[Zephyr's Special Training Camp · Week Three]
The sun blazed fiercely, and the sea wind, carrying the scent of salt and gunpowder, howled across the vast training grounds.
The scorching sun baked the sandy earth, sending visible waves of heat shimmering upward.
On this scorched terrain, over a hundred youths in neat uniforms, under Zephyr's personal command, endured hellish basic training.
-Sandy ground combat.
-Weighted sprints.
-Fundamental martial arts conditioning.
-High-intensity combat drills.
And—the initial introduction to Rokushiki.
[Shave]: Bursting forth with extreme speed.
[Moon Walk]: Suspending and gliding in midair.
[Finger Gun]: Piercing steel with fingertips.
Each technique wasn't for show—it was the purest instinct for survival in blood and fire.
Under the blazing sun, sand swirled, sweat mingling with the scent of blood.
Among the entire camp, one black-haired youth stood out starkly.
His movements were crisp and precise, his sprints explosive like a cheetah's, every punch and elbow strike in combat lethally accurate.
Whether enduring long hours of weighted training or high-intensity martial arts sparring, he adapted, broke through and surpassed with an almost ruthless discipline.
That was—Guts.
On the high platform, Zephyr crossed his arms, his hawk-like gaze fixed on that figure below.
After a moment, he murmured his assessment.
"Exceptional talent for martial reflexes."
"Outstanding ability to learn techniques."
"Unwavering will, unafraid of pushing past limits."
—A born fighter.
But that wasn't all.
Under Zephyr's guidance, Guts officially stepped into the world of Haki.
Armament Haki
Hours of hand-to-hand combat daily, thousands of punching drills and blocking trials, through countless layers of sweat and scars, he gradually awakened the slumbering power within.
At first, it was just a faint, fleeting sensation of hardening—but soon, on the seventh consecutive day, after his fist collided head-on with Zephyr's adamantine forearm—a thin, ink-black sheen finally surfaced on Guts' right fist.
Fragile, but unmistakably—a true Armament Haki.
At the same time, Guts never forgot his true trump card—the Air Air Fruit.
Every day, in a secluded corner behind the training grounds, he experimented in secret, testing repeatedly.
[Air Pressure Step]: Using bursts of high-pressure air to achieve extreme-speed dashes, outpacing even Shave.
[Levitation Flight]: Fine-tuning air currents to hover briefly.
[Air Vibration Slash]: Compressing air into blades, releasing twisting cutting winds—effective at any range.
Through relentless training and live combat drills, Guts gradually mastered weaving Levitation Flight, Air Pressure Step, and Air Vibration Slashes into seamless close-quarters combos—his fighting style rapidly took shape: swift, precise, lethal.
Like a blade not yet fully honed, yet sharp enough to rend flesh.
The other trainees of the same period were initially struck by an instinctive sense of awe.
But as time passed, awe, envy, and faint resentment quietly fermented into undercurrents in the eyes of some young recruits.
"That guy... he's just a new recruit like us..."
"Why him?!"
"Did he take some shortcut?"
In a corner of the training ground, hushed whispers began to spread among small groups.
Meanwhile, deeper within the training camp, certain hidden gazes from behind the scenes continued to coldly observe this rising star who was gradually revealing his edge.
Darkness would never tolerate light burning unchecked.
Yet Guts remained completely unaware—and utterly indifferent.
Day after day, under the scorching sun, he honed his blade to perfection through blood and sweat.
Because he knew the true enemy—was never the jealousy of these weaklings, but the rotting dark beast entrenched atop the world's summit.
Standing at the crowd's rear—Puck's pupils contracted slightly.
He silently watched Guts.
Not just awed by the terrifying strength the young man displayed, but also because—just days ago, he'd accidentally learned of Guts' past.
That youth had also walked alone through blood and flames, emerging from the ruins of a destroyed home.
Parents slaughtered by pirates, family and friends all dead.
How similar to his own story.
Puck's fists clenched slightly, knuckles whitening from the force.
Deep in his chest, a pain and obsession suppressed for years briefly overlapped with this solitary, unbending figure before him.
Not out of pity.
Not out of sympathy.
But out of resonance—forged in blood and fire.
This resonance had lain buried in his heart for years, understood by none, shared by none.
Until this moment.
Until this fight.
Until—Guts.
...
Evening · Behind the Training Ground
The sunset burned across the horizon in gold and crimson.
Blood-like afterglow spilled across the broken sand.
Sweat soaked through uniforms, blood blisters tore through skin, the entire training ground reeked of gunpowder's smells.
After training ended, other cadets left in scattered groups.
But Puck silently approached the black-haired youth organizing his gear.
He stood quietly, then pulled a sweat-drenched cloth strip from his worn pocket and offered it.
His hand trembled slightly, yet remained unshakably firm.
Only uttering the simplest words.
"In future fights, I'll take the front."
"You point, I strike."
Guts paused momentarily.
Looking at this dark-skinned youth with silent eyes, a slight softness flickered in his gaze.
No extra words.
No hollow oaths.
He solemnly accepted the cloth, winding it around his left arm like a vow.
The wind howled past.
Under the dying light, two figures stood shoulder to shoulder.
One in front, one behind.
In the most silent yet resolute way, forging the first covenant of Absolute Justice to come.
From that moment, Puck became Guts' first true follower.
In time, he would sail the seas of blood as First Officer of the Absolute Justice Fleet.
.....
On a concealed vantage point in the distance, a figure stood motionless.
Cloaked in white marines uniform, mantle draped over shoulders, his entire being like molten rock—silent yet searing.
Sakazuki.
His piercing gaze held the roaring inferno hidden beneath volcanic rock.
A fiery gaze quietly observed the slender yet upright figure of the young boy in the training ground.
Not supervision.
Not doubt.
But rather—a deeply buried, indescribable and overwhelmingly suppressed concern hidden within his blood.
Every time Guts charged, fought, fell, and rose again; every time that near-obsessive will burned under the scorching sun and sweat; every time others looked down on him with disdain or envy—a faint, almost imperceptible tenderness would flicker in Sakazuki's eyes.
"Good."
"Truly... the will of our family."
He murmured, his voice like a blazing magma—scorching and intense—before quickly cooling into silence once more.
Sakazuki quietly closed his eyes, and his Advanced Observation Haki silently unfurled.
Waves of perception rippled outward like water, soundlessly sweeping across the entire training ground.
Swiftly, he keenly detected several abnormal auras.
Within those auras lurked decay, conspiracy and hostility.
Like crocodiles lurking in dark currents, they had quietly set their sights on his only nephew.
Sakazuki narrowed his eyes, flames swirling in their depths.
Without alerting anyone, he silently committed to memory the auras, breathing patterns and habitual frequencies of those individuals—as if, stroke by stroke, he were preparing their future Death in his heart.
"Dare to lay a finger on Guts..."
"And prepare to face the judgment of hell."
The scorching wind howled.
On this land forged by blazing sun, sweat, and blood—a star of Absolute Justice burned silently, rising ever higher.
And in the silent skies above, the slumbering beast of magma had quietly opened its burning eyes.