With a harsh metallic bang, the heavy iron door of the confinement room was yanked open. Blinding morning light poured in, making both of them, after a night in the dark, instinctively narrow their eyes.
"Get out!" the instructor barked impatiently.
Rain and Smoker walked out without a word. The instructor's threatening gaze swept over them; when he saw Smoker's slightly pale face, a mocking smirk tugged at his lips.
"Next time I catch you causing trouble, it won't just be one night in the hole!" he growled. "Now, get to the central training field. Move!"
Smoker's face was like thunder. He said nothing, just strode off, subconsciously putting two or three meters of distance between himself and Rain, eyes flickering, not daring to look at him.
Rain, meanwhile, behaved like nothing had happened, rolling his neck to loosen it after a night of sitting, already wondering in his head what the mess hall might be serving for breakfast.
They had just left the detention block when a lazy, teasing voice drifted over from the side of the path.
"Oh? Looks like you two had a pretty intense 'conversation' last night, Smoker."
It was the pink-haired woman from yesterday, leaning against the wall with a slim cigarette between her lips, watching them with amused interest.
Smoker's steps faltered, and his expression turned even uglier, but he, unusually, didn't blow up. He just forced out a few words through gritted teeth:
"Mind your own business."
Then he sped up, not looking back.
"Tch, what a rude man," the woman said, utterly unconcerned, curling her lip. Her gaze then shifted curiously to the calm, unreadable Rain walking behind.
"Pink hair, cigarette always in hand…" Rain's heart didn't even twitch. "No doubt about it. Future 'Black Cage' Hina."
He ignored her probing stare, simply followed after Smoker toward the central training field.
When he arrived, the sight before him instantly caught his attention.
It was a massive open-air training ground stretching as far as the eye could see. The ground was paved with hard blue stone, crisscrossed with deep scars from countless training sessions.
All around, weapon racks as tall as small hills stood in rows, along with all sorts of bizarre training equipment Rain had never seen before. The entire area was steeped in a chill mix of steel and gunpowder.
Hundreds of elite recruits from all over the world had already formed up into neat formations.
But within those formations, things were far from calm.
These prodigies from the Four Seas and the Grand Line all carried their pride openly.
They eyed each other up, gazes full of scrutiny and fierce competitiveness.
The air was thick with gunpowder; it felt like a fight could break out at any moment over nothing more than a provocation in someone's eyes.
Smoker's "I'm king of the world" swagger naturally drew plenty of attention. The moment he stepped into formation, a few equally tough-looking guys shot him hostile looks.
Rain, on the other hand, slipped silently to the very back of the ranks, choosing the most inconspicuous corner he could find, watching everything with a cool detachment.
Tsk tsk. Hormone-poisoned brats, he complained in his head. So much energy to burn.
Just as the atmosphere on the field was growing more and more charged, a crushing pressure like a mountain suddenly descended on everyone without warning.
Every bit of noise and commotion stopped dead in that instant.
Rain's head snapped up. On the platform overlooking the training ground, a massive figure had appeared without anyone noticing—like a demon god towering over them.
He stood well over three meters tall. His trademark purple buzz cut stuck up like steel needles. A pair of oversized sunglasses hid his eyes.
He carried no weapon, but his arms—the relaxed hands hanging at his sides thicker than a normal man's thighs—radiated a presence more terrifying than any blade.
Former Marine admiral, now the Marines' chief instructor—"Black Arm" Zephyr.
Zephyr didn't bother with small talk. He shouted straight at the recruits:
"I don't care if you were the ace of your branch. I don't care what Devil Fruits you've got! From today on, you are only one thing here—Marine recruits!"
"For the next year, I will treat you like scrap metal on the forge! If you can't take it, get out by yourselves! Only those who last to the end have the right to become the 'walls' and 'swords' that truly protect justice!"
His gaze swept across the faces below, many gone pale under his pressure, and his voice suddenly climbed even higher:
"Anyone want to quit right now?!"
Silence. You could hear a pin drop.
Here we go, the boss's specialty: big motivational speeches and corporate values talk, Rain thought from within the ranks, completely unmoved, barely suppressing a yawn. Though… this old guy's pressure is way more legit than the blowhard bald manager from my last life.
Zephyr seemed satisfied with the reaction. He slowly raised one giant hand and pointed to a cordoned-off area beside the field, lined with precise-looking instruments.
"Good." His voice was ice. "Before I start hammering you, I want to see what you're made of. Your first lesson—entry classification tests."
"There are three rounds: Doriki power test, stress tolerance, and live combat!"
"I'll make this very clear now," he said, tone sharp and unforgiving.
"You don't need to worry that failing one part will get you thrown out. Anyone who made it here was already an elite in their home branch."
He paused, then his voice grew even colder.
"But! Your total score will determine your class for the next year."
"The top 10% will join the Monster Class. You'll get the best resources and highest priority for guidance."
"The middle 70% go to the Elite Class. You'll receive standard training appropriate to your level."
"And the bottom 20%…" A cruel smile tugged at Zephyr's mouth. "You go to the Prep Class. You'll eat leftovers from the others. Your training load will be triple theirs. You'll use blood and sweat to wash away that shame."
"Every month, you'll get one chance to be re-evaluated. Whether you climb up—or rot at the bottom—is up to you."
An uproar swept the field.
Shock and gravity filled every face. This kind of naked stratification stung more than straight elimination could—it was pressure and humiliation wrapped together.
Oh? Performance-based class tiers, huh? Now that I'm familiar with.
Monster Class is too flashy; Prep Class is too much hassle. Looks like my first real challenge is figuring out how to land my total score precisely in the upper-middle of the Elite Class—strong enough not to be looked down on, but low-key enough not to stand out.