Chapter 6: The Forge of Resolve
Chapter 6: The Forge of Resolve
Sunlight painted the golden and amber colors on Foosha Village's cliffs at dawn, illuminating the harsh training grounds where Monkey D. Dragon and his brother Tyson stood against their father, Vice Admiral Monkey D. Garp.
The smell of salt and pine filled the air, the crashing of waves in the distance a steady background to the grunts and thuds of battle.
Five years had gone by since Garp had assumed the role of their personal trainer, his tireless routine turning the boys into whirlwinds. Dragon was sixteen and tall and lean, his dark hair cut close to his head, his bright green eyes smoldering with quiet fury. Tyson, a year younger at fifteen, was wiry and restless, his wild black hair a tangled mess, his grin a spark of defiance even under Garp's stern gaze.
"Again!"
Garp's voice boomed like cannon fire, reverberating through the clearing. He stood with arms crossed, his broad chest a wall of muscle beneath his worn Marine coat.
"You think you're strong enough to slack off? Prove it!"
Dragon puffed slowly, tensing his shoulders.
"Yes, sir."
He faced Tyson, who was already bobbing on the balls of his feet, fists bunched.
"Ready, little brother?"
Tyson's smile spread farther, a spark of mischief in his eyes.
"Born ready, nii-san."
A very brief glimmer of black encased his fists—Basic Armament Haki, a technique he'd traded for through his enigmatic system in the last six years. With Intermediate Conqueror's Haki and Intermediate Navy Six Styles at his disposal, and a balance of 34,000 Emotional Points stored away, Tyson was a genius unto himself. Dragon, as much lacking such a system, had trained body and mind through sheer force of will, equalling his brother blow for blow.
The brothers crashed into each other in a whirlwind of movement, fists meeting with a power that created a gust that rippled through the grass.
Dragon charged forward in a boxer's stance, his left jab snapping out like a whip, only to have Tyson disappear in a blur of Shave, re-emerging at his side with a spinning kick.
Dragon spun around, blocking with his forearm, the shock jarring his bones. They exchanged blows—Dragon's accurate, powerful punches confronting Tyson's fluid, Haki-boosted counters.
The earth beneath them shook as Tyson released a blast of Conqueror's Haki, a wave of unseen pressure that caused the air to vibrate.
Dragon clenched his teeth, holding firm against it, his own will a steel barrier.
"Concentrate, Dragon!"
Garp shouted.
"Don't let him get into your head! Tyson, cease showing off—fight intelligently!
The sparring continued, a dance of endurance and skill, until Garp finally slapped up a meaty hand.
"Enough! Sit your asses down before you keel over."
The brothers fell to the dirt, chests pumping, sweat dripping down their brows. Tyson grinned, mopping his face with his sleeve.
"Think I almost had you that time."
Dragon gave a rare, pale smile.
"Almost isn't good enough. But you're building strength."
Garp towered above them, his shadow engulfing the sunlight.
"You both have grown up. Strong as Majors, I'd bet—stronger than some of the slacker sons of bitches at headquarters. But purpose without strength is nothing. What do you fight for?"
Dragon sat up, his eyes fixed on Garp's.
"Justice, Dad. The world's a mess—pirates running amok, the World Government ignoring all suffering. I want to be a Marine, work my way up, and change it from the inside out."
Tyson leaned his head to one side, interest flashing in his eyes.
"You actually think you can reform them? The Marines are hard-core, but they're not necessarily saints.
"Right,"
Dragon said, his voice calm.
"That's why it has to be from the inside out. If I can make even a crack in the corruption, it's worth it."
Garp grunted, rubbing his bristled chin.
"High-minded words, kid. But the Marines'll eat you up and spit you out if you're not prepared. They don't treat dreamers nicely."
"Then I'll get them to listen,"
Dragon stated, his voice firm.
Tyson shifted, his grin fading.
"Well, if you're going, I've got your back. Maybe I'll tag along someday—shake things up my own way."
Garp clapped a hand on Tyson's shoulder, nearly knocking him over.
"One at a time, brat. Dragon's up first."
He turned to his eldest son, eyes narrowing.
"Pack your gear. We're heading to Marine Headquarters tomorrow. Time to see if you've got the guts to back up that talk."
---
The docks of Foosha Village buzzed with early morning activity as Dragon, Tyson, and Garp prepared to depart. A towering Navy ship bobbed in the harbor, its white sails emblazoned with the Marine crest.
Tyson hugged Dragon tightly, his voice muffled against his brother's shoulder.
"Don't get yourself killed, alright? And write me when you're not drowning in drills."
Dragon chuckled, ruffling Tyson's hair.
"I'll manage. Keep training—and look after the village."
Garp stood nearby, barking orders at the crew. He gripped Dragon's shoulder, his gruff voice softening for a moment.
"You're a Monkey D., son. Show 'em what that means."
With one last gesture, Dragon stepped onto the ship, the wooden deck groaning beneath his boots. As the ship moved out of sight, Tyson waved until the horizon consumed his brother, a sense of emptiness settling over his chest.
---
The Marine Headquarters towered like a white stone fortress, its towers piercing the heavens. Dragon disembarked from the ship, met by a cacophony of bellowed orders and clanging boots on cobblestones. Garp escorted him to the recruitment barracks, where a scar-faced officer with a nose scar waited—Captain Riku, commander of the harshest training division.
"So, you're Garp's brat,"
Riku sneered, eyeing Dragon up and down.
"Think you're special 'cause of your old man? We'll see how long that sticks."
Dragon held his stare steady.
"I'm here to earn my place, sir. That's all."
Riku snorted.
"Good. 'Cause you're in my section now, and I don't baby anyone—especially not legacies. Get moving!
The recruitment process opened with a fury. The first challenge was physical strength, a trial of stamina and power. Riku supervised as the recruits formed up on a dusty oval, the sun pounding overhead.
"Fifty kilometers, no stoppages!" Riku shouted. "Start!"
Dragon sprinted off, his legs moving in rhythmic motion, years of training by Garp driving him. The kilometers passed in a blur, his lungs searing, the sweat stinging his eyes. Recruits around him stumbled, some falling into the ground, but Dragon ran on, crossing the line close to the first group, his breaths deep and even.
Then came the strength test. A stack of iron weights stood waiting, every recruit having to lift twice their own weight.
Dragon stepped forward, his muscles straining as he clasped the bar. With a grunt, he lifted it above his head, holding it firm before placing it back on the ground, disregarding the pain in his arms. Riku jotted down a note, unchanged but unyielding.
The swimming test tested them to the limit—hours in the open ocean, fighting the waves and tiredness.
Dragon cut through the sea, his strokes powerful and controlled, surfacing on the shore with salt-crusted skin and a stubborn scowl.
Combat skills came next, a vicious sparring match in a sand pit.
Dragon was matched against a giant recruit named Boros, a man with hammers for fists and a sneer to go with them.
"Garp's boy, eh?"
Boros sneered, cracking his knuckles.
"Let's see if you bleed like the others."
Dragon assumed a boxer's stance, fists up.
"Try me."
Boros rushed, swinging a wild haymaker. Dragon ducked, shooting back with a series of jabs—stinging, hard punches that sent Boros's head snapping back. The larger man bellowed, charging again, but Dragon sidestepped with Shave, finding himself behind the man to drive a crushing hook into the jaw. Boros fell, spitting sand, and the observing instructors nodded.
---
The survival training was another animal altogether. Stranded alone on a deserted island, Dragon endured a week of solitude and peril.
The jungle was a mess of vines and darkness, teeming with the scurry of predators and the buzz of insects. Hunger gnawed at him as he foraged for roots and berries, Garp's words ringing in his head: "Nature's a battlefield, boy. Fight to live."
On the third evening, he felt movement—pretended enemies, Marines in pirate disguise. Employing Observation Haki, a technique he'd started to master under Garp's instruction, he followed their movements, gliding through the cover like a phantom. When a patrol wandered too close, he attacked—quiet, accurate, a neck chop killing the first, a gut-kick dropping the second.
On day five,
he came across another recruit, a thin girl named Suki, trapped by a giant boar.
Her leg was cut up, her eyes bulging with fear. Dragon could have passed on—survival was the name of the game—but something held him back.
Hey!"
he bellowed, catching the boar's eye. It came at him, tusks flashing, and Dragon greeted it with a kicking leap, his heel crashing into its skull. The creature stumbled, and he backed it up with a Haki-enhanced punch, slamming it into the earth.
Suki gazed, her hand wrapped around her wound.
"Why'd you rescue me?"
Dragon held out his hand.
"Because it wouldn't be fair to leave you behind. Come on—we'll get through it together.
They limped through the jungle, fighting off ambushes and dividing up what little food they could find. When the extraction boat showed up, Dragon felt a small surge of pride—not only for having survived, but for staying true to his principles.
---
Weeks later,
the barracks were quieter, the original 500 recruits whittled down to 100.
Dragon stood among them, battered but unbowed, as Captain Riku addressed the group.
"You've made it this far. Now comes the real test: the Trial of Justice. You'll be dropped on an island, each in a separate zone. Reach the central outpost in 48 hours—or don't bother coming back. Expect instructors, beasts, and your fellow recruits to stand in your way."
Dragon's pulse raced, his determination solidifying. This was his opportunity to demonstrate not only his power, but his conception of justice.