"Every single punch must embody the will of victory and justice!"
"Only a strike filled with unwavering confidence can truly bring together all your scattered abilities!!"
Beneath the blazing sun.
In the abandoned port cluttered with all manner of military debris, a black-clad figure stood under the scorching rays, his ragged breathing like that of a ferocious beast as he launched himself at the towering twenty-meter battleship in front of him, punching with unbridled fury.
He was shirtless, his upper body exposed, scars of every shape and size crisscrossing his rugged torso. His features were carved in harsh, unyielding lines, sweat dripping in rivulets from his black hair and down his jaw.
His bronze skin glistened under the sunlight, his entire presence radiating a wild, rebellious energy.
Each punch fell with the force of a coiled steel cable snapping taut, sending deep, muffled shockwaves through the air and causing the massive vessel to shudder violently.
Not far away, Garp was lounging under a makeshift beach umbrella, wearing a floral shirt, shorts, and flip-flops. Reclining comfortably on a sun chair, he nursed a glass of fruit juice in one hand, munching on a donut with the other, occasionally barking out a few sharp corrections.
"I told you—no Haki!"
"I'm not using Haki, dammit!!" Darren snapped back irritably.
This old bastard—he had started out pretending to train alongside him, only to reveal his true colors a few days later.
Out of nowhere, he'd lugged over a beach umbrella and a recliner, plopped himself down, and hadn't moved since.
"Bwahahahaha! I know you're not using Haki—I'm just reminding you."
Garp let out a hearty laugh, utterly shameless.
Darren ground his teeth together, glaring at Garp's leisurely posture. The sight made him so mad he couldn't help but redouble his efforts, fists flying with renewed fury.
He let all his simmering frustration pour into the already battered hull of the battleship.
Splinters of wood and jagged shards of metal flew in every direction, the brutal pounding even making the ground beneath his feet tremble.
This kid's a real monster...
Garp took a long sip of his icy fruit juice, squinting with satisfaction as he watched Darren's explosive power—like a predator in mid-pounce. Even though he'd long since witnessed Darren's strength and heard of his monstrous physique, seeing it up close in these last few days still caught him off guard.
He was impervious to blades and bullets, water and fire, his body seemingly tougher than steel itself. Even bullets and cannon fire had no effect.
Garp had tested that himself.
He'd called it "testing physical limits," but really, he was just curious—so he'd taken to lobbing cannonballs bare-handed at Darren, bombarding him from every angle.
After one barrage, Darren's uniform was tattered and smoking, the ground around him caved in by nearly a meter. Yet he stood there as if nothing had happened, unflinching.
Garp's gaze lingered on Darren's relentless form, two brutal figures flashing through his mind.
"Never thought the Marines would produce a monster ... Maybe the kid's not even human—some strange, unknown bloodline?"
He scratched at the stubble on his chin, eyes narrowed with curiosity.
"Maybe I should have that bastard Borsalino check him out?"
The idea popped into his head, but he quickly dismissed it.
"Forget it. Doesn't really matter."
He took another bite of his donut, eyes fixed once more on Darren's movement.
Hm. He's already starting to get the hang of it—his power is clearly more focused than before.
Have to admit, this brat's working hard.
A slow, satisfied smile curved Garp's lips.
What truly pleased him about Darren wasn't just his superhuman physique—it was his spirit, as unyielding as steel.
Garp knew just how brutal the training he'd set up really was. No ordinary man could have endured it.
Yet Darren had completely exceeded his expectations.
No matter how much he sweated, no matter how exhausted he was, he never once said "I'm tired."
In his bones was a relentless desire to grow stronger—stubborn, determined, even bordering on obsession.
"Maybe... maybe he really will master it in the end..."
A flicker of light shone in Garp's eyes as he let out a quiet laugh.
At that moment, a young Marine soldier ran up, panting as he saluted Garp.
"Vice Admiral Garp, sir! Instructor Zephyr says it's time."
Garp rolled his eyes.
He set down his donut and juice, calling out to Darren:
"Hey, kid, that's enough! Time to head over to Zephyr!"
Darren didn't answer. His fists moved faster still.
Like a raging storm, his punches pounded into the battleship's battered hull, shaking it to the core.
"Oh?" Garp's brow rose, eyes gleaming with anticipation.
Darren let out a roar, his eyes growing sharp, power gathering in his legs as every muscle in his body coiled like a spring.
His entire body moved with the precision of a finely tuned machine, channeling every last drop of that power up his spine and down his arm.
A dull, heavy thud resounded.
But this time, there was no trembling in the battleship's hull.
It was perfectly still.
As Darren stood there panting, as Garp's eyes shone with excitement, as the young Marine soldier watched in stunned awe—
The shattered husk of the battleship suddenly exploded into a cloud of debris!
"Bwahahahaha!! Excellent!!" Garp leapt to his feet, hands on his hips, roaring with laughter.
"Old man's teaching methods never fail! Though you're still a long way from truly mastering it, you're already showing signs of that power!!"
Darren looked at the proud expression on Garp's face and didn't even bother to retort.
Exhausted, he walked over and draped a wide Marine coat over his shoulders, glancing at the young Marine who still stood there frozen.
"Let's go," he said simply.
The young Marine gulped, tearing his gaze from the ruin around them and quickly falling in step behind Darren.
After a moment, he couldn't hold back his curiosity any longer. In a low, cautious voice, he asked:
"Commodore Darren... What's the name of that move you just used?"
Darren paused for a moment.
He tilted his head back, pulling out a pack of cigarettes and lighting one.
Cool wind rustled around him, white smoke curling about his face in a shroud of mystery.
The Marine held his breath, waiting silently.
Looking at Darren's solemn, almost solitary figure, he knew that this technique's name would be something fearsome and awe-inspiring.
"This move..." Darren exhaled a stream of smoke and said calmly,
"—It's called 'A Serious Punch.'"
The young Marine looked like he'd been struck by lightning.