The arena, located at the rear of the Marine Headquarters fortress, was a vast, open plaza. It was a space independent of the main building complex, surrounded by empty land for miles—the perfect place for Marines to spar without the fear of collateral damage or curious onlookers.
At precisely 2:00 PM, a gaunt, lean figure sat cross-legged in the center of the arena, a long sword resting across his lap, rising and falling with the rhythm of his breathing.
In the spectator stands on the left, several figures stood tall. Among them were the officiating officers, but the seats were also occupied by the forr Admiral Zephyr, Vice Admirals Momonga and Onigumo, as well as the "Marine Hero," Iron Fist Garp.
Hearing that Loya was dueling Bibb Hansa of the Elite Camp, Momonga had invited his fellow high-ranking officers to observe. His motive was clear: he wanted Loya to showcase his strength to the top brass to pave the way for his future.
As the clock struck two, Hansa opened his eyes, staring toward the fortress. A second later, Zephyr, Garp, and the other veteran fighters sensed an approach.
"Hey, Zephyr," Garp asked, surprised. "Hansa's Observation Haki doesn't have that kind of range, does it?"
"Mm..." Zephyr nodded. "Like when you hunted Roger, it's probably a primal intuition shared between rivals."
"Eh..." Garp scratched the back of his head. "Seems a bit dramatic, doesn't it?"
A blur streaked through the air. Within a single breath, the figure arrived in the center of the field, landing silently and effortlessly.
"To think this generation of the Elite Camp has a genius who mastered Soru to such a degree. He must be the most outstanding in all the years, right?"
"Looks like it. Momonga, is that Loya?" The man speaking was a bearded man chewing on a cigar—Vice Admiral Onigumo.
Momonga frowned, his arms crossed over his chest. "That's him... but what's with those injuries? They agreed to a duel today; why didn't he rest?"
Vice Admiral Onigumo's eyes widened. Loya's state was indeed abysmal. His clean recruit shirt was caked with dirt and slashed with sword marks; through the tears, deep, bloody gashes were visible. His baby-faced features were marred by scrapes and bruises, and the ring finger on his left hand was bent at an unnatural angle—a clear fracture.
Seeing Loya's mangled state, Zephyr demanded in a deep, thundering voice, "Loya! Who attacked you?"
Zephyr's face was dark, his gaze unfocused, and the muscles in his arms trembled—a sign of extre, suppressed rage. To him, Loya was his most cherished disciple. Even a typical Vice Admiral would struggle against him; unless it was an Admiral, who dared to lay a hand on him?
"Attacked?" Though the bleeding from his chest wounds had stopped, the vibration of his chest while speaking sent a spike of agonizing pain through him, nearly knocking him over. He waved off Zephyr's attempt to approach, took a few deep breaths, and straightened his spine. "No one attacked . I just... I sort of challenged the entire Elite Camp on my way here. Just so minor scratches, don't worry."
"Challenged... the entire Elite Camp?" Zephyr froze, his eyes widening in disbelief. "You an all of them?!"
"Of course! Otherwise, teacher, who do you think could wound one-on-one?" Loya grinned, revealing eight gleaming teeth.
The spectator stands erupted. The high-ranking officers looked on in shock. "The whole camp? That really is..." Onigumo couldn't finish his sentence.
Even if this generation was considered "weaker," they were still the Elite Camp—geniuses selected layer by layer from the best of the best. The officers present were all products of Zephyr's training; they knew exactly what these recruits were capable of. They were all, by any standard, monsters.
As the officers stood in stunned silence, a ragged group appeared on the edge of the field. They were all battered. Tony, Simon, and the others walked with slow, agonizing steps. Aldo, the four-ter-tall giant, lay on a makeshift wooden cart; the Jero brothers each had an arm in thick, wet plaster casts.
Feeling the gazes upon them, Loya tilted his head. "I thought you'd be stuck in the infirmary. I didn't expect you to be able to stand."
Tony pushed Simon away and hobbled toward the arena using his scabbard as a cane. He climbed up to the platform and reached into his pocket, offering Loya a roll of bandages. "Bandage up. Your wounds are going to split."
Loya looked at the bandages in silence, then swatted them away with a flick of his hand, a wicked grin on his face. "Unnecessary! This was my own choice!" He turned his gaze to Hansa. "Besides, even if I'm injured, are you so sure Hansa can beat ?"
Tony fell silent, abandoning the attempt to persuade him.
Zephyr finally understood. The veteran mbers of the Elite Camp knew that Hansa was no match for Loya. If it were a normal spar, everyone would be laughing and jeering. But Hansa's body couldn't handle a high-level battle—he was likely to collapse at any mont.
In short, Hansa could die.
These recruits couldn't bear to watch a comrade die. Unable to stop the duel, they had chosen another path: to weaken Loya.
For so reason, they all desperately wanted Hansa to win.
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