As dawn broke and the sea breeze whistled through the jagged cliffs,
the outer harbor of the Navy Headquarters' G-1 Branch thrummed with activity atop a vast military testing ground.
Today was the annual Special Selection Day at the Naval Petty Officer Academy.
Hundreds of young men stood in rigid formation across the stone plaza—their faces carved with tension, anticipation, and unspoken ambition.
Atop the cliffside path overlooking the grounds, a tall, dark figure stood unmoving against the gale, as though forged from cooled lava.
Sakazuki.
Clad in his Marine coat, broad-shouldered and unbending, he resembled a silent war god gazing down upon the plaza below.
His eyes—burning like a volcano on the verge of eruption—
were fixed upon a single figure among the recruits.
Ronan.
His nephew.
The last of his bloodline.
And the only hope left upon his crimson path.
A moment earlier—
"…You still insist on taking the exam yourself?"
Sakazuki's voice was low and hoarse, as if it might rend the air with every syllable.
"If you nod, I can place you directly into Zephyr's special training camp—no questions asked."
Below, the sea wind tugged at the edges of Ronan's thin uniform.
He stood in the pale morning light like an unsheathed blade: sharp, unyielding, resolute.
Without turning, his reply cut cleanly through the salt-laced air:
"No need."
"I will make them submit—with my own strength."
Sakazuki's brow furrowed, just slightly.
Beneath his stern exterior, emotions churned—pride tightly coiled, anxiety barely restrained.
After a long silence, he murmured, voice dropping even lower:
"…What is that aura?"
"It feels… like some power has awakened within you."
Ronan turned his head slowly, eyes glinting with youthful defiance and quiet confidence.
He opened his right palm.
A silent breeze coiled around his hand, condensing into a visible vortex—air currents spiraling with unnatural precision, as though he commanded the breath of the sky itself.
Softly, he spoke:
"After the disaster in the North Blue…"
"During my escape, I stumbled upon a ruined shipwreck. Inside the wreckage was a tattered chest."
"It held… a strangely shaped fruit."
"I was starving. Without thinking, I ate it."
He closed his fingers.
The air trembled.
Along the entire cliffside path, the wind itself seemed to bend—just slightly—to his will.
"And then…"
"It became like this."
"Later, I learned it was called… a Devil Fruit."
Sakazuki's eyes narrowed. A flicker of recognition—sharp, analytical—flashed through his molten gaze.
"Logia," he said, voice low but certain.
"Air."
Ronan gave a single, solemn nod.
His eyes held ice and flame in equal measure.
"The most basic element in the world," he said.
"The most abundant. And the most overlooked."
"But in my hands—"
"It will become the sharpest blade to cut through this rotting era."
A gust swept through the plaza.
His words—charged with unwavering resolve—echoed in the sea wind like the toll of a war bell, lingering long after they were spoken.
Sakazuki exhaled slowly, a plume of hot breath vanishing into the chill morning.
For the first time, his fiery eyes softened—just a fraction—revealing something deeply buried: restrained pride.
Below, Ronan stood beneath the rising sun, sea wind lashing his slender frame.
Yet not an inch of him wavered. His will was a mountain, unshaken.
He clenched his fist, voice dropping to a near whisper—yet it carried like steel being drawn:
"If I enter that camp through your name… then my justice is meaningless."
"I will prove my strength."
"Let the world see what I can do."
Sakazuki said nothing for a long while, staring into Ronan's eyes—so resolute they bordered on painful.
Then, quietly, he laughed.
A dry, desolate sound, cold as the ocean depths.
As he turned to leave, his final words drifted back like embers on the wind:
"…Then use your fists. And your strength. Crush them."
—The test began.
The plaza teemed with hundreds of recruits from across the seas—tall, lean, hardened, trembling—some wearing pride like armor, others hiding fear behind clenched jaws.
But all understood one truth:
To enter Zephyr's Special Training Camp,
one had to rise above the rest in a trial forged in blood, sweat, and iron will.
Here, there was no mercy.
Only strength.
Only conviction.
Only the threshold that separated the worthy from the dead weight.
The basic physical fitness test began first.
Long-distance running. Climbing. Weightlifting. Hand-to-hand combat.
Ronan completed every event in silence—
no flourish, no boast,
only cold, precise efficiency.
One by one, he shattered every record his peers had set.
Under the scorching sun, he stood like a sheathed sword—
its edge hidden,
its presence sharp enough to part the sky when drawn.
But what truly sent the entire training square into an uproar
was the final event: [Ability Assessment Demonstration].
At the center of the field rose towering stone targets,
dozens of meters high and densely packed—
a brutal simulation of a war-torn battlefield.
Ronan stepped onto the demonstration platform.
His slender frame cast a solitary yet resolute shadow beneath the blazing sun.
Hundreds of eyes—examiners, instructors, fellow recruits—locked onto him.
He raised his right hand, palm open.
[Air Compression]
Buzz—
The air trembled.
A visible shockwave pulsed outward from his body,
rippling like gravity given form, distorting the space around him.
Then—in an instant—his fingers snapped shut into a fist.
BOOM!!!
Every stone target detonated from within,
shattering simultaneously in a storm of debris.
The explosions rolled across the bay like thunder.
A hurricane-force gale erupted,
sending dust and echoes tearing through the entire testing ground.
On the observation deck, chaos broke loose.
Examiners gaped in stunned silence.
Even the head of the monitoring department leapt from his seat, eyes wide with disbelief.
And atop the high command platform—
Zephyr, clad in his crisp Marine uniform,
stood motionless with his hands clasped behind his back—
an immovable statue beneath the sun.
His hawk-like gaze remained fixed on Ronan.
After a long moment, the faintest smile flickered across his stern face—
so subtle it might have been imagined,
yet burning like embers beneath ash.
"This kid..."
"...he's forged from good steel."
The test concluded.
Without question, Ronan had surpassed every selection criterion by an overwhelming margin.
And then came the order—
delivered not by protocol, but by personal decree:
"Ronan," Zephyr announced, voice carrying over the stunned silence,
"from this day forward, you are under my direct command."
Beneath the sun's relentless glare, Ronan slowly lifted his head.
His eyes met Zephyr's—solemn, unreadable—
and then drifted to another figure walking away in the distance:
Sakazuki, his crimson coat trailing behind him like flickering flame.
The Zephyr Special Training Camp—
an elite crucible gathering the world's most promising recruits—
had opened its gates to Ronan.
Every trainee here possessed exceptional talent, lineage, or willpower.
But among them, one stood out to Ronan.
A young man—dark-skinned, broad-shouldered, and silent.
No Devil Fruit. No noble name.
Just raw, relentless resolve.
In the physical trials, he'd pushed past his limits again and again,
collapsing, rising, teeth gritted—
his eyes alight with a fire that refused to die.
His name was Rhett.
Hailing from the South Blue, he'd joined the Marines after pirates slaughtered his family.
Not for glory. Not for rank.
Only for justice—and vengeance.
During a simulated pirate raid in group training,
when others hesitated,
Rhett stepped forward without a word—
and took a cannonball meant for a comrade.
In that moment, Ronan memorized his name.
One day, Rhett would stand at his side
as First Mate of the Absolute Justice Fleet.
Yet even as hope took root in this crucible of steel,
shadows stirred beneath the surface.
Deep within the camp, certain officers—
men cloaked in quiet authority—
had already begun watching Ronan with narrowed eyes.
Corruption.
Profit.
Secret pacts with the underworld.
These cancers had festered in the Navy's bones for years.
And a blade too keen
cuts not only enemies—
but allies who prefer the dark.
"This kid…" a voice murmured from the gloom,
"...is too dangerous."
Ronan had sensed it long before they spoke.
Outside training hours, he moved like a ghost—
collecting whispers, tracing threads,
peeling back layers of deceit that clung to the institution he'd sworn to serve.
Because he knew:
Wiping out pirates wasn't enough.
If the rot within the Navy went unchecked,
then justice would be nothing but a mirage—
a castle built on quicksand.
The path ahead would be brutal.
But Ronan had never wavered.
Not since the day pirates razed his home.
Not since he vowed:
"Absolute Justice…"
"...begins with cleansing the world from its roots."