Training did not begin with instruction or even a warning.
It began with Jack Sparrow being hurled headfirst into the dirt.
He rolled twice, coughed, spat out soil, and lay there staring at the sky through the canopy of trees. Somewhere above him, the sun filtered through leaves, calm and warm. His right arm throbbed in protest even though he hadn't used it. The ache felt deep—bone-deep—like something inside it had been twisted the wrong way and never properly set back the bones had been placed the wrong way.
A massive shadow fell over him.
"Up," came the voice.
Jack groaned. "I am up. Up is down."
A foot the size of a rowboat pressed lightly against his chest and nudged.
"Up," Dorry repeated, tone unchanged.
Jack sighed, rolled sideways, and pushed himself to his feet using his left arm. His balance wobbled for a moment before he steadied himself. He wiped sweat and dirt from his brow, adjusted his shirt sleeves, and raised his sword.
Left hand only.
Dorry watched him carefully.
"Attack again."
Jack lunged.
This time, he didn't rush.
He stepped in, blade angled low, trying to cut upward toward the giant's leg.
Dorry moved.
He shifted his weight slightly and brought the flat of his blade down.
Jack barely managed to twist aside. The impact still sent a shockwave through the ground that rattled his teeth. He skidded back, boots carving trenches in the soil.
"That was better," Dorry said.
Jack blinked. "You have an odd definition of encouragement."
Again.
Jack attacked.
Again, he was beaten back.
Again.
Again.
Time blurred.
Sweat soaked through his clothes. His breathing grew ragged. His left arm burned from repeated impacts, while his right arm—still unused—felt worse by the minute, like it resented not being used.
Every time Jack instinctively tried to push, to reinforce himself with that familiar pressure—the invisible armor he'd tasted against Chinjao—Dorry struck him harder.
"Too much," the giant said flatly after one such attempt, slamming Jack into a tree hard enough to shake leaves loose.
Jack slid down the trunk and sat there, head spinning.
"I didn't even do it properly," he muttered.
"That is the problem," Dorry replied. "You do not know how you are doing it."
Across the clearing, Brogy was having a very different kind of lesson with Crocodile.
She attacked like a storm. A sand storm.
Sand surged, blades of compressed grit tearing across the ground. Her hook gleamed as she lunged, vanishing and reforming, trying to overwhelm Brogy through sheer force and speed.
Brogy took it head on.
He let the attacks hit. Each time Crocodile tried to disperse fully, Brogy slammed his axe into the earth, sending vibrations through the sand that forced her back into solid form.
"You rely on escape," Brogy said. "But the moment someone sees through it, you are cornered immediately."
Crocodile snarled. "Then I won't be cornered."
She tried again—too aggressively.
Brogy caught her wrist mid-strike with his fingers and flung her into a boulder like one might throw a lizard. The stone cracked. Crocodile collapsed to one knee, coughing, blood dark against the sand.
"You will," Brogy finished.
Not far from them, Augur stood blindfolded.
He could hear the island.
The wind through leaves. Footsteps crunching over dirt. The distant boom of blades colliding.
Then—whistling.
A stone tore through the air.
Augur moved a fraction of a second too late.
It clipped his shoulder and spun him around, sending him crashing into the undergrowth.
"Too slow," Brogy called without looking.
Augur pushed himself up, jaw clenched. His ribs screamed in protest. He adjusted his stance, breathing slower now.
Another stone flew.
This time, Augur felt it before.
He stepped aside just as it passed where his head had been.
Brogy nodded once.
Pintel and Ragetti were not having a dignified time.
They were hauling a log thicker than either of them uphill, their feet slipping constantly.
"This is slave labor," Pintel wheezed.
Ragetti grunted. "Worse. It's educational slave labor."
The log slipped. Both of them tumbled backward in a tangle of limbs.
A massive shadow loomed over them.
"Again," Dorry said.
Ragetti stared up at the sky. "I hate giants."
Days passed like this.
Training did not stop.
Jack learned to shorten everything.
He stopped trying to coat himself or his arm.
Instead, he focused on moments.
The instant just before contact.
The instant which could deliver the critical attack. He didn't need to be do it all the time, he just needed to do it at the right time.
Every time he got it wrong, pain flared in his arms. His right arm especially would seize, muscles locking, veins darkening beneath the skin.
But when he got it right—
The pain didn't vanish but also didn't worsen.
That alone felt like victory.
At night, they ate.
Drank.
Collapsed where they sat.
Jack asked between gulps of rum, "So, just checking—how long does this take?"
Brogy shrugged. "As long as needed. Until you no longer feel any pain."
Jack choked. "That's good. Very good. But how long until that?"
"I don't know."
Augur sat quietly, cleaning Senriku, fingers trembling slightly. His shots were fewer now—but more precise.
Crocodile smoked in silence, irritation etched deep into her expression, but she no longer dismissed the training outright.
Somewhere above them, unseen, Gibbs climbed.
He reached the volcano by afternoon.
The heat hit him first.
Then the smell.
Sulfur. Molten stone.
He peered over the rim—and felt his stomach drop.
The lava was rising.
Slowly, steadily.
Then the ground trembled again.
Far away, Brogy was knocked backward by Dorry, his fall shaking the island.
The lava surged higher.
Gibbs swore.
"This volcano won't hold if they keep this up."
He turned and ran downhill, slipping and then rolling down the steep slope.
Below, Jack was already on his feet again, sword raised, breathing hard.
"Again," Dorry said.
Jack grinned tiredly. "You know, for someone that's supposed to make me stronger, I'm beginning to suspect you want me dead."
Dorry raised his blade.
"Being dead will make you stronger."