A Battle Report Shocks Headquarters · Tsuru Tests Three-Stage Shooting

Marineford mornings always carried the mingled scent of sea salt and steel.

In an office on the east side of the second floor of Staff Headquarters, Brannew—the future king of meetings and user of the PPT Fruit—was still only a Second Lieutenant staff officer.

He lifted a cup of coffee that had already gone half-cold and was about to bring it to his lips when the Fax Den Den Mushi in the corner let out a "buruburu" ring.

With a sigh, he set down the cup and rose. His military boots thudded dully across the waxed wooden floor—a sound he had heard for three years. Since graduating from the military academy and being assigned to Staff Headquarters, at least thirty battle reports had come through that Den Den Mushi every day.

Walking over to the machine, Brannew habitually pulled out the first sheet. The paper was still warm, carrying the peculiar static sensation of a fax.

[Marine Base 36 Bandit Suppression Battle Report]

[Operation Time: Sea Circle Calendar, September 12th, 1510, from midnight to dawn]

[Operation Target: Blood Knife Pirates (total bounty: 30.4 million Beli)]

[Results: 86 pirates annihilated, seized...]

Brannew raised an eyebrow.

He knew Blood Knife Henry. He was a notorious hard case in the West Blue, and even a joint suppression operation by three branches last year had failed to catch him.

Base 36? If he remembered correctly, its commander was Major Hina, who had graduated from the Elite Training Camp not long ago.

"Worthy of being a genius from the Marine training camp. Her strength is indeed formidable," he muttered, preparing to file the report away. A victory of this scale deserved recognition, but in Staff Headquarters, which handled dozens of battle reports every day, it was nothing exceptional.

Just as he turned around, the Den Den Mushi rang out another "buru."

A second sheet slid out.

Brannew froze.

Most battle reports were only one page, two at most.

He took the page, his eyes sweeping over the heading—[Tactical Details and Casualty Statistics].

Then his eyes widened.

[Our casualties: 0 killed, 0 severely wounded, 11 lightly wounded (all superficial injuries, no loss of combat capability)]

"What kind of joke is this..." Brannew murmured.

They had wiped out a pirate crew with a bounty in the thirty-million range, and suffered zero fatalities?

Not even any serious injuries? He rapidly scanned the text below, his heartbeat accelerating with every line—night assault, precise intelligence, Three-Stage Shooting, fire suppression...

The Den Den Mushi rang "buru" for a third time.

Third page: [Detailed Explanation of Three-Stage Shooting Tactics (Illustrations Attached)]

Fourth page: [Preliminary Results Report on Intelligence Network Construction]

Fifth page: [Recommendations Regarding New Grassroots Organization and Training Reforms]

Holding the increasingly thick stack of papers, Brannew stood still for a full three seconds. The bitter aroma of coffee drifted into his nose. Outside the window came the morning drill chants from headquarters' training grounds. Everything was the same as usual.

But the battle report in his hands was different.

He hurried back to his desk and spread the five sheets across its surface, arranging them neatly like puzzle pieces. His gaze moved from the first line downward, while his fingers unconsciously tapped on the tabletop—his habitual gesture whenever he thought.

Ten minutes later, Brannew took a deep breath, grabbed the reports, and rushed out of the office.

On the third floor of Staff Headquarters, a faint scent of cigars drifted through the office of Major staff officer Ranzō.

The middle-aged officer, just past forty, was staring blankly at the harbor outside the window, an analysis report on pirate activity in the South Blue in his hand—another headache-inducing day.

"Major Ranzō!" Brannew had even forgotten to knock.

Ranzō turned with a frown, about to reprimand his young subordinate for his recklessness, when his gaze fell on the unusually thick stack of papers in Brannew's hands.

"What has you so flustered?"

"Please look at this." Brannew laid the reports on the desk and pointed at the words "zero casualties." "It's the report on Base 36's elimination of the Blood Knife Pirates."

Ranzō glanced over it, and his pupils contracted slightly.

He picked up the report and began flipping through it quickly, yet with extraordinary care. The farther he went, the slower he turned the pages. By the fifth page, he had stopped completely, leaning back in his chair as the cigar between his fingers slowly burned.

The office was silent for a full minute.

"How do you judge its authenticity?" Ranzō finally asked.

"The logic is consistent, the details are thorough, and there are no obvious exaggerations or contradictions." Brannew spoke rapidly. "And if it were fabricated, there would be no need to invent something as specific as Three-Stage Shooting, right down to the formation layout. It would be far too easy to verify."

Ranzō nodded. He stood, snatched up the coat draped over his chair, and said, "Come with me."

"Where?"

"The Chief of Staff's office."

Tsuru's office was at the top floor of Staff Headquarters, its windows facing Marineford's main harbor. At that moment, the Marine Chief of Staff stood by the window, watching warships enter and leave the port. Another medical ship had docked, and the young faces carried down on stretchers weighed heavily on her heart.

"Chief of Staff." Ranzō's voice sounded from the doorway.

Tsuru turned, her gaze falling on the unusually thick bundle of documents in Ranzō's hands. "Urgent military intelligence?"

"No, a battle report." Ranzō stepped forward and offered the documents with both hands. "It came from Base 36 in the West Blue. I think... you should see it personally."

Tsuru accepted the documents and sat down at her desk. Reading glasses rested on her nose, and her gaze behind the lenses was calm as still water—she had seen too many battle reports: victories, defeats, brutal losses, narrow escapes.

But this one was different.

When she reached "zero casualties," her finger paused over the page.

When she read the tactical diagram for Three-Stage Shooting, she removed her glasses and rubbed the bridge of her nose. When she reached the fifth page's recommendations for organizational reform, she stood up outright.

"Yang Yunzhi..." Tsuru softly read the signature at the end of the report.

She was no stranger to that name.

The report from two months ago regarding the cleanup of the West Blue Mafia was still locked in her drawer. Sometimes, when she worked late into the night, she would take it out and read it again—that was not the sort of vision or scope a young lieutenant should possess.

She had long known that the young man was a genius and believed he would accomplish great things someday. She had not expected that only two months later, he would produce something even more concrete and revolutionary.

"Ranzō." Tsuru looked up. "Go to the training grounds and gather thirty marksmen. I want the best ones. Also..." She paused. "Bring Garp too."

Ranzō blinked. "Vice Admiral Garp? Isn't he on vacation in the East Blue..."

"He returned yesterday and is currently mooching donuts from headquarters' cafeteria." Tsuru put her glasses back on. "Tell him I'm inviting him to see something new."

The headquarters training grounds looked especially vast beneath the ten o'clock sun.

Garp crouched on the railing of the viewing platform, holding his fifth donut as he complained through a mouthful, "I'm saying, Little Tsuru, you dragged me all the way from the cafeteria just to watch people shoot guns? I'm a very busy man—"

"Busy eating your tenth donut?" Sengoku walked over from behind, his cape snapping in the wind. He had been reviewing documents in his office, but after hearing that Tsuru was testing a new tactic, he had followed out of curiosity.

Tsuru ignored both of them and walked straight toward the center of the field.

Thirty elite marksmen had already formed ranks. Every one of them was a veteran, and their firearms gleamed from meticulous maintenance.

"Everyone." Tsuru raised a copy of the battle report. "Today, we'll test a new shooting tactic. It's simple—form groups of three, arranged in three rows, firing in sequence to maintain uninterrupted firepower. Understood?"

The soldiers exchanged glances, then answered in unison, "Understood!"

"Begin the drill."

At the command, the thirty men swiftly split into ten groups. The front row dropped to one knee, the middle row crouched halfway, and the rear row remained standing.

The formation looked simple, even somewhat clumsy, but when the first row fired, the second row immediately followed, and the third row finished reloading, a peculiar rhythm emerged.

Bang bang bang—bang bang bang—bang bang bang—

It was not a chaotic volley, but an endless succession like rolling waves. Gun smoke spread before the formation, while shell casings clattered across the ground.

Garp's donut-chewing slowed.

Sengoku narrowed his eyes.

"Now." Tsuru raised her voice. "Garp, stand in front of the targets."

"Huh?" Garp nearly fell from the railing. "Little Tsuru, you're joking, right? You want me to be a live target?"

"Don't you always boast that your Armament Haki has seeped into your bones?" Tsuru shot him a sideways look. "Or are you... scared?"

"Scared? Hahaha!" Garp laughed three times, stuffed the last bite of donut into his mouth, and leaped directly from the three-meter-high viewing platform. Dust burst up beneath his feet when he landed. "Come on, come on! Let me see what's so impressive about these toy guns!"

He strode to the target position fifty meters away, turned around, planted his hands on his hips, and even deliberately puffed out his belly.

Tsuru nodded at the shooting team. "Target directly ahead. Fire at will—begin!"

When the first wave of bullets arrived, Garp still wore an unconcerned expression. The rounds struck his chest with dull, muffled thuds, like raindrops hitting thick leather—it hurt a little, but they did not even break his skin.

The second wave followed immediately.

Then the third.

The fourth...

The smile gradually vanished from Garp's face.

Not because the bullets could hurt him—in truth, even the red marks on his skin quickly faded.

It was the pressure of that "endless succession." The moment he blocked one wave, the next was already before him. If he tried to charge forward, the bullets formed a wall blocking his way. If he tried to sidestep, the firepower shifted to cover him.

More importantly, the soldiers were rapidly adapting to the rhythm.

They had been somewhat unskilled at first, but after thirty seconds, the firing interval had stabilized at one round every one and a half seconds. Ten groups rotated in sequence, leaving almost no gaps in their firepower.

"Stop!" Garp suddenly raised a hand.

The gunfire ceased at once.

The smoke slowly dispersed, revealing Garp's serious face—a rare expression for him.

Tsuru walked over. "How does it feel?"

"..." Garp was unusually silent for several seconds, then scratched his head. "Damn, that's strange. A single bullet feels like a scratch, but when they keep firing and firing..." He pointed at his chest. "Even maintaining Armament Haki takes more effort."

Sengoku had already descended from the viewing platform, his expression equally grave. "If the target were an ordinary officer..."

"Anyone below rear admiral who doesn't know Iron Body or Shave would definitely die within thirty seconds," Garp said decisively. "Even if they do know them, they'd be suppressed so badly they couldn't lift their heads. This thing..." He looked toward the thirty still-smoking gun barrels. "If it becomes widespread, those pirates in the Four Blues with bounties of tens of millions will be cut down like wheat."

Tsuru and Sengoku exchanged a glance, then the three returned to the Fleet Admiral's office.

Sunlight passed through the blinds, cutting neat blocks of light across the solid wood floor.

"So." Sengoku sat behind his desk with his fingers interlaced beneath his chin. "This tactic was proposed by a lieutenant named Yang Yunzhi?"

"Yes, the same man who wrote the West Blue Mafia report." Tsuru took the thick report from her drawer and placed it before Sengoku. "It seems he is not merely good at theorizing on paper."

Sengoku quickly read through the battle report, his eyes brightening the farther he went.

By the final page, his expression had become one of delight. "Zero casualties... do you know what that means?"

"Pensions," Tsuru said.

"Exactly." Sengoku rose and walked over to the massive Marine force deployment map on the wall. "The pensions we set are twenty-four months' salary. Last year, forty-three percent of the Marine budget went to pensions. On average, a soldier dies four months after enlisting—we effectively have to pay every Marine twenty-eight months of salary, and that means our budget is simply not enough!"

"We have designed several new classes of warships, but we have no money to build them!"

"Our arms factories have developed new firearms, but we likewise have no money to replace the old ones!"

He turned around, a complicated light in his eyes. "If this tactic can be promoted, even if it only reduces casualties by ten percent..."

"The money saved can be used to upgrade equipment, expand the fleet, and improve treatment." Tsuru continued, "More importantly—those soldiers who would have died can survive. They can become veterans, officers, future vice admirals, generals."

The office fell silent for a moment.

"A reward." Sengoku sat back down. "They must be heavily rewarded. Hina will be promoted to lieutenant colonel. Yang Yunzhi..."

"Captain," Tsuru said. "He has only been in the Marines for two months. Promoting him three ranks at once is already exceptional. Any higher would make him stand out too much."

As Marine high command, they naturally understood the Marines' situation. The World Government used them, but also guarded against them.

Wasn't the Warlord Program born for precisely that reason?

Sengoku pondered for a moment, then nodded. "Then captain. But we can be more generous with supplies—two latest-model small warships, three hundred new rifles, five thousand rounds of ammunition. Also..."

He paused. "Issue a commendation in the name of Staff Headquarters. Do not name anyone directly, but emphasize tactical innovation. Let everyone know that the Marines encourage this kind of 'fighting with your brains' approach."

"Understood." Tsuru smiled. "Then I'll draft it."

"Wait." Sengoku stopped her, tapping the battle report with a finger. "This Yang Yunzhi... do you think he would be willing to come to headquarters?"

Tsuru stopped and looked back at her old comrade.

"I asked Hina," she said. "That girl said Yang Yunzhi wants to rise step by step from the grassroots."

"The grassroots..." Sengoku repeated softly, then suddenly laughed. "Fine. Let him stir things up properly in the West Blue, then. I want to see what else this little lieutenant can come up with."

When Tsuru left the office, the scent of lunch had already drifted into the corridor.

Her pace remained steady, but her steps were noticeably lighter than before.

Outside the window, another warship departed from Marineford's harbor, its white sails dazzling beneath the sunlight. That ship would sail to the Four Blues, to the Grand Line, to countless islands waiting for the Marines to arrive.

And today, because of a five-page battle report, the young soldiers aboard those ships might have a slightly better chance of coming home alive.

Tsuru adjusted her glasses, the corner of her lips lifting into an almost imperceptible curve.

"Fighting with your brains..." she murmured. "At last, someone has figured it out."

In the distant training grounds, those thirty marksmen had yet to disperse. Many other shooters had gathered around them, asking about the technical details of Three-Stage Shooting.

No one was foolish. Nobody ever rejected something that could save their lives and improve their combat strength.

The sounds of firearms being dismantled, maintained, and loaded mingled with excited discussions, carrying far through the noon sunlight.

Something new was quietly taking root within this fortress built from steel and waves.