The skies were clear and the sun was radiant.
Soren met them at the guest quarters with the harbor master already waiting. The ship from Marineford was being readied at the main pier. Finally, there were no more questions about mediation councils or grain stores.
Garp clapped him on the shoulder hard enough to make him wince.
"BWAHAHAHA! Most brats in your position start shaking when the report's about to get written. You just look bored."
"Haha. Why would I be afraid of my life's work, Garp-san." Soren said.
Tokikake adjusted his coat and gave the island one last sweeping look. "I still say the food was better than expected. If Headquarters ever decides to open a proper resort post, this place is already halfway there."
Gion stood a little apart from the others. Her eyes moved from Soren to the harbor, then back again.
"The formal report will reach Fleet Admiral Sengoku within the week," she said. "You'll receive a copy through normal channels."
"Understood."
Bogard gave the smallest nod and nothing else.
They walked down to the pier together. Garp boarded first, still talking. Tokikake followed with a lazy wave. Gion paused at the bottom of the gangplank for half a second longer than necessary, then climbed up without looking back.
Soren stayed on the dock until the ship cleared the outer buoy. Only then did he turn and head back toward the administrative building.
The rest of the day felt strangely empty. He handled the usual reports. Signed off on the next week's patrol rotation. By evening the island had already returned to its normal rhythm, as if four vice admirals had never been there at all.
He sat down at the desk after dark and opened the diary.
[Day thirty-seven.]
[They're gone.]
[Garp left the same way he arrived. Tokikake still tried to get a date out of Gion on the way to the ship. I'm surprised he's lived this long.]
[Gion didn't say much at the end. Just the standard line about the report. Bogard nodded once and vanished up the gangplank like a ghost with a justice coat.]
[The place already feels quieter.]
[Writing about that stuff yesterday kept me thinking. The admirals right now are really something huh.]
[Aokiji lost whatever faith he had in Marine justice back at Ohara. You can see it in the way he moves. Like he's already decided the whole thing is rotten and he's just waiting to see how long he can stand the smell.]
[Kizaru is sloth given human form. Half his attention is stuck in the science division because of Vegapunk and Saturn. The other half is busy not caring.]
[Akainu is the worst of them. Not because he's cruel. Because he's broken. He looked at the era, saw that nothing he did would ever actually change the shape of it, and decided the only answer left was to burn everything that didn't fit his version of justice. Radical because he ran out of other options.] (A/N: We don't know anything about the past of these two so I'm gonna cook some sh*t up.)
[Three admirals. Three different ways of being finished with the system while still wearing its coat.]
[And people wonder why the Marines keep losing ground.]
Soren closed the book and leaned back in the chair. The harbor lights reflected on the water outside his window.
On the ship, Gion sat in her cabin with the diary open under a low lamp.
She read the new entry once, then again. When she reached the section on the three admirals her fingers tightened on the page.
"Sigh! Ohara really did break the marine apart."
Suddenly she remembered the Balance Soren talked about and felt silent again.
Two cabins down, Bogard read the same words.
He finished the entry and sat in silence for a long time. Garp's laughter carried faintly from the deck above.
Bogard stood, diary still in hand, and walked the short distance to Garp's cabin. He raised his hand to knock.
"I should probably show this to Garp-san."
The moment the thought formed — tell him about the diary — something invisible slammed down on him.
It had no shape and no direction. It was heavy and absolute, pressing against the inside of his skull. His lungs locked. Every instinct he had spent decades sharpening screamed the same single message: if he spoke, if he even continued thinking in that direction, he would not survive it.
Bogard's hand dropped back to his side. He stood there in the narrow corridor, breathing carefully, until the pressure slowly eased.
He returned to his own cabin, set the diary on the table, and sat down again.
Garp's voice still floated in from above, loud and carefree.
Bogard stared at the closed book and did not move for a long time.