That day, the skies over East Blue were impossibly clear. Sunlight danced across the endless ocean, scattering golden reflections that shimmered gently with every passing breeze.
From the still surface of the sea, a sudden splash broke the silence—followed by a head emerging from the depths.
It was Tachibana Kyūjō.
Wearing a relaxed smile, he surfaced with a calm, unhurried grace. Then, with swift and coordinated strokes, his arms and legs spun like the blades of a fan, creating a vortex that broke through the stillness of the water.
He swam at blazing speed toward a nearby black ship drifting gently in the waves—an ex-pirate vessel that had, somehow, ended up becoming his ride.
As he reached the bottom hull, Kyūjō didn't wait for permission to board. He placed one hand against the underside of the ship—and in the next breath, launched himself upward like a bird escaping its cage.
But instead of crashing down with force, he landed on the deck as softly as a falling feather. No noise. No impact.
Just perfect control.
Even in something so simple, it was clear—Kyūjō had mastered his body.
Now standing atop the deck, he let out a long, steady breath. His pores opened wide, and with it, heat poured from within.
Thick sweat clung to his skin like a second layer, the result of a grueling training session at the bottom of the sea.
Without a word, he grabbed a bucket prepared earlier by the crew, and dumped its contents over himself.
Saltwater washed away the sweat, revealing the trained body beneath—sharp, sculpted, and glistening under the sunlight. It wasn't just strength. It was beauty through discipline.
Kyūjō let out a satisfied exhale.
The deep fatigue in his muscles faded like morning mist. His body now felt light and refreshed.
"Breakfast ready yet?" he asked casually, drying off the remaining droplets from his skin.
The former captain of the pirate crew—Billy Turei, once known as "Sea Serpent"—answered respectfully, "Prepared and waiting, Sir Kyūjō."
Kyūjō nodded and slipped on his jacket before heading toward the mess hall.
As he walked the corridor, every pirate he passed bowed their heads. Not out of fear or orders—but out of sheer respect.
They had seen strength. And they had seen discipline. Kyūjō embodied both.
When he entered the dining hall, his eyes locked onto the massive table loaded with roasted meat, thick sauce dripping from every corner.
He nodded with approval.
Grilled Sea King meat… not bad.
Every day, his meals consisted of Sea King meat in various forms—grilled, steamed, boiled, or cooked in rich sauces. Surprisingly, he never grew tired of the menu.
After finishing a hearty meal, his body absorbed the nutrients like a sponge—fueling his recovery after intense training.
With a full stomach, Kyūjō stepped back out to the deck.
He didn't feel like training right after eating. A little sunbathing under the warm sky sounded much better.
But just as he reached the railing—he froze.
Several dozen kilometers away, a massive Marine warship was cutting through the ocean, heading directly toward him.
The ship's figurehead—shaped unmistakably like a giant dog's head—gave away its identity immediately.
Kyūjō narrowed his eyes.
There was only one Marine who sailed a ship like that: Monkey D. Garp.
What's he doing here…?
Coming to avenge East Blue's Marines?
…No way he's the kind of man who punches a fifteen-year-old, right? Find the newest release on novel·fire·net
Without changing expression, Kyūjō called all the pirates up to the deck.
As they gathered, he scanned them with a firm gaze and said,
"You guys… weren't that bad."
"I'm leaving now. And I'll let you live."
"But listen closely. If I ever find out you've returned to being pirates…"
His tone sharpened like drawn steel.
"There won't be a second warning."
Hearing that, Billy Turei stepped forward with hopeful eyes.
"Then… please let us come with you, Sir Kyūjō!"
Kyūjō shook his head. Cold. Final.
Without another word, he lowered a small lifeboat from the side of the ship and jumped down.
"Turn around. Now," Kyūjō barked over his shoulder.
"The Marines are coming."
And with that, he grabbed the oars and began rowing toward the oncoming Marine vessel.
Thirty minutes later...
On the deck of the dog-headed warship, Garp stood with his arms crossed, his massive frame radiating unshakable presence—even as a small snot bubble formed on his nose.
The visual… not so much.
"Vice Admiral Garp, sir! Please don't fall asleep while standing again…" muttered Bogard, jabbing his superior gently in the ribs.
Garp blinked awake, still half-lost in dreamland. "Wha? We there yet? Are pirates attacking?"
Bogard sighed and pointed toward the sea ahead.
"There. That's the one we're looking for."
Garp followed the direction.
On a small lifeboat stood Tachibana Kyūjō, his posture firm, his eyes locked onto the warship.
Though deep down, Kyūjō quietly whispered a wish:
Please... don't hit too hard.
"Oi! Kid!" Garp suddenly roared across the water, voice like thunder. "You the one causing trouble with East Blue's Marines?!"
He stood tall on the small boat, chin raised as he replied,
"At first, I thought the Marines stood for justice."
"I thought Boris Kaller was just a rotten exception—a stray rat."
"But turns out… you're all the same. Pathetic. Do you even deserve to wear the word 'JUSTICE' on your backs?"
Instead of getting mad, Garp burst into laughter. "Hah! This kid's got some guts!"
"Do you know who I am?"
In that instant, the pressure around him exploded—like a mountain crashing down onto the ocean.
Kyūjō's tiny boat dipped sharply beneath the force. The air turned heavy, like time itself had slowed.
Thunder Breathing – First Form.
His hand tightened around the hilt of Rairyūken, and with perfect stillness, he drew it halfway.
In a voice both low and steady, Kyūjō answered:
"The Hero of the Marines. Iron Fist Garp."
He cracked his knuckles.
"Kid… you got guts. I like that. How about it?"
"Let's find a spot—and settle this one-on-one!"
And with a voice just as calm, he asked,
"If I say no… will you just let me go?"
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