Momonga chuckled at Tokikake's words.
"Monster, huh? Maybe."
He paused for a moment, eyes turning distant, softened by nostalgia.
"Captain Darren and I joined Branch 321 at the same time. I remember it clearly—his first day of training, five years ago..."
A rare hint of warmth glinted in the usually stern and unshakable gaze of the base's Vice-Commander.
"He was skinny. Fragile. Could barely run ten laps around the training field without collapsing. Took him half an hour just to catch his breath and get back up."
"Among all the recruits that year, he was physically the weakest."
"But he didn't give up."
"He trained every single day, pushing himself to the brink of collapse—every single day."
"He started by dragging a cannon barrel. Then a small wooden boat. It took him three years of hell before he could even move that scrapped warship by a single meter."
"Compared to Rear Admiral Sakazuki, who was born a monster, Captain Darren..."
"...is a monster of another kind entirely."
Gion and Tokikake fell silent.
Darren dropped the iron chain, panting beneath the scorching sun. His throat and lungs felt like they were tearing apart with each breath.
His muscles burned—like they were on fire.
But he was used to this pain.
He looked back at the long, deep groove the dragged warship had carved into the ground. Eyeballed the distance.
A new personal record.
Tuning into his body's feedback, he brought up his internal stats:
Constitution: 58.106 (+0.03)
Strength: 53.837 (+0.06)
Devil Fruit Mastery: 71.345
Another 0.03 in constitution. 0.06 in strength.
"Growth's slowing down. Might need a bigger warship next time."
He muttered to himself while staring at his imaginary "stats panel."
To Darren, this "sense" of internal data wasn't some game UI—it was the best possible use of his innate perception ability.
By monitoring the changes in his stats, he could judge how effective his current training was.
The human body is an adaptable machine. The same exercises, weights, or drills might yield results at first, but over time, the gains diminish. Eventually, progress grinds to a halt.
Even before transmigrating, Darren had read enough about sports science to know: pro athletes constantly switch up training routines to keep improving.
Progressive overload. One of the most basic principles in kinesiology.
Push the limits—gradually and sustainably—to spark growth.
With his gift, Darren could measure exactly when and how his training was working.
That was why he endured pain most people would call hell.
Why he smiled through what others called torture.
Because every push-up... every squat... every lap...
He could see the results.
Just like leveling up in a game.
But this world wasn't a game. It was very, very real.
And he knew better than anyone how dangerous the seas truly were.
So he trained harder than anyone.
Because only monsters can stand among monsters.
With this gift, he believed—no, he knew—that if he kept pushing...
One day, he'd be like Whitebeard himself: able to stop a charging warship bare-handed.
"All right," he exhaled, voice steadier now. "Time for the constitution drill."
He motioned toward Momonga.
He could feel his body reaching its limit. If he forced any more strength drills now, it'd be counterproductive. Muscle strain, overexertion... injuries.
"Captain Darren's calling me," Momonga said, turning to Gion and Tokikake.
But before walking off, he paused and smiled.
"Oh, right—what's next is gonna be real fun. Try not to blink."
Gion and Tokikake blinked.
Before they could ask, Momonga was gone, marching toward the center of the field.
He didn't usually have a sadistic streak, but something about watching these HQ "prodigies" gawk in open-mouthed disbelief was... strangely satisfying.
"Form up!!" Momonga barked.
In less than twenty seconds, dozens of Marines swarmed the center of the field in perfect coordination.
The front line drew their sabers in unison.
The back line raised their flintlock muskets.
All of them took aim.
"...You've got to be kidding me," Tokikake muttered, eyes twitching uncontrollably.
"This kind of training... people die from this."
But before their shock could settle, Momonga gave the order.
The front row charged.
Sabers slashed—without mercy—at Darren's body.
His head, face, neck, chest, back, arms, thighs, even his throat—
They "took care" of every vital spot.
CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG!!
The blades bounced off like they'd struck iron.
Sparks flew. Steel shattered.
The sabers broke one after another.
Without missing a beat, the front row cleared out as the back line pulled their triggers.
BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!
A storm of bullets rained down on Darren.
Ricochets danced across the dirt, leaving pockmarks and craters in the earth.
As soon as they emptied their guns, the back line drew sabers and charged.
Meanwhile, the first group began reloading.
Repeat. Rotate. Reload.
Momonga casually wheeled out a cannon, loaded it, and fired it straight at Darren mid-exchange.
The training field was engulfed in smoke, flames, sand, and dust. From a distance, it looked like a battlefield.
Gion and Tokikake stood at the edge, faces pale, completely speechless.
He was taking all of it. With his body.
"...Is this... really something a human can do?"
They stared at the man standing tall in the middle of hell, as bullets sparked off his skin and smoke coiled around his silhouette.