The 1st North Sea Naval Branch.
Total troops: 350.
Vinsmoke Judge had already learned these figures after joining Rosen's newly formed science class. That was why, when Rosen declared that 350 combat uniforms would be produced, Judge immediately understood what he intended.
Every single sailor would receive one.
To Judge, this was staggering. In Germa 66, the battle suit was not simply equipment—it was a symbol of nobility, power, and exclusivity. At minimum, only colonels and above would have been deemed worthy. For ordinary sailors, such a thing was unthinkable. It was the sacred right of the royal family, never meant for common soldiers.
And yet Rosen's voice left no room for doubt.
"In my view, the greatness of technology lies in mass production and universal adoption. True research is not only continuous refinement, but the ability to popularize. Imagine, Judge—if one day every officer of the Marines, from the Fleet Admiral down to the third-class sailor, bore a combat suit. Do you think this era would still be called the Great Pirate Era?"
Judge could not argue the logic. The cost, however, was astronomical. He knew better than anyone. Each combat suit of Germa 66 possessed functions rivaling the powers of Devil Fruits—flight, self-repair, enhanced strength, specialized abilities like invisibility. To mass-produce such wonders was beyond comprehension.
"Mass-produce Germa 66 combat suits…" Judge whispered, horrified. "If such a thing is achieved, it may not end the Great Pirate Era, but it will certainly immortalize Germa 66—and the name Vinsmoke Judge—in history."
But the financial burden…
"It will require unthinkable sums," Judge pressed.
"Even if we sold the two shipments of Heavenly Tribute currently stockpiled, it would barely scratch the surface. To mass-equip the entire First Branch? Impossible. Only the World Government itself could provide such funding."
Rosen remained calm, as if he had anticipated every objection.
"And what if I told you the First Branch will hold in its hands twenty percent of the world's wealth in berry?"
Judge's breath caught.
"Twenty… percent? Admiral, that is absurd. No nation, no man, no pirate—none controls such a share. The World Government would never allow it. Even the richest country cannot claim it."
Berry, a currency dismissed as mere printed paper, seemed useless in small amounts. But at scale—at Rosen's scale—it could alter the very balance of the seas.
Vegapunk had done the same with the resources of the World Government, transforming endless funds into pacifistas, seraphs, and weapons of an entirely new age.
And Rosen spoke of controlling a fifth of the world's wealth.
"Just answer this," Rosen said, voice steady. "If the First Branch controlled twenty percent of the world's berries, could you mass-produce Germa 66 combat suits for the entire force?"
Judge swallowed hard. "Yes… I could. But Admiral, would you not fear betrayal? Even with a hundred suits—those soldiers would be superhuman.
If they deserted, or if our designs were stolen, the consequences could be catastrophic."
He spoke from bitter experience. Clone soldiers were loyal because they were programmed to be. Marines were men and women with hearts that could waver, ambitions that could betray.
Rosen's answer carried the weight of certainty.
"Betrayal? Impossible. My Observation Haki pierces the hearts of all three hundred and fifty men, day and night. Not one sailor under my command can hide intent from me. Those unworthy will never receive a suit.
And those who do will be bound by more than discipline."
He looked directly at Judge.
"Do you truly believe your science will remain stagnant for life? These suits will not stay in one generation forever."
"With your knowledge and with proper funding, we will build higher versions, stronger versions. Betrayal will mean nothing if our technology always stays a step ahead."
The words ignited a fire in Judge's chest. As a scientist, there was no greater glory than to always outpace the world.
"Then I will do it. I will bind each suit to its user. Marine No. 1 receives Suit No. 1. No one else can use it. If stolen, it will self-destruct. Furthermore, the science class can remotely erase any suit at will. That technology already exists within Germa."
For the first time, Judge saw the path clearly. Technology could be protected, betrayal rendered meaningless. And with Rosen's vision, the combat suits would become more than a weapon—they would become the uniform of a new era.
Rosen nodded, approving.
"And beyond that, we will form an elite corps with the latest versions of the suits. Externally, they will be my sword against pirates. Internally, they will be my shield against betrayal."
"A force to watch the army itself—just as the Marines of Mary Geoise required the Criminal Investigation Bureau."
Judge bowed his head slightly. "I see."
Through hours of negotiation, the framework of the First Branch's science class was laid. Research priorities, production quotas, security measures—each step was hammered into place.
Then—
Knock.
The sound at the office door broke the silence.
"Come in, Dol," Rosen said, without turning.
The door opened. Dole entered, crisp and formal.
"1st Branch of the Grand Line, word has come from Donquixote Doflamingo. He has found the individual you requested."
Her eyes briefly swept over Judge but did not linger. It was natural to see the Germa king present in the office—science was now their foundation, and discussions with Rosen were constant. But Dole's tone carried weight: this was no ordinary report.
Whoever Doflamingo had found was not just vital to the science class, but to the destiny of the entire First Branch.