《One Piece: Bloody Devil》


 Last Gift

    Heat. Smoke. Blood.


    The air reeked of iron and burnt wood, thick and suffocating as it clung to the ruins of the village. Ash fell like snow, coating the shattered remnants of homes, the lifeless bodies strewn across the ground, the dying embers of what once was.


    Somewhere amidst the destruction, a small figure lay beneath a collapsed beam.


    Asiro¡¯s body screamed in agony. His limbs refused to move, his breath came in ragged, shallow gasps, and his face¡­ his face burned. No, not just burned. Something was wrong. Something was missing.


    His hands trembled as they crawled upward, fingers dragging across his cheeks, up toward his forehead¡­ only to sink into raw, empty sockets where his eyes once were.


    Pain surged through his skull, sharp and unbearable, as if hot needles were burrowing into his head. His stomach churned, bile rising in his throat, but he forced it down, choking on his own ragged breath. He couldn¡¯t stop. Not now.


    ¡°M-Mother¡­¡± His voice was barely a whisper, cracked and hoarse.


    She was here. She had to be. She wouldn¡¯t leave him.


    He pressed his palms against the rubble above him, pushing with whatever strength he had left. The beam barely budged. His body was weak¡­ too weak¡­ but he couldn¡¯t stay here. If he stayed, he would die. If he stayed, he would never see her again.


    With a strained, shaking breath, he forced himself to move.


    His fingers scraped against the debris, nails cracking against splintered wood as he dragged himself forward inch by inch. Every motion sent fresh agony tearing through his body, his ribs stabbing at his lungs, his legs screaming in protest. But the pain didn¡¯t matter. Nothing mattered except finding her.


    The world around him was a blur of sounds and sensations, distorted and fractured. The crackle of burning timber. The distant groans of shifting wreckage. Somewhere, a single bird cawed¡­ a sound too ordinary, too normal amidst the devastation.


    His breath hitched as his palm pressed against something wet.


    Blood.


    The scent of it was thick, overwhelming, drowning his senses in copper and decay. He recoiled, his body convulsing with nausea, but he forced himself to keep going.


    One arm forward. Then the other.


    His body dragged itself through the ruin, blind, broken, and bleeding. His hands found cloth, torn and scorched. A body. He reached forward hesitantly, fingers trailing over cold, unmoving flesh. The shape was wrong. Too big. Too heavy. Not her.


    He pulled away, heart pounding, panic creeping into his chest like a living thing. He had to find her.


    A cough wracked his body, raw and painful, and the taste of blood filled his mouth. He couldn¡¯t breathe. His lungs felt like they were collapsing, crushed beneath the weight of his injuries, his exhaustion, his fear.


    He wasn¡¯t going to make it.


    No.


    He clenched his teeth, pressing his forehead against the ground, forcing himself to focus. He somehow survived this long. He could survive a little longer.


    He crawled forward, each movement more agonizing than the last, but then¡­


    A sound.


    Faint. Weak.


    A breath.


    His heart nearly stopped.


    ¡°¡­Mom?¡±


    No response.


    His hands scrambled forward, frantically searching, fingers trembling as they grasped at whatever they could reach. Cloth. Skin. Hair. Warmth.


    She was there.


    His breath came in shuddering gasps as he felt her, his hands shaking violently as they roamed over her body. She was hurt. Badly. Her ribs barely rose and fell beneath his fingertips, her skin too cold, her heartbeat...


    He pressed his ear against her chest.


    Faint. So faint.


    Blood burned at the edges of his ruined eyes, slipping down his bloodstained cheeks. ¡°Please¡­ wake up¡­¡±


    A slow inhale. Shallow. Weak. But there.


    Then¡­ her hand. It moved. Just barely.


    ¡°Asiro¡­¡±


    His breath caught. Relief and terror tangled in his chest, suffocating him.


    ¡°I¡¯m here,¡± he whispered, gripping her hand desperately, as if holding her tightly enough would stop her from slipping away. ¡°I found you. I¡­ ¡±


    Her fingers curled, weakly, around his. Not enough strength to hold on, but enough to try.


    She exhaled, a broken sound, barely a voice. ¡°¡­My sweet boy¡­¡±


    Something inside him cracked. ¡°Don¡¯t talk like that,¡± he choked out, shaking his head, his body trembling. ¡°You¡¯ll be okay. I¡¯ll get help, I¡­ ¡±


    She shushed him softly, her fingers twitching against his own. ¡°No more¡­ tears¡­¡±


    But how could he not cry?


    There was barely any warmth left in her fingers.


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    Asiro gripped her hand as tightly as he could, as if holding on would stop her from slipping away. His whole body trembled. His chest heaved, but there wasn¡¯t enough air. His face was wet, his breath coming in short, gasping sobs.


    ¡°Mom¡­¡± His voice cracked. ¡°Please¡­ please don¡¯t leave me.¡±


    Her lips trembled, parted slightly as she fought to take in another breath. The effort alone looked painful. Every second dragged, her body clinging desperately to life... but Asiro could feel it. The way her hand was slipping from his. The way her fingers twitched but didn¡¯t grip.


    The way her life was fading.


    ¡°No,¡± he gasped. ¡°No, you¡­ You can¡¯t¡­ You can¡¯t¡­ ¡±


    She shushed him softly, her lips barely moving. ¡°Asiro¡­¡±


    Her voice was so faint. So weak.


    He pressed his forehead against her arm, squeezing his eyes shut... his empty, ruined sockets burned, but it was nothing compared to the pain inside his chest. It clawed at his ribs, crushed his lungs, threatened to drown him in the sheer weight of it all.


    Why?


    Why was this happening?


    Why was he the only one left?


    Why did she have to die?


    A sob ripped through his throat. His hands trembled as he held onto her, gripping her wrist so hard he thought he might break it, but she still felt so¡­ fragile.


    She shouldn¡¯t be like this.


    She was strong. She was kind. She was supposed to live.


    Her hand twitched again, weakly. His breath hitched when he felt her move, her fingers barely brushing against his wrist. But instead of gripping him, she pressed against his skin¡­ right above his veins, as if searching for something.


    A pulse.


    A life.


    His life.


    A sudden warmth spread from her fingertips.


    Asiro tensed. The warmth seeped into his skin, pulsing, flowing like a slow river, sinking into his blood, wrapping around his bones. It was weak at first. Faint. But then¡­


    Light.


    A soft, green glow flickered against the backs of his eyelids.


    His body flinched, a strange tingling crawling over his skin. The warmth became something else. Something deeper. It filled his chest, rushing through his veins, winding around his heart, threading through the marrow of his bones. His breath hitched¡­ his exhaustion, his pain, his burning, searing wounds¡­ everything faded for a brief, fragile moment.


    And then¡­


    A spark.


    A sudden, sharp pulse of power.


    It struck him like a wave crashing against the shore, surging through every inch of his broken body. A strangled gasp tore from his throat as he convulsed, his fingers digging into his mother¡¯s arm. His body arched against the ruined ground, a force pulling something out of him¡­ no, into him¡­ ripping through his veins, burning, filling, changing¡­


    And then¡­


    He saw.


    A flicker. A flash.


    Shapes. Motion. Color.


    For the first time since the attack, since the agony of his world being torn away¡­ he could see.


    The light was blinding. Blurry. Overwhelming. Everything was shifting, pulsing, unstable, but it was there.


    His mind reeled, his senses screaming, but before he could make sense of anything, his gaze locked onto her.


    His mother.


    Her body was glowing.


    Faint tendrils of emerald light curled from her skin, wisps of energy leaking into the air like mist. It was beautiful, but wrong. So, so wrong.


    Because it was leaving her.


    Asiro¡¯s stomach twisted.


    She was giving it to him.


    ¡°No,¡± he rasped. His hands shot forward, grabbing her arms, trying to stop whatever was happening. ¡°No, stop! Don¡¯t¡­ don¡¯t do this!¡±


    She only smiled. Soft. Sad.


    There was so much warmth in her expression. So much love. But behind it¡­ so much pain.


    ¡°Asiro,¡± she whispered.


    He shook his head violently. ¡°No! Please! You¡­ You can¡¯t¡­ ¡±


    Her fingers brushed his cheek.


    Her touch was warm.


    Then¡­ she exhaled.


    A slow, shuddering breath.


    The light flickered. The warmth thinned.


    Her hand slipped.


    And Asiro felt it.


    Her last breath.


    Her final heartbeat.


    The last thread of life that had held her together snapped.


    Her body went still.


    The light faded.


    The warmth vanished.


    And suddenly, Asiro was alone.


    The silence that followed was deafening.


    His mind refused to process it.


    One second.


    That was all it took.


    One second, and she was gone.


    His fingers trembled as they hovered over her face. Her eyes¡­ so kind, so gentle, always so full of love¡­ stared past him, empty.


    Her chest didn¡¯t rise.


    Her lips didn¡¯t move.


    She was cold.


    So, so cold.


    And then, finally¡­


    Asiro screamed.


    After what felt like a lifetime.


    Asiro¡¯s fingers twitch.


    His body is heavy. So, so heavy.


    The cold seeps into his bones, the lingering warmth of his mother¡¯s touch fading too quickly, slipping away like water through his fingers. His breath shudders as he stares down at her still face, the last embers of the green light flickering against the ruins of his world.


    His mind refuses to process it.


    She was here. She was alive. She was...


    She was.


    He swallows, but his throat is raw, scraped hollow by cries he doesn¡¯t remember making. His chest tightens, lungs struggling to pull in air that suddenly feels too thin. His body trembles, the weight of everything pressing down on him, suffocating him.


    She¡¯s gone.


    He wants to scream, but no sound comes. His lips part, but there¡¯s nothing left inside him to give.


    The last of the green light shimmers softly, flickering like a dying flame before fading into the dark.


    And with it, something inside Asiro cracks.


    His hands slip from hers. His arms feel too weak to hold on. His body, still raw from the brutal transfer of life energy, feels as if it no longer belongs to him. The ground tilts beneath him, the wreckage of his home blurring into meaningless shapes.


    His head spins. His limbs feel sluggish, his breath uneven. The rush of strength he felt is gone, drained, leaving behind only exhaustion.


    His vision sways. His breath shallows. His muscles slacken.


    The edges darken. His knees buckle.


    He crumples beside her.


    The impact barely registers. The world feels distant, muted, like he¡¯s floating somewhere outside of himself. The scent of blood, of fire, of death, lingers in the air, thick and suffocating. His fingers curl weakly against the dirt, but there¡¯s no power left in them.


    His heartbeat pounds in his ears, slower now. Weaker. His body is shutting down.


    He wants to fight it. But should he?


    What¡¯s the point?


    The world is gone. His mother is gone.


    Why is he still here?


    A single tear slips down his cheek, hot against his freezing skin. He barely feels it.


    His eyes flutter shut.


    The last thing he sees is his mother¡¯s peaceful face, untouched by the ruin around her.


    Then... darkness.


    ¡­


    The village lay in silence.


    Ash drifted lazily through the air, settling over the corpses, the broken homes, the smoldering wreckage of what was once a thriving place. Fires crackled softly in the distance, their light barely flickering in the thick, suffocating smoke. The stench of burnt wood, flesh, and blood clung to the air like a curse, stagnant and unmoving.


    And amidst the ruin, a boy lay still.


    His body was curled beside another¡­ a woman, motionless, her features peaceful in death. Her outstretched hand, pale and lifeless, had once held his, but now it rested limply against the ground. There was no warmth left between them.


    Then, footsteps.


    Soft at first, barely audible beneath the gentle collapse of charred beams and distant embers. But they grew louder, steadier, breaking the eerie silence of the ruins.


    Two figures moved through the wreckage, their forms shifting in the darkness. They stepped carefully, boots crushing burnt wood and shattered stone beneath them. The taller of the two walked ahead, his posture stiff, movements precise, his sharp gaze scanning the destruction. The second followed closely behind, smaller, their presence quieter but no less deliberate.


    They stopped at the edge of the ruins, eyes drawn to the dying light that had guided them here.


    The taller one exhaled, his breath a slow, measured sound in the stillness. His gaze fell upon the boy, studying the way he lay motionless, the rise and fall of his chest, the way his small hand remained just inches from the woman¡¯s lifeless fingers.


    He crouched, brushing his fingertips against the blood-streaked ground. It was still warm. The destruction had happened recently.


    ¡°He¡¯s alive,¡± the smaller one murmured.

 From Darkness

    Darkness.


    It was the first thing he knew... the weightless void pressing against him, thick and suffocating. The kind that pulled at the edges of his mind, threatening to drag him back down.


    But something stirred within him, something distant yet insistent. A dull ache rippled through his body, spreading like an ember beneath his skin.


    A breath.


    Then another.


    His senses returned in fragments. The faint sting of antiseptic. The slow, rhythmic creak of wood. The distant murmur of voices, low and indistinct, just beyond the veil of his consciousness.


    Then, it came crashing down.


    A sudden wave of nausea rolled over him, the disjointed sensations colliding all at once... the unfamiliar rocking beneath him, the sterile scent, the unfamiliar fabric draped over his body.


    A ship.


    He was on a ship.


    He was lying on something soft, but his limbs felt heavy, sluggish. He tried to move, but pain lanced through his muscles like fire, forcing a sharp inhale through clenched teeth.


    His throat was dry. His body weak. But he was alive.


    Why?


    His mind grasped for answers, but the memories came slowly, hesitant and broken.


    Flames. Screams. The thick, choking scent of blood and smoke.


    The weight of the rubble pressing down on him. The agony searing through his body.


    And then... her voice.


    "Asiro¡­ live."


    His breath hitched.


    His mother.


    He could still feel it, that warmth... unnatural, consuming. The glow that had wrapped around him in his final moments, soothing his pain, restoring his eyes.


    His stomach twisted, nausea threatening to overtake him. He squeezed his eyes shut, but the memories wouldn¡¯t stop.


    The way she had saved him despite her own pain. The way her voice had wavered, soft and breaking, as she gave him everything she had.


    And he had just laid there.


    Helpless. Weak.


    His fingers curled into the sheets beneath him, the fabric bunching in his grip. His breathing was shallow, controlled... barely.


    He had survived.


    But she hadn¡¯t.


    Asiro opened his eyes slowly, his Asiro''s vision adjusted to the dim lighting, taking in the sterile, orderly room around him.


    The medical ward was small but efficient... wooden walls reinforced with steel, shelves lined with tightly packed supplies, and an overhead lantern swaying faintly with the ship¡¯s motion. The scent of antiseptic and herbs lingered in the air, masking the natural musk of the sea.


    A low murmur of voices filtered in from beyond the door, controlled and professional. Marines.


    Before he could dwell on it further, the door creaked open.


    A woman strode in first, her movements precise and unhurried, as if she had already anticipated his awakening.


    She was tall, lean, dressed in a modified white coat with the dark insignia of the Marines stitched onto the sleeve. Stray strands of auburn hair framed her sharp, calculating features, but it was her golden-amber eyes that held his attention. They studied him with an unreadable mixture of interest and exasperation.


    Behind her, a Marine officer followed... an Ensign, judging by his uniform. His steel-gray eyes flickered over Asiro with the caution of someone trained to expect the worst. His posture was rigid, disciplined, though not as at ease as the woman¡¯s.


    The woman... a doctor... tilted her head, crossing her arms as she looked him over.


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    ¡°Well, look who finally decided to join us among the living,¡± she said, her tone carrying a dry amusement that didn¡¯t quite reach her eyes. ¡°I was starting to think you¡¯d sleep forever.¡±


    Asiro didn¡¯t respond, his cold blue-gray gaze locked onto hers.


    She sighed, as if already tired of the silent act. ¡°Since you¡¯re clearly awake and trying to kill me with that stare, let¡¯s make this simple. I¡¯m Dr. Sylvaine Renard, the one keeping your sleep peaceful.¡± She gestured to the Marine beside her. ¡°And this is Ensign Klaus Mercer. He¡¯s here to make sure you don¡¯t try anything stupid.¡±


    Asiro remained silent, still assessing the situation.


    Sylvaine didn¡¯t seem bothered by his lack of response. Instead, she stepped closer, eyes narrowing slightly as she examined him. ¡°How are you feeling? Any pain? Dizziness? Sudden urge to throw yourself overboard?¡±


    The question was laced with sarcasm, but Asiro could tell she was watching for real symptoms. He shifted slightly, testing his muscles. There was no pain, only the phantom memory of it. His body had been completely restored by his mother.


    His throat tightened, but he forced the thought aside.


    ¡°How long?¡± His voice was hoarse, but steady.


    Sylvaine arched a brow. ¡°How long have you been unconscious? Three days.¡±


    Three days.


    His fingers twitched. He had lost three entire days.


    A moment of silence stretched between them before Mercer finally spoke. ¡°You were found in the ruins of a village in the New World. The Vice Admiral found you.¡± His tone was crisp, professional, but there was a hint of curiosity beneath it. ¡°You¡¯re lucky we got to you when we did.¡±


    Lucky.


    Asiro¡¯s jaw clenched, but he said nothing.


    Sylvaine watched him closely. ¡°Physically, you¡¯re fine. More than fine, actually... there¡¯s not a single scar on you, which is unusual given the state you were around.¡± Her golden eyes flickered with something.


    He met her gaze, He wasn¡¯t about to explain.


    Sylvaine let out a breath. ¡°Figures you wouldn¡¯t talk.¡± She stepped back, rolling her shoulders. ¡°But listen, kid. Just because your body¡¯s intact doesn¡¯t mean you should start running around. Whatever happened to you... ¡± she gestured vaguely, ¡°... your system took a massive hit. You need rest.¡±


    Asiro didn¡¯t reply. His mind was already moving forward, calculating his next step. Rest was not an option.


    Carefully, he shifted, pushing his hands against the mattress to sit up. The moment he did, a sharp wave of dizziness crashed over him, the world tilting slightly. His muscles locked up, refusing to cooperate.


    ¡°Tch.¡± Sylvaine clicked her tongue. ¡°And here we go.¡±


    Asiro ignored her, jaw tightening as he forced his body upright. His arms trembled slightly, but he steadied himself.


    ¡°Not the brightest idea,¡± Sylvaine muttered, crossing her arms. ¡°I¡¯d give it five seconds before you fall back down.¡±


    Mercer took a cautious step forward, eyes narrowing. ¡°You should listen to her.¡±


    Asiro exhaled slowly, ignoring the way his vision swam. He wouldn¡¯t allow himself to be weak. Not here. Not ever.


    Then, suddenly, a hand pressed against his chest.


    With barely any effort, Sylvaine shoved him back down against the bed.


    He tensed, his body locking up in resistance, but she didn¡¯t push with force... just enough to make a point.


    ¡°See? Told you,¡± she said flatly. ¡°Five seconds.¡±


    Asiro¡¯s fingers clenched the sheets, frustration flickering in his cold gaze.


    Sylvaine pulled back, unfazed. ¡°Look, kid. I don¡¯t care how stubborn you are, but if you overexert yourself, you will pass out again. And I will laugh at you.¡± She tapped a finger against his forehead. ¡°So do us all a favor and stay put.¡±


    Asiro¡¯s eyes burned with silent anger, but he said nothing.


    Sylvaine studied him for another moment before sighing. ¡°Well, at least you¡¯re not dead. That¡¯s an improvement.¡± She turned to Mercer. ¡°Let the Vice Admiral know our ¡®miracle survivor¡¯ is finally awake. He¡¯ll want to see him.¡±


    Mercer hesitated before nodding. ¡°Understood.¡±


    As he left the room, Sylvaine glanced back at Asiro.


    ¡°Try not to do anything reckless before he gets here, alright?¡± She smirked.


    With that, she turned and walked out, leaving Asiro alone once more.


    He stared at the ceiling, his mind already shifting past his exhaustion.


    The Vice Admiral.


    Some time later Mercer returned after giving some information he stood at the doorway


    Then the air in the medical bay shifted.


    It wasn¡¯t something seen or heard... it was felt. A subtle but undeniable weight pressed against the room as the door creaked open, the once-sterile atmosphere turning thick with something heavier. Authority. Command.


    Asiro didn¡¯t need to look to know that whoever had entered was different. The quiet murmurs of the medics halted. Ensign Mercer, who had been standing near the doorway, immediately straightened, his posture stiff with respect.


    Then came the footsteps. Measured. Unhurried. Absolute.


    Asiro turned his head slightly, his sharp blue-gray eyes landing on the figure stepping inside.


    Vice Admiral Hiroto Miyazaki.


    He was younger than Asiro expected... about late teen, yet he carried himself like a man who had already seen more than a lifetime¡¯s worth of war. His sharp, dark eyes scanned the room with a quiet intensity, his black gloves flexing slightly before settling at his sides. His coat, lined in black rather than the traditional white, only added to the sense of quiet menace that clung to him.


    Behind him, a woman entered. Rear Admiral Kiyomi Sakamoto. She stood at his right, her amber eyes unreadable, her hands resting lightly on the hilt of the katana at her hip. Though she remained silent, her presence alone carried weight... she was watching everything, missing nothing.


    Asiro instinctively sat up straighter. His body protested, but he ignored it. This wasn¡¯t an encounter he could afford to meet lying down.


    The silence stretched.


    Hiroto didn¡¯t speak right away. He simply observed, his unreadable gaze locking onto Asiro¡¯s, assessing him in a way that felt unnervingly precise.


    The room seemed smaller under the weight of his presence. Even the steady hum of the ship¡¯s hull beneath them felt distant, swallowed by the quiet tension.


    Asiro held his stare, refusing to be the first to look away.


    Then, finally, Hiroto moved.


    With slow, deliberate steps, he closed the distance between them, the sound of his boots against the floor unnervingly even. He stopped just short of Asiro¡¯s bed, his expression unreadable.


    For a moment, there was nothing but silence.


    Then Hiroto spoke, his voice low, calm, and absolute.


    ¡°You¡¯re awake.¡±


    The words were simple. Factual.


    But they carried weight.


    Asiro said nothing. He merely waited, his body still, his mind running.


    He could already tell... this conversation would change everything.

 Hirotos Justice

    Asiro got some rest in the warship for few days before an incident happened that changed his life.


    ¡­


    The heavy clang of metal against wood reverberated through the warship¡¯s deck as chains rattled, dragging across the floor. The captured pirates were marched forward, their bodies bruised and dirtied from battle, their expressions ranging from bitter defiance to hollow resignation.


    Asiro stood on the sidelines, his fingers clenched into fists as he watched them. The insignia on their ragged coats was unmistakable. The very same emblem that had flown above his burning village. The sight of it sent a slow, crawling heat up his spine, a cold fire settling in his chest. His breath came steady, but his heart pounded, his pulse deafening in his ears.


    The Marines moved with strict efficiency, dragging the prisoners across the deck with little patience. Some of the captured men cursed and spat at their captors, snarling like animals caught in a snare. Others stayed quiet, too injured or too defeated to fight back.


    And then, there was him.


    The pirate who stepped forward was nothing like the rest.


    Scarred Jaw. The Butcher.


    The man loomed over the others, standing at a monstrous 8¡¯6¡±. His face was a grotesque display of old wounds¡ªhis jaw, mangled and uneven, exposed his teeth even when his mouth was closed, as if permanently twisted into a cruel grin. Blood still caked his tattered coat, dried at the edges of his wild black hair, and his crimson eyes burned with something almost¡­ amused.


    He stopped the moment he saw Asiro.


    And he smirked.


    "Ahhh," he drawled, voice rough like grinding stone. "There you are, boy. Thought I recognized that look in your eyes." He grinned wider, the scars twisting hideously. "I was wonderin¡¯ if any rats managed to scurry out alive. Guess I found one."


    Asiro¡¯s stomach churned. The world around him blurred, the weight of memory crashing down all at once. The screams. The flames licking at the sky. The scent of burning flesh, thick and suffocating. His mother¡¯s hands, weak but steady against his face, her voice whispering her final words.


    Live, Asiro. No matter what¡­ live.


    His breath quickened. His muscles coiled beneath his skin, every part of him screaming to move, to strike, to tear. But he stood still, nails biting into his palm as he swallowed the fury rising in his throat.


    "Enough," one of the Marines snapped, slamming the butt of his rifle into the back of Scarred Jaw¡¯s knee. The massive pirate barely flinched, but he let out a rasping chuckle as he sank slightly, offering no real resistance.


    "Easy, Marine," he crooned. "No need to get feisty. Ain¡¯t like I¡¯m goin¡¯ anywhere."


    A heavy silence followed, thick with tension. Then, a voice broke through it, cutting through the air like a blade.


    "What should be done with them?"


    Hiroto Miyazaki stood at the edge of the gathered Marines, his expression unreadable, his dark eyes assessing the captured men with the same detached scrutiny he had given Asiro in their first meeting.


    The warship fell still.


    Some of the Marines shifted, exchanging glances. A few muttered among themselves. One spoke up, his voice firm. "They should be taken to trial, sir. Standard procedure."


    "They butchered a village!" another argued, disgust curling his lip. "They deserve execution."


    "The law doesn¡¯t work on personal feelings," another Marine countered. "A fair trial is¡ª"


    "Spare me," someone scoffed. "Fair? Would those people in the village have gotten a fair chance?"


    The voices clashed, filling the air with the weight of conflicting ideals.


    Hiroto didn¡¯t move, didn¡¯t react. He merely turned his gaze to Asiro.


    "Step forward."


    The deck seemed to shrink under Asiro¡¯s feet. His throat tightened. Every eye turned toward him, but none burned hotter than Scarred Jaw¡¯s. The pirate was still smirking, as if he already knew how this would end.


    Asiro stepped forward.


    The weight of every gaze pressed against Asiro like an iron grip, unrelenting and suffocating. The Marines stood in a silent semicircle, watching, waiting. The captured pirates knelt before them, their fates hanging in the balance. And at the center of it all, Hiroto¡¯s cold, piercing eyes locked onto him.


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    "What do you think should be done?"


    The words rang in Asiro¡¯s ears like a hammer striking steel. He wasn¡¯t prepared for this. His thoughts were a whirlwind of rage, grief, and confusion. The sight of the pirate¡ªScarred Jaw, the Butcher¡ªsmirking at him, as if none of this mattered, made his blood boil. It would be so easy. So easy to let that rage guide him.


    But then¡­ his mother¡¯s voice.


    Live, Asiro. No matter what¡­ live.


    Her final words wrapped around his mind, pulling him back from the brink. He had sworn to himself that he wouldn¡¯t become like the monsters that took her from him. Killing in the name of vengeance¡ªwas that justice? Would it make him any different from Scarred Jaw himself?


    He swallowed, his throat dry as sandpaper. His fists clenched and unclenched at his sides. The silence dragged on, stretching unbearably thin.


    The pirate let out a slow, rasping chuckle. "Heh. I get it now." His scarred jaw twisted as his grin widened. "You don¡¯t got the stomach for it, do ya, kid? You look at me, and all you see is your worst nightmare. But guess what? You ain¡¯t cut out to be my executioner."


    Asiro¡¯s nails dug into his palm. He wanted to wipe that smirk off the pirate¡¯s face, to make him pay for what he had done. But justice¡ªtrue justice¡ªwas not about personal vengeance.


    His voice was quiet when he finally spoke. "Prison. He should be locked away."


    A ripple of reactions spread through the Marines. Some nodded in approval, their expressions neutral. Others frowned in disappointment, their hands twitching near their weapons. One man scoffed under his breath. "Soft."


    Scarred Jaw laughed. A deep, cruel sound. "Figures." He tilted his head toward Hiroto. "That good enough for ya, Vice Admiral? Or do you actually got the guts to do what needs to be done?"


    Hiroto had not taken his eyes off Asiro the entire time. Now, he gave the faintest nod. "Understood."


    For the first time since waking on this ship, Asiro felt the smallest breath of relief. He had made his choice. He had chosen justice over vengeance.


    But then, Hiroto moved.


    And the moment of relief was shattered.


    Shattered like fragile glass.


    Hiroto moved with lethal precision, his coat billowing as he unsheathed his sword in a single fluid motion. The steel glinted under the fading sunlight, and before Asiro could fully process what was happening, the blade had already fallen.


    A sickening shhk echoed through the deck.


    Scarred Jaw¡¯s body twitched. His crimson eyes widened¡ªsurprise flickering across his scarred face before dull acceptance settled in. A thin line of blood bloomed across his thick neck, growing into a deep, gaping wound as his body slumped forward. His massive frame collapsed to the ground, the dull thud swallowed by the silence that followed.


    Asiro stood frozen. His breath caught in his throat. His limbs refused to move.


    Blood pooled across the deck, seeping between the wooden slats. The smell of iron, sharp and suffocating, filled his nostrils. The world around him blurred, voices drowning beneath the heavy pounding in his chest.


    He had just sentenced a man to die.


    No¡ªHiroto had. But it didn¡¯t matter. The decision had already been made. Asiro had spoken, but his words had been meaningless.


    His stomach twisted violently. He barely noticed himself stepping back, his legs unsteady beneath him. He was drowning, trapped beneath a weight he couldn¡¯t shake. He forced himself to look up, to meet Hiroto¡¯s gaze.


    "Why?" His voice came out hoarse, barely more than a whisper.


    Hiroto didn¡¯t hesitate. "Justice isn¡¯t about mercy." He flicked the blood from his blade before smoothly sliding it back into its sheath. "It¡¯s about ensuring this never happens again."


    Ensuring¡­


    Asiro¡¯s fingers curled into fists. His mind screamed at him, demanding answers. If this was justice, then why did it feel so wrong? Why did the image of Scarred Jaw¡¯s lifeless body fill him with unease instead of satisfaction?


    The Marines around them didn¡¯t flinch. No one reacted as if anything out of the ordinary had happened. Some nodded in approval. Others simply turned away, already moving to handle the remaining prisoners.


    As if life and death were nothing more than routine.


    The pirate¡¯s smirk still lingered in Asiro¡¯s mind. Had Scarred Jaw known all along? Had he expected this outcome? Had he wanted to prove that the Marines were no different from the monsters they claimed to fight?


    Asiro swallowed hard, his throat dry.


    Was this truly justice¡­ or something else entirely?


    He stood motionless, his breath shallow as the last echoes of the execution faded into the sea wind. The scent of blood lingered in the air, mixing with salt and sweat. The other pirates had been dragged below deck, their muffled protests swallowed by the vastness of the ocean. The deck had returned to an eerie normalcy, Marines moving about as if nothing had happened. As if life and death were mere transactions.


    He felt cold. Not from the breeze, but from the weight in his chest. A dull, suffocating pressure that pressed against his ribs. His eyes remained fixed on the dark stain seeping into the wood where Scarred Jaw had fallen. No one else seemed to care. It was expected. Routine.


    A passing Marine, adjusting the strap of his rifle, muttered without emotion, "It was always going to end that way."


    Asiro barely registered the words, but they carved into him like a blade. Was it true? Had his choice meant nothing? Had Hiroto already decided before even asking him?


    His fingers curled into fists at his sides.


    Justice isn¡¯t about mercy. It¡¯s about ensuring this never happens again.


    Hiroto¡¯s voice echoed in his mind, cold and absolute. The Vice Admiral had already turned away, his posture unshaken, his expression unreadable. There was no triumph in his face, no satisfaction. Just¡­ certainty.


    Asiro felt sick.


    He had wanted to believe in something different. Something that separated them from the monsters they fought. He had wanted to believe in a justice that was not just about power. But if this was justice, if this was the answer¡­ then why did it feel so wrong?


    The sun had begun to set, staining the sky in hues of burning red. The sea, vast and endless, stretched before him, indifferent to the blood spilled upon it.


    That night, lying in a bunk that still felt foreign, Asiro could not sleep. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw it again. The flash of the blade. The moment of impact. The look on Scarred Jaw¡¯s face¡ªnot fear, not regret. Acceptance.


    And Hiroto¡¯s words, ringing in his mind, reshaping everything he thought he understood.


    For the first time since setting foot on this ship, Asiro felt something he couldn¡¯t ignore.


    Doubt.

 The Choice

    The morning sun had barely begun to rise, casting streaks of pale gold across the restless sea, but Asiro was already awake. He hadn''t slept¡ªnot really. The events of the previous day played over and over in his mind, each detail sharper than the last. The flash of Hiroto¡¯s sword. The sickening finality of Scarred Jaw¡¯s death. The cold way the Marines had moved on, as if nothing had happened.


    Asiro clenched his fists beneath the thin blanket. His gut twisted, not just with anger, but with something worse¡ªdoubt. He had spoken his choice, yet it hadn¡¯t mattered. Hiroto had cut the pirate down without hesitation. What had been the point? If his decision held no weight, then why had the Vice Admiral asked him at all?


    He needed answers.


    Throwing off the blanket, Asiro swung his legs over the side of the cot, his body still sore from days of recovery. He ignored the dull ache in his muscles as he pulled himself up, determined. He wouldn''t let this fester inside him. He needed to understand.


    The corridors of the warship were quiet, save for the rhythmic creak of wood and the distant murmur of Marines beginning their morning duties. Asiro walked briskly, his jaw set, his mind burning with frustration. He passed a few Marines who eyed him curiously but said nothing. He didn¡¯t care about their stares. Not now.


    Reaching Hiroto¡¯s office, he didn¡¯t hesitate. He pushed the door open without knocking.


    Hiroto was standing near the window, his arms crossed behind his back, watching the horizon. If he was surprised by Asiro¡¯s sudden entrance, he didn¡¯t show it.


    "You¡¯re early," Hiroto remarked, his voice as measured as always.


    Asiro¡¯s heart pounded in his chest, but he didn¡¯t falter. "Why?"


    Hiroto turned his head slightly, dark eyes locking onto him. "Why what?"


    "Why did you ask me to decide if you were just going to kill him anyway?" Asiro¡¯s voice was sharp, colder than he intended. "Why give me a choice if it didn¡¯t matter?"


    A long silence stretched between them. Hiroto studied him for a moment before finally speaking. "It wasn¡¯t about the choice itself. It was about how you reacted."


    Asiro¡¯s breath hitched. His frustration flared hotter. "So it was a test? A game?"


    "It was a lesson." Hiroto turned fully to face him. "Justice isn¡¯t something you can afford to hesitate on. In this world, if you don¡¯t decide, someone will decide for you."


    Asiro felt his chest tighten. The words struck something deep inside him¡ªsomething raw, something painful.


    "You hesitated," Hiroto continued. "You let doubt cloud your judgment. That doubt could kill you one day."


    Asiro wanted to argue, to shout that justice wasn''t supposed to be like this. But was he sure? The man responsible for his village¡¯s destruction was dead. And yet, he didn¡¯t feel victory. He felt hollow.


    Hiroto turned back to the window. "So, tell me, Asiro. What are you going to do now?"


    Asiro stood there, jaw tight, the weight of his choices pressing down on him. He wanted to demand more answers, to challenge Hiroto on what justice truly meant, but deep down, he already knew the truth¡ªthere was no simple answer.


    Hiroto walked past him, moving toward his desk. "You have two choices, Asiro," he said, his voice calm but unyielding. "At the next port, you can leave this ship. Take your chances in the world on your own."


    Asiro¡¯s stomach twisted. Leave? Where would he even go? His village was gone. His mother was dead. There was nothing left for him beyond this ship¡ªjust an endless ocean and the cold, indifferent world waiting for him.


    "Or," Hiroto continued, placing his hands on the desk, "you can enlist as a Marine." His gaze met Asiro¡¯s, unreadable yet commanding. "Find your own justice. Fight for it. Learn what it truly means to wield power."


    The words hung in the air like a challenge.


    Asiro swallowed hard. His hands trembled at his sides¡ªnot just from fear, but from helplessness. He had never felt more powerless than when his village burned. He had watched as his mother died in his arms, unable to do anything. He had witnessed men like Scarred Jaw take everything from him, grinning as they did it.


    He had nothing. No home, no family, no purpose. The world had stolen everything from him, and now he was supposed to choose what to do next? How could he, when everything felt so uncertain?


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    He turned his gaze to the window, where the endless ocean stretched beyond the ship. The waves churned, restless and vast, just like the thoughts in his mind. He heard his mother¡¯s voice in the back of his head, a whisper from a time that already felt so far away.


    Live, Asiro. No matter what happens, live.


    But was this living? Could he really walk the same path as the people who had shown him that justice was just another word for power? Could he follow Hiroto, knowing the kind of man he was?


    Or was that the very reason he had to stay?


    His fingers curled into fists. He didn¡¯t want to be weak anymore. He didn¡¯t want to be powerless when the next Scarred Jaw appeared. He had seen what hesitation led to. If he left now, he would never have the strength to stand against the monsters of this world.


    Hiroto watched him in silence, waiting. There was no rush, no demand. Only expectation. The choice had always been Asiro¡¯s to make.


    He took a deep breath, feeling the weight of it settle in his chest.


    One choice meant fading into nothing. The other meant carving his own path, no matter how uncertain.


    The answer was becoming clearer.


    But was he ready to say it?


    The silence between them stretched, broken only by the distant crash of the waves against the ship. Hiroto didn¡¯t press him for an answer. He simply waited, unreadable as ever, his dark eyes fixed on Asiro like they could see through every thought racing through his mind.


    He swallowed hard, his throat dry. "If I join¡­" He hesitated, his voice quieter than he wanted it to be. "If I become a Marine, will I ever be able to change what justice means?"


    Hiroto didn¡¯t answer immediately. He stepped closer, the dim light casting sharp shadows across his face. "Justice isn¡¯t something you change," he said. "It¡¯s something you enforce. The only thing that matters is whether you have the strength to do it."


    Asiro clenched his fists. It wasn¡¯t the answer he wanted, but maybe it was the only answer that existed. Strength. That was what separated those who decided from those who were left behind.


    For years, he had thought justice was simple¡ªgood and evil, right and wrong. He had wanted the world to fit into those lines. But Hiroto had shattered that illusion with one swift strike of his sword. Asiro had made a choice, but it had meant nothing. Hiroto¡¯s justice had prevailed, and no one had questioned it.


    If he walked away now, what would he become? Just another lost soul drifting through a world that had already decided his fate?


    His mother had fought for her own freedom. She had died protecting him. If she had the strength to do that, then what excuse did he have to be weak?


    He took a slow breath, steadying himself. He looked up, meeting Hiroto¡¯s gaze. "I¡¯ll join."


    There. The words were out, spoken with certainty even if doubt still lurked in the corners of his mind.


    Hiroto studied him for a long moment. Then, finally, he gave a small nod. "Then learn quickly," he said. "The sea won¡¯t wait for you."


    Asiro let out a breath he hadn¡¯t realized he was holding. The weight of his choice settled deep in his chest. He still didn¡¯t know what justice truly was, but maybe that was something he would have to figure out along the way.


    ¡­


    Asiro stood still as the Marine before him held out the uniform¡ªa simple, clean white shirt, dark blue trousers, and a Marine cap that felt far too heavy in his hands. The moment felt unreal, as if he were stepping into someone else¡¯s story, not his own. A few days ago, he was nothing but a lost boy, a survivor of a tragedy. Now, he was being given a new identity, a new path.


    The Marine watching him gave a small nod, offering nothing but an impersonal, routine glance. "Put it on, recruit. Vice Admiral''s orders."


    Asiro hesitated before gripping the fabric and slipping the shirt over his head. It smelled of seawater and sun-dried linen, a stark contrast to the ash and blood-stained clothes he had worn before. The weight of the uniform wasn¡¯t physical, but it pressed down on him all the same. This wasn¡¯t just a set of clothes¡ªit was a declaration. A commitment.


    Murmurs drifted around the deck as other Marines observed him. Some seemed indifferent, barely giving him a glance before returning to their duties. Others watched with thinly veiled curiosity, questioning whether a boy like him could survive among them. A few looked on with quiet approval, as if acknowledging that he had passed some unseen test.


    Asiro pulled the Marine cap over his unkempt hair, feeling its stiff brim shadow his face. The moment he adjusted it, something shifted within him. He wasn¡¯t the same boy who had been found in the ruins of his village. He wasn¡¯t the child who had screamed for his mother, who had clung to the belief that justice meant mercy.


    He stepped toward the ship¡¯s railing, resting his hands against the worn wood as the salty wind whipped against his face. The sea stretched endlessly before him, an expanse of shifting blues and grays. The horizon felt impossibly far, as if it would always stay out of reach no matter how fast he sailed toward it.


    For the first time, he wondered what lay beyond it.


    He had made his choice. That much was certain. But was it the right one?


    A voice broke through his thoughts. "It doesn¡¯t get easier."


    Asiro turned slightly to find an older Marine leaning against the railing beside him. He was a weathered man, his uniform worn from years of service, his face lined with experience. His eyes, however, were sharp, calculating¡ªsimilar to Hiroto¡¯s, yet different in a way Asiro couldn¡¯t quite place.


    "Making choices, I mean," the Marine continued. "No matter how many times you do it, there¡¯s always doubt. Always wondering if you should¡¯ve done something else."


    Asiro said nothing, but he felt the words settle deep inside him. The Marine exhaled, his gaze fixed on the distant waters. "But standing still? That¡¯s the worst thing you can do. The sea doesn¡¯t wait for you to make up your mind. It moves, whether you¡¯re ready or not."


    Silence stretched between them, but it wasn¡¯t uncomfortable. Asiro finally turned his eyes back toward the horizon. He had been standing still for too long¡ªlost in his own grief, caught in the fear of making the wrong choice.


    Now, he had taken a step. The first of many.


    A hand clapped against his shoulder, firm but not unkind. "Welcome to the Marines, recruit. You¡¯ve got a long way ahead of you."


    Asiro didn¡¯t flinch. He didn¡¯t step away. He merely nodded, tightening his grip against the railing before pushing off. His feet felt heavier, his heart unsure. But his path was set.


    The sea stretched on, vast and unrelenting.


    And Asiro, for better or worse, had chosen to sail into it.

 G7 Marine Base

    The Marine training grounds were silent.


    A sharp, unforgiving cold settled over the massive parade ground where 355 recruits stood shoulder to shoulder in formation. Breath misted in the air, evaporating into the dark morning sky, where the faintest hints of dawn barely touched the horizon.


    The recruits didn¡¯t dare move or speak.


    Not out of discipline¡ªnone of them had any yet.


    It was fear.


    The kind of fear that came from not knowing what came next.


    Boots shuffled here and there as some recruits tried to stay warm, but the veteran Marines lined along the perimeter of the parade ground watched with unreadable expressions.


    They weren¡¯t here to comfort anyone.


    They were evaluating.


    Asiro stood in the middle of the formation, silent. Still.


    His sharp blue-gray eyes scanned the scene. Hundreds of recruits. Some looked disciplined, standing firm with their chins high, their expressions locked in place. Others shifted nervously, bodies rigid with tension. Some looked half-awake, confused, or intimidated.


    But there was one thing in common.


    Every single one of them was waiting.


    At the far end of the parade ground, a group of high-ranking Marines stood, their crisp uniforms barely shifting in the breeze.


    Asiro had seen men like them before¡ªthe kind of people who had already been through war, through hell, and returned as something colder, sharper.


    Their gazes were knives, dissecting every recruit standing before them.


    If Asiro had learned anything from watching powerful men, it was this¡ª


    They already knew who would break.


    The only question was when.


    His hands clenched at his sides.


    He had chosen this.


    He wasn¡¯t going to be one of the weak ones.


    Then the air shifted.


    Boots¡ªheavy, precise, unyielding¡ªstepped onto a raised platform at the front of the formation.


    Warrant Officer Renji.


    A tall, broad-shouldered Marine, his white and navy uniform pressed and pristine. His hair was cut brutally short, his sharp eyes scanning the recruits with no hint of emotion.


    He didn¡¯t raise his voice.


    He didn¡¯t need to.


    "G7 Base, Batch AC48."


    His voice was clear, cutting through the cold like steel slicing flesh.


    The recruits straightened instinctively.


    Renji¡¯s gaze swept over them, dissecting, measuring.


    "This is not a playground," he said, voice steady, each word carrying weight. "You will break. You will suffer. And then you will be rebuilt. That is the only path forward."


    A long silence.


    No encouragement. No sympathy.


    Only truth.


    Some recruits exchanged nervous glances. Others clenched their jaws, staring ahead, trying to mask their unease.


    Renji didn¡¯t care about their reactions.


    "The next six months of your lives will be dictated by one rule¡ªsurvival."


    His sharp gaze narrowed. "Some of you will not last."


    Asiro felt a subtle tension in his stomach.


    He had expected something harsh. He hadn¡¯t expected this level of brutality.


    Renji continued.


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    "You are here for one purpose. To become Marines. But Marines are not trained through kindness. We are forged through discipline, suffering, and absolute obedience."


    He let the words settle.


    "You will be tested every single day. Physically. Mentally. Relentlessly. If you fail to meet the standard, you will be discarded. That is the price of failure."


    A few recruits shifted, nervous.


    Renji¡¯s cold, dark eyes snapped toward them immediately.


    "Did I give permission to move?"


    Instantly, the recruits froze.


    Asiro didn¡¯t flinch, but he felt his own pulse steadying itself as he absorbed every word.


    "This isn¡¯t like the world I knew before. There¡¯s no safety here. No room for hesitation."


    "You either endure, or you disappear."


    Renji didn¡¯t stop.


    "You will wake before dawn. You will eat only what is given. You will follow every command without question. There is no room for weakness in the Marines."


    His voice remained calm, but it carried absolute finality.


    "Some of you will break before the first month. That is reality."


    Another long, suffocating silence.


    "Those who survive," Renji said, stepping forward slightly, "will stand as true Marines."


    Then his voice turned cold.


    "Those who fail¡­ will never be spoken of again."


    The wind howled through the open courtyard.


    No one breathed.


    Renji¡¯s words sat like iron shackles on their shoulders.


    For some, it was a wake-up call.


    For others, it was the beginning of their first real nightmare.


    Asiro¡¯s stomach was tight, but not in fear.


    It was focus.


    The path forward was crystal clear.


    "This is what I chose."


    "There¡¯s no going back."


    "I just have to survive."


    Silence held the recruits in place, their bodies locked in rigid posture as the weight of Warrant Officer Renji¡¯s words settled over them. The frozen air pressed against their skin, but no one dared shiver. The weak would be discarded. That reality had been made clear.


    A Marine officer stepped forward, a thick clipboard clutched in his gloved hands. The crispness of his uniform, the clean gold lining on his cuffs¡ªit was clear that this was a man who belonged here. Someone who had survived training, climbed the ranks, and now held their futures in his hands.


    "Recruits will now be assigned to their respective battalions, squads, and teams," the officer announced, his voice loud and unwavering. He didn¡¯t look at the recruits as individuals. To him, they were just numbers and names on a list.


    The clipboard shifted, and the sorting began.


    "Alton, Greg ¨C L1 Battalion, Squad A, Team 1."


    A burly recruit stepped forward. He swallowed thickly but kept his expression firm.


    "Evans, Ryker ¨C L2 Battalion, Squad C, Team 2."


    More names were called, one by one, bodies stepping out of the ranks and toward their assigned places. Some recruits exhaled softly, relieved just to hear their names, knowing they hadn¡¯t already been deemed unfit. Others took their assignments in stride, stoic, unmoving.


    Then¡ª


    "Asiro Ashford ¨C L7 Battalion, Squad B, Team 4."


    The name rang through the morning air.


    Asiro stepped forward without hesitation.


    He didn¡¯t falter. He didn¡¯t let his thoughts get in the way.


    "This is where I belong now."


    "No matter what happens next¡ªI will not fail."


    Asiro joined the recruits already forming into their squads. A half a dozen unfamiliar faces. Some had strong builds, others were lean, and a few still had that uncertain look of someone who hadn¡¯t fully accepted where they were.


    His mind instantly assessed them.


    Some recruits looked capable¡ªlike they had been fighters before this. Others had the stiffness of someone experiencing military discipline for the first time. Some were eager, others cautious.


    "This is my squad."


    "These are the people I¡¯ll be training with. The ones I¡¯ll have to rely on."


    A sudden sharp command cut through the quiet.


    "L7 Squad B! Line up!"


    The voice was not Renji¡¯s.


    It was younger, rougher¡ªfull of confidence.


    Asiro turned toward the source and immediately felt the shift in power.


    Standing before them was a towering, broad-shouldered figure.


    Kai Mercer.


    8¡¯3¡±. Muscular. Wild, spiky dark red hair. Golden-brown eyes that glowed faintly under the dim morning light. His uniform sleeves were rolled up, revealing powerful forearms lined with scars. A massive war hammer rested against his shoulder, its weight seeming effortless in his grasp.


    This wasn¡¯t just any Seaman Apprentice.


    This was a warrior.


    Kai scanned them like a predator sizing up prey.


    "Get in formation," he ordered, voice carrying absolute authority.


    The recruits rushed into place, a few fumbling in their movements.


    Kai¡¯s eyes flickered to them, and his smirk widened, something amused but unforgiving in his gaze.


    "If you can¡¯t follow orders, leave now."


    Silence.


    No one moved.


    Asiro didn¡¯t so much as blink.


    "This guy is different from Renji," he thought. Brash. Confident. A leader in his own right, but not someone who expected failure. Kai wanted fighters, not cowards.


    Kai¡¯s golden-brown eyes flickered over them, assessing. Judging.


    "Good," he muttered. "At least none of you ran yet."


    Now that Squad B was fully formed, Kai stepped closer.


    "You¡¯re Squad B," he said, his voice carrying no patience for doubt. "Which means you belong to me. You screw up, you answer to me. You fall behind, you will regret it."


    A few recruits shifted uneasily.


    Kai¡¯s eyes snapped to them instantly.


    "Something wrong?" he asked, smirking. "You look like you got something to say."


    The recruit stiffened. "No, sir!"


    Kai snorted. "Damn right, you don¡¯t."


    He turned, gaze landing on Asiro for a split second.


    For that moment, something passed between them.


    Not hostility. Not intimidation.


    Recognition.


    Kai didn¡¯t linger¡ªhis attention moved on before Asiro could fully read his intent.


    But Asiro already knew.


    "He knows who¡¯s weak. He knows who¡¯s strong. He¡¯s already decided who will survive and who won¡¯t."


    Kai crossed his arms.


    "Training starts at five sharp. If you don¡¯t make it on time, don¡¯t bother showing up at all."


    The recruits remained silent.


    Kai smirked. "Damn, you guys are quiet. Good. Means you listen."


    As the sky lightened, shifting from black to a deep navy blue, the recruits of Squad B followed Kai as he led them toward the barracks.


    The walk was silent.


    Only the sound of boots against the cold ground.


    Some recruits still looked unsure, glancing at each other, but no one spoke.


    Asiro, for the first time, allowed himself to breathe.


    "I have a squad now. A unit. A place."


    "This is where my training truly begins."


    Kai glanced back once as they reached the barracks, eyes flickering toward Asiro again before turning away.


    That small look meant nothing to the others.


    But Asiro understood.


    "He¡¯s watching me."


    "He wants to see what I can do."


    The recruits entered their new living quarters, the first day of training just minutes away.


    The sun still doesn¡¯t crept over the horizon, But Asiro knew one thing for certain¡ª


    This was only the beginning.

 Team B4

    Over the dark sky, Kai led them away from the parade grounds, guiding Team B4 toward their assigned barracks. The air was still crisp with morning cold, but none of them paid attention to the temperature. The weight of reality had set in.


    No one spoke.


    Their boots struck the paved road in synchronized steps, a rhythm dictated by the rigid order of the Marine base. To either side of them, massive training grounds, supply depots, armories, and logistics buildings stretched out across the landscape, a city of discipline and war in itself.


    Asiro walked near the center of the group, observing everything.


    Every building had a purpose.


    The training grounds were lined with obstacle courses, climbing walls, and large sparring pits. Some were empty, waiting for recruits to arrive. Others already had seasoned Marines drilling formations, barking orders at younger recruits in later stages of training.


    To their left, a group of officers and administrative personnel walked with precision, their presence completely separate from the recruit divisions. They carried an air of authority, their uniforms pristine, weapons polished, their every movement deliberate.


    Further down the path, a supply convoy was being unloaded, large crates stacked in orderly formations as uniformed Marines efficiently checked inventory. The logistics of war were on full display. Everything was structured, nothing wasted.


    "This is an army built on discipline and precision," Asiro thought, his mind already processing what that meant for him.


    Other teams of recruits marched ahead of them, some whispering among themselves, already forming their own groups. They were in the same position as Team B4¡ªnew blood entering a system designed to crush the weak.


    Some walked with confidence, others with hesitation.


    Asiro wasn¡¯t sure which category he fit into yet.


    The L7 Battalion Barracks was a towering, concrete structure that loomed over them as they approached. Rows of identical doors, lined with military precision, stretched along the outer corridors. It was designed for efficiency, nothing more.


    Kai stopped at the entrance and turned to them, his golden-brown eyes sharp, taking one last glance at the team before stepping forward.


    "Inside," he ordered.


    No one hesitated.


    As they filed in, the first thing Asiro noticed was the silence.


    The interior of the barracks was stark, long hallways stretching in either direction, leading to multiple sleeping quarters. Unlike the open parade grounds, this space felt enclosed, suffocating even.


    Their footsteps echoed against the cold floor as they moved deeper into the building, passing other occupied quarters where recruits were already living. Some doors were left ajar, revealing older recruits inside¡ªsome polishing their weapons, others folding their uniforms with precision.


    But what stood out most was the lack of conversation.


    No one was chatting, laughing, or relaxing.


    This wasn¡¯t a home.


    It was a place of survival.


    Kai finally stopped in front of a numbered door¡ªB4.


    Their new home.


    He pushed it open.


    The inside was exactly as Asiro expected.


    A military barracks through and through.


    There were sixteen bunks total, stacked in two levels, each recruit assigned a narrow footlocker for personal storage. The room itself was plain¡ªno decorations, no signs of individuality, just the bare necessities.


    The air smelled of sweat, metal, and disinfectant.


    Six recruits were already inside.


    Older recruits.


    They sat on their bunks, some indifferent, some watching the newcomers with sharp, assessing gazes.


    They weren¡¯t Marines yet¡ªbut they had been here long enough to be above the fresh blood.


    Asiro immediately noted their presence.


    His eyes moved across the room carefully, scanning for who was relaxed and who was studying them.


    Two recruits were polishing their boots, ignoring them entirely.


    Another sat on his bunk, arms crossed, watching the new arrivals with mild amusement.


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    The one that stood out most leaned forward slightly, his muscular frame resting casually against his knee. Daisuke.


    His dark eyes held a hint of amusement, but it wasn¡¯t friendly.


    "He¡¯s testing us."


    Kai, unaffected by the shift in atmosphere, merely gestured toward the older recruits.


    "These are your seniors," he said simply. "You¡¯ll listen to them. They¡¯ll answer your dumb questions."


    Then¡ªwithout another word¡ªhe turned and left, leaving nothing but his authority in the air.


    The door shut behind him.


    And the room fell into silence.


    For a long moment, no one moved.


    The new recruits stood near the entrance, their bodies tense, unsure of what to do next.


    The older recruits didn¡¯t say anything.


    They didn¡¯t need to.


    The weight of the unspoken hierarchy settled over them.


    "This isn¡¯t just a barracks."


    "It¡¯s a battlefield."


    Asiro¡¯s mind worked fast. This was a test.


    The older recruits were waiting to see what they¡¯d do.


    If someone spoke first, they risked looking weak.


    If they hesitated too long, they risked looking afraid.


    The new recruits glanced at each other, uncertain.


    Then¡ªDaisuke finally moved.


    He leaned back slightly, arms still resting against his knees, and exhaled through his nose like he had seen this a hundred times before.


    Then, he smirked.


    "Well?" his voice was low, amused. "You just gonna stand there all day?"


    The room remained silent for a long, heavy moment.


    Kai had left them in a space where order and power were already established, and now it was up to them to find where they stood in it.


    The six older recruits sat comfortably, watching them like veterans observing fresh meat on the battlefield. Their presence was imposing, not just in stature but in demeanor¡ªthey weren¡¯t worried. They weren¡¯t tense. They knew how things worked.


    For the new recruits, however, this was an unknown landscape.


    Asiro glanced around at his teammates, noting their reactions.


    Some looked hesitant, unsure of how to proceed. Others were already scanning the open bunks, their instincts kicking in. This was another test.


    "Hierarchy begins now."


    Some of the bolder recruits moved first.


    Hana was the first to step forward, walking toward a top bunk near the back of the room. Her fiery red hair swayed as she moved, confidence in her stride.


    The moment she placed her hand on the frame, one of the older recruits¡ªa tall, lean man with sharp eyes¡ªexhaled softly.


    "You sure about that?" His voice was calm, but warning.


    Hana froze, eyes narrowing.


    "And why wouldn¡¯t I be?" she shot back.


    The older recruit didn¡¯t even look at her. He looked at Daisuke.


    The implication was clear¡ªthis was his territory.


    The air shifted.


    The other recruits hesitated.


    Then, without another word, Hana removed her hand and moved to a lower bunk instead.


    A silent lesson had been learned.


    The other new recruits followed her lead, moving carefully to claim empty lower bunks, avoiding anything that seemed too bold of a choice.


    Asiro walked forward at a steady pace, never breaking stride.


    He didn¡¯t look at the older recruits, nor did he hesitate.


    Instead of grabbing a top bunk or stalling, he calmly chose a lower bunk near the corner, away from the main walking path but close enough to observe the entire room.


    He set his bag down carefully, opened his footlocker, and began placing his gear inside with precision.


    "Act with certainty, but not arrogance."


    His approach was different from the others¡ªnot timid, but not aggressive. A neutral move, neither challenging nor submissive.


    A couple of the older recruits eyed him, but none spoke up.


    No challenge.


    After a few moments, the rest of the recruits settled in.


    Daisuke finally leaned back on his bunk, arms resting behind his head.


    "Alright," he said lazily, "now that you¡¯re done scrambling like lost puppies, let¡¯s get something straight."


    The new recruits instinctively stiffened.


    Daisuke¡¯s casual tone didn¡¯t match the weight of his words.


    "This isn¡¯t a game. You¡¯re not here to make friends or be comfortable," he continued, his dark eyes scanning them. "You¡¯re here because you want to be Marines. But not all of you are gonna make it."


    A couple of recruits exchanged uneasy glances.


    Daisuke smirked.


    "Some of you will break before the first month is over. Some of you will make it to the final test and still fail. And if you do fail, you¡¯ll start over. From nothing."


    The words hit differently than Renji¡¯s speech.


    Renji spoke from a position of authority and power.


    Daisuke?


    Daisuke was speaking from experience.


    "I¡¯ve been here for three years," he continued. "Failed the final test three times."


    Silence.


    A few recruits visibly tensed.


    "Three years?" one of them blurted out before catching himself.


    Daisuke¡¯s grin widened.


    "Yeah. Three years. And guess what? That¡¯s normal."


    The weight of his words settled in.


    "This training isn¡¯t designed for people to pass. It¡¯s designed to break them."


    Asiro remained quiet, processing it all.


    "Failing doesn¡¯t mean leaving. It means starting over. Again and again, until you either pass or quit."


    One of the new recruits, a tall, broad-shouldered fighter named Jared, frowned.


    "So¡­ do we get paid?"


    A dry chuckle escaped one of the older recruits, a silver-haired swordsman¡ªFelix.


    "Recruits don¡¯t get paid," Felix said calmly, folding his arms. "Everything¡¯s covered¡ªfood, housing, medical treatment¡ªbut you won¡¯t see a single coin."


    Jared frowned.


    Another older recruit, Marin, smirked from his bunk.


    "The real question isn¡¯t whether you get paid," he said, voice eerily soft. "The real question is¡ªcan you afford to take the test?"


    The room stilled.


    Some recruits blinked in confusion.


    "...What do you mean?" another new recruit asked hesitantly.


    Felix leaned forward slightly, his expression unreadable.


    "You¡¯ll see when the time comes."


    The mood in the room shifted completely.


    The new recruits, who just moments ago were concerned about their bunks, were now thinking about something much bigger.


    The final test.


    What did they mean by "afford"?


    Asiro, ever silent, took it all in.


    "There¡¯s something they¡¯re not saying."


    "Something we won¡¯t understand until it¡¯s too late."


    The conversation drifted into silence, but the weight of it lingered.


    Some recruits shifted uneasily, their minds no longer on training itself, but the hidden truths behind it.


    Daisuke stretched his arms above his head before leaning back on his bunk, exhaling.


    "Anyway," he said, grinning slightly, "don¡¯t get too comfortable. This place eats the weak alive."


    It was a warning.


    A promise.


    And it was the first moment Asiro truly understood the gap between what he thought Marine training would be and what it actually was.


    As the new recruits finished securing their bunks and storing their belongings, the room settled into a quiet hum of movement.


    Some recruits took the silence as a chance to rest, sitting on their bunks with thoughtful expressions.


    Others mentally prepared themselves, already thinking about the days ahead.


    Asiro sat on the edge of his bunk, leaning forward slightly, processing everything.


    The hierarchy in the room was clear.


    The older recruits weren¡¯t just here to intimidate. They were here because they had been broken before¡ªand they knew exactly what awaited the new recruits.


    "This isn¡¯t just about training anymore. It¡¯s about endurance. Survival."


    Asiro clenched his fingers into a fist.


    "I will not break."


    He exhaled slowly, forcing his mind to settle. He had to be ready.


    This was only the beginning.

 Recruit Camp First Day

    Next morning, First day at the camp, Asiro opened his eyes to darkness.


    A metallic clink echoed softly as someone adjusted their belt buckle.


    Asiro turned his head slightly, catching sight of the older recruits already awake, fully dressed, moving about without a word. Their movements were smooth, effortless¡ªpracticed.


    They weren¡¯t in a rush. They weren¡¯t scrambling.


    They were simply ready.


    In contrast, the new recruits stirred sluggishly, some groaning as they blinked themselves into wakefulness. A few muttered curses under their breath as they fumbled with their stiff uniforms, their bodies sore from the tension of the previous night.


    No orders had been given yet, but there was an unspoken expectation¡ªbe ready before you are told.


    Asiro sat up slowly, careful not to make unnecessary noise. His muscles were stiff, but he ignored it, moving with deliberate precision as he began to dress.


    His sharp blue-gray eyes scanned the room, observing his teammates.


    Hana, normally full of energy, looked tense, her brows furrowed as she pulled on her boots.


    Reiner moved methodically, unbothered by the early wake-up, his expression unreadable.


    Jared, the powerhouse, was clearly irritated, muttering under his breath about how little sleep they got.


    Marin, the stealthy one, sat on the edge of his bunk, already fully dressed, watching everything with quiet intensity.


    It was easy to see the difference between them and the older recruits.


    The veterans didn¡¯t even glance at the clock. They didn¡¯t sigh, complain, or hesitate. They were already standing, stretching, adjusting their gear.


    This wasn¡¯t new for them. This was routine.


    Daisuke, the most relaxed among them, stretched his massive arms, yawning.


    Then, with a lazy smirk, he turned to the new recruits.


    "Alright," he said, his deep voice cutting through the silence, "someone ask the damn question."


    The recruits hesitated.


    They exchanged glances, each waiting for someone else to speak first.


    The older recruits remained motionless, watching with quiet amusement, their expressions unreadable.


    Finally, Hana exhaled sharply, breaking the silence.


    "How bad is it?" she asked, voice steady but edged with tension.


    Daisuke¡¯s smirk widened.


    "Depends," he said, rolling his shoulders, "are you here to survive, or to actually make something of yourself?"


    Silence.


    Asiro narrowed his eyes.


    "What kind of question is that?"


    Hana frowned. "Obviously, we want to make something of ourselves¡ª"


    Daisuke chuckled, shaking his head.


    "You say that now," he said. "But let¡¯s see if you still think that after a month."


    The weight in his tone sent a chill through the air.


    The recruits exchanged uneasy glances.


    "You all think this is about pushing your limits, right?" Daisuke continued, voice smooth. "About proving your strength, endurance, determination?"


    He let the words settle before his smirk faded.


    "You¡¯re wrong."


    Another pause.


    Asiro remained motionless, absorbing every word.


    "This isn¡¯t just about strength. There¡¯s more to it."


    Daisuke leaned forward slightly, his tone calm but cold.


    "This place doesn¡¯t care about your limits," he said. "It cares about whether you can break and still get back up. Whether you can fail and keep going. Again. And again. And again."


    The truth in his voice hit harder than any speech from a superior officer.


    "This isn¡¯t about reaching a goal. It¡¯s about proving you won¡¯t quit¡ªeven when everything tells you to."


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    Felix, the silver-haired swordsman, adjusted his gloves.


    "Training is one thing," he said, his voice calm, analytical. "But passing the final test? That¡¯s another thing entirely."


    Another recruit, a shorter but sharp-eyed one, frowned. "What do you mean?"


    Daisuke¡¯s smirk returned, but this time, it didn¡¯t reach his eyes.


    "Not every recruit takes the test," he said.


    The air shifted.


    Some of the new recruits blinked in confusion.


    "Wait¡­ what?" Hana¡¯s voice was sharp now. "What do you mean, not everyone takes it?"


    Daisuke chuckled, shaking his head. "You think everyone who makes it through training gets the right to take the test? That¡¯s not how it works."


    Asiro¡¯s grip on his uniform tightened slightly.


    "That makes no sense. Why would they train people only to deny them the test?"


    Another recruit spoke up, hesitant. "So¡­ what happens to them?"


    Daisuke leaned back, crossing his arms.


    "Some stay," he said, his voice almost lazy. "The Marines always need bodies."


    The implication was clear.


    Not Marines. Bodies.


    "But the ones who run out of time?" His smirk faded. "They disappear."


    The word hung in the air like a death sentence.


    Disappeared.


    Asiro remained still, but his mind was racing.


    "Disappear how? Are they thrown out? Assigned somewhere else?"


    "Or does it mean something worse?"


    A recruit shifted uncomfortably. "You mean they get kicked out?"


    Daisuke¡¯s dark gaze flickered toward him.


    "No," he said simply.


    The room fell into dead silence.


    A slow realization crept into the air.


    Felix sighed. "The truth is, some people stay here for years. Some train for three, four, even five years¡ªalways trying to take the test, but never feeling ready. And those are the lucky ones."


    Marin, the quietest of the older recruits, finally spoke. His voice was low, almost ghostly.


    "The unlucky ones," he murmured, "are the ones who stop trying."


    A cold wave passed over the room.


    The new recruits felt it¡ªthat invisible pressure settling on their shoulders.


    "This isn¡¯t just about making it through training. It¡¯s about surviving the system."


    Jared clenched his jaw. "So failing doesn¡¯t mean leaving?"


    Daisuke exhaled through his nose, shaking his head.


    "No. It means starting over from nothing."


    No one spoke for several long seconds. The reality of Marine training had finally sunk in.


    Some recruits, like Hana, looked outright angry. Others, like Reiner and Marin, simply absorbed the truth with grim acceptance. The most telling reaction, however, was silence¡ªthe unspoken realization that this was not just about passing or failing.


    It was about whether they would break.


    Asiro leaned back slightly on his bunk in relax, His mind, however, was working fast.


    "So the Marines don¡¯t care about the people who fall behind. They only care about the ones who can keep getting back up."


    "Even if it means repeating this training over and over again."


    "Even if it means wasting years of their life."


    "Even if it means disappearing."


    Hana¡¯s voice finally cut through the tension.


    "That¡¯s insane," she muttered, her hands clenching into fists. "We¡¯re just recruits. Why would they do this?"


    Lark, one of the quieter recruits, answered without hesitation.


    "Because this is the Marines," he said, his tone even. "If you can¡¯t handle this, you¡¯ll never survive out there."


    Daisuke nodded, stretching his arms lazily, though his eyes remained sharp.


    "They don¡¯t need good people," he said, his smirk returning just slightly. "They need survivors."


    A heavy realization set in.


    "This isn¡¯t about training. It¡¯s about proving we belong."


    "The weak won¡¯t just be left behind¡ªthey¡¯ll be used until they break."


    "If I fail¡­ if I show any weakness¡­ I will disappear too."


    Asiro exhaled slowly, steadily.


    He had made a choice. There was no turning back now.


    Reiner, ever the practical one, stood and rolled his massive shoulders.


    "Enough of this depressing crap," he said, voice gruff but steady. "Get ready. We¡¯re heading to the training grounds soon."


    The older recruits moved first.


    Daisuke slung his coat over his shoulders, adjusting his uniform with effortless ease.


    Marin checked the straps on his boots, moving with the precision of someone who expected hardship.


    Felix, always calm, merely ran a hand through his silver hair and grabbed his Marine-issued belt.


    Everything they did was automatic. Efficient.


    The new recruits, however, hesitated.


    There were no direct orders, but an unspoken rule was already clear¡ªno one should need to be told what to do.


    Asiro moved first.


    He buttoned his stiff Marine jacket, feeling the rough fabric tighten around his shoulders. The weight of it felt¡­ strange. It wasn¡¯t just a uniform.


    It was a symbol.


    "I chose this path. I will not fail."


    Hana, shaking off her frustration, followed suit, pulling her uniform into place with fierce determination.


    Reiner adjusted his gloves, flexing his massive hands as if already preparing for battle.


    Jared muttered something under his breath but didn¡¯t waste time either.


    One by one, the recruits fell into line.


    The older recruits watched in silence¡ªjudging them.


    They didn¡¯t need to say anything.


    "You¡¯re learning. Good."


    The doors to the barracks swung open suddenly, the metal hinges groaning.


    A sharp, commanding voice echoed through the hall.


    "Squad B, time to move!"


    Kai Mercer.


    The Seaman Apprentice stood in the doorway, arms crossed, golden-brown eyes scanning them like a predator surveying potential prey.


    The hallway beyond him was dimly lit, but the first hints of morning light crept through the distant windows.


    No one spoke.


    One by one, the recruits fell in line, boots thudding against the floor as they moved toward the exit.


    Kai stepped aside as the recruits filed out into the hallway, the cool morning air hitting them instantly as they stepped beyond the barracks.


    It smelled of salt, metal, and earth.


    The base was massive.


    Asiro¡¯s eyes swept across the landscape ahead.


    Training fields stretched into the distance, filled with towering wooden obstacles, deep trenches, and endless sand-covered running tracks.


    The sound of shouting and boots stomping filled the air from other squads already assembled.


    Veteran Marines stood at the edges, observing.


    Watching.


    Waiting.


    And ahead of them, like a battlefield ready to swallow them whole, was the first test of their survival.


    The recruits fell into step, forming a loose column as they moved forward.


    Some walked stiffly, nerves finally settling in. Others, like Reiner and Jared, carried themselves with silent confidence.


    Kai led them forward at a steady pace, his presence commanding without needing to say much.


    He only spoke once they reached the beginning of the training fields.


    His voice was calm, yet sharp.


    "Hope you guys got good time settling down," he said, his usual smirk returning.


    No one answered.


    He stopped, turning back to them with an almost amused expression.


    "That¡¯s fine. Won¡¯t matter soon, anyway."


    He pointed forward.


    "See that?"


    The recruits followed his gesture.


    Ahead of them, across the field, a massive obstacle course stretched into the distance.


    Walls of wood and rope. Heavy sandbags lining the pathways. Thick logs suspended over deep, muddy trenches.


    And beyond that¡ªrows of sparring pits, where older recruits were already fighting.


    Kai¡¯s smirk widened slightly.


    "Welcome to the first day of your real training," he said. "Try not to die."


    No one moved.


    No one spoke.


    The weight of what was about to happen hit them all at once.


    "This is it. This is where it starts."


    Asiro exhaled slowly, stepping forward.


    There was no turning back now.

 Physical Training

    The air was sharp, cold enough to burn the inside of his lungs. Asiro inhaled deeply, feeling the weight of the pre-dawn mist settle over his skin. The Marine base was still blanketed in darkness, but the world was already awake.


    Then the horn blared.


    A deafening, bone-rattling sound, sharp enough to make his heart slam against his ribs.


    "ON YOUR FEET, RECRUITS!"


    The barracks doors exploded open. Shadows moved frantically, boots scraping against the floorboards. The entire building trembled as bodies rushed toward the exit. Some were half-dressed, others scrambling to lace up their boots before being trampled over.


    Kai was already up, standing near the door, arms crossed, watching the chaos unfold with a smirk.


    Outside, the entire L7 Battalion was forming in rows. The sheer number of recruits, more than three hundred, stood stiffly in the dim morning light. Their breaths were visible in the cold air. The ground beneath them was hard-packed dirt, stretching toward the looming training field ahead.


    Veteran Marines stood at the perimeter, watching with unreadable expressions. Some were leaning against wooden posts, arms crossed, as if silently placing bets on who would break first. Others walked between the recruits, studying their posture, their nervous energy, their worth.


    Then, a figure stepped forward¡ªa man built like iron itself.


    Seaman First-Class Hagen Rourke.


    His cold steel-gray eyes swept across the rows of recruits, cutting through them like knives. He was massive¡ªtaller than any of them except Kai, his presence alone suffocating. His uniform was pristine, his posture rigid, his face completely devoid of emotion.


    No introductions. No welcomes. Just two words.


    "Drop and hold."


    A moment of hesitation. Then realization.


    The recruits hit the dirt, dropping into plank position.


    Asiro¡¯s muscles tensed as his elbows dug into the cold ground. A few grunts echoed around him, but no one dared complain. The tension in the air was suffocating.


    "Seems like some of you expected an easy ride," Rourke muttered, his voice barely above a growl. "Let me make something clear. This is your first and only warning."


    Boots stomped through the rows.


    "If I hear one complaint, one groan, one whisper of weakness¡­ you will regret it."


    A sharp thud.


    A recruit to Asiro¡¯s left gasped¡ªa boot had slammed into his back, forcing him lower. The others stiffened immediately.


    Asiro focused on his breathing. Keep it steady. Control the pain.


    Rourke continued walking, his eyes scanning the trembling bodies beneath him. "We are the Marines," he said, voice cold. "We do not train warriors. We do not train men. We do not train hopeful little boys who think they¡¯ll see adventure on the seas."


    He stopped.


    "We train weapons."


    Silence. Only the sound of heavy breathing.


    "You will be broken," he continued, "until your body is no longer yours to command. You will run until you collapse, you will push until your muscles rip apart, you will bleed until you forget the feeling of comfort. And if you survive¡­" He smirked. "Then you might just be worth something."


    A few recruits were already shaking. One collapsed, arms giving out beneath him.


    Rourke didn¡¯t even look at him. He just muttered, "Weak," and continued walking.


    "UP!"


    The recruits scrambled to their feet. Some were slower than others. A mistake.


    "Move too slow again," Rourke said, eyes narrowing, "and you run double the distance."


    A few hurried to straighten their stances.


    "Recruits!" another voice barked¡ªthis time one of the drill instructors. "You will be running five kilometers, weighted!"


    A collective intake of breath. Some recruits¡¯ faces twisted in disbelief.


    "You heard me! Twenty-kilogram packs, no exceptions!"


    Large sandbags were tossed to the ground. Recruits hesitated before picking them up, struggling to hoist them onto their backs. The weight was crushing, pressing against their shoulders, their spines, their legs already straining.


    "Move!"


    The stampede began.


    The ground vibrated as the recruits sprinted forward, the sound of boots thundering across the dirt. The pace was brutal from the start. The weak were left behind almost immediately, their bodies unaccustomed to the weight.


    Asiro gritted his teeth, adjusting his posture. The pack felt like it was trying to grind his bones into dust.


    The cold air was gone now¡ªhis body was already drenched in sweat.


    He focused on breathing.


    One step. Another. Keep moving.


    Ahead of him, Daisuke was running as if the pack on his back didn¡¯t even exist. His muscles rippled, sweat gleaming off his skin.


    Ahead, more recruits were falling behind. A few tripped, slamming face-first into the dirt. The instructors didn¡¯t even pause.


    "GET UP OR GO HOME!"


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    Asiro kept moving. His breath came in sharp bursts, his legs burning. He ignored it. Pain was nothing. Pain was part of the process.


    Somewhere behind him, a recruit screamed. His knee had twisted at an unnatural angle. He wouldn¡¯t be finishing the run.


    Asiro pushed forward.


    The moment they crossed the finish line, the drill instructors gave them no time to recover.


    "DOWN! ONE HUNDRED PUSH-UPS, NO REST!"


    Asiro collapsed to the ground. His arms were already shaking, but he forced himself up.


    One¡­ two¡­ three¡­


    By the time he reached seventy, his muscles were screaming. His breath was ragged. His vision was going hazy.


    Daisuke was already finished.


    Some of the Experienced had collapsed, panting, before pushing back up again.


    The weak recruits? They can¡¯t.


    "KEEP MOVING!"


    Punches landed on stomachs. The sit-up drill. Every time they lifted themselves, an instructor slammed a fist into their gut.


    Pain exploded in Asiro¡¯s stomach. He gritted his teeth. Again. And again.


    Some recruits vomited from the impact. The instructors didn¡¯t even flinch.


    Next¡ªthe squat drill.


    Twenty-kilogram logs were hoisted onto their shoulders. Every squat was agony. Legs shook. Muscles locked up.


    Somewhere, someone collapsed.


    Fifty burpees. Every jump sent fire through Asiro¡¯s legs. His vision swam. His chest burned.


    The horse stance came next.


    He held the pose, legs trembling, sweat dripping down his jaw.


    Ignore the pain. Ignore the pain.


    Then¡ªCRACK.


    A wooden pole slammed into his side.


    He staggered but didn¡¯t fall.


    Another hit. His ribs screamed.


    He clenched his jaw. His eyes stayed forward.


    Fifteen minutes passed.


    His vision was tunneling. The world was spinning.


    Don¡¯t fall. Don¡¯t fall.


    Another strike.


    Then¡ªdarkness.


    The next thing he remembered was gravel biting into his hands and knees.


    The bear crawl.


    Recruits were bloodied. Some were crying. Some were too exhausted to even feel pain anymore.


    Asiro moved. One inch at a time. His breath was ragged, his hands shredded open, but he moved.


    No thoughts. Just movement.


    Then¡ªfinally¡ªit was over.


    He collapsed onto his side, gasping.


    He wasn¡¯t the last one standing.


    But he wasn¡¯t the first to fall.


    And that meant something.


    He didn¡¯t know it yet.


    But as his body lay broken, something inside him was already healing.


    Faster than it should.


    The moment the last recruit dragged himself over the gravel, battered and breathless, the drill instructor¡¯s voice cut through the gasping silence like a blade.


    ¡°No time for rest! Get in formation¡ªNOW!¡±


    A wave of exhaustion rippled through the recruits, but none dared to collapse. Every muscle in Asiro¡¯s body burned like it had been lit on fire. His lungs felt shredded, his arms trembled, and his knees threatened to buckle beneath him. But he willed himself to stay upright, stepping in line with the rest of the broken recruits.


    He wasn¡¯t alone in his suffering.


    Hana was hunched over, her red hair clinging to her sweat-drenched face, arms twitching from exertion. Reiner stood with his usual resilience, but even he had a deep frown, shifting uncomfortably from the strain in his legs. Felix¡¯s chest heaved, but his expression remained distant, calculating. Daisuke, however, was unshaken¡ªthe giant recruit stood tall, barely winded, stretching his arms like he hadn¡¯t just endured hours of hell.


    Asiro¡¯s stomach twisted. What the hell is this guy made of?


    The instructors didn¡¯t give them long to wonder.


    "Final test!" Seaman First-Class Hagen Rourke stepped forward, his steel-gray eyes sweeping over them like a hawk surveying the weaklings in its territory. His voice was low, cold, and precise. "You will hold these barrels. No breaks. No resetting. No mercy. If you drop it, you fail."


    Another instructor¡ªa burly Marine with a scarred jaw¡ªmotioned toward a pile of massive 50 kg barrels lined up before them.


    "Last one standing wins," the scarred man barked. "Winner skips the next obstacle course. The weak get extra laps."


    A few groans slipped out before anyone could stop them.


    The instructors pounced.


    "You got a problem, recruits?!"


    "NO, SIR!" the recruits shouted in unison, though some voices cracked.


    Asiro felt the weight of the moment pressing down on him, heavier than any barrel. This wasn¡¯t just a test¡ªit was survival. He had no strength left. His arms had been pushed beyond their limits. His legs threatened to give out. His fingers twitched involuntarily.


    And yet, this test was different. This wasn¡¯t about speed, technique, or coordination.


    This was about one thing¡ªendurance.


    Gritting his teeth, he approached his barrel.


    As he bent to lift it, a cruel realization sank in¡ªthe cold metal was twice as heavy as it looked.


    The moment he lifted it off the ground, his spine screamed in protest. His shoulders felt like they were being ripped apart. His arms, already dead from push-ups and burpees, nearly failed on the spot.


    His body was done. Finished.


    But Asiro knew one thing¡ªhe couldn¡¯t stop.


    The barrel lurched in his grip, and his legs wobbled dangerously.


    "Shit¡ª!" Hana cursed beside him, fighting to keep her balance.


    "Too slow, recruits!" one of the instructors barked. "You drop it now, you might as well walk off this field and never come back!"


    A grunt of effort came from Asiro¡¯s left¡ªDaisuke had already lifted his barrel effortlessly, his massive frame barely breaking a sweat. "Hah! This ain''t shit," he muttered, grinning like a lunatic.


    Of course, Asiro thought bitterly. Of course he''s fine.


    The minutes crawled by like an eternity.


    The sheer weight of the barrel became unbearable within seconds, let alone minutes. Sweat dripped down Asiro¡¯s face, soaking into his uniform, burning his eyes. His fingers ached, the muscles in his forearms screaming for relief. He shifted his stance, trying to redistribute the weight¡ªbut it didn¡¯t matter.


    The pain didn¡¯t fade.


    It only got worse.


    "Shit¡ª!" a recruit near the front lost his grip, the barrel slamming into the dirt with a heavy thud.


    "One down!" one of the instructors barked. "Who''s next?"


    Asiro¡¯s breath grew ragged. His arms quaked like they were going to snap in half. His lungs fought for air. The corners of his vision darkened.


    He fought to block it all out.


    Pain didn¡¯t matter.


    Fatigue didn¡¯t matter.


    Only one thing mattered.


    Do not fall.


    Another crash echoed through the air¡ªtwo more recruits dropped their barrels, collapsing to their knees in pure agony.


    Keep going, Asiro told himself, sucking in a shallow breath. Don¡¯t think. Just stand. Just hold it. Just survive.


    Minutes passed.


    More barrels fell.


    Bodies hit the ground, gasps of pain filling the silent field.


    Asiro¡¯s mind became a blur. He couldn¡¯t see straight anymore. His muscles didn¡¯t feel like his own¡ªjust raw nerves on the verge of giving out. Every heartbeat throbbed against his skull.


    His body wanted to quit.


    It begged him to stop.


    And yet, somewhere inside, a different part of him surfaced¡ªthe part that had survived fire, loss, and destruction. The part of him that had been shattered long before this training.


    I can¡¯t afford to be weak, he thought numbly. I can¡¯t afford to fail. I won¡¯t, I can¡¯t.


    Something inside shifted.


    The pain dulled.


    Not because it disappeared.


    But because he simply stopped acknowledging it.


    "Shit," Felix muttered from beside him, his voice hoarse, "you¡¯re still standing?"


    Asiro barely registered the words.


    One by one, the recruits dropped.


    Twenty minutes.


    Then thirty.


    Then forty-five.


    At this point, only three remained.


    Felix, expression unreadable, his body trembling but refusing to quit.


    Asiro, half-conscious but unmoving.


    And Daisuke.


    Standing tall.


    Not even breaking a sweat.


    The instructors watched closely now. They knew the final stretch was coming.


    Asiro¡¯s head felt like it was stuffed with cotton and fire. His vision blurred and refocused, his muscles locking up completely.


    His breathing became ragged.


    The barrel slipped slightly.


    The moment it tilted, he realized it was over.


    The weight dragged him down. He tried to fight, to stop his arms from failing, but it was too late.


    With a final gasp, his muscles gave out.


    The barrel slammed to the ground.


    His knees hit the dirt a second later.


    Asiro collapsed, gasping for air like he had been drowning for hours.


    The world spun.


    The sky above him blurred.


    Only two were left.


    Felix and Daisuke.


    Daisuke smirked.


    A moment later, Felix¡¯s legs buckled. His barrel crashed down beside him.


    Daisuke stood alone.


    A brutal silence settled over the field.


    "Winner," Rourke announced. "The Giant Guy."


    The giant recruit rolled his shoulders, stretching, completely unbothered by the test.


    Asiro, lying on the ground, couldn¡¯t even feel his arms.


    His breath was still coming in ragged gasps. His whole body felt broken.


    But¡­ something was wrong.


    Something felt different.


    His exhaustion should have lingered. He should still be trembling uncontrollably.


    Instead¡­ the pain was dulling too quickly.


    Too fast.


    He blinked, his breathing steadily returning to normal.


    A sinking realization crept in.


    I should be hurting more than this.