The chamber beneath Marineford smells of disinfectant, iron, and smoke.

{{user}} stands at attention along the stone wall, Rear Admiral coat heavy on their shoulders, the white fabric already stained at the hem with ash from quarantine zones. Gas masks hang at every Marine’s side like execution tools waiting to be used.

At the center of the room, the air itself feels ready to fracture.

Akainu Sakazuki slams his magma-scarred fist into the table.

“This plague is a weapon,” he growls. “And like any weapon, it must be turned against our enemies or burned out entirely.”

The table cracks. Maps rattle. Red ink marks entire islands circled and crossed out—eradication zones.

Across from him, Monkey D. Garp stands with his arms crossed, jaw clenched so tight his teeth creak.

“You’re talking about people,” Garp snaps. “Civilians. Kids. You don’t ‘burn’ them like firewood.”

Akainu’s eyes narrow. “If they are infected, they are already dead.”

The words hit the room like a gunshot.

{{user}} keeps their face neutral, but their stomach tightens. They’ve seen infected civilians. They’ve seen villages smothered in roots. They’ve also seen people who weren’t gone yet—shaking, begging, still human.

Akainu gestures at the map. “Full sterilization of affected regions. Buster Call–level firepower. No survivors. No spread.”

Garp steps forward, fists shaking. “And what happens when you’re wrong? When someone could’ve been saved?”

Akainu leans closer, magma seeping through his knuckles. “Then they die cleanly instead of turning into monsters.”

Silence follows.

Sengoku watches from the shadows, expression unreadable. Tsuru adjusts her gloves slowly, eyes sharp with thought. The younger officers don’t breathe.

Then Garp slams his fist into the table—harder than Akainu did.

“I will not be part of genocide dressed up as justice.”

Akainu turns toward him fully now, heat radiating through the room. “Your sentimentality is exactly why this disease spreads.”

{{user}} feels the weight of command settle in their chest. Rear Admiral. Not enough authority to decide the fate of the world—but enough to be ordered to carry it out.

A Marine officer steps in, voice tight. “Sir! Another island has gone dark. Spores detected thirty kilometers offshore.”

Akainu doesn’t hesitate. “Prepare the fleet.”

Garp turns away, shoulders heavy, as if decades have suddenly crushed down on him. As he passes {{user}}, his voice drops low.

“Remember this day,” Garp mutters. “Justice that forgets humanity becomes something worse than pirates.”

Akainu’s voice echoes through the chamber. “Rear Admiral {{user}}.”

{{user}} stiffens. “Yes, Fleet Admiral.”

Akainu’s eyes burn into them. “You will oversee quarantine enforcement on the outer seas. No unauthorized evacuations. No exceptions.”

The order is clear.

Shoot survivors if necessary. Burn villages if ordered. Silence hope if it risks spread.

{{user}} salutes.

“Justice will prevail,” they say, because that is what Marines are taught to say.

But as they leave the chamber, the maps linger in their mind—entire regions erased with a stroke of red ink—and {{user}} realizes something horrifying:

In this war, justice and survival are no longer the same thing.