Marineford, Grand Line

The late afternoon sun slanted through the tall windows of the Fleet Admiral’s office, painting long golden stripes across the polished marble floor. Dust motes drifted lazily in the shafts of light, dancing like tiny spirits over the stacks of paperwork, rolling maps, and the perpetually hungry goat munching on yet another unfinished report.

Sengoku rubbed his temples. He had been buried in reports, complaints, and intelligence memos for nearly five straight hours when he heard the familiar heavy footsteps outside his door. Garp never knocked. Except today, he did. Three measured, deliberate taps echoed through the chamber.

Sengoku’s brows rose. "Come in."

The door swung open, and Vice Admiral Monkey D. Garp—Hero of the Marines, scourge of sea kings, bane of paperwork—stepped through with a stiffness Sengoku hadn’t seen since their rookie days. His usually carefree grin was absent, replaced by something unreadable.

Without a word, Garp approached the desk and held out a sealed envelope.

"What is this supposed to be...?" Sengoku muttered, taking it with cautious fingers. Immediately he noticed something unsettling: it was perfectly done.

The envelope was Marine-issue white parchment, embossed with the World Government’s five-symbol watermark, its edges trimmed and folded precisely according to naval regulations. A deep blue wax seal marked it closed, stamped with the emblem of the Marines—Justice, in bold strokes—clean, unbroken, official.

In the top-left corner, written in elegant, neat handwriting (far too neat to ever belong to Garp), was the designation:

Vice Admiral Monkey D. Garp – Confidential Transmission, Formal Declaration

Attested by: Vincent Bogard, Vice Admiral, Marine HQ

Sengoku blinked, stunned. Garp never filed anything without it being covered in crumbs, coffee stains, or doodles of donuts. On the rare occasions he did write, the handwriting resembled the scribbles of an overtired toddler. Sengoku or Bogard usually had to rewrite every document by hand.

And the ones Garp personally submitted? Sengoku fed those to his goat before they could contaminate the archives.

But today—Garp stood tall, straight-backed. His arms were crossed. His chin was raised. He looked like the hero the world believed him to be. And that alone made Sengoku’s stomach drop.

"Garp..." Sengoku said slowly, "What is this?"

Garp didn’t answer. He just nodded at the envelope. Sengoku broke the seal. The crack of wax echoed through the quiet office like a gunshot. As he unfolded the parchment inside, the air in the room changed. He felt it—heavy, oppressive, suffocating. As if the very walls of Marineford leaned in to listen.

His eyes scanned the neatly lettered words. And his frown deepened. Line by line, his heart sank deeper into his chest.

To Fleet Admiral Sengoku,

I hereby formally request early retirement—

His throat tightened.

"Garp..." he whispered.

But the old fighter didn’t speak. He didn’t grin. He didn’t scratch his nose or eat a rice cracker or laugh about some foolish adventure. He stood there like a soldier awaiting judgment. Sengoku read further. Each sentence felt like a hammer blow.

—It has become clear to me that my presence within the Marines is no longer conducive to its stability or future. Given recent incidents, my involvement endangers the morale and public image of the organization I have dedicated my life to protecting. I accept full responsibility for the consequences of my personal decisions. Therefore, I request to step down from active duty and retire from service.

The final signature was written in heavy, deliberate strokes.

Vice Admiral Monkey D. Garp

Sengoku’s hand trembled. He set the letter down slowly, as though it were a loaded weapon. The room was silent save for the quiet chewing of the goat in the corner. Finally, Sengoku looked up.

His eyes—normally sharp and unwavering—now glimmered with something he rarely allowed himself to feel: Loss.

"Why?" Sengoku said quietly, almost pleading.

"After everything we’ve been through... after all these decades... You think you can just walk away?"

Garp inhaled deeply. His jaw clenched.

"I’ve lost too much, old friend," he said, voice low and steady.

"Too many mistakes finally caught up to me. God Valley... Sorbet Kingdom... Flevance..."

He paused. And in that brief silence, Sengoku saw it—the guilt. The grief. The exhaustion of a lifetime spent fighting battles no one else could understand.

"I can’t keep doing this, Sengoku... Not with how the marines have become. " Garp said.

"The uniform’s heavy, Sengoku. Heavier than even I can swing these days. And after Water 7..."

His voice grew hoarse. "I can’t face the next war wearing this marine coat."

Sengoku closed his eyes. He remembered their youth—two ambitious recruits dreaming of shaping the seas. He remembered their victories, their failures, and the absurd antics that only Garp could cause. He remembered laughing, arguing, drinking, and saving the world more times than history books could ever record.

They had been partners. Brothers. Rivals. The only two who truly understood each other. And now—Garp was choosing to step off the field. Sengoku opened his eyes, and they softened.

"You idiot," he said quietly. "You absolute idiot..."

Garp finally cracked the faintest, saddest smile.

"Yeah," he said. "I know."

For a moment, both men simply stared—two legends at the peak of their era. "If you go," he whispered, "the Marines will never be the same." Garp didn’t look away.

"They were never meant to be the same forever; at least I thought I could shape it in a way where we truly represent justice. But what happened in Water 7 made it pretty much clear to me that’s simply a delusion," he said. "Times change. People change. Perhaps the new generation... I trust they’ll handle it; I am sure they will be able to bring about the change that I couldn’t."

A long silence followed. Finally, Sengoku exhaled. The silence felt suffocating. Garp stood motionless, waiting for Sengoku to sign the resignation letter. Waiting for the burden to be lifted.

Waiting for release. Sengoku looked down at the pristine parchment on his desk.

His fingers hovered over the ink stamp—the final seal that would end a legend’s career. He wanted to do it. God, he wanted to. To free the man who had given everything to the Marines. To release his brother-in-arms from a world that had demanded far too much. To let Garp finally live the life he’d been denied—the life of a grandfather, a father, a man unchained by duty.

But the Fleet Admiral in him... The one who bore the crushing weight of the future of the Marines... That Sengoku could not, would not, allow it. The desk suddenly shook.

Sengoku’s fist slammed down, shattering the ink bottle into a splatter of black across the resignation letter. Garp did not flinch. The goat bleated and stumbled backward. Sengoku rose—slowly, heavily, like a mountain lifting itself from the earth. His eyes no longer held grief. They burned with fury.

"Denied."

Garp stiffened. "...Sengoku?"

"I said...Denied!" Sengoku roared, slamming both palms on the desk, scattering papers and broken glass.

"You think I’ll let you walk away now?! After everything we’ve endured—everything we’ve survived—everything that STILL needs to be done?!"

Garp’s jaw tightened. "I’ve made my decision."

"And I’m making mine." Sengoku stepped around the desk until he stood inches from Garp, staring the man down like a war god.

"You’re not resigning." His voice was low. Unshakable. "Not today. Not tomorrow. Not until I say so."

Garp exhaled slowly through his nose. "Sengoku, don’t do this. You know what I’ve lost—"

"I KNOW!" Sengoku thundered, voice breaking for the first time.

"You think I don’t understand?! You think I haven’t watched the world take everything from us too?! Our comrades, our families, our dreams—WE PAID FOR JUSTICE WITH OUR LIVES!"

Garp froze. Sengoku continued—quiet, trembling: "Don’t you dare pretend I don’t know your pain." A long, suffocating silence. The two men—heroes of an era—stood like pillars cracked with age, weathered by storms only they could fathom.

Sengoku’s shoulders dropped. And in a hoarse whisper, he spoke not as a Fleet Admiral... but as a friend.

"If you leave, Garp... I will leave too."

Garp’s eyes widened. "What?"

Sengoku stepped closer, his expression raw.

"If you walk away," he said, "then I will take off this coat, surrender this office, and follow you out the door."

Garp’s composure finally cracked. "Sengoku, don’t be ridiculous—"

"I’m dead serious." Sengoku jabbed a finger into Garp’s chest.

"You keep talking about burdens, about guilt, about the weight of the title ’Hero’—but do you think you carried that alone?!" His voice wavered with old wounds.

"Every execution, every order, every sacrifice—you think I stood by because I was strong? No. I stood by because you were at my side."

Garp swallowed hard. Sengoku’s next words came like a hammer: "If the Marines lose you now, the entire world will shake. Morale, stability, structure—the very IDEA of Justice hangs on the name Garp. And if I lose you?"

He closed his eyes. "...Then the man called Sengoku ceases to exist too." Garp’s breath hitched. "We shaped this era together," Sengoku whispered. "Don’t you dare abandon it before its end."

Another silence—thick with unspoken memories, grief, and the shared blood of countless battles. Finally... Garp exhaled, long and defeated. "...You bastard," he muttered softly. "You’re using yourself as leverage against me."

Sengoku gave a tired, weary smile. "Yes," he said. "Because you’d never let your best friend fall alone... would you?"

The office of the Fleet Admiral felt smaller than it ever had. Garp stood unmoving, his monstrous frame somehow seeming small, as if grief had carved pieces out of him that even his iron fists couldn’t reclaim.

The shredded resignation letter lay at Sengoku’s feet, soaked in spilled ink, half-chewed by the goat. Sengoku inhaled sharply, gathering every last ounce of resolve he had. Because the next words he spoke were a blade aimed straight at Garp’s heart.

But he had no choice. He stepped closer—so close he could see the faint scars that crossed Garp’s jaw, each one a memory of battles they had survived together.

"Do you remember?" Sengoku began quietly.

"Back when we were nobodies? When we first stepped onto this island—Marineford? When the two of us had nothing but ambition, bruised knuckles, and scraped pride?"

Garp didn’t answer. His eyes stayed on the floor. Sengoku continued, his voice trembling not with anger but with grief.

"You gave me your word back then, Garp... right on the parade grounds. Two powerless recruits standing beneath banners of a justice we barely understood." He swallowed, eyes distant, seeing decades-old memories play out across the room.

"You said you would help me shape an era. That no matter how impossible the odds, no matter how dark the seas we faced... you would stand with me. At my back. With your fists raised."

Garp’s fingers curled slowly at his sides, knuckles going white. Sengoku’s voice cracked.

"The Garp I know... the one I bled with... the one I buried comrades beside... the one who held back monsters and gods with nothing but his will—" He shook his head, pain leaking through the cracks. "That Garp would never abandon his word. Not even after suffering the gravest loss a man can endure."

Garp’s jaw tightened. Hard. Sengoku could see it—the storm inside him. The conflict. The agony. But he pressed on, because if he stopped now, he would lose him forever.

"I know what I’m doing," Sengoku whispered.

"I know I’m striking at the most painful part of your soul. I know I’m using your honor... your pride... your promise against you." His eyes glistened—not with weakness, but with the unbearable weight of absolute resolve. "But I am desperate, Garp."

He reached out, gripping Garp’s shoulder with trembling fingers. "Without you... the Marines will crumble. You know it. I know it. Every man who ever wore this coat knows it."

A long, suffocating silence. The only sound was the soft chewing of the goat finishing the last scraps of ink-stained parchment. Finally, Sengoku leaned closer, his voice barely a breath.

"So tell me, Garp... If you walk away now... What happens to the era we swore to build together?"

Garp’s breathing grew heavy. His chest rose and fell like he was trying to contain a hurricane.

A storm of guilt. Rage. Sorrow. Love. Duty. Tears threatened at the edges of Sengoku’s eyes—not from weakness, but from the sheer pain of forcing his closest friend to stay in a place that was slowly killing him.

But he had to. For the Marines. For the world. For the era they had carved with their own hands. Garp finally spoke, voice cracked and low: "...You heartless bastard." Garp closed his eyes. The weight of the world seemed to crash into him all at once. His fists trembled. His shoulders sagged.

Garp wanted nothing more than to plant his fist into the Fleet Admiral’s jaw just to vent, but a sharp, perfectly timed knock on the door froze both him and Sengoku in place. The two veterans turned their heads toward the ruined entrance.

With Sengoku’s weary nod, a Marine Rear Admiral stepped in. His boots had barely crossed the threshold before the tension smothered him like a heavy fog. His eyes darted across the crime scene of an office: cracks veined every wall; shards of glass glittered where the massive window once stood; ink pooled across the floor like spilled blood; papers and folders lay scattered as though a hurricane had passed through. The desk itself—once a symbol of the Fleet Admiral’s authority—was split down the middle like an execution block.

He wisely swallowed whatever questions were forming in his throat.

"Fleet Admiral... we’ve received an urgent missive from the Holy Land," he announced, voice tight.

Sengoku gestured for him to continue as he sank back into what remained of his chair, the splintered wood creaking in protest.

"Sir... we’ve been notified that one of the Five Elders is en route to Marineford for an inspection."

Sengoku’s brows rose. Even Garp, who had slumped onto the couch to cool his temper, looked up sharply. Those old bastards never moved unless they had something to hide—and certainly not for a simple ’inspection.’

"Fine," Sengoku said. "Prepare Marineford according to protocol. I’ll send the official orders later this afternoon."

He glanced around at the destruction again and exhaled through his nose. "After I clean up this disaster..."

But the Rear Admiral didn’t move. He lingered, hesitant.

"S-Sir... with all due respect... they’ll be here in an hour or two. The message was just a heads-up."

This time, Sengoku froze. That wasn’t protocol. Not even close. Whenever one of the Celestial Dragons, let alone the Gorosei, left the Holy Land, the Marines were informed days—sometimes weeks—in advance. Their sudden appearance meant only one thing: the World Government was acting behind Marineford’s back. And the Elder... was coming to ensure the Marines did nothing about it.

Sengoku dismissed the officer with clipped instructions to prepare the base as best they could in the limited time.

Once the door shut, Sengoku turned his gaze toward Garp—who was still simmering, still thinking of how the government had manipulated his friend. Garp sneered when he noticed Sengoku staring.

"What? You expecting me to go stand in line and salute them now?"

Sengoku didn’t answer. Instead, he reached for a fresh sheet of parchment—one of the few that wasn’t torn, ink-soaked, or crumpled. His quill scratched against the paper as he spoke.

"I want you to take a few months’ vacation. Cool your head before you come back."

Garp’s scowl deepened—but then stilled as the meaning sank in. Sengoku wasn’t removing him for punishment. He was protecting him. If Garp stayed during whatever scheme the World Government was weaving, the last thread keeping him tied to the Marines would snap.

Sengoku couldn’t allow that. The Fleet Admiral finished writing, stamped the parchment, and handed it over. Garp read it—and blinked.

"This isn’t a vacation order."

"No," Sengoku said softly. 𝒇𝙧𝙚𝓮𝔀𝓮𝒃𝙣𝓸𝒗𝒆𝒍.𝙘𝒐𝒎

In Garp’s hands was a formal directive: Vice Admiral Monkey D. Garp was to be stationed on Water 7 for several months to aid in reconstruction efforts.

Garp’s jaw tightened, guilt flickering through his eyes. The Buster Call had reduced Water 7 to a corpse of its former self—yet it had survived, battered but breathing, thanks to the Aqua Laguna’s strange mercy. Survivors still clung to the ruins. Lives still needed saving. A city still needed rebuilding.

"...You sure about this?" Garp asked quietly. "Those bastards won’t like it. Not one bit. And where are you going to find the funds to rebuild an entire archipelago? You think they’ll just let you ask for money?"

This time, Sengoku’s smile curved into something sharp. Calculated. Dangerous.

"Oh, they’ll fund it," he said. "In fact, they’ll fund every last nail and plank."

He stood, stepping over shattered glass to retrieve a thick folder from the floor—a collection of crisp letters bearing seals of renowned shipwright families and shipyards.

"Water 7 built half our current fleet," Sengoku continued. "And not just ours. The World Government’s warships rely on their craftsmanship. Without Water 7, both fleets begin to suffocate."

He opened one letter. Then another. Then another.

"All these shipyards terminated their contracts this morning. Every one of them refusing to work. Different excuses, same message."

Garp blinked. "...The craftsmen are protesting?"

"They’re refusing," Sengoku corrected. "Prideful men and women. They won’t build ships for a government that destroys the very city that gave them their legacy." His eyes hardened. "If the government wants its fleets to survive—and they do, desperately—they’ll have no choice but to pay for Water 7’s revival." Sengoku snapped the folder shut.

"I’m going to wring them dry," he said. "Every beli they tried to loot from the kingdoms in the name of yearly tribute using their authority? They’ll pay tenfold. I may not be able to bring back the dead, but I will rebuild the city they tried to erase."

Garp stared at him. For the first time that morning, the anger in his eyes eased—just a fraction. Sengoku exhaled.

"Go, Garp. Help them rebuild. Help yourself while you’re at it. When this mess settles, I’ll call you back."

Garp slid the parchment into his coat, the paper crackling softly against the strained quiet of the room. For a moment, neither man spoke. The tension wasn’t gone—merely redirected, simmering under the surface like boiling water kept just below the lid.

He turned toward the door. But then he paused. Without looking back, Garp spoke—his voice low, quiet, and far more dangerous than his earlier outburst.

"...Sengoku."

The Fleet Admiral stiffened. He’d known Garp long enough to recognize that tone. It wasn’t anger. It was conviction.

The old Marine finally turned, meeting Sengoku’s gaze with an expression stripped of humor, bravado, and the reckless grin he was famous for. This was Garp the man—not the hero, not the legend, not the fist that split mountains.

"This conversation," Garp said slowly, "isn’t over."

Sengoku remained silent, waiting. Garp turned back toward the splintered desk, boots crunching over broken glass. He stood close enough that Sengoku could see the weariness behind the man’s eyes... and the steel beneath it.

"If something like Water 7 happens again," Garp said, voice low but unshakably firm, "if the World Government drags the Marines into another massacre—another damn cover-up—"

His fist clenched at his side. The air itself seemed to tighten around him. "—I won’t write a resignation letter. I won’t wait for approvals or protocols." His gaze hardened into something terrifyingly resolute.

"I’ll hang my coat right on the gates of Marineford... and walk away."

No laughter. No bluster. No dramatic flair. Just truth. Deadly serious truth.

Sengoku inhaled through his nose, just barely. It was the first time he had ever heard Garp say such words aloud. Garp—whose stubborn loyalty had carried him through decades of political rot. Garp—who refused promotions because he didn’t want to become a lapdog. Garp—who stayed with the Marines because, in his heart, he still believed in saving people.

And now he was saying he would leave. Not as a threat. As a promise.

"Garp," Sengoku said quietly, "I know."

"No," Garp snapped—not angrily, but firmly. "You don’t."

He jabbed a finger at the cracked wall, at the shattered window, at the mess that symbolized the chaos the world government had dragged them both into.

"I can tolerate their arrogance. Their secrets. Their damn games. But if the Marines become a weapon to wipe out innocent people again—if they force us to stain our hands with another Water 7—"

His breath hitched. "—then I’m done. I won’t be part of it. Not for them. Not for anybody. Not even for you..." His fists trembled—not from rage, but from something deeper. The guilt and grief of a hero who had seen too much.

Sengoku studied him, then nodded—slowly, painfully. "I know," he repeated. "And that’s why I’m sending you away. I won’t let them push you past your limit. Not while I’m still Fleet Admiral."

For a long moment, the two men simply stood there—two veterans, two friends, two weary soldiers struggling beneath the weight of a world that demanded too much of them. Then Garp exhaled, shoulders settling.

"Good," he muttered. "Because I meant every word."

He turned again, making for the door—this time with no hesitation. Just as he reached for the ruined handle, his voice drifted back, rough but steadier than before.

"And Sengoku... if those bastards try anything funny while I’m away—don’t shoulder it alone."

Sengoku’s eyes softened, if only for a heartbeat.

"...I won’t." Garp gave a short nod, then stepped out, leaving Sengoku alone in the wrecked office as the storm clouds of the Holy Land’s arrival gathered over Marineford.