The sand grinds beneath my boots, a coarse, hot rasp that mirrors the rasp of my breath. Each heavy footfall sends a jolt of pain through my aching legs. The 100-kilogram weight, a brutal burden strapped to my back, feels like it's trying to crush me into the very earth. The sun, a malevolent eye in the sky, beats down with relentless ferocity.
Beside me, Drake's face is a study in grim determination. His jaw is clenched, his eyes narrowed, and his movements are a testament to his sheer, unwavering will. He moves like a machine, a relentless engine of motion. And I, I cling to his rhythm, a desperate attempt to stay upright.
My vision blurs, the edges of the world darkening. My legs wobble, threatening to betray me. Then, the darkness claims me. I fall, the gritty sand a harsh pillow against my cheek. A rough shake, a guttural command, and I'm jolted back to consciousness. "Get up, Lazarus!" Drake's voice, strained but firm, cuts through the haze.
I push myself up, my muscles screaming in protest. The heat shimmers, distorting the world around me. The air is thick, heavy, and filled with the ragged gasps of the other recruits, their bodies succumbing to the relentless punishment.
The 15-hour journey from Marineford now feels like a distant, almost dreamlike memory. Yet, one detail remains vividly clear: Zephyr's gaze. Those eyes, sharp and piercing, followed me like a predator tracking its prey. They made my skin crawl, a constant, unsettling pressure. It was that gaze, that unsettling focus, that drove me to seek out Drake.
He wasn't one for idle chatter, but he answered my questions, listened with an unnerving attentiveness. He was a puzzle, a man of few words but deep intensity. And in his presence, I found a momentary respite from Zephyr's relentless scrutiny.
Now, on this unforgiving island, that fragile bond is being tested. Each time my legs fail, each time the darkness threatens to consume me, Drake pulls me back. Each time he falters, each time his own vision blurs, I grip his shoulder, forcing him to stay upright.
"Keep moving, Drake."
Zephyr's eyes are always on us. I feel them, even when I don't see them. The way he looks at me is not normal. It is not like he looks at the other recruits. It is as if he is trying to see through me, as if he is trying to find something hidden deep within.
The other recruits fall, one by one, their bodies surrendering to the relentless strain. But we press on, driven by a stubborn pride, a grim understanding of our situation. We were late, and we must pay the price. And Zephyr, he will ensure we pay it in full.
My thoughts are a chaotic jumble of pain and fear. I remember the weight of Zephyr's gaze, the weight on my shoulders, the burning in my legs, the taste of salt and sweat. Each step is a battle, a struggle against gravity and exhaustion. Each step is a defiance against Zephyr's silent, watchful eyes.
We will not break. We will not yield. We will run until we can run no more, until the island itself surrenders to our relentless will. We will endure, and Zephyr will watch.
The heat lingers, but the air cools as the last sliver of sun disappears. Zephyr's voice, finally, cuts through the ringing in my ears. "Stop run! Dinner!"
Finally, it's over. My legs feel like lead, every muscle screaming. Relief washes over me, a wave so intense it almost buckles my knees. Twelve hours. Twelve hours of relentless running, and it's finally over.
I stumble towards the flickering lanterns, the rough table a welcome sight. Drake's already there, a weary smile on his face. A steaming bowl of stew is placed before us, and we devour it, each spoonful a small, precious victory. This is the best thing I've ever tasted. I can't remember the last time I was this hungry. "This broth," Drake murmurs, "it's got some kind of root in it, doesn't it?" We chat, voices low and hoarse, comparing notes on the meager meal, a shared moment of respite amidst the grueling trials.
My body aches, my muscles scream, but the warmth of the broth spreads through me, a fragile comfort.
The silence after the meal is heavy, thick with exhaustion. Zephyr stands before us, a dark silhouette against the darkening sky. "Recruits," he says, and his voice, though low, carries a weight that makes my breath catch.
"Gather." I push myself to my feet, every movement a protest. What now? What else could they possibly want from us? I'm so tired. The air crackles with unspoken anticipation. Whatever comes next, I know it will be another trial, another test of endurance.
The stale air of the mess hall hung heavy, a miasma of leftover rations and simmering tension. Ten PM, and the day, which had already stretched beyond its breaking point, decided to deliver one final, daunting punch. Vice Admiral Zephyr. Three years. That single phrase echoed in my mind, a sentence of hard labor. Three years of this elite training camp, a crucible designed to forge the best, or break the rest.
Zephyr's voice, a low, resonant growl, cut through the room's weary hum.
"Here, your previous ranks mean nothing. You are all cadets." Cadet. The word stung, a deliberate erasure of everything I'd accomplished. He wanted trust, he said, but all I felt was the chill of competition.
"Introduce yourselves," Zephyr continued, his gaze sweeping across the room. "Tell us your strengths, your... advantages."
The room pulsed with nervous energy. One by one, they stood, each recruit a carefully constructed facade. "Cadet Kai, proficient in marksmanship," a tall, lean figure announced. "Cadet Latty, experienced in tactical simulations," a woman with sharp eyes stated. Each introduction was a calculated display, a desperate attempt to impress. I listened, my gaze fixed on the rough-hewn table, a knot of unease tightening in my stomach.
Three years. That was a long time to spend surrounded by wolves, each vying for the top spot but it will still be me. My eyes flickered to Drake, standing near the back, his face an impassive mask. I could feel his gaze, a silent, probing question. What would I reveal? What weaknesses would I inadvertently expose? Zephyr's eyes, cold and sharp, pinned me to the spot. The tension was palpable. This wasn't about trust; it was a test, a subtle game of power.
But amidst the unease, a sliver of clarity emerged. I couldn't survive three years of this without some semblance of trust, some fragile connection. I couldn't play this game alone. I knew I'd have to reveal some of my strengths, but also try to build some form of trust. The tightrope walk of revealing enough to be an asset, but not enough to be a threat, was going to be my constant companion for the next three years.
Finally, Zephyr's gaze landed on me. "Stupid-looking purple hair kid who late, now you turn."
Though I didn't appreciate the way he phrased that, and secretly thought Zephyr own purple hair was just as ridiculous, I knew better than to voice it. I still respected him, despite the initial sting.
I stood, my voice steady despite the tremor in my hands. "My name is Cadet Lazarus. I specialize in marksmanship, and I am also a Devil Fruit user." I paused, meeting Zephyr's gaze. I've consistently demonstrated my Bubble-Bubble Devil Fruit ability to everyone, and I'm willing to explain what it can do.
A ripple of surprise, a hushed murmur, spread through the mess hall. Devil Fruit users were rare, especially among those entering military training. Eyes widened, and a few jaws dropped. The atmosphere shifted, the air thick with sudden curiosity.