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

Mornings at Marineford 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 PPT Fruit user, was still only a Second Lieutenant staff officer.

He lifted his half-cold coffee, just about to take a sip, when the Fax Den Den Mushi in the corner let out a "buru buru" cry.

He sighed, set down the cup, and stood. His military boots made their distinctive dull thuds against the waxed wooden floor—he had heard that sound for three years, every day since graduating from the military academy and being assigned to Staff Headquarters. At least thirty battle reports came through this Den Den Mushi every day.

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

[Marine Base 36 Bandit Suppression Battle Report]

[Operation Time: Sea Circle Calendar, September 12, 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 tough customer in West Blue, and even a joint operation by three branches last year had failed to catch him.

Base 36? If Brannew remembered correctly, its commander was Major Hina, who had only recently graduated from the Elite Training Camp.

"As expected of a genius from the Marine training camp. Her strength is indeed formidable," he murmured, preparing to file the report away—while this level of victory deserved commendation, it was nothing particularly remarkable to Staff Headquarters, which processed dozens of battle reports every day.

Just as he was about to turn away, the Den Den Mushi went "buru" again.

A second sheet slid out.

Brannew froze.

A standard battle report was only one page, two at most.

He took the page and swept his eyes over the title—[Tactical Details and Casualty Statistics].

Then his eyes widened.

[Our casualties: 0 dead, 0 seriously injured, 11 lightly injured (all superficial wounds, no loss of combat capability)]

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

They had wiped out a pirate crew with a bounty exceeding thirty million, and suffered no deaths?

Not even a single serious injury? He quickly scanned the text below, and the more he read, the faster his heart beat—night raid, precise intelligence, Three-Stage Shooting, suppressive fire...

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

Third page: [Detailed Explanation of Three-Stage Shooting Tactics (with Diagrams)]

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 there for a full three seconds. The bitter scent of coffee drifted into his nose, while the morning training calls from Headquarters' drill grounds sounded outside the window. Everything was as it had always been.

But the battle report in his hands was different.

He quickly returned to his desk and spread the five sheets across its surface, arranging them neatly like puzzle pieces. Starting from the first line, his gaze moved downward line by line, his fingers unconsciously tapping the desk—his habitual gesture when thinking.

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

A faint smell of cigars drifted through the office of Major staff officer Ranzō on the third floor of Staff Headquarters.

The middle-aged officer in his early forties was staring blankly out at the bay, holding an analysis report on pirate activity in South Blue—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, but his gaze fell upon the obviously oversized stack of papers in Brannew's hands.

"What has you in such a panic?"

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

Ranzō glanced at it, and his pupils contracted slightly.

He picked up the report and read it quickly but 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 remained silent for a full minute.

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

"The logic is sound, the details are thorough, and there's no obvious exaggeration or contradiction." Brannew spoke quickly. "And if it were fabricated, there would be no need to invent a tactic as specific as 'Three-Stage Shooting,' down to formation arrangements—it would be too easy to verify."

Ranzō nodded. He stood and grabbed the coat draped over the back of his chair. "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. The Marine Chief of Staff was standing by the window, watching the warships entering and leaving the port. Another hospital ship had just docked, and the young faces being 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 stack of documents in his hands. "Urgent military intelligence?"

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

Tsuru accepted the documents and sat behind her desk. Her reading glasses rested on the bridge of her nose, and her eyes behind the lenses were calm as still water—she had seen too many battle reports: victories, defeats, bloody disasters, narrow escapes.

But this one was different.

When she read "zero casualties," her finger paused on the page.

When she read the tactical diagrams for Three-Stage Shooting, she removed her glasses and rubbed her brow. When she reached the fifth page's recommendations regarding organizational reform, she rose directly to her feet.

"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 on purging the West Blue Mafia was still locked in her drawer. Whenever she worked late into the night, she would occasionally take it out and read through it—it possessed neither the vision nor the breadth that a young lieutenant should have.

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

"Ranzō." Tsuru looked up. "Send for thirty marksmen from the drill grounds. I want the best ones. Also..." She paused. "Bring Garp too."

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

"He came back 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."

Headquarters' drill grounds looked especially vast beneath the ten o'clock sunlight.

Garp squatted on the railing of the viewing platform, holding his fifth donut as he grumbled through a full mouth, "I'm telling you, 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 originally been reviewing documents in his office, but when he heard Tsuru was testing a new tactic, he had followed out of curiosity.

Tsuru ignored them both and walked straight to the center of the drill grounds.

Thirty elite marksmen had already lined up. All were veteran soldiers, and their firearms gleamed from careful maintenance.

"Everyone." Tsuru raised the copied battle report in her hand. "Today, we'll test a new shooting tactic. It's very simple—form groups of three, arrange yourselves in three rows, and fire in sequence to keep the firepower uninterrupted. Understood?"

The soldiers exchanged looks but still answered in unison, "Understood!"

"Begin the drill."

At the command, the thirty men quickly divided into ten groups. The front row knelt on one knee, the middle row crouched halfway, and the back row stood.

The formation looked so simple that it was almost clumsy, but when the first row fired, the second row immediately opened fire, and the third row finished reloading, a peculiar rhythm emerged.

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

It was not a disorderly volley, but one wave after another like the tide, unceasing and continuous. Gun smoke spread before the formation, while spent casings clattered across the ground.

Garp slowed his chewing.

Sengoku narrowed his eyes.

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

"Huh?" Garp nearly fell off the railing. "Little Tsuru, are you joking? You want me to be a live target?"

"Don't you always brag that your Armament Haki has been trained into your bones?" Tsuru gave him a sidelong glance. "Or are you... afraid?"

"Afraid? Hahahaha!" Garp laughed three times, stuffed the last bite of donut into his mouth, and jumped directly from the three-meter-high viewing platform. Dust burst up as he landed. "Come on, come on! Let me see what these toy guns can do!"

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

When the first wave of bullets came flying in, Garp still wore a completely unconcerned expression. The rounds struck his chest with dull popping sounds, like raindrops hitting thick leather—it hurt a little, but they did not even break his skin.

The second wave followed immediately.

The third wave.

The fourth wave...

The smile on Garp's face gradually vanished.

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

It was because of that unceasing pressure. He had barely deflected one wave when the next was already before his eyes. If he charged forward, the bullets blocked his path like a wall. If he tried to move sideways, the firepower followed and covered him.

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

They had been somewhat awkward at first, but thirty seconds later, the firing interval had stabilized at one round every one and a half seconds. The ten groups rotated with almost no gaps in firepower.

"Stop!" Garp suddenly raised a hand.

The gunfire came to an abrupt halt.

The smoke slowly dispersed, revealing Garp's serious face—an expression rarely seen on him.

Tsuru walked over. "How does it feel?"

"..." Garp was unusually silent for several seconds before scratching his head. "Damn, it's strange. A single bullet feels like a scratch, but they just keep firing and firing..." He pointed at his chest. "Even Armament Haki takes a bit more effort to maintain."

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

"Anyone below Rear Admiral who can't use Iron Body or Shave would die within thirty seconds," Garp said decisively. "Even if they can, they'd be suppressed so hard they couldn't lift their heads. This thing..." He looked at the thirty gun barrels still smoking. "If it gets widely adopted, those pirates in the Four Blues with bounties in the tens of millions will be cut down like wheat."

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

Sunlight filtered through the blinds, cutting neat patches of light across the solid wood floor.

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

"Yes, the same man who wrote the West Blue Mafia report." Tsuru took that thick report from her drawer and placed it before Sengoku. "It seems now that he isn't merely good at armchair strategy."

Sengoku quickly flipped through the battle report, and his eyes brightened with every page.

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

"Compensation payments," Tsuru said.

"Exactly." Sengoku stood and walked over to the enormous Marine force distribution map on the wall. "Our compensation payment is twenty-four months' salary. Last year, forty-three percent of the Marine budget went toward compensation. The average soldier survives only four months from enlistment to death—we effectively have to pay every Marine twenty-eight months of salary, and that means the Marine budget simply isn't enough!"

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

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

He turned around, and a complicated light shone 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 update equipment, expand the fleet, and improve benefits," Tsuru continued. "More importantly—those soldiers who would have died can survive. They can become veterans, officers, future Vice Admirals, Generals."

The office fell quiet for a moment.

"A commendation." Sengoku sat back down. "They must be heavily rewarded. Hina will be promoted to Lieutenant Colonel, and 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, and he'll attract too much attention."

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

Wasn't that precisely why the Warlord Program had been created?

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

He paused. "Issue a commendation order in the name of Staff Headquarters. Don't name anyone directly, but emphasize tactical innovation. Let everyone know that the Marines encourage this kind of 'fighting with your brain' 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'd be willing to come to Headquarters?"

Tsuru paused and looked back at her old comrade.

"I asked Hina," she said. "That girl said Yang Yunzhi wants to work his way up from the grassroots level."

"Grassroots..." Sengoku repeated softly, then suddenly smiled. "Fine. Let him stir things up properly in West Blue. I want to see what other tricks this little lieutenant can come up with."

When Tsuru left the office, the scent of lunch was already drifting through the corridor.

She walked steadily, but her steps were noticeably lighter than when she had arrived.

Outside the window, another warship was leaving Marineford Harbor, its white sails dazzling beneath the sunlight. That ship would sail toward the Four Blues, toward the Grand Line, toward 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 returning alive.

Tsuru adjusted her glasses, and an almost imperceptible curve touched her lips.

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

In the distant drill grounds, the thirty marksmen had not yet dispersed. Quite a few other shooters had gathered around them, asking about the technical details of Three-Stage Shooting.

No one was stupid. People had never rejected anything that could save their lives and strengthen their combat ability.

The sounds of firearms being disassembled, maintained, and reloaded mingled with excited discussion, carrying far through the noon sunlight.

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