[Zephyr Special Training Camp – Six Months Later]
The sun blazed over the scorched training grounds.
Six months of relentless drills had forged the camp's trainees into something more than recruits—stronger in body, sharper in will, and deadlier in skill. They were no longer boys playing at war. They were warriors in the making.
And today, Zephyr issued their first true test.
[Combat Annihilation Mission]
Location: East Blue, Mill Town
Target: The rising pirate crew Grey Reef Fang Pirates
Threat Level: Upper C-rank (capable of small-scale destruction)
Objective: Full annihilation. Civilian protection is absolute priority. On-site command granted.
Only two were chosen.
Ronan and Rett stood before their mentor, backs straight, eyes forward.
Zephyr clasped his hands behind his broad back, his gaze as unyielding as tempered steel. "The battlefield isn't a training yard," he said, voice low but carrying like thunder over calm seas. "Break their spirit first. Then break their ranks." He paused, letting the weight settle. "And remember—protect the people. Always. Elimination serves that purpose, not the other way around."
Rett snapped to attention. Ronan gave a single, silent nod.
A glance passed between them—no words needed. Six months had taught them to speak in silence.
The wind rose, sharp with salt and purpose.
Moments later, two figures boarded a compact warship bound for the East Blue.
[East Blue – Off the Coast of Mill Town]
Dusk bled crimson across the sea. Waves lapped against a crumbling dock, their rhythm broken by the groan of approaching wood.
The warship glided into the shallows.
Ronan and Rett stepped onto the deck side by side—and froze.
There, cutting through the twilight like a blade, loomed a battered but heavily armed pirate vessel. It crept toward Mill Town's harbor with predatory silence.
On its deck, pirates howled and swaggered, muskets slung over shoulders, cutlasses glinting in the dying light. They moved like a pack of wolves scenting blood.
At their center stood a man near two meters tall, muscles coiled beneath sun-bronzed skin. A scarlet skull—the mark of the Grey Reef Fang—was inked into his left bicep.
Captain Krant.
"Target confirmed," Ronan murmured, voice colder than deep-sea iron.
Rett's knuckles whitened. "Do we move?"
Ronan's eyes never left the ship. "Fast and final."
Then—he moved.
The air itself seemed to recoil.
[Air Compression Step]
BOOM!
A shockwave rippled outward as Ronan launched forward, a black streak cleaving the sea breeze. In an instant, he crossed dozens of meters, crashing into the pirate ranks like a storm given form.
Before his fist, the air collapsed inward—compressed to a razor's edge.
[Air Shock Slash]
SWISH—!
A crescent of invisible force tore through the deck. The sonic crack split the air like a cannon's report.
Ten pirates screamed—then fell. Chests split open, bodies flung backward like broken dolls, crashing into crates and planks with wet, final thuds.
Rett didn't wait.
No Devil Fruit. No flashy spectacle.
Just raw, honed strength—and the first bloom of Armament Haki, black as midnight and hard as bedrock, sheathing his fist.
He stomped.
Stone shattered beneath his boot.
With a roar that shook the rigging, he charged.
THUD!
His punch met a pirate's ribs like a battering ram. Bones snapped. The man flew—sailing over the dock, smashing through a rotting rooftop before vanishing in a cloud of dust and splinters.
Silence followed for half a breath.
Then chaos erupted.
"Damn it!! Kill them!!"
Captain Gray Reef Fang—Krand—bellowed, rallying his remaining crew with a snarl, urging them to charge Ronan and Rett.
Ronan narrowed his eyes. His palm twitched, fingers curling just enough to compress the air around his fist.
The atmosphere shattered.
Visible ripples twisted outward as pressure built in the air—then detonated.
[Explosive Pressure Blast – Triple Impact]!
BOOM!!
BOOM!!
BOOM!!
Three successive shockwaves ripped through the harbor like cannonfire made flesh—concussive, precise, brutal. Pirates lunging forward were hurled backward as if struck by invisible battering rams. Bones cracked. Bodies slammed into stone pillars, shattering them like dry timber.
Beside Ronan, Rett moved like a storm given form. He caught an assassin mid-leap with a vicious knee strike to the gut, then spun mid-air, his leg wreathed in Armament Haki. The hardened kick swept two more attackers off their feet, sending them skidding across the blood-slicked docks.
In under five minutes…
The Gray Reef Fang Pirates were gone.
Only Krand remained—kneeling, gasping, his crimson coat torn and soaked through.
Then—Ronan stepped forward.
The air exploded beneath his heel.
[Air Pressure Fist – Point Detonation]!
BOOM!!!
Krand's chest caved inward before he could scream. His body rocketed backward, crashing through the skeletal remains of the harbor ruins before vanishing into dust and smoke.
Silence fell—broken only by the crackle of distant fires and the low groan of collapsing wood.
Rett lowered his fist, breathing hard. Ronan flicked blood from his wrist, standing unmoved amid the wreckage and corpses, his gaze steady as stone.
They scanned Mill Town quickly. No civilian casualties. The townsfolk—huddled in doorways, clutching children, gripping makeshift weapons—stared in stunned silence.
Then, as one, they saw the two Navy cadets step from the smoke, uniforms stained crimson, silhouetted against the dying sun like figures from a war tale.
Tears welled. Hands trembled. Someone dropped a stone. Another fell to their knees.
"Thank you!!!"
"Long live the Navy!!"
"Our saviors!!"
Ronan's eyes softened—just for a moment. He looked at their faces: fragile, terrified… trusting.
Something inside him ignited.
This was his first combat mission.
And for the first time… he understood justice.
Not as a word on a banner.
But as the trembling hope in a child's eyes.
As Ronan and Rett turned toward their waiting warship, confident the mission was complete—
—the wind shifted.
A cold smirk cut through the quiet.
From the deck, a lieutenant in crisp Navy whites sauntered forward, flanked by reserve soldiers. His smile didn't reach his eyes.
"Just to be thorough," he said, voice slick as oil, "let's run a little combat reaction test, shall we?"
Before Ronan could speak—
blades flashed.
Soldiers lunged.
But Ronan didn't flinch.
His brow furrowed. His breath stilled.
Beneath the surface of the air, he felt it—the poison in their intent. This wasn't training. This wasn't protocol.
This was a trap.
A test not of skill—but of submission.
A probe to see if he could be broken.
Ronan's eyes turned glacial.
He took one step—
[Aerial Flight]!
BOOM!!
The air beneath his foot imploded, and his body launched skyward like a bolt of black lightning—silent, sharp, unstoppable.
His palms clenched slightly.
The air between them vibrated—and compressed.
In the blink of an eye—
[High-Frequency Air Explosion]!
A triple-compressed blast of air roared outward, vibrating with devastating force.
BOOM!!
The shockwave detonated across a five-meter radius.
Several unsuspecting soldiers were hurled backward by the pressure storm, slamming into the deck railings like rag dolls. Blood sprayed from their mouths as they collapsed, unconscious. Weapons clattered to the deck; cries of agony rose and fell in ragged waves.
Then—silence.
The entire deck fell into a deathly hush. Only the sea breeze remained, howling softly as it carried the moans of the wounded.
In midair, Ronan descended slowly, riding the currents. His black hair whipped in the wind; his uniform fluttered like battle-worn cloth.
His eyes—cold, sharp—swept the scene.
They lingered for a heartbeat on the officer who'd orchestrated the "probing" attack.
The boy's voice was low, venomous—like thunder suppressed beneath storm clouds:
"A training accident?"
He paused, then added, voice sharpening:
"…Indeed. A pathetic probing attempt."
The officer's smile froze.
Cold sweat soaked his back in an instant.
He opened his mouth, trying to force a laugh, but his voice trembled so violently he could hear it himself:
"Haha… a small—just a small misunderstanding… really…"
Ronan glanced at him—indifferently.
He said nothing more.
But in his mind, the man's name, face, and aura were already carved in ice.
Rotting.
Must be eradicated completely.
Like pirates.
No matter where they hid. No matter what mask they wore.
In the end, under absolute justice, they would be burned to ash.
—
From that moment on, inside the Zephyr Special Training Camp, those with ulterior motives understood for the first time:
This boy—Ronan—was no pawn to be manipulated… or suppressed.
—
Late at night.
A single desk lamp cast a bright pool of light over a cluttered workspace. The air hung thick with tobacco smoke and quiet dread.
Sakazuki sat alone behind his desk, still cloaked, a sealed report unfolding in his hands.
The contents were stark—almost cruel in their simplicity:
[Report on Probing Reactions Within the Zephyr Training Camp]
[Incident Log: "Accidental Injury Test" Involving Ronan's Squad]
[List of Responsible Personnel Attached]
Snap.
The cigar burned out.
His fingers tightened—just slightly—and the report crumbled to ash in his palm.
A fierce, glacial light ignited in his molten eyes.
"…Useless."
The words rumbled like distant thunder beneath lava.
Sakazuki slowly pushed back his chair and rose. With a sharp flick of his cloak, a gust of wind surged through the crack in the door, sending the fabric rippling like a war banner.
Outside, the night was black as iron.
He stood motionless for three breaths… then closed his eyes.
[Advanced Observation Haki]—unleashed in utter silence.
The corrupt auras he'd personally marked months ago flared into clarity in his mind: their locations, states, and signatures—sharp as constellations in a cloudless sky.
He opened his eyes.
Crimson fire surged within them.
"To beat the dog… you do it at night."
—
That night.
Outside the training camp—in the dim harbor taverns, at the warehouse transfer points—the marked auras vanished, one by one, without a sound.
By dawn, the sea breeze carried something new.
Faint streaks of dark red marred the water's surface—as if even the waves dared not mourn them.
Inside the camp, those with hidden agendas felt it:
An unseen, blood-red hand was tightening its noose.
Attitudes toward the rising star—Ronan—shifted overnight.
From probing… to fear.
Sakazuki never spoke a word of it.
To the world, that night had never happened.
He simply stood, after finishing the "aftermath," atop the base's highest watchtower—gazing toward the distant horizon, where the New World awaited.
In his burning eyes, the lone figure of a black-haired boy appeared—straight-backed, resolute.
The cold wind howled.
His cloak billowed.
And the Heart of Lava burned—silent, relentless, and absolute.