of his glasses.
"Thanks." This single word carries more weight than any other.
Damian released his grip, took half a step back, and restored a comfortable distance between them for conversation.
"I hope you can use it well," he paused, then added in an almost joking tone.
"If you really want to thank me, next time you formulate a battle plan, shift my patrol area a little towards the East Blue. I'd like to take the opportunity to go back to White Wax Island and stay for a couple more days."
Sengoku was taken aback for a moment, then burst out laughing.
That was a genuine laugh, a deep and resonant vibration bursting from his chest, making Sengoku's shoulders tremble.
Sengoku patted Damian on the shoulder with a firm thud. "Deal."
Then Sengoku's smile faded, and he spoke in a completely different, solemn tone than when he had patted her on the shoulder. "I will remember your choice for the rest of my life."
Damian nodded and said nothing more.
Sengoku turned and walked towards the other end of the corridor, his figure receding into the distance in the black and white light until he disappeared around the corner.
Damian stood alone in the corridor for a moment, then turned and walked towards the naval port.
Although the suggestion to go back to White Wax Island for two days was half-joking among his colleagues, he really wanted to go back as soon as possible to see if Gwen had a few more fine lines around her eyes and if Gray had grown taller.
He didn't want to get home to find his son standing at the door asking who he was.
As he stepped out of the shadow of the main building's columns, sunlight streamed into his face.
The sea breeze from the naval port blew into the hem of Justice Coat, scattering the silent conversation in the corridor and the sound of his own footsteps.
In the distance, a warship was raising its sails, and someone on the bridge was waving at him. He recognized him; it was his adjutant. Damian quickened his pace.