Clang! lang! Clang!
At this point, the sound of metal striking metal had already become a familiar part of Marine Headquarters.
It was uneven, interrupted by long pauses, and occasionally followed by the frustrated roar of the hero of the marines. The Marines passing through the nearby corridors had learned to recognize the sound. Some slowed their steps out of curiosity, while others hurried along before the old hero noticed them watching.
Inside the forge, Monkey D. Garp stood before an anvil with his sleeves rolled up and sweat running down his face. His usual grin was nowhere to be seen. Instead, he stared at the piece of metal resting on the anvil as though it had personally insulted him.
He raised his hammer and struck it again.
The blow rang through the room, sending a brief shower of sparks across the darkened surface of the anvil. The metal shifted slightly beneath the impact, but whatever change Garp had intended to make did not occur. He lowered the hammer, examined his work, and let out a long breath through his nose.
"Bah! What's wrong with this thing?"
The metal was not the problem, and Garp knew it. He had already spent enough time working with it to recognize that the material itself was suitable for his purposes. The fault lay somewhere in the process, though he had not yet determined exactly where. He had tried changing the angle of his strikes, adjusting the heat, and altering the intervals between each blow. Every adjustment had produced a different result, but none had brought him closer to the outcome he wanted.
Garp set the hammer down and reached for another tool.
A dozen used and broken hammers lay scattered to one side of the forge. Some had cracked handles, while others had damaged heads or faces worn down from repeated use. One had split almost entirely in half near its head, and another had developed a visible bend that made it unsuitable for anything requiring precise strikes. They were not the products of careless work. Each had been used until Garp decided it could no longer serve the purpose he required.
He glanced at the collection, then looked back at the hammer in his hand.
"That's twelve already. At this rate, I'll have to order another box."
The complaint sounded more like his usual self, but the irritation behind it remained. Garp had never been a man who enjoyed admitting that he could not do something. He had spent decades fighting pirates, challenging powerful opponents, and surviving situations that would have broken most ordinary men. When confronted with a difficult task, his instinct had always been to push forward until the obstacle gave way.
The forge had refused to cooperate with that philosophy.
Strength mattered, but the work demanded more than strength. A careless strike could ruin an entire sequence of carefully prepared work. Excessive force could deform the material in a way that no amount of subsequent effort would correct. Even the timing of his movements mattered, and the difference between a useful blow and a wasted one could be smaller than he cared to acknowledge.
He had learned enough to understand why experienced craftsmen treated their tools with such care. Unfortunately, understanding the principle and applying it consistently were two very different things.
Garp put the hammer down and turned toward the forge itself.
The equipment had been assembled according to the specifications he had provided, using materials that Marine Headquarters could obtain without too much trouble. It was better than the makeshift arrangement he had started with, but it still failed to meet his expectations. The heat did not distribute as evenly as he wanted, and the working surface offered less control than he needed. Certain adjustments that seemed simple in his mind became troublesome when he attempted to carry them out with the equipment available.
He crouched beside the furnace and inspected the structure, running a thick finger along one of its edges. His expression grew increasingly displeased as he considered the limitations.
"This won't do."
The words were quiet, but his decision was immediate. He would have to make changes to the forge before he could continue properly. There was no point wasting more material and breaking more hammers simply because he refused to admit that his working conditions were inadequate.
The realization annoyed him almost as much as the failed work itself. He had personally insisted that the Marines provide him with a place to practice his craft, and he had assured them that he could make the necessary arrangements. Now he was discovering that knowing what he wanted to accomplish did not automatically mean he understood everything required to accomplish it.
Still, Garp was not about to abandon the project because the first attempt had proven difficult.
He had not spent his entire life becoming one of the strongest Marines in the world by giving up whenever something resisted him. He had trained through exhaustion, endured injuries that would have kept other men bedridden, and continued fighting long after his body had told him to stop. Those experiences had taught him persistence, even if they had not taught him the finer points of craftsmanship.
He straightened and looked at the unfinished work on the anvil.
Whatever he was trying to create, he had no intention of accepting a result that fell short of his expectations. If the forge was inadequate, he would improve it. If his technique was flawed, he would correct it. If the material demanded a level of control he had not yet mastered, then he would keep working until he acquired it.
That was how he approached every challenge, and he saw no reason to change now.
Garp returned to the furnace and adjusted the heat before selecting another hammer. This time, he paid closer attention to the color of the metal and the way it responded when he moved it. He examined the surface, waited for the conditions to reach what he judged to be the proper point, and only then raised his arm.
The first strike was measured rather than forceful.
He paused to examine the result before delivering the next blow. The work progressed slowly, but the rhythm was steadier than it had been earlier. Garp did not smile, and he certainly did not look satisfied, yet he continued without immediately reaching for another tool.
Several hours passed before he finally stepped away from the anvil. His shoulders ached, his clothes were damp with sweat, and the air inside the forge had grown stifling. Ordinarily, he would have complained about the heat and found some excuse to take a break. Instead, he remained where he was, studying what he had accomplished and mentally reviewing every decision that had brought him to that point.
The result was still not what he wanted. He could identify several flaws, and there were parts of the process that he would need to reconsider before continuing. Nevertheless, the session had not been entirely wasted. He had learned something about the material, discovered another limitation in his equipment, and found a small adjustment that produced a more consistent result.
It was progress, even if it was not enough to satisfy him.
Garp finally wiped his face with a cloth and walked toward a basin near the wall. The water was warm from the surrounding heat, and the reflection that greeted him was blurred by the ripples he created when he washed his hands. He barely glanced at it before splashing water across his face.
Then he stopped.
Something about his reflection seemed different, although he could not immediately identify what had caught his attention. He leaned closer and examined himself with an expression of mild suspicion. The familiar lines around his eyes appeared less pronounced than he remembered, and the deep wrinkles across his forehead seemed to have softened.
Garp frowned and rubbed his face with one hand.
"Am I imagining things?"
He had never been particularly concerned about his appearance. His face had accumulated its share of wrinkles over the years, and his hair had long since turned white. Neither bothered him. They were ordinary consequences of growing older, and he had never considered them worth worrying about.
Perhaps the lighting was responsible. The forge had been burning for hours, and the shadows cast across the basin made it difficult to judge anything accurately. He leaned back, examined his reflection once more, and eventually shrugged.
He had more important matters to attend to.
The ache in his shoulders had also faded more quickly than he expected. His hands felt steady despite the hours of work, and the fatigue that should have settled into his limbs seemed strangely mild. He attributed it to the satisfaction of finally making some progress, though he could not remember the last time a demanding day had left him feeling this energetic.
Garp dismissed the thought and returned to the anvil.
He picked up one of the damaged hammers, examined its broken handle, and tossed it onto the growing pile beside the others. Then he reached for a fresh tool and checked its balance before bringing it to the working surface.
There was still much to learn, and the forge remained inadequate. Tomorrow, he would begin making the necessary improvements. After that, he would continue refining his technique until he could produce the result he had envisioned.
For now, he had work to do.
The hammer rose and fell again, its measured rhythm filling the forge as the afternoon light faded beyond the windows. Garp remained focused on the task before him, unaware that the changes he had dismissed at the basin were not merely tricks of the light. His wrinkles had begun to disappear, his body was recovering with unusual ease, and the man working at the anvil was gradually becoming younger.
For the moment, however, none of that concerned him as much as the unsatisfactory state of his forge.
The next strike landed with a clean, controlled ring.
Garp studied the result, gave a small grunt of approval, and continued working. He was still dissatisfied, but at least he had finally found something worth building upon.