Year 1514 of the Sea Circle Calendar, November 2.
Inside a lavish palace at the heart of the Holy Land, five elderly men sat on an ornate sofa. Standing before them was a man clad in the white coat of naval justice, his braided goatee swaying slightly with each word. He was none other than the current Fleet Admiral of the Navy—Sengoku the Buddha.
"Gorosei," Sengoku said solemnly, closing the folder in his hands, "that concludes the Navy's full strategic plan."
The very names he invoked marked these five seated men unmistakably as the Five Elders, the supreme authority within the World Government, its highest decision-makers, and the pillars of its global control.
"To abandon the New World, retain only Fortresses G1 and G5, and let the pirates destroy each other... How confident are you in this plan?"
The speaker was a white-haired Elder in a black suit and flat cap. A thick white beard curled from his chin, and a scar ran down the left side of his face.
"This strategy will unleash enormous pressure on the World Government," added another Elder, blond and clean-shaven except for a golden mustache. He wore a black suit without a tie and bore a scar across his chest. "Pressure from the Celestial Dragons, internal factions, the allied nations, and the people of the world..."
"There were three great pirate kings during Roger's era," Sengoku replied evenly, "and today we have the Four Emperors. But one thing remains unchanged, there are always madmen eager to challenge the top, and those just beneath won't willingly kneel."
One of the elders, bald on the crown with tufts of hair at the sides, wearing a black suit and sporting long, drooping mustaches, scrutinized Sengoku with a steely gaze. A birthmark marred his forehead.
"With Syrons gravely wounded, your top brass is depleted. I suspect this plan isn't new to you, is it?" Though phrased as a question, his tone left little doubt.
Sengoku shot him a sidelong glance and answered, "When I realized no expedition fleet could match even one of the Four Emperors, it became clear. Any further fighting would only bleed our forces dry."
"But the Navy is still the strongest force at sea," insisted the only Elder not in a suit, bald, bearded, wearing a white kimono and glasses, his katana resting at his side.
"I won't deny that," Sengoku replied resolutely, his voice firm.
"We've poured an enormous amount of resources into this campaign," the long-haired Elder said softly. He wore a black suit, his silver hair falling straight past his shoulders, his beard trailing down his chest. "Still, there's no helping it now. We can proceed as you suggest, withdraw from the New World, retain only Fortresses G1 and G5... but balance must be preserved. We can't allow more chaos. And as for Demon Mask Gutte, he must be eliminated. We need heads on pikes to deter the rest."
"I'll bring Borsalino back," Sengoku said. "Let Kizaru be the one to hunt down Demon Mask Gutte."
"What about the rookie who took down Syrons?"
"That one's already this strong in his debut... he has the potential to become a new Emperor."
"The Navy can't afford to deal with him right now. If he's got Emperor-level potential, we raise his bounty and let him dive into the New World. Let him become their problem."
"Then it's settled," came the unanimous reply.
Year 1514 of the Sea Circle Calendar, November 4.
After six months of warfare, the Marine Grand Expeditionary Fleet began its retreat. Vice Admiral Garp and Admiral Aokiji (Kuzan) led the 1st and 3rd Fleets back to G5 Fortress, while Admiral Akainu (Sakazuki)'s 2nd Fleet withdrew to G1 Fortress.
At the same time, Marine forces began a full-scale withdrawal from all New World positions, maintaining only the strongholds at G1 and G5. All other stations and divisions were progressively abandoned.
Year 1514 of the Sea Circle Calendar, November 15.
From this date forward, the Navy had completely relinquished the latter half of the Grand Line, the New World, retaining only the gateway G1 Fortress and the lone surviving base deep within: G5 Fortress.
The New World had become the sole domain of the Four Emperors, a realm ruled by might. A paradise for the strong, hell for the weak.
Somewhere in the New World...
A massive whale-headed ship bobbed silently on the waves. Atop the mast flew a Jolly Roger bearing a crescent-shaped white mustache, emblem of one of the sea's most fearsome legends: the Whitebeard Pirates.
At the prow sat a man towering nearly seven meters tall. Broad-chested and bare-torsoed, he leaned back in an enormous chair, a massive bisento resting beside him. With one hand he held an oaken sake barrel, sipping leisurely. His iconic crescent mustache curled upward like the moon.
Edward Newgate—Whitebeard, the man known as the strongest in the world.
Tap, tap... tap tap tap...
Footsteps approached. A lean man with spiky blond hair in a punk style, dead-fish eyes, and a dagger strapped at his waist arrived holding a bounty poster. Tattooed on his chest was the emblem of the Whitebeard Pirates.
"Pops, looks like the Navy's pulled out completely. Only G1 and G5 are fortified. All the expedition fleets are holed up in those two. Oh, and get this, Ghost Hammer Syrons got taken down... by a rookie."
"Oh? Gurararara... So Sengoku's giving up on the New World entirely," Whitebeard laughed. "He finally realized the Navy doesn't have the strength to take it back. Gurararara... And Syrons, losing to a greenhorn? What a disgrace!"
The man delivering the news was none other than Marco the Phoenix, Whitebeard's First Division Commander.
"Looks rookie's no joke," Marco chuckled, waving the bounty flier. "Bet the Navy's never been this humiliated."
Elsewhere in the New World, on an island beach, pirates gathered around a roaring bonfire.
"Oi, oi! Beckman, come drink with us!"
The one calling out was a man of lean build, ruggedly handsome, with striking red hair and three claw-like scars over his left eye. Stubble lined his jaw, and his left arm was missing. His cheeks flushed from drink, he chugged ale by the mouthful.
This was Red-Haired Shanks, one of the Four Emperors.
"Captain," answered Benn Beckman, the tall, sharp-faced man at his side. His long black hair was tied in a ponytail, his face angular, a rifle slung across his waist. A cigarette dangled from his lips as he closed a Den Den Mushi. "Looks like the Navy's abandoned the New World. Quite the calculated move."
"Hahaha! Doesn't matter," Shanks laughed, clapping a large, striped-shirted man on the shoulder. "The war's over. That's all I care about."
"Oi, you bastard! Don't wipe your greasy hands on my shirt!" the fat man bellowed, yanking at his green-and-white shirt with an exaggerated scowl.
On a volcanic island, a furious roar echoed from deep within the crater.
"Navy! You don't get to leave! Not unless you kill me first!"
In the molten depths, a hulking man swam through lava. Black fur sprouted from his head and shoulders, horns jutted from his skull, and a dragon-scale tattoo coiled around his left arm. Half-burned paper floated on the bank nearby.
On Whole Cake Island, a grotesquely massive woman sat atop her candy-themed throne. Her bloodshot eyes twitched, lipstick smeared across her gaping maw. Drool dripped from her lips onto the marble below, burning small pits into the floor.
"Bring me that island the Navy left behind, the one with the delicious cakes!" she shrieked. "Cake! I want cake!"
"Yes, Mama!" her crew replied in unison.
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