The next morning, as the first sliver of dawn peeked over the horizon, Kyle was yanked from his hammock by the collar and unceremoniously dumped onto the deck. The planks were cold beneath his bare feet, and the sharp sea breeze sliced through the last threads of his sleep.
He blinked the haze from his eyes and found himself standing before two figures—one on each side—like divine statues carved from completely different ideas of godhood.
On his right was Gol D. Roger, arms crossed, posture relaxed, and a wide, mischievous grin plastered across his face. It was the kind of smirk that promised trouble, as though he was about to watch the funniest play in the world and you were the main act.
On his left stood Silvers Rayleigh. The first mate adjusted his glasses with a measured push, his eyes sharp and expression unreadable, the very image of seriousness.
It felt like being evaluated by both a rowdy festival host and a stern school principal at the same time.
Rayleigh spoke first, his tone calm but firm enough to leave no room for argument.
"Before you start learning how to wield your Devil Fruit ability more effectively, there's something you need to understand. The Devil Fruit grants you power… but the strength that carries that power comes from your own body. Physique is the foundation of everything."
He extended one finger toward Roger.
"This man has no Devil Fruit ability. If you fought him again today, do you think the outcome would be any different?"
Kyle's gaze flicked to Roger. The Captain's grin widened until his gums showed. The memory of yesterday's punch—heavy, bone-rattling, and humiliating—flashed vividly in his mind. His answer was immediate and decisive.
"…No."
"Exactly." Rayleigh's glasses glinted in the morning light. "That's why your first training will be in martial arts. Strengthening your body, honing your reflexes, and learning weapons. Speaking of which—what weapon do you intend to use?"
Kyle had been thinking about this for a while. His Boba-Boba no Mi ability, in many ways, reminded him of the legendary Tremor-Tremor Fruit of "the world's strongest man" from his past life memories—Edward Newgate, Whitebeard.
He had watched enough of that towering figure's battles in his mind to know: power alone wasn't enough. It needed a vessel, a medium to channel it.
"I want to use a guan dao," Kyle answered with seriousness. Then, realizing the term likely meant nothing here, he added, "A kind of long-handled greatsword."
"Oh?" Roger tilted his head, intrigued. "And why's that?"
"My ability lets me control vibrations—waves," Kyle explained. "With a long-handled weapon, I can transmit those vibrations from the hilt to the blade and release them at the moment of impact. That way, I can keep my distance while still increasing my attack's destructive power."
As he spoke, an image burned in his mind—Whitebeard standing tall, Murakumogiri in hand, shattering the very air with a single swing. Kyle knew he was still light-years away from such a level, but it gave him something to chase.
"I see… a naginata." Roger's grin returned full force. "Not bad, little Kyle! Using a weapon to amplify your Devil Fruit—kuhahaha!"
Rayleigh's eyes softened for just a moment. Behind those lenses, there was approval. The boy had talent, yes—but more importantly, he had direction.
"Alright," Rayleigh said, producing a folded paper from… somewhere. "Here's your training plan."
Kyle accepted it—and nearly dropped it.
"Kyle's Exclusive Physical Enhancement Menu"
1. Morning Exercise: Run 100 laps around the ship with weights. Speed determined by Captain's mood.
2. Morning: Seawater Resistance Training—tie yourself to the ship and swim against the current until exhaustion. Captain may throw "obstacles" such as fish or barrels.
3. Afternoon: Weapon Fundamentals (Rayleigh) and Combat Practice (Roger).
4. Evening: Extreme Evasion Training—stand in the center of the deck and dodge "loving throws" from both Captain and First Mate. If hit once, dinner is halved.
5. Night: Meditation and precise Devil Fruit control exercises.
Kyle stared at the page, beads of cold sweat forming on his forehead. Ship speed determined by Captain's mood? Random obstacles? Loving throws?!
This was less a training regimen and more a legally questionable torture schedule.
Roger leaned down, shoulder-bumping him with a predatory grin. "What's wrong? Scared already?"
Kyle's jaw tightened. He clenched the paper like it was a declaration of war.
"No," he said, fire blazing in his eyes. "I accept."
And so began the tragic—ahem—fulfilling chapter of Kyle's new life.
---
Day One: He barely managed thirty laps before Roger, on a whim, swung the rudder and sent the ship veering sharply. Kyle's balance vanished, and he tumbled forward, skidding seven meters across the deck on his face.
Day Two: "Gurgle… gurgle… gurgle!" (Note: No Devil Fruit user can swim in seawater! Resistance doesn't work like this!)
Day Three Afternoon: Rayleigh had just finished teaching him the most basic naginata techniques—chop, sweep, lift, thrust—when Roger strolled up with a sword and a grin.
"Alright, little Kyle, let's test what you've learned!"
…It felt like being told, You've learned one plus one equals two—now solve Goldbach's Conjecture.
---
The clashing began.
"Clang! Clang! Clang!"
Kyle's makeshift naginata—essentially a wooden stick lashed to a sword—was all that stood between him and Roger's relentless strikes. The Captain wasn't even using sword techniques, just raw, heavy swings. Even so, the sheer power made Kyle's arms ache, his grip burn, and his stance falter.
"Too slow! Too soft! No power in your blade!" Each critique hit harder than the blows themselves.
And that was before the evening's "loving throws."
---
"Kyle, here's a Flying Fish Tail Whip!"
"Kyle, incoming barrel—right side!"
Two predators circling their prey, Roger and Rayleigh hurled everything from slippery sea fish to planks of wood at devilish angles. Kyle danced—more like scrambled—in the middle of the deck, relying on the heightened senses he'd honed during his time on the deserted island.
A wet thump! marked his failure to dodge a fish square to the backside.
"Kuhahaha! Hit! Half dinner!" Roger's laughter rolled over the waves.
Kyle staggered upright, eyes brimming with silent accusations. Somewhere deep in his mind, a mock documentary narrator began: Why did screams of a child echo across the sea? Why was a six-year-old covered in bruises? Behind this, is it human nature… or moral decay?
Welcome to "Kyle's Redemption."
---
Days blurred into weeks. Every muscle fiber screamed. Bruises overlapped like a poorly painted mosaic. He often felt death was one misstep away—but just as he neared his limit, Rayleigh would wordlessly hand him ointment, and Roger would drop a roasted sea beast big enough to feed a crew.
They pushed him hard—but they also pulled him back from the edge.
And slowly, he adapted.
During weighted runs, he began using faint shockwaves under his feet, easing the impact and lightening his steps. In sparring, he learned to infuse his blade with high-frequency vibrations, releasing them at the moment of contact to blunt Roger's monstrous strength.
His face still puffed up like a pig's head after most matches, but he could now survive several exchanges instead of one.
As for evening evasion training, he learned to push his Light Illusion Mirage to its limits—bending the light around his body just enough to create a split-second visual error, buying him precious time to dodge.
Only seawater training remained hopeless.
---
One month later.
The sun bled gold across the horizon, the deck bathed in warm light. Kyle stood shirtless, bronze skin gleaming, the fine scars on his body mapping a month of relentless trial. His breathing was steady; his hands gripped the naginata with purpose.
Roger stood opposite, grinning like always.
"Ready, you little brat?"
Kyle smirked. "Bring it on, Captain."
He stomped down—not to charge, but to send a shockwave rippling through the deck.
"Sonic Step—Instant!"
The recoil launched him forward at a speed he'd never reached before. His blade hummed with condensed vibrations, a faint white aura trailing its edge.
Roger's eyes flashed with surprise—but instead of dodging, he raised his sword, one hand, casual as ever.
"Clang—!"
The clash exploded into a gust of wind that rattled the sails. Kyle was driven back, boots gouging deep prints into the deck, his grip bleeding—but Roger… stepped back. Half a step.
The grin on the Pirate King's face was brighter than the sunset.
"Kuhahahaha! Well done, Kyle!"
Kyle leaned on his weapon, chest heaving, but a wide, genuine smile broke across his battered face.
From his place against the mast, Rayleigh allowed himself a small, satisfied smile.
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