The Greatest Disgrace in Marine History-Chapter 99 - 1: The New Weapon

A king may have risen in the North Blue...

But the seas are far from quiet.

In truth, the storm is only just beginning.

"Volume 2" will take us deeper—into sharper choices, bolder deception, fiercer battles, and crueler fates.

But also... into something far more unforgettable.

Let the tide carry us forward.

---

Three days later.

Marine 321st Branch – Marine Hospital, Private Recovery Ward

A sterile silence lingered in the room, broken only by the soft rustle of cloth and the gentle snip of bandage shears.

Strip by strip, the bloodstained gauze was peeled away, revealing flesh that had only just finished knitting itself together—fresh skin, tinged with pink, still marked by faint scars and stubborn bruises. The scent of disinfectant hung in the air, sharp and clinical.

The body beneath the gauze was more than recovered—it was a masterpiece of muscle and form. Shoulders like iron girders, arms lined with ridged veins and power. There was something primal, undeniably commanding in his presence. A force of nature.

The young nurse attending him faltered for just a moment, her eyes flitting over that sculpted torso. Her cheeks flushed crimson. She swallowed hard.

"L-Lord Darren... I'll go ahead and remove the cast on your arm," she said, voice barely above a whisper.

Darren glanced at her, then smiled gently—a calm, collected kind of smile, the kind that made people instinctively want to stand straighter.

"No need," he replied. "I'll take care of it."

He lowered his gaze, rolled his shoulders once—and then, with a deep exhale, he clenched both fists.

CRACK!

With a sound like splitting stone, the muscles along his forearms surged. The plaster that had encased his arm like a cage exploded outward, disintegrating into white powder that settled around him like ash.

Darren flexed his fingers, then rolled his wrists. Every joint popped with satisfying precision.

The nurse, red-faced, resumed cleaning his skin, now working with hurried reverence.

Knock knock knock...

A few polite taps at the door preceded its slow opening. A tall figure stepped inside, wearing the unmistakable uniform of an Admiral. His mustache twitched in amusement as he entered.

Admiral Sengoku.

"Well now," he said, a grin playing on his face. "Darren, did you see the papers this morning? Looks like your name's echoing through the seas..."

Darren rose upright on the bed and offered a crisp Marine salute.

"All thanks to your guidance and support, Admiral Sengoku."

Then, turning to the nurse, he nodded gently. "Thank you. That'll be all."

She bowed and exited quickly, clearly relieved to escape the presence of two top-ranking officers.

Sengoku chuckled.

He'd been praised by plenty over the years—but when Darren said it, it never felt hollow. Just... genuine.

"You're healing up quick," Sengoku said, scanning him from head to toe.

Darren flexed his arm again. "I've had three days to rest. I'd be ashamed if I didn't bounce back."

Sengoku's eye twitched.

He gave a dry chuckle, then shifted gears. "You got the notice from HQ, right? Officer training camp kicks off in seven days."

Darren nodded once.

"Good..." Sengoku paused for just a moment—long enough to suggest there was more to say, something weighing on him.

Darren smiled knowingly. "You want to talk about the North Blue Fleet, don't you?"

This kid... Sengoku thought. Always one step ahead.

He let out a breath and straightened up, voice taking on a serious edge.

"Yes. That's right."

"Darren, you and I both know what the North Blue Fleet represents. It's not just a regional force. It's a prototype."

"A Marine fleet that can fly—one equipped with aerial deployment, advanced tech... it changes the game."

Sengoku clasped his hands behind his back.

"Now don't get me wrong—the fleet's independence under the Blue command structure is safe. We're not dismantling it. HQ just wants to replicate the model, develop something similar at headquarters."

Darren raised a hand, palm up in a gesture of assurance.

"You don't need to explain further, Admiral. If it helps bring order and justice to the world, I'll do whatever it takes."

"I'll prepare a detailed report on all systems—ship modifications, gear loadouts, deployment patterns. I'll have it on your desk by week's end."

He paused briefly, a sly glint in his eye.

"But... fair warning, Admiral. That kind of gear? Doesn't come cheap."

Sengoku burst into laughter—loud, gruff, and full of approval.

"Don't worry about that! We'll handle the budget!"

He clapped Darren on the shoulder. "You, my boy, are the future of the Marines. Unlike a certain someone who keeps disappearing when there's work to do..."

He didn't say a name—but the irritation was obvious.

Then, as if reminded by a passing thought, Sengoku leaned in, lowered his voice.

"Once you graduate... come work directly under me. I want you as my adjutant."

"...The weather's quite lovely today, isn't it, Admiral Sengoku?"

The slow, teasing voice drifted from the doorway.

Sengoku's back went rigid.

Darren turned his head, face already forming a wry grimace.

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Rear Admiral Borsalino.

He was leaning lazily against the doorframe, one leg crossed over the other, hands buried in his coat pockets. His ever-present sunglasses reflected the ceiling lights, and his smile—if it could be called that—was pure mischief.

The room fell into a sudden, awkward silence.

Sengoku stood motionless.

Beads of sweat began to gather on his forehead.

Suddenly—

"Hello! Sengoku here!!"

He yanked a Den Den Mushi out of his coat and shouted into it with panic-stricken urgency.

"What!? A crisis at HQ!? I'm on my way!!"

He didn't wait for a reply—just turned on his heel and made for the door at a near-jog.

Darren: "...."

Borsalino raised a lazy hand and pointed at the Mushi.

"Uhh... Admiral, I don't think that line was ever connected."

Sengoku stumbled mid-step. Without turning, he muttered: "...Signal must've dropped."

He clenched his teeth and picked up the pace, vanishing down the corridor like a fleeing fugitive.

Several dark lines slowly crept down Darren's forehead.

Borsalino chuckled and finally stepped fully into the room.

"You're lookin' sharp, Commodore."

"More or less," Darren replied, rolling his wrist with a quiet crack.

Borsalino gave him a sidelong glance.

Behind those thick sunglasses, something cold and analytical flickered.

"I'll admit—I didn't expect you to pull off the North Blue Fleet."

"That one took me by surprise."

Darren's eyes narrowed.

"Say what you came to say, Rear Admiral."

Borsalino held up both hands in mock surrender.

"Heh. Busted."

"Alright, alright. I've got something to run by you."

His voice was slow and casual, but there was a sharpness under it.

"That fleet of yours... it's impressive. The Germa 66 tech? Flying ships? Strategic genius."

"But haven't you noticed?"

"Even with all that, the firepower still doesn't quite measure up."

Darren sat up straighter, muscles tense beneath the thin medical robe.

"...What are you getting at?"

Borsalino's smile widened.

"Marines are forming a new special unit. A science division."

"They'll be responsible for integrating Dr. Vegapunk's inventions into actual combat scenarios."

"Recently, the doctor's made... let's just say, some very interesting breakthroughs."

Darren's eyes gleamed with interest.

"You're looking for live testing, right? Field data."

"Exactly," Borsalino said.

His sunglasses reflected a ghostly gold shimmer as he raised a finger.

"So, Darren... you want a taste of what comes next?"

Darren's eyes narrowed.

"What kind of weapon are we talking about?"

Borsalino raised one finger toward the ceiling.

"This one."

From the tip of his finger, heat shimmered into the air like a mirage.

Then came the light—radiant, golden, humming with destruction.

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To be continued...