"I will use my power to change the fate of the Navy. So, I must have my own Marine Headquarters."
Rosen's words hung heavy, unshakable. "Even if its existence brings doubt and debate, I believe it is the preparation for strangling the Great Pirate Era."
He raised his right hand. Palm open, fingers curled slightly inward. From the gaps, black and crimson lightning crackled forth, coiling like living serpents. The atmosphere itself seemed to tremble.
From behind him, Douglas Bullet, Doll, and Vinsmoke Judge watched in stunned silence. Framed against the window, Rosen's hand seemed to clutch not air, but the sea itself.
And in that lightning—seething, writhing, snapping—the three of them saw a vision.
The Vice Admiral's hand strangling not waves, not wind, but the throat of an entire era.
The Great Pirate Era itself.
Rosen's voice broke the silence. "The Headquarters I was born into is not the Headquarters I will create. My three Admirals. My own Science Division. My CID. And more besides. I will have them all."
He turned his head slightly, his gaze passing over each in turn—Bullet, Doll, Judge. His eyes gleamed with command, yet his voice was deceptively soft.
"What about you? Now, I want to hear your voices."
The office fell silent again.
His words were like water: gentle on the surface, yet powerful enough to erode stone. They nourished, but they pressed down with unbearable force.
None of the three spoke. None could.
Each one—monster, adjutant, king—was crushed beneath the weight of Rosen's ambition.
It took long moments before movement returned.
Footsteps echoed across the floorboards. Douglas Bullet rose from the sofa, his massive frame casting a shadow. He stared at Rosen's back, the words still burning in his ears.
Then—
Snap.
The sound of one knee striking the floor.
Douglas Bullet, the Demon's Heir, a man whose power rivaled that of emperors, bent the knee. He lowered his head in military salute. No words, no oath. His kneeling was answer enough.
Like a stone rolling downhill, his action carried the others with it.
Doll, hand tightening on the hilt of her blade, drew a sharp breath. She was chosen by Sengoku himself to stand as Rosen's adjutant. And now, following Bullet's example, she stepped forward, bowed her head, and bent her knee as well.
The sound echoed again.
Two figures kneeling behind Rosen's back.
Judge's heart thundered. His face twisted—pride, humiliation, awe, all colliding at once.
Do you have your own Marine Headquarters? he thought bitterly. What a terrifying ambition.
Yet ambition calls to ambition.
Judge felt the blood surge in his veins. Memories of humiliation—trampled under Bullet, cornered by Rosen—burned away. What remained was a man who wanted more.
Vegapunk, with all the offers of the World Government behind him, had become the most revered scientist alive. Judge had lived his life in Vegapunk's shadow.
But Rosen offered him something different. Not borrowed prestige from the Celestial Dragons, not the leash of Headquarters—something greater.
If I help him forge this new Headquarters, the world will know my name alongside his. My science will not be second to Vegapunk's—it will be greater.
His knees buckled. Snap.
Vinsmoke Judge, King of Germa, lowered his head and joined them.
Three figures knelt. None spoke, but Rosen did not need their words. Their voices had already reached him.
Make you king.
Whether through strength, knowledge, or technology—they would give all. To the man who dared strangle the era itself, they would pledge everything.
…
The Germa Kingdom had never been known for hesitation. Judge acted swiftly.
With Bullet's escort, he returned to Germa. The kingdom's castle-ships groaned and shifted, sails unfurled, and within days the maritime fortress had sailed across thousands of miles to anchor near the 1st Branch.
From there, transformation began.
Labs dismantled and rebuilt. Production lines of clone soldiers were uprooted and reinstalled. Entire factories, vaults of blueprints, and barracks of engineers—all moved into the North Sea branch.
It was a migration of science, of ambition, of the nation itself.
Judge worked without rest. For Rosen's vision, for his own hunger, he poured in every resource at Germa's disposal.
Because he knew: Vegapunk's greatness was built on the shoulders of the World Government. But his greatness would be built by Rosen.
History would not remember him as "second best." History would remember him as the scientist who helped a Vice Admiral build a new Marine Headquarters.
But just as he thought himself aligned with Rosen, Judge was stopped cold.
"Admiral…" he asked, voice trembling in disbelief. "…you want me to build three hundred and fifty combat suits?"
The office was silent.
Judge's eyes bulged. He could scarcely breathe. Since he had mastered bloodline factor science, he had created only six combat suits. One for himself. One for his wife. Four for his children—though Sanji's was still incomplete.
And yet Rosen, with a straight face, demanded three hundred and fifty.
Rosen gave a single nod. "Yes."
Judge's jaw dropped. "Do you have any idea what that means? The costs alone—Admiral, you must understand." He slammed a gloved fist on the table. "This latest suit, Winch Green—it required one hundred million Berry. One hundred million! Equivalent to a Zoan-class Devil Fruit on the black market!"
His voice rose, incredulous.
"Three hundred and fifty suits would cost thirty-five billion Berry at minimum. That does not account for failures, for tools, for lost materials! Even with two shipments of Heavenly Tribute in reserve, we will burn through it in an instant!"
He leaned forward, sweat streaking his brow.
"And to waste such suits on common branch officers? Admiral, at least restrict their use to Captains or Lieutenant Otherwise—"
Judge stopped, words caught in his throat.
Because even as he spoke, he realized something. Rosen's eyes—calm, sharp, utterly certain—told him the truth.
This wasn't a waste. This was strategy.
Rosen was not arming a branch.
He was arming a Headquarters.