The next day, Marineford, Marine Recruit Training Camp.
A sliver of morning light rippled across the horizon, revealing half of a fiery red sphere between the clouds.
Today was Loya's first day as a Marine. He had woken up early, clutching a large bag of stead buns, snacking as he ran. Since the food was free, he might as well eat plenty.
On his way to the training grounds, the other recruits, all rushing by, couldn't help but steal a few glances.
"That guy can really eat!"
"Is that Loya? I heard Vice Admiral Momonga brought him in."
"Must be him... keep it down. I heard he was punched across the deck by Momonga yesterday and smashed through the hull, yet he's totally fine. Looks like another monster."
"Yeah, yeah."
The news of Loya joining the Marines had already spread. A warship returning for major repairs was hard to miss. Initially, everyone thought Momonga had been attacked at sea, but after digging for details, they learned the truth, and Loya's na had beco common knowledge.
Loya didn't care about their gossip. As a transmigrator, he still felt like he was living inside a 3D movie.
He had already figured out the current tiline: it was the 16th year of the Great Pirate Era, Marine Year 1516. It was one year before Ace would set sail, and Luffy, the "Destined Child," was still hiding out in Foosha Village, preparing for his own departure.
He jogged to the training grounds, which were already crowded with recruits. Nibbling his last bun, Loya scanned his colleagues.
"Mustache? Don't recognize him."
"Blonde bombshell? Don't know her."
"The guy with two swords... still don't know him."
After a quick ntal sweep, Loya swallowed his last bite, relieved: Excellent, all extras!
Extras were great. Being surrounded by extras ant he wouldn't get dragged into any unnecessary nonsense and could focus on his training under Zephyr.
Soon, an instructor appeared on the field—likely a Major General based on his insignia. He faced the recruits and bellowed, "Seventh Squad! Fall in!"
The recruits, who had been gathering as he arrived, imdiately snapped to attention and organized into rows. Loya wasn't sure where to stand, but luckily, the formation wasn't perfectly balanced, and there were two empty spots in the back row. He quickly ran over and stood at attention.
After a short opening speech, the instructor turned to his right, stood at attention, and saluted: "Admiral Zephyr, Seventh Squad, 5 mbers present, 5 mbers total. Requesting instructions!"
Loya looked over and, sure enough, standing in a corner of the grassy field in a purple suit, Zephyr had appeared as if by magic. The recruits saw him now, and the formation erupted into a chaotic murmur.
"It's Admiral Zephyr! So exciting!"
"I can't believe I'm seeing Admiral Zephyr in person!"
"Hey, why is the Admiral here at the Recruit Camp today? Doesn't he usually only handle the Elite Camp?"
"Maybe it's because of that matter..."
"That matter? No way!"
Hearing the buzzing in the ranks, the Major General's face darkened. "Silence!"
The previously rowdy group went deathly quiet. Each recruit puffed out their chest, afraid to move.
Zephyr walked to the front of the formation. Observing the spirited recruits, he furrowed his brow slightly. Although recruits training at Marine Headquarters were usually from military families and had a good foundation, the caliber of the last few years—in terms of both skill and resolve—was far below his expectations. He was worried, but this wasn't the ti to express it. He was here today only to check on that "decent seed" and to announce the upcoming event.
"I am here today to notify you of one thing. So of you may have already heard: the annual Elite Assessnt for the Recruit Camp is about to begin!"
A ripple of excitent went through the crowd. This was the Elite Camp. Graduation ant a minimum rank of Junior Officer!
They were Main Headquarters recruits, but if they lacked skill, graduating as a simple Private was a very real possibility. And what Marine didn't dream of becoming a General? Joining the Elite Camp was a shortcut that could save them years, or even decades, of struggle.
"Silence! Anyone else caught talking will have the entire squad run 100 laps of the training field!" the Major General shouted, unveiling the military's favorite disciplinary tool: collective punishnt.
Now, even if soone had an itchy tongue, those around them would "help" them shut it.
Zephyr watched the scene expressionlessly, waiting for the silence to settle before continuing. "But don't get too happy! The Elite Assessnt is also known as the Live-Combat Assessnt. That ans you will face real enemies and have to survive in a life-or-death struggle. Only the best among you will join the Elite Camp. Do you understand?"
"Yes!" The response was weak. Many recruits were clearly terrified by the word "survive." Zephyr frowned, impatient. "Did you not eat breakfast? I asked you, do you understand?"
"YES!"
This ti, the response was uniform and loud. Regardless of what they felt inside, they knew better than to anger Zephyr.
Zephyr, having led countless recruits, knew exactly what they were thinking, but he didn't bother explaining. He nodded and turned to leave. He didn't go far, however—he sat on the second floor of the periter wall, watching the training through the glass.
Was the Live-Combat Assessnt really as terrifying as a "survival rate" implied?
Of course not.
While the Marines were a combat force that dealt with lethal pirates, they weren't running a brutal underground arena. They didn't want to kill off their recruits in a process of extre attrition. The first assessnt usually involved sending recruits to a small island filled with fard wild beasts to hunt them, with their performance being graded accordingly. The island was covered in surveillance Den Den Mushi, and at least one Admiral was always present, ensuring safety.
The goal was to get the recruits to see blood. Only after seeing real blood would they transform from "paper tigers" who only knew how to practice, into soldiers capable of real, steel-on-steel combat with pirates. After that point, the "Assessnt" part would fall away, and it would just be war.
But there was no need to tell the recruits that. If they were given a safety net, they might lose their fear of death, and they would never beco independent soldiers. A flower in a greenhouse couldn't withstand the storm, and a soldier who didn't know the weight of death couldn't uphold the na of the Marines.
Marine Headquarters was no retirent ho.
Once Zephyr left, the training began. First: 200 laps around the field. It was the daily routine for all seven squads of the Recruit Camp.
The training ground was massive, with one lap equaling 2,000 ters. Given that it had to accommodate seven squads, it had to be large enough so that hundreds of people didn't have to train in batches.
Loya's Seventh Squad was the last group in the formation. The "last" position wasn't based on strength, just the order of enrollnt.
Loya was grateful for his nine years of compulsory education, which had taught him a steady long-distance running rhythm. He didn't try to show off by sprinting to the front; instead, he maintained a steady, breathing-in-three, breathing-out-three cadence, keeping pace in the middle of the pack.
After a few dozen laps, people started passing him, but he remained unmoved, as long as he wasn't dead last. By the 100-lap mark, a small group began to lag behind, and he gradually started overtaking them.
In the final 50 laps, Loya kept a steady speed, passing one recruit after another until he reached the front of the pack. There were only two or three others left at the front by that point.
"Not bad stamina!" Loya thought, admiring the few guys next to him. After running for so long, they had no wasted movents—every step was solid.
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