A week later.
Morning at G–17 was no longer dead and listless.
When the first ray of sunlight struck the towering, cold iron fortress—throwing back a chilling metallic sheen—the naval harbor below was already roaring with noise, as chaotic as the busiest market.
"Third squad! What the hell are you doing?! That route was applied for by Second squad first!"
"Bullshit! Whoever grabs it gets it! You guys already ran into pirates twice last week—this week it's our turn to get a taste!"
"Move! Don't block the way! The boilers are hot—anyone who delays me from going out to make money, I'll fight them!"
On the pier, the captains of several patrol ships couldn't even be bothered to fix their uniforms. They were red-faced, shouting themselves hoarse, spit flying. Behind them, the soldiers—who used to be so lazy they couldn't even wipe down their rifles—were now bursting with energy, eyes shining green with hunger as they frantically loaded ammunition and supplies onto ships.
Their movements were rough and urgent, like they weren't hauling heavy shells but bundles of gold.
In the past week, the entire G–17 base had been injected with a stimulant called greed.
Rain's simple, brutal bounty system had produced instant results: catch pirates, and besides receiving the full bounty according to HQ regulations, the base would pay an additional "hardship bonus" of a substantial amount.
To these starving, exploited rank-and-file soldiers, pirates were no longer terrifying enemies—they were a walking gold mine.
Colonel Moore, carrying a thick stack of sortie applications, ran around sweating as he coordinated the chaos—his face wearing an expression of "painfully happy."
"Don't shove! Stop shoving! Everyone gets a turn!"
Watching these troops howl and scramble, Moore couldn't help but marvel at the young base commander's methods. Ideological education, honor, pride—none of it worked in a place this rotten. Only beri shoved into their faces could turn sheep into wolves overnight.
Near noon, the first wave of "hunting" patrols finally returned loaded.
"We caught them! 'Iron Fist' Buck—eight million bounty! And two lieutenants worth over a million each!"
As the patrol ship docked, the soldiers' excited roars rolled across the harbor.
A dozen pirates, bruised and bleeding, were dragged off in ropes. They stared at the Marines around them—those bright, hungry eyes—and felt real fear.
Is this really the Navy? Why do they look more like bandits than pirates do?
In the past, the process would've been long: registration, interrogation, imprisonment, then waiting for transport to Enies Lobby or Impel Down.
Now? Those steps had been quietly "forgotten."
Without needing any order, the escort troops dragged the pirates straight toward the base's central black plaza.
That place had already become every pirate's final stop in G–17.
"Hurry up! Don't drag your feet!"
"Take them to the plaza! Don't keep the Base Commander waiting!"
They shoved the prisoners with an eager, feverish excitement—the look of people about to get paid. To them, these weren't criminals awaiting judgment.
They were performance metrics.
All that remained was the final signature—
the young commander's "personal inspection."
Ten minutes later, the Steel Plaza.
Noon sun baked the black metal ground. Heat shimmered; the air smelled scorched.
A dozen pirate captains and officers were forced to kneel. Marines with blades stood behind them. A crowd gathered around, buzzing about how much money they'd get this time.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Footsteps. The crowd instinctively parted.
Rain walked forward in a crisp colonel's uniform, no coat, sleeves rolled up, lean forearms exposed. In his hand was the trusty Ryō Wazamono he'd carried for ages.
He stopped before the line of pirates, gaze calm as he scanned their faces—some vicious, some terrified.
"These the ones?" Rain asked.
"Yes, Base Commander!" Moore hurried forward with an ingratiating tone. "Iron Fist Pirates—combined bounty exceeds ten million beri!"
"Mmh. Not bad."
Rain nodded—and even smiled faintly.
Then he slowly drew his blade.
Sunlight flashed on the steel, reflecting in Rain's eyes—eyes without a ripple.
Only Rain knew how happy he was.
Ever since leaving Loguetown, killing always came with trouble—either silencing witnesses, or making an example, or cleaning up fallout.
But this was different.
These one- or two-digit-million-bounty small fry weren't worth much individually. Each one only had a few thousand "sin points," and the rewards were barely a mosquito bite.
Yet Rain couldn't stop the satisfied curve at the corner of his mouth.
Small streams become a river.
Having subordinates hunt and deliver the monsters… and I just do the final cut?
God, this feels amazing.
This was the Base Commander life he wanted.
Territory. Income. Experience delivered to his doorstep.
Eat, drink, relax… step out occasionally to behead a few pirates for fun, watch the system numbers tick upward.
A reward for all the years he'd spent clawing his way up.
"Sp—spare me! I'm—"
A pirate captain's will broke when he saw Rain's smile. He began to beg.
Slash—!
One flash of steel.
His head flew.
Blood sprayed across the black metal, startlingly vivid.
[Judgment Complete! Sin Points Gained: 4,200.]
That sweet system chime hit Rain's brain like music.
His smile widened.
He didn't stop—he moved to the next one as elegantly as pruning a garden.
Slash—!
+800
Slash—!
+1500
In under a minute, every pirate was headless.
Rain stood in the blood, pulled out a pristine white handkerchief, and calmly wiped his blade clean. His uniform stayed spotless. Only the sword had drunk its fill.
Even though this wasn't the first public execution of the week—
The Marines watching were still silent.
They stared at the young commander smiling as he cleaned his sword. Their awe hadn't dulled.
If anything, it had curdled into fear.
They'd whispered among themselves all week:
The new commander splits money like water, so he doesn't love wealth.
Female soldiers tried throwing themselves at him, and he ignored them, so he doesn't lust after women.
A man with terrifying power and authority, who doesn't care for money or sex—
So what does he want?
Now, watching him—
They felt they'd found the answer.
"Commander… he really… enjoys killing pirates…"
A new recruit swallowed and whispered to a veteran beside him.
That kind of deep, instinctive pleasure wasn't something you could fake.
"Clean up the bodies."
Rain sheathed his sword, tossed the bloodied handkerchief aside, and waved casually.
"Pay out the bounties. That's what everyone earned."
Afternoon, the Base Commander's office.
Rain had washed up, changed into clean casual clothes, and was about to enjoy a quiet cup of afternoon tea.
Knock, knock, knock.
The door was tapped carefully.
Moore entered, drenched in sweat, clutching a file like it weighed a ton.
"Base Commander…"
His voice trembled as he set the document on the expensive rosewood desk.
"This is… a casualty report."
Rain didn't look annoyed. He simply set his tea down and opened it.
The first week's results were strong: two pirate crews wiped out.
But the Navy's losses were equally glaring.
Killed in action: 16.
Severely wounded: 32.
Lightly wounded: 85.
For one week of patrols, the attrition was… high.
"Sir… isn't this… too much?"
Moore wiped his forehead, anxious.
"The men are going insane over the headcount bonuses. They don't obey orders, no tactics, no fire support—when they see a pirate ship they swarm it like starving wolves and rush straight into boarding!"
"Some don't even reload when they run dry—charging with empty guns! Others block friendly artillery lines just to steal credit!"
Moore swallowed, fear in his voice.
"At this rate, we'll lose half our manpower before a month passes. Is… is this really okay?"
He couldn't understand it.
Under Nelson, everyone fought to survive.
Now, soldiers were throwing their lives away for money.
Rain listened quietly, eyes passing over the names.
He showed no grief.
No anger.
"Fair."
Rain closed the folder and tossed it aside, voice calm to the point of cold.
"They risked their lives for money and died chasing it. That was their choice. No one else to blame."
"But—" Moore tried again.
"Moore." Rain cut him off and raised his eyes, bleak and detached.
"You think fewer men died before because they were stronger? No. It's because they didn't fight at all."
Rain stood and looked out the window at the soldiers repairing ships.
"Losses look ugly. But only when they've seen blood—only when they've watched comrades fall—will the survivors understand: if you want to live, you get stronger; if you want money, you learn teamwork."
"This is tuition."
Rain turned back.
"Pay out the compensation. Not a coin short. Make sure everyone sees how much the dead men's families receive."
"And tell the living: if you don't want to die, you train until you vomit blood every day."
Moore stared at him, shook, then bowed deeply.
"Yes… I understand."
He left with the heavy report, and only after closing the door did he realize his shirt was soaked through.
This young commander—
He was reforging the soul of the base with blood and money.
Evening, the top-floor suite.
Night fell early over the iron fortress. Wind howled outside the thick glass.
But in Rain's private quarters, a warm domestic calm filled the air.
In the kitchen, Rain had taken off the uniform of power and killing. He wore a white shirt and even a gray apron.
He stood at the stove, flipping a pan with practiced ease.
Fresh top-grade sea-beast meat sizzled in butter. Black pepper bloomed in the air—irresistible.
Gion sat at the open counter, swirling half a glass of red wine, chin propped in one hand, eyes slightly dreamy as she watched his back.
"Unbelievable…" she murmured, teasing.
"Outside, your soldiers look at you like mice staring at a cat. They whisper you're a bloodthirsty devil, a cold tyrant. Who would've thought that 'devil' would be agonizing over steak doneness?"
Sss—
Rain plated the meat, added blanched asparagus and carrots with care, and set the dish in front of her.
"Medium-rare. Your favorite."
He untied the apron, washed his hands, poured himself a drink, and sat across from her.
"Even devils need to eat."
He cut a piece, tasted it, and smiled in satisfaction.
"Killing pirates is work. Enjoying life… that's attitude."
He raised his glass and looked at her through the wine.
"Finally made it to the top. No one breathing down my neck. If I still lived miserably, what's the point of the promotion?"
"Twisted logic."
Gion rolled her eyes, but her smile wouldn't hide.
They clinked glasses.
Clink.
The sound echoed softly in the quiet room.
Outside: a cold iron fortress, a cruel sea, beasts ready to tear throats.
Inside: food, wine, and a rare pocket of peace.
~~~
Patreon.com/Weze_
— You can read more Chapters in my Patreon Page! please vote, comment, share this, or visit my Patreon Page and join the Free Membership!