Who was Zephyr?
He had once been recognized as one of the highest combat powers of Marine Headquarters.
Even if he had stepped away from the front lines, his strength was undoubtedly still among the very top in the world.
Diarmuid didn't believe for a second that he could actually harm Zephyr.
So he didn't hesitate or put on any airs.
The moment Zephyr finished speaking, Diarmuid nodded and placed his hand on the hilt of Nagasone Kotetsu at his waist.
He focused all his energy and spirit.
Though weak, there was still a distinct aura about him.
Zephyr's eyes lit up slightly, and his impression of Diarmuid improved.
Honest. Decisive. Strong execution.
"That sword…" Admiral Sengoku noticed the blade at Diarmuid's waist. It looked vaguely familiar.
However, since he wasn't a swordsman, he could only feel that it was somewhat recognizable.
"The sword is called Nagasone Kotetsu," Diarmuid said solemnly.
The moment his words ended—
A flash of cold light burst forth.
Nagasone Kotetsu left its sheath instantly, slicing through the air without hesitation as Diarmuid slashed straight toward Zephyr's chest.
"Oh? One of the Twenty-One Great Grade Blades?" Zephyr murmured softly, a faint smile appearing on his face.
The distance between them was extremely close.
And Diarmuid had struck first.
Yet when the blade flashed—
Zephyr casually raised two fingers.
Clang.
He caught Nagasone Kotetsu between them.
The full-force slash that carried Diarmuid's spirit and strength failed to move the Marine legend even slightly.
Just as Zephyr was about to say something—
Diarmuid suddenly released the sword.
He stepped forward instantly and drove his elbow straight into Zephyr's chest.
In that moment, he poured every ounce of his tremendous strength into the strike.
Yet in the end—
Zephyr merely swayed slightly.
His feet didn't even move back a single millimeter.
"Not bad strength," Zephyr said with a nod. "For a nineteen-year-old, that's quite impressive."
At the same time, he had noticed something else.
After Diarmuid drew his sword, his stance had been extremely stable.
Especially at the moment Zephyr caught the blade between his fingers.
That stability revealed one thing clearly—
This young man's swordsmanship foundation was extremely solid.
What surprised Zephyr even more was something else.
Usually, when someone demonstrated overwhelming power like that, it would at least shake the opponent's confidence.
But when Zephyr had stopped the blade with two fingers—a gesture bordering on humiliation—Diarmuid's eyes hadn't wavered even for an instant.
Without hesitation, he had abandoned his sword and switched tactics immediately.
And he had successfully landed the hit.
As a veteran Admiral, Zephyr understood the meaning behind that.
Although Diarmuid's swordsmanship fundamentals were solid, he was not someone bound by the identity of a swordsman.
A true swordsman would rarely abandon their blade so decisively.
They would struggle first, trying to reclaim it.
But Diarmuid had done no such thing.
To Zephyr, that wasn't a flaw.
After all, Zephyr himself wasn't a swordsman.
What he appreciated was decisiveness.
On the battlefield, people with that kind of decisiveness were far more likely to survive.
He had already understood Diarmuid's offensive ability.
There was no need to test it further.
After all, Diarmuid was only a branch colonel.
Producing this level of performance was already impressive enough.
It wasn't as though he expected the young man to defy the heavens.
After praising him briefly, Zephyr casually brushed Diarmuid's fist aside.
Then he spoke calmly.
"Clench your teeth, kid."
The words had barely reached Diarmuid's ears before he could react.
Zephyr's fist was already pressed against his chest.
In the next instant, a tremendous force burst into Diarmuid's body. He had no way to resist it. His footing slipped, his legs lost their grip on the ground, and his body was blasted away like a cannonball.
He slammed violently into the stone pillar of the harbor behind him.
Zephyr had held back that punch.
Otherwise, it would have blown Diarmuid apart.
What Zephyr hadn't expected, however, was that in barely a moment, Diarmuid had already climbed back to his feet—and charged at him again.
"Tiger Slash!" Diarmuid roared, swinging his blade.
Despite shouting the name of a technique, the attack itself was nothing more than an ordinary slash.
Naturally, it still failed to harm Zephyr.
Zephyr casually raised his arm and caught the blade with one hand, gripping the sharp edge firmly and stopping Diarmuid's attack.
At the same time, he observed Diarmuid's condition.
Although Zephyr had held back that punch, it should have been enough to leave Diarmuid unable to continue fighting.
And indeed, it seemed so.
Blood trickled from the corner of Diarmuid's mouth. The chest where he had been struck looked slightly sunken. Even his breathing carried traces of blood.
The young man was clearly injured—and badly.
Originally, Zephyr had planned to have the medical unit treat him afterward. That punch had not been meant merely to injure him—it was also a way to gauge his physical endurance and toughness.
It was another part of the assessment.
Yet he hadn't expected that, despite such injuries, Diarmuid could still counterattack so decisively.
It was as if the one who had been injured wasn't him at all.
"Strong willpower, kid," Zephyr said with clear admiration in his tone. "You can suppress the body's instinctive reaction to pain? Even many veteran soldiers can't do that."
Overcoming the instinctive reaction to pain was indeed a rare ability.
Many powerful fighters developed a certain level of resistance to it.
But what Zephyr didn't know was that Diarmuid wasn't overcoming pain.
He simply didn't feel it.
As long as he willed it, pain meant nothing to him.
Before Diarmuid could respond, Zephyr suddenly grabbed his shoulder and steadied him.
"Very good. You pass," Zephyr said with satisfaction. "Come back to Marine Headquarters with me. That's where someone like you should be putting his talents to use."
Only then did a smile appear on Diarmuid's face.
He wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth.
"Thank you, Admiral Zephyr."
"Hahahaha! As long as you don't blame me for hitting too hard," Zephyr laughed.
Beside them, Admiral Sengoku spoke up.
"In that case, Colonel Mild, you can handle the transfer procedures and report them back to Headquarters later. We won't be staying here long."
He then turned to Diarmuid.
"Colonel Diarmuid, you've been drafted into Marine Headquarters. For now, you'll leave with us. There are medical officers on board—the injury you sustained will heal quickly."
Sengoku was decisive as ever.
In a few short sentences, everything had already been settled.
Colonel Mild had no authority to object, so he could only accept the order immediately.
As for Diarmuid, he had long dreamed of going to Marineford to further his training.
Naturally, he felt no attachment to this place—
Even though he had spent seven years here.
Soon afterward, Sengoku and Zephyr brought Diarmuid aboard the enormous Marine Headquarters warship.
It was the first time Diarmuid had ever set foot on a vessel of this scale.
Unfortunately, before he could admire it properly, the medical staff had already taken him away for treatment.
On the deck, Zephyr stood facing the sea breeze with a cigar between his teeth, watching the North Blue Marine Branch 113 gradually disappear from sight.
No one knew what he was thinking.
Not long afterward, Sengoku—who had finished arranging the ship's course—walked over.
"How was the kid?" Sengoku asked.
"Don't tell me you couldn't see it yourself," Zephyr replied with a smile.
"Hahaha. Sounds like you're quite satisfied," Sengoku laughed.
"Mm. Whether a person can become strong has a lot to do with their mentality," Zephyr said quietly. "That kid has talent, though it hasn't been properly developed over the years. But that doesn't matter. He's only nineteen—he has plenty of time."
"What I value most is his mindset. Maybe he's still confused about justice, but when it comes to battle, he isn't confused at all. He's decisive."
"I'll train him well."
"He'll become a pride of the Marines."
After a brief pause, Zephyr stopped talking about the subject.
After all, Diarmuid was currently nothing more than a promising young recruit.
Not worth occupying too much of two Admirals' time.
"So what about your side?" Zephyr asked. "Any news about that bastard?"
"Mm," Sengoku nodded. "Headquarters just sent word. He's at Minion Island. That's where we're heading."
Then he shook his head irritably.
"Shiki… that guy should stay in the New World. What's he doing in the North Blue?"
That was right.
The reason Sengoku had come to the North Blue had nothing to do with Diarmuid.
Frankly speaking, Diarmuid simply wasn't important enough.
Sengoku had come because intelligence reports suggested that the great pirate—
"Golden Lion" Shiki—
had recently appeared in the North Blue.
Zephyr's visit had actually been for the same reason.
After all, Shiki was not an easy opponent. With two of them present, their chances would be higher.
Checking in on Diarmuid had simply been a convenient side matter.
"Speaking of which, you've already stepped down from the front lines," Sengoku suddenly said. "You didn't really need to get involved in this."
"Hahahaha! I just came to see if there were any promising recruits," Zephyr laughed. "And maybe lend you a hand while I'm at it."
If Monkey D. Garp had always been Roger's rival—
Then Sengoku had his own long-standing rival.
Golden Lion Shiki.
They had quite a history.