Marine Headquarters.
The Elite Recruit Camp.
Inside the vast training hall, the sound of fists striking sandbags and boots pounding against the wooden floor echoed like thunder. Over a hundred young cadets, sweat-soaked and resolute, pushed their bodies to the limit. This was no ordinary camp. The Elite Camp was known across the seas as the cradle of future admirals, a place where only the most talented and determined could endure.
At the front of the hall, overseeing every movement with stern eyes, stood Zefa, the camp's chief instructor. His presence alone carried an aura of discipline that weighed heavier than steel.
As his sharp gaze swept across the room, it softened for the briefest moment when it landed on two particular figures.
One was a youth with a scar crisscrossing his chin, his movements sharp and commanding. The other had a head of striking silver hair, his aura calm yet suffused with natural dominance.
X Drake and Smoker.
Both of them were the pride of the Elite Camp.
Drake, a wielder of an Ancient Zoan Devil Fruit, had been in the camp for two years. His talent was extraordinary. From the moment he arrived, he crushed every opponent, surpassing even the seasoned veterans to claim the title of the camp's strongest.
Smoker, on the other hand, was a rising star. Though only a year into his training, his Logia-type Smoke Fruit had propelled him into the spotlight. His rapid growth allowed him to stand shoulder to shoulder with Drake, and the two now vied for dominance, each pushing the other higher.
Watching them, Zefa could not help but think of his former students—Akainu and Kizaru. In these boys, he glimpsed faint shadows of that same overwhelming potential. He had no doubt that, given time, their names too would resound across the seas.
Yet when his eyes wandered to the far corner of the hall, his expression faltered.
There, a handsome youth with dark eyes trained in silence, his every movement precise, his posture flawless. Unlike the others who sweated with visible strain, his form was neat, controlled, almost mechanical in its discipline.
His name was Siano.
Zefa sighed quietly.
A pity.
Siano was not slacking. On the contrary, he trained harder than anyone in the hall. Harder even than Drake and Smoker. His push-ups were perfect. His stances immaculate. His persistence unmatched. And yet, Zefa shook his head.
Because he knew the truth.
No matter how much effort Siano poured into his training, he would never catch up to Drake or Smoker.
Siano had joined the Elite Camp a year before Drake. He had been here nearly three years. And yet his strength was still far behind, his progress painfully slow.
It was not for lack of effort. Zefa had taught countless recruits across his career, but never had he met anyone as relentless as Siano.
The camp's training was brutal by design. Each cadet endured over eight hours of drills daily, a regimen that broke the weak and forged the strong. But Siano went further. He trained sixteen hours a day, double the others, never once showing fatigue, never once taking shortcuts. His body was pushed beyond exhaustion, his spirit burning with quiet determination.
And yet, despite all this, his growth lagged behind.
The cruel truth was simple: his talent was lacking.
Things that others grasped in a single day often took him three. Sometimes longer. What came naturally to Drake or Smoker seemed like an unscalable mountain to Siano. And so, while his peers surged ahead, he fell further and further behind.
Zefa's heart ached for the boy. He respected his perseverance, admired his willpower, but he also knew there was little he could do. Effort alone could not erase the gap carved by talent.
After all, was there not proof enough in the form of Charlotte Linlin?
That monstrous woman, later known as Big Mom, had been born with terrifying gifts. As a child of only five, without training, she possessed strength enough to devastate the land of giants. Such natural might defied all logic.
Against such innate power, Siano's diligence seemed tragically insignificant. Even if he trained ten lifetimes, he could never reach Linlin's starting point.
Of course, his hard work had not been entirely meaningless. Three years ago, when he first passed the regular training camp's assessment and qualified for the Elite Camp, it had already been considered a miracle. For someone of ordinary talent, it was nothing short of a personal triumph.
But Zefa knew that was likely the limit of Siano's climb. The upcoming graduation exam loomed, and Siano might not even be granted the chance to participate. His current strength was still too far below the required standard.
The thought made Zefa lapse into silence.
Two hours later, training concluded. After barking the order to dismiss, Zefa strode away, leaving the recruits to disperse.
As expected, Drake and Smoker were quickly surrounded, their peers eager to curry favor with the two rising stars. Laughter and conversation followed them as they left in a lively group.
Siano, however, remained behind.
While the others celebrated the end of the session, he dropped to the floor and resumed push-ups, his movements steady and precise. Sweat streamed from his forehead, dripping into a growing puddle beneath him, but he did not falter. His arms trembled, his muscles screamed, but he pressed on.
His persistence, however, drew no admiration.
Instead, snickers and mocking voices rose from the corner.
"Look at him! Still forcing himself after hours?"
"Hey, Siano, why not quit pretending? Just accept reality and leave the Elite Camp already!"
"Don't forget to invite us when you finally make your big comeback, hero! Hahaha!"
The loudest mockery came from Berigud and Shuen, both of whom had joined the camp the year after Siano. Berigud, with the power of the Bean-Bean Fruit, and Shuen, who wielded the Rust-Rust Fruit, delighted in belittling him. They enjoyed ridiculing the senior who worked harder than anyone yet remained weaker than them.
Their jeers carried across the hall, but none of Siano's other peers stepped in. Those who had joined the same year as him had long since distanced themselves, embarrassed to be associated with the so-called bottom ranker of their class.
Yet Siano did not respond. His eyes stayed fixed on the floor, his body moving with mechanical precision as he counted each push-up silently. His focus was unshaken, his lips pressed tight.
The mockery only grew harsher.
"Too good to answer us, huh? Don't worry, we'll be cheering you on when you're kicked out after the next test!"
This time, a flicker of emotion passed through Siano's eyes. His rhythm faltered for just a heartbeat, though his arms continued to move.
The truth gnawed at him.
The Elite Camp's graduation exam was no simple trial. Each year, cadets were evaluated and assigned future positions in the Navy based on their performance. But before that exam, every veteran was subjected to the Douriki Test—a measure of raw combat power used to determine whether a recruit had the potential to stand as a naval officer.
Those who failed to meet the standard were expelled immediately, stripped of their chance to even attempt graduation. From there, they would be reassigned as low-ranking soldiers, their dreams shattered in an instant.
And Siano knew, deep down, that he was still far from the threshold.
The thought weighed on him like an anchor. His eyes dimmed with doubt, his chest tightened with frustration.
Was effort truly meaningless?
Even after three years of unyielding struggle, sixteen-hour days, and endless sacrifice—was this all he had to show for it?
His arms trembled harder. Sweat blurred his vision. Yet still, he pushed himself against the floor, as though refusing to accept the answer.
But in his heart, the question echoed louder than the sound of his pounding heartbeat.
Was hard work really useless?