Arrival

As the warship docked, Jack saw Marineford through the porthole.

Dozens of warships lined the docks, each ten times larger than the Patrol Boat he had acquired in West Blue. Their cannons stood as thick as trees in a forest, and the Marine flags at their bows snapped in the sea breeze. The seagull emblems gleamed gold in the sunlight.

At the far end of the docks stood the main entrance to Marine Headquarters. Two stone pillars rose ten meters high, the Marine motto carved into them and glinting in the sun. Behind them stood a gray-white building. The flag on its roof was larger than any Jack had ever seen; unfurled in the sea breeze, it covered a good part of the sky.

Jack stepped off the ship.

Supplies were being loaded and unloaded along the docks. Marines pushed handcarts piled with wooden crates and iron barrels, their wheels rumbling over the stone paving. A dozen or so people worked in the line, some carrying cargo, some recording it, others directing the work. They moved quickly without rushing. Everyone knew their job.

One by one, the workers stopped. Every eye turned to the figure stepping off the ship.

At two and a half meters tall, nothing on the docks could hide him. His shoulders stretched the seams of his Marine uniform taut, and the fabric at his cuffs looked ready to split. Every step landed solidly, drawing a dull thud from the paving stones under his weight, as though someone were striking the ground with an iron hammer. His cap brim sat low, hiding half his face and leaving only his eyes visible.

A lieutenant colonel passing nearby glanced at Jack, then at his rank. Major. He frowned, about to say something, but took in Jack's size and swallowed his words. He took a couple of steps around Jack, turning slightly as he passed so his shoulder cleared Jack's arm.

The line parted.

The two recruits at the front stepped back, then three behind them shifted aside. A path opened down the middle. Instinct told them to make way for the big man; their eyes told them he could send them flying with one punch. No one made a sound as the line parted, but they moved with the precision of a rehearsed drill.

Jack walked through without looking at anyone, nodding, or offering a greeting. His footsteps sounded a steady, heavy thud against the stones.

Behind him, the line closed again. Someone muttered something too quietly to make out. Someone else swallowed, the sound of his throat moving unusually clear on the docks, which had fallen silent for a moment.

The main doors of Marine Headquarters opened before him. Beyond them stretched a marble corridor so long he could not see its end. Portraits of past Fleet Admirals hung on both walls, each taller than a person, their gold frames gleaming under the lights. The corridor was crowded with officers ranging from ensigns to Vice Admirals. They hurried along as though they had endless work to do.

Jack walked down the corridor at an even pace. His footsteps echoed against the quick, light steps around him. People passing him slowed without meaning to and gave him another look. Those approaching from the opposite direction veered away three paces before reaching him.

At the end of the corridor stood a glass door. The frosted pane bore the words "Marine Headquarters Staff."

The corridor to the left was narrower than the main one and held half as many people, but footsteps came faster and thicker. Signs marked the office doors on either side: "Logistics," "Supplies," "Intelligence," "Operations Planning." Every door stood open. Inside, people spoke on the phone, wrote reports, and argued, their voices blending into a hum along the corridor.

Jack stopped before one door.

The sign read "Staff Check-In Office." The door was wooden, painted dark brown, with a polished brass handle. He pushed it open and went inside. The room was small, perhaps ten square meters. A desk against the wall was piled with documents. Beside them sat a Den Den Mushi with a black shell, its eyes closed as it dozed.

A middle-aged officer sat behind the desk. He wore a major's insignia and thick glasses that reflected the light. A pen moved across the paper in his hand. At the sound of the door, he looked up at Jack through his glasses, then lowered his head and kept writing.

"Checking in?"

Jack placed his transfer orders on the desk. The sheet slid across its surface and came to rest beside the officer's hand.

The officer set down his pen, picked up the orders, and read them through. His finger traveled down the page, from the number at the top to the signature at the bottom. Then he looked up at Jack again. This time, his gaze lingered, moving from Jack's rank insignia to his shoulders, then to his cuffs and the brim of his cap.

"Major Jack?" His voice was level, though it rose slightly at the end.

"Yes."

The officer put down the orders, took a form from a drawer, and slid it toward Jack.

Jack looked down at the form. It followed a standard format, with neat printed lines and a clear label beside each one. He scanned it once, picked up a pen, and began to write.

The officer glanced at Jack, took up his pen, signed and stamped the form, then handed it back. "The training camp is on the north side. Leave the Staff Headquarters building, head north, and you'll see it after two intersections. Check-in closes at three this afternoon. It's one forty now, so you've got a little over an hour."

Jack took the form, folded it, and slipped it into his pocket. He turned, opened the door, and left.

Jack retraced his steps to the main corridor, then turned north. An iron door stood at the far end. Beyond it ran an open-air passage between two walls, with arrows painted on them. The arrows pointed north, with the words "Training Camp" beneath them. The lettering was fresh, the paint not quite dry and still shining damply in the sun.

He followed the passage for over a hundred meters to an open iron gate. Beyond it lay a training ground more than ten times the size of the 16th Branch parade ground. Its packed earth was covered in footprints, some shallow, some deep, some new, some old. Training equipment ringed the grounds.

The grounds were already full of people.

More than 170 recruits stood in several formations at the center. Their uniforms were brand-new, their collars fastened neatly and their caps set straight. They stood tall, backs straight, chins raised, eyes forward. No one spoke or moved. The entire grounds looked like a still photograph. Marine elites, all right. Their discipline really was impressive.

Jack reached the edge of the grounds and stopped.

A few people in the formations noticed him. One recruit in the front row caught sight of Jack, and his pupils contracted. Another in the back tilted his head, let his gaze drift from straight ahead to Jack for a moment, then looked forward again.

No one spoke. More than 170 people remained where they were, standing in perfect order like posts driven into the ground.

Jack stood at the edge of the grounds. The wind whipped his uniform as he watched the recruits at the center, his face expressionless.

At the far end of the grounds, an iron door at the entrance to the training camp's main building swung open.

A man came out. Instead of a uniform, he wore a gray sleeveless shirt that exposed his thick arms. Old scars on them shone pale in the sunlight. He stopped in the doorway, looked over the formations, then toward the edge of the grounds.

His gaze settled on Jack and stayed there for two seconds.