Roger's Terminal Illness

Time slipped by unnoticed.

That day, the Vice Admiral's office at Marine Headquarters was unusually quiet.

Sunlight slanted through the tall window, casting a clear band of light across the heavy desk.

Documents lay in neat stacks, their ink still fresh. The air smelled faintly of paper and tea.

Rock sat behind the desk, reading the latest intelligence summary.

—Whitebeard Pirates' movements:

An unusually hot-tempered samurai had appeared among their ranks.

Whenever he encountered the Marines, he charged straight at them regardless of the cost. His attacks were savage, almost frenzied, yet there was something strangely awkward about the way he moved. An intelligence officer had even remarked in private that he seemed "a little girly."

Rock's brow twitched almost imperceptibly.

—Roger Pirates' movements:

They had appeared near Twin Cape, stayed briefly, then vanished again.

—Flying Pirates' movements:

The great pirate Golden Lion Shiki had flown dozens of pirate ships across a stretch of sea, causing widespread panic. The World Government was watching closely.

Rock closed the report, leaned back in his chair, and let out a soft breath.

He raised his eyes toward the other side of the office.

Garp sat cross-legged on the sofa without a shred of decorum, crunching on a rice cracker. He reached over to the table for another. Clearly, he had been helping himself to the food and drink for a while.

His familiar face still wore its bold, carefree grin, but a few unmistakable strands of white had appeared at his temples.

Rock's gaze lingered for an instant.

Then, as if he had noticed nothing, he spoke casually. "Garp."

"There's news about Roger right here."

"Why haven't you led a crew out to chase him?"

Garp paused mid-bite.

The next second, he bit down hard with a sharp crunch. Frustration filled his voice.