"Brother Hawk…"
The Vice Admiral known as Spider looked at Renn Hawk, his expression tinged with curiosity and a silent question.
Renn lifted his glass, smiling faintly. "Brother Spider, I'll need your help with something. My division is lacking a true master swordsman to guide the way forward."
In his heart, Renn knew this wasn't a casual request.
Zoro's strength had been growing at a staggering pace. What began as one-sided dominance by his subordinate Dane had evolved to hard-fought stalemates, and now even Dane could no longer press an advantage against him. Dane was still Renn's right hand, but his duties as adjutant left little time to spar with a maniac like Zoro, who trained endlessly.
These days, Zoro had turned his practice duels toward Sanji. But Sanji's art was legs, not blades. His style of combat was raw physicality, honed through relentless training of his body, his kicks precise and devastating. It was valuable, but it couldn't push Zoro's swordsmanship to the next level.
The veterans in front of him, however, were different.
The headquarters vice admirals were elite warriors whose swordplay, while perhaps not at the transcendent height of Mihawk, carried the polish of endless campaigns. Their strikes were stripped of ornament, refined into tools of pure, lethal efficiency. Combined with their mastery of Rokushiki and Armament Haki, their swordsmanship was nothing less than the Navy's deadliest killing craft.
Letting Zoro clash with these men, to feel the weight of battlefield swordplay instead of the pure artistry he usually chased such an experience would be priceless for his growth.
Spider's lips curled into a grin, battle light flickering in his eyes. "Since you put it that way, Brother Hawk… how could I refuse?"
His voice carried the excitement of a man about to witness something extraordinary. Renn's request was a favor, but it was also an opportunity to test a rising star.
Around the table, the other vice admirals stirred, interest flashing across their faces. Soldiers at heart, they understood instinctively: strength was the purest form of respect.
Glasses were set aside. Laughter was forgotten. In a heartbeat, the mood shifted. The group rose, moving in unison.
They left the clamor of the mess hall behind, their boots echoing in the corridor as they made their way to the training grounds.
The evening wind off the sea carried a faint chill across G-3. Massive floodlights lit the field as bright as noon, stretching long shadows across the ground.
The air was taut with anticipation when, from the harbor, a low, resonant horn cut through the night.
The sound of a battleship docking.
Every head turned.
A colossal warship of black steel eased toward the pier, its bulk blotting out the horizon. At the bow stood a towering figure, broad and unyielding. A coat of justice hung from his shoulders, purple hair bristling like steel wire above a face carved with the weight of years.
Most striking of all was the gleaming machine fused to his right arm the weapon known as the Crusher.
"Black Arm" Zephyr. Zefa. Former admiral, current chief instructor of the entire Navy.
The arrival silenced the night.
"Teacher Zefa!"
Spider, Dalmatian, and the other vice admirals straightened unconsciously, their faces hardening in respect.
"Why is he here already?" Smoker froze mid-motion, his lighter clicking uselessly against his unlit cigar.
"Teacher has come. Tina must not falter." Tina adjusted her collar, eyes sharp, posture immaculate.
They had all once been his students. To them, Zefa was not merely a superior he was a father, a mentor, a figure of iron and fire who had shaped them into the officers they were today.
"The sparring can wait," Renn said calmly, his voice carrying enough weight to halt the duel before it began. He stepped forward. "Come. We go to greet the Chief Instructor."
Together they turned toward the harbor.
…
From the ship's prow, Zefa gazed at the illuminated base, his eyes hidden behind his trademark sunglasses, yet burning with scrutiny.
The battleship had not even settled against the pier when the garrison moved. Soldiers didn't panic, didn't shout. Orders were given with crisp hand signals; squads snapped into action, one forming a cordon, another running double-time to relay the arrival. Every motion was precise, every response seamless, as if the base itself were a machine of war.
Zefa's head dipped in approval. "Not bad."
It was only basic port security, but the speed, the calm, the discipline spoke volumes. This division was sharper, steadier than most.
His mind flicked to Sengoku's laughter, the old Fleet Admiral nearly leaping from his chair in the headquarters' war room, singing Renn Hawk's praises with spittle flying. He remembered Sakazuki too, that iron-hard magma brat, speaking with rare respect when Hawk's name arose.
Zefa had agreed to Sengoku's request, to come and oversee training at G-3. But in truth, he had yet to recognize this so-called "future of the Navy."
He had seen too many so-called prodigies. Boys and girls showered in accolades, crowned as saviors before they could even stand on their own. He had also seen how quickly such stars burned out, crashing to the earth in ruin.
Power alone did not make a leader. Neither did talent. True leaders needed something more an aura, a force of character that made others follow willingly, even into hell.
His hand clenched, muscles surging. The justice coat billowed behind him, then he tore it free, casting it aside.
"Teacher?!" Ain, his student, lunged forward to catch the fluttering garment.
Zefa ignored her. His boots left the bow in a single motion.
He hit the pier like thunder.
"Spider! All of you! Do not interfere!" His roar split the air, striking like a cannon blast in the ears of every officer present.
The vice admirals froze mid-step, their bodies locked by his sheer presence.
And then his gaze found Renn Hawk.
Through the sunglasses, eyes sharp as blades locked onto him. Zefa's stance shifted, his right leg bracing, his frame coiling like a spring.
The Crusher groaned, gears grinding, metal clashing.
His entire body surged, every fiber of muscle straining, not for technique, not for flourish only for power. Pure, overwhelming, unrelenting strength.
The air detonated. A crack like the sky splitting roared across the base. A visible shockwave burst from his fist, a white wall of compressed force tearing forward like a cannon blast aimed directly at G-3.
"Come, Blood Hawk."
Zefa's voice carried over the destruction, calm and terrible.
"Let me see with my own eyes. Show me the power that made Sengoku gamble the Navy's future. Show me what made even that magma brat speak your name with respect!"
The training field trembled. Soldiers braced against the shock. All eyes turned to Renn Hawk.
The Chief Instructor had come to test him.
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