A Show of Force

When Instructor Rear Admiral Hairt stepped out of the main building, the air over the entire training ground seemed to grow heavy.

Every step carried undeniable force. His military boots sank half an inch into the sand. He was in his forties, with a square face, high cheekbones, and two deep lines beside his mouth that looked carved with a knife. His hair was cropped close to his scalp, exposing an old scar that ran across his forehead.

He walked to the center of the training ground and stopped. The more than 170 recruits stood even straighter. Some held their breath; others raised their chins a few inches higher. Hairt swept his gaze from the left end of the formation to the right, then back again, neither fast nor slow. His eyes paused on each recruit for an instant before moving on. He lingered on no one.

Until he saw Jack.

His gaze rested on Jack for three seconds. On the silent training ground, those three seconds felt like three minutes. Only the wind over the sand and the cries of gulls from Marineford Harbor could be heard.

Hairt raised the Iron Whip in his hand and pointed its tip toward Jack. His voice was low, like sandpaper scraping across iron. "You. The big one. Step out."

Jack stepped out of the ranks.

As he walked from the edge of the formation toward the center of the ground, more than 170 pairs of eyes converged on him from every direction, like hundreds of needles pricking his back at once. He could feel curiosity, tension, and spiteful anticipation in those stares.

He stopped three paces in front of Hairt. Jack stood a head taller and half a foot broader across the shoulders, but he did not diminish Hairt's presence. Hairt tilted his head back to look at him, the lines beside his mouth deepening.

Hairt lifted the Iron Whip and tapped its tip against Jack's left shoulder. Metal struck Hardened Skin with a dull clang, like two iron plates knocking lightly together. Jack did not budge. His shoulder did not dip, and his balance did not shift.

"Looking at you," Hairt said, slowly forcing the words from his throat, "I'd say you can fight."

Jack spoke, not loudly, but every word was clear. "Reporting to the instructor: not as well as you, sir."

The training ground fell silent for a moment.

No one had expected Jack to back down so quickly.

Jack had said it without the slightest change in tone. But all 170-odd recruits understood what he meant: I'm not fighting you. Do what you will.

Hairt looked at Jack, and the corner of his mouth twitched. Crafty bastard. He lifted the Iron Whip from Jack's shoulder, swept it through a half circle, and let its tip strike the sand, leaving a small pit.

"What? Scared?"

Hairt did not speak loudly, but every word landed like a nail driven into wood. He rested the Iron Whip on his shoulder and tilted his head. The expression at the corner of his mouth widened a little, though it still was not a smile.

"Call yourself a weakling, and I'll let you off."

Jack looked at him. He knew the chief instructor was trying to force him into a fight. Hairt wanted to make an example of someone, and Jack was meant to be that someone.

I came to this training camp to learn, not to look for trouble. If Hairt wants to establish his authority, fine. But I've already given ground, and he keeps pushing.

Jack glanced at the system panel.

Heartsteel stacks: 95/120, Dark Harvest: 15, Hell Curse: 10.

I can put up with this.

Jack took half a step forward. "Instructor, you want to make an example of me, but I'm not yours to sacrifice. Whether you can establish your authority depends on whether you have what it takes."

The training ground went utterly silent. More than 170 people stopped breathing. They watched Jack and Hairt, while only the wind and the gulls could be heard.

Hairt stared at Jack for five seconds. Then he raised the Iron Whip across his chest and gripped both ends of its shaft like an iron staff. His knees bent slightly, his weight dropped, and his military boots dug hollows into the sand.

"Fine. Let's see what you can do."

Jack removed his military cap and set it on the sand. He unbuttoned his uniform jacket, took it off, folded it, and placed it beside the cap. His upper body was exposed to the sunlight, his Hardened Skin gleaming dully beneath it. The contours of his muscles showed clearly under his skin, every line from shoulder to arm looking carved by a knife.

He took no defensive stance and made no move to attack. He simply stood there, arms at his sides, knees slightly bent, his weight lowered.

"Come on."

He said just two words.

Hairt moved. He shifted his grip on the Iron Whip and brought it down in a diagonal chop with a rush of wind. It struck Jack's left shoulder with a heavy boom against his Hardened Skin. Sand and stones sprayed out from around Jack's feet. His body swayed, and he stepped his left foot half a pace back to steady himself.

A white mark appeared on his left shoulder. The Iron Whip had smashed a shallow groove into his Hardened Skin, with fine cracks spreading from its edges. A bead of blood welled at the center of the mark, slid down the curve of his shoulder, and fell onto the sand. The dry grains absorbed it, leaving a dark red dot.

Jack glanced down at the mark on his shoulder, then raised his head to look at Hairt.

"Not bad, Instructor. You've got some strength."

Hairt narrowed his eyes. He struck a second time, aiming for Jack's ribs. As the shaft smashed toward his right side, Jack blocked it with his right arm. A dull thud rang out. His body leaned left, then quickly straightened.

"You're pretty strong," Jack said evenly. "But not strong enough."

Hairt said nothing. His third strike swept sideways at Jack's lower legs. Jack lifted his right foot, and the Iron Whip passed beneath it, the wind from its passage snapping his trouser leg. As his foot came down, the whip changed direction and whipped upward, its tip heading straight for his chin.

Jack turned his head. The Iron Whip grazed his ear, leaving a red welt on his earlobe. He pivoted halfway to the right, spread the fingers of his right hand, and seized the shaft. His hardened fingers pressed into the metal, his knuckles locking around it with a shrill scrape of metal against metal.

Hairt tried to pull the Iron Whip back, but Jack's fingers held it fast. Hairt twisted his wrist, turning the shaft in Jack's palm. Hardened Skin scraped against iron, throwing off a spray of tiny sparks. They flashed in the sunlight like fireflies, then vanished.

Jack clenched his left fist and punched at Hairt.

Hairt released the Iron Whip with his left hand. Keeping his right hand on the grip, he clenched his left fist and met Jack's punch head-on.

Their fists collided, and the shockwave pushed the recruits in the front row several steps back.