The first thing he noticed was the weight.
Not the weight of the body, though that too was immense, a towering frame of dense muscle and age-wrought power, but the weight of command, of history, of responsibility. It settled on his shoulders like a mantle of stone. Beneath his feet stretched the polished tile of Marineford's command center. Around him, the low murmur of strategists and Vice Admirals whispered against the walls like the sea winds outside. But within, the mind was new. Alien. Sharpened.
The transmigration had been sudden. No flash of light, no dramatic farewell to his former life. One moment he was seated at his desk in a mundane world, scrolling through a heated forum debate about the "Marineford War's strategic failures," and the next… he was Sengoku.
And not in some metaphorical, dreamlike way. He could feel it—the marrow-deep ache of age, the spiritual pulse of the Hito Hito no Mi, Model: Daibutsu, the subtle vibration of Observation Haki brushing against the consciousness of everyone around him. Most disturbingly of all, he remembered everything.
Everything Sengoku knew—his victories, his failures, his friendships, his regrets—it was all now his. As though the mind that now directed this body had always been here, simply... dormant.
He stood motionless in the Fleet Admiral's office, arms clasped behind his back, gazing out the window that overlooked Marineford. The white sails of Marine ships rocked gently in the harbour. Two days. Two days until the war that would shake the foundations of the world.
No time to panic. No time for awe.
Only time to prepare.
He turned toward the massive desk. Neatly arranged papers detailed every planned contingency for Whitebeard's inevitable assault. Sengoku—the former one—had accounted for a lot. But it wasn't enough.
Because now... he knew exactly what was going to happen.
Ace wouldn't be the end of the problem—Luffy, Blackbeard, Shanks... they were all knives pointed at the world's fragile peace. The World Government was too reactive. The Marines too compartmentalised. Warlords too unpredictable. And his Admirals? Each a powerful beast, but undirected, untamed.
It was time for absolute order.
***********************************
The first night had been the hardest. After the initial shock subsided, he found himself alone in Sengoku's private quarters, staring at his reflection in a mirror. The face that looked back was familiar from countless manga panels and anime episodes—stern lines etched by decades of command, the signature round glasses perched on a strong nose, and that legendary braided goatee. But the eyes—the eyes held something different now. A strange fusion of personalities, old wisdom blended with modern calculation.
He carefully removed the naval cap, setting it on a nearby table, and ran fingers through his dyed hair. Was this real? Or some elaborate dream, a dying fantasy perhaps? But no—the sensations were too vivid, the memories too complete. He could recall battles fought years ago in this world's timeline, could feel the phantom pain of old wounds, could summon with perfect clarity conversations with Garp about their wayward protégés.
"Roger," he whispered to the empty room. "Kong. Whitebeard. Shiki." Names that had been fictional characters to him once were now colleagues, rivals, enemies he had personally faced.
He closed his eyes and concentrated. The power hummed beneath his skin—the Buddha fruit. With barely a thought, a golden aura began to shimmer across his skin. He felt himself growing, expanding, the divine energy of the mythical zoan transformation flowing through every cell. He stopped it before the full change took hold, letting the power recede back into dormancy.
That settled it. This was no dream.
And if it wasn't a dream...then he had work to do.
***********************************
Morning arrived with a crisp sea breeze and the distant sounds of Marine training drills. He'd spent most of the night poring over intelligence reports, tactical assessments, and personnel files. The original Sengoku had been thorough, but his plan was fundamentally reactive. Defensively sound, but lacking the killer edge that would end this war before it became the catastrophe he knew was coming.
A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts.
"Enter."
Vice Admiral Tsuru stepped into the office, her wise face betraying nothing but the quiet competence that had made her legendary within the Marines. Behind her keen eyes lurked decades of experience in naval strategy and combat.
"You've been at it all night," she observed, placing a fresh pot of tea on his desk. "I haven't seen you this focused since the God Valley incident."
He met her gaze evenly. Tsuru was dangerous—perceptive beyond any ordinary officer. If anyone would notice the change in him, it would be her.
"Whitebeard won't just come to save Ace," he replied carefully. "He's coming to make a statement. And I intend to make one of my own."
Tsuru poured two cups of tea with practised precision. "You seem different this morning."
A test. He could feel it.
"Clarity often comes at the precipice," he said, accepting the offered cup. "I dreamed of Justice last night, Tsuru. Not the flexible justice we've compromised with for decades. Real justice."
She sipped her tea, studying him. "Be careful, Sengoku. When men of power dream of absolutes, blood tends to follow."
He allowed himself a small smile. "That's why I keep you around. To remind me when I overreach."
She seemed satisfied with that, if not entirely convinced. "The Admirals are waiting for you in the war room. Shall I tell them you're coming?"
"Give me ten minutes."
As she left, he felt a pang of respect. The real Sengoku's memories provided context for their decades-long friendship, but now he was experiencing it first-hand. These weren't characters anymore. They were people. Colleagues. And soon, they would be his instruments.