Tsuru let out a quiet sigh in her heart.
She’d watched Tokikake grow up—well, not the most handsome kid around, but overall, he was a decent young man.
As for Gion’s decision, she knew better than to get involved. She had no intention of blaming anyone.
Who hasn’t been young once?
Compared to the powerful, brilliant, and dazzling "monsters" of the Marines, Tokikake, though certainly talented, did fall short.
It’s only natural for people to admire someone outstanding.
Tokikake was just... unlucky, that’s all.
But then Tsuru recalled this brat Tokikake’s daily antics of "caring for women" and "researching the red-light district," and whatever hint of regret she had evaporated instantly.
As the bell rang, a chorus of groans filled the cultural studies classroom of the training camp.
"Stop writing already! Hand in your papers!"
"Onigumo! Put your hair away! If you don’t know the answer, you don’t know it—using all those arms to write won’t help!"
"And you, Yamakaji!! It’s just a test—do you have to look like you’re at a funeral? Look at that mountain of ash on your desk!"
"Tokikake! What are you sneaking glances at?! Keep it up and I’ll gouge your eyes out!"
"Kuzan! Wake up!! Time’s up!!"
Standing at the podium, Zephyr rubbed his forehead in exasperation as he looked at the devastated classroom of students.
This bunch of little bastards—never paying attention in class, then pulling out all sorts of nonsense during exams.
He pinched the bridge of his nose, frowning as student after student handed in their test papers.
Zephyr flipped through the thick stack, his brow furrowing deeper and deeper, his face growing darker with every page.
Kuzan handed in a blank sheet.
Tokikake’s handwriting, much like himself, was crooked and messy—not only did he copy answers wrong, he made them worse.
Onigumo’s answers were at least passable. Yamakaji’s were average, nothing to write home about.
Gion, as always, delivered an excellent performance—elegant handwriting, neatly ordered responses, and clear, logical analysis that was a pleasure to read.
"Wait, where’s that brat Darren’s paper?"
Zephyr suddenly remembered and began rummaging through the stack.
"That punk’s been skipping class day in and day out. If he bombs this exam, I’ll have to give him a proper beating..."
Muttering to himself, he finally found Darren’s paper.
But when he looked at the answers, his eyes suddenly lit up.
His face froze, and he couldn’t help but murmur:
"This kid... really is a genius."
"Hey Darren, how’d you do? The questions were so hard—I fell asleep just looking at them."
Just outside the exam room, Kuzan greeted him with his usual easygoing manner, draping an arm over Darren’s shoulder and grinning.
Darren’s mouth twitched.
"I know. I heard you snoring."
"Hahahahaha! Loud, wasn’t it!?"
Kuzan laughed proudly, entirely shameless.
This guy and his bottomless energy... Darren sighed inwardly.
In truth, the cultural studies test wasn’t particularly hard—most of it was basic entry-level content.
After all, the training camp’s focus was on combat readiness, not academic excellence.
And as a transmigrator, Darren had survived the hellish gauntlet of test-prep in his past life. He might not have been a top student back then, but when it came to this level of exam? More than enough.
"Oh, right—Garp-san said he wanted to see you. You’ve been gone for over ten days now."
As they walked toward the residential area, Kuzan suddenly smacked his forehead, as if just remembering something.
"Vice Admiral Garp, huh?"
Darren thought for a moment, then nodded.
Back on Coin Island, when he clashed head-on with the Golden Lion Shiki, he’d faintly recalled the sensation of Garp’s punch—that’s what let him barely block Shiki’s terrifying blade.
It wasn’t just thanks to his monstrous physique and Armament Haki—Garp’s incredible strength had played a key role.
Just learning a fraction of Garp’s techniques had elevated him enough to face a legendary pirate like Shiki.
What if he mastered everything Garp had to teach?
Combined with his unnatural body... what kind of power would that be?
At the very least, getting stabbed wouldn’t be a concern anymore.
A few minutes later, Darren and Kuzan arrived at the port filled with discarded equipment and broken warships.
As soon as they stepped into the long-abandoned harbor, Darren was struck by the sight: piles of shattered Marine vessels littered the ground.
Medium and small marine ships lay torn apart, as if a rampaging tyrannosaurus had mauled them into pieces. It was terrifying.
Compared to his last visit, nearly a quarter of the ships had been reduced to scrap!
No doubt this was the result of Garp and Kuzan’s recent training.
"You guys have been having a wild time, huh."
Darren couldn’t help but comment.
Though Kuzan was lazy in class and indifferent about most things outside battle, when it came to training, he never slacked.
In fact, Darren suspected the old man avoided a promotion to Admiral not just because he didn’t want to guard those repulsive Celestial Dragons—but also to gain more personal freedom.
And, of course, more time to chase Roger all over the sea.
Kuzan clenched his fist, his expression fired up.
"If I don’t work harder, you’ll leave me in the dust!"
"You’re both here, huh."
A deep, smiling voice came from behind them.
Darren and Kuzan turned around and saluted the man approaching in his iconic dog-head cap.
"Vice Admiral Garp!" *2
Garp waved a hand casually and sat down on a nearby pile of wreckage, grinning at Darren.
"So, kid—heard from Sengoku you used my move when you fought Shiki?"
Darren nodded, then shook his head.
"Only a sliver of it. I still have a long way to go before I’ve truly grasped it."
Garp burst out laughing.
"That’s already impressive! My techniques aren’t something just anyone can learn!"
He puffed out his chest with pride.
"Come on, tell me—any problems with your training? I’ll answer them all."
"I’m heading out to sea again soon. Time’s short."
Darren blinked, surprised.
"Did the Roger Pirates resurface...?"
The Roger Pirates had vanished for the better part of a year—no intel, no sightings.
This sea was vast. Especially a crew like Roger’s—elite, mobile. Unless they stirred up something major, even Marine HQ had trouble tracking them.
"No... Still nothing on Roger. Damn guy’s up to who knows what lately..."
Garp shook his head, a heavy look in his eyes.
"This time... the target is Patrick Redfield."