"This punch carries eighty years of conviction—eighty years of unwavering Justice since the day I first donned the Marine uniform. Tell me... can you handle it!"
Through the recording of the surveillance Den Den Mushi, the three Colonels could clearly see fire seemingly erupting from Rowan's eyes as those deafening words fell.
In an instant, his figure vanished. When he reappeared, he was standing directly in front of Simms.
"Iron Fist: Bone Crusher!"
A heaven-shaking punch descended.
The terrified Simms barely had time to cross his arms in a desperate guard. Unfortunately for him, this was a blow he could not hope to block.
The sickening crunch of shattering bone echoed through the recording. Simms—a man over three meters tall and weighing nearly eight hundred pounds—was sent spiraling backward, vomiting blood. With a thunderous boom, he slammed into the mast before collapsing onto the deck.
The entire pirate ship, once a chaotic den of noise, fell into a deathly silence. Every pirate on deck stared, dumbstruck, at the broken form of Simms lying beneath the mast.
Even though Vice Captain Dawson had lived through the event once, seeing it a second time on screen still made his heart hammer against his ribs. The man who, in their eyes, was an invincible powerhouse with an unimaginable bounty... had been dismantled in less than three moves by a single old man.
Who exactly was this Rowan? How could his strength be so terrifying?
Had it been anything less, these two hundred and seventy pirates would never have squatted so submissively on the deck, waiting for the Marines to come and chain them up. They weren't strong, but they weren't idiots either.
However, the three branch Colonels watching the playback felt a sudden, inexplicable surge of adrenaline.
"Well said!"
The young and spirited Guens couldn't help but slam his fist into his palm and cheer. He was at an age where passion was easily ignited. Being assigned to the East Blue—the "Weakest Sea"—had originally felt like a blow to his pride. He knew his talent wasn't the greatest, but his work ethic was second to none. He had resented the idea that all his hard work only earned him a post where he would likely just "rot away" until retirement.
But listening to Rowan's words, the embers of his dying ambition roared back to life. They burned hotter now than they ever had in his youth.
"The East Blue is called the weakest not because it lacks strength, but because it is peaceful!"
"Eighty years of conviction in one punch!"
"Is this Senior Rowan's philosophy? Justice maintained for eighty years... training for eighty years... If a centenarian can push himself this far, how can we youngsters dare to slack off for even a second?!"
If he didn't have the immediate task of processing these prisoners, Guens would have wanted to sprint back to his base and begin training right then and there.
It wasn't just Guens. Even the weary, nearly extinguished heart of Colonel Shuka from the 154th Branch felt a violent throb of inspiration.
"As expected of the 'Godfather of the Marines.' Just a few sentences are enough to set one's blood on fire," Shuka marveled inwardly.
In his younger years, Shuka had spent time at Marine Headquarters. The name "Godfather" was legendary, but back then, Shuka had been arrogant. He had heard how great Rowan was, but he had never heard of the man actually taking down any world-class pirates. He had secretly thought the title was a hollow exaggeration. After all, Garp was chasing Roger, Sengoku was hunting Whitebeard, and Fleet Admiral Kong was dueling "Redfield" the Lone Red.
But seeing this footage, Shuka's perception did a complete 180-degree turn.
"Truly... I was blind in my youth," Shuka whispered.
The pillars of the current Navy—Sengoku, Garp, Zephyr, Tsuru—all of them had been shaped, directly or indirectly, by this man. Shuka's respect for Rowan deepened into true reverence. Simultaneously, he thought of his own lazy grandsons back home and felt a flash of irritation. Those brats think of nothing but loafing around. It's time I sent them to the Headquarters training camp for a real wake-up call.
Amidst their shared awe, the three officers decided to preserve this footage. When the Headquarters ship arrived, they would ensure it reached Fleet Admiral Sengoku. They knew that seeing this would bring immense joy to both Sengoku and Vice Admiral Garp.
Meanwhile.
Rowan had no idea that his recorded "performance" had earned him three more fanatical devotees. He had already rowed his small boat back to the mountain behind Foosha Village. He had built a bonfire in a clearing and was focused on roasting a massive mountain goat.
Fat sizzled on the skin, and a thick, savory aroma wafted through the air. The roast was clearly nearing perfection. The old man didn't notice the illusory screen in his mind flicker again. This time, the number jumped straight to 99.9%.
His attention was entirely on the meat. When the moment was right, Rowan grabbed a handful of spices and scattered them evenly over the surface, the heat instantly unlocking a mouth-watering fragrance. Without ceremony, he ripped off the choice hind leg and took a massive, succulent bite.
Rich flavor and juices exploded in his mouth. A look of pure bliss spread across the old man's wrinkled face. Indeed, meat always tasted better when eaten in great, gluttonous mouthfuls.
"Little brat, if you don't make your move soon, I'm going to finish all of this myself," Rowan laughed heartily, licking grease from his lips after a swig of liquor.
Curiously, there was no one else in sight. There wasn't even a wild animal nearby. Aside from the crackle of the fire and the sound of the old man eating, there was only the rustle of the wind through the trees.
But Rowan's lips curled into a smirk. His ears twitched; he had long since heard the sound of someone swallowing hard and a stomach growling from the bushes thirty meters behind him.
He was actually impressed. Today, the brat had managed to hold out for quite a long time. Usually, he couldn't withstand the assault of the aroma for more than a few minutes.
"Really? You're staying in there?"
The words had barely left his mouth when a red blur burst from the brush with a sharp whoosh.
"Gomu Gomu no... Pistol!"
A familiar, high-pitched voice rang out as a clenched fist streaked forward. Behind that fist, an arm stretched out like a length of tensioned rubber.
A Devil Fruit user.
Of course, the target wasn't Rowan himself, but the roasted goat hanging over the fire.
Sensing the movement behind him, Rowan simply chuckled. "Brat, you caught me off guard with that trick last time. You think I'd let you pull it twice? You think the old man is that senile?"
The punch was fast, but a prepared Rowan was faster. Just as the hand opened to snatch the goat—less than ten centimeters away—Rowan's hand blurred. With lightning speed, he caught the boy's wrist in an iron grip and gave it a violent yank.
The red blur at the end of the stretching arm was hauled forward with irresistible force.
"Brat, my cooking hasn't gone downhill, has it?" Rowan laughed, tossing away a bone he had picked clean.
The youth, roughly fourteen or fifteen years old, wore a red vest, denim shorts, and a straw hat hanging from his neck. This was Garp's grandson, left in Dadan's care: Monkey D. Luffy. Given his relationship with Garp, Luffy was essentially Rowan's great-grandson.
Luffy's gaze finally tore away from the roast goat and fixed on Rowan's face. Rowan was still chewing a large piece of meat, his words slightly muffled. Luffy hadn't eaten breakfast, and the sight of the old man feast, combined with the aroma hitting his taste buds, was too much. His stomach betrayed him.
Gurgle—!
Seeing Luffy's indignant, starving expression, Rowan laughed. "Too bad you missed your chance. No meat for you today."
Far from showing pity, Rowan tightened his grip and gave a powerful heave, sending Luffy flying through the air.