A week, for G–17, felt both short and unbearably long.
At the harbor in the early morning, sea fog hung heavy.
A patrol ship eased into dock. Along with it came the heavy clank of chains—and the slightly panicked rush of feet as stretchers were dropped onto the pier.
"Hey! Move it! Three critically wounded over here!"
"Damn it, don't crowd! Let the medics through first! If this guy dies now, the compensation paperwork's going to be a nightmare!"
The deck was chaos. Several bodies covered in white sheets were carried down first; dark red blood seeped through the cloth, glaring against the damp planks.
In the soldiers' shouting there wasn't much reverence for life—more like anxious frustration over "asset losses." In their eyes, the men on those stretchers weren't comrades anymore. They were expensive checks waiting to be cashed.
Smoker stood on the gangway, face black as soot. The two cigars in his mouth were nearly crushed from how hard he was biting them.
"These idiots!!"
Watching the corpses being carried away, he finally snapped—his voice echoing across the docks.
"How many times did I tell you?! Flank from the sides! Stop charging straight through artillery fire! Are your brains made of porridge?!
You're so desperate to steal kills you don't even care if you live?!"
But the soldiers who'd just returned didn't show much remorse.
A few lightly wounded men sat on wooden crates while medics wrapped them up—still excitedly counting loot they'd scavenged off the pirate ship.
"Man, old Jack was unlucky… took a stray round to the neck," one soldier said, cigarette dangling from his mouth as he counted beri. There wasn't much sadness in his tone—just a gambler's cold detachment. "But he didn't die for nothing. That captain's bounty plus the base's death payout… his wife and kid can live comfortably for the rest of their lives in that house. This deal? Not a loss."
"Yeah. We made a good cut too. With this money, I can finally pay off the debts back home," another soldier agreed, greedy light flickering in his eyes.
Under Rain's brutally simple bounty policy, these "sheep"—once terrified of enemies—had transformed into bloodthirsty "wolves" in a single week.
But it was a sick kind of transformation.
They weren't fighting for justice. Not even for survival.
They were gambling their lives for money.
That lawless, suicidal style did wipe out pirates faster… but the casualty rate was terrifying.
Base Commander's office.
Rain sat behind the broad desk, holding the latest casualty report.
"Twenty-three dead. Forty-five critically wounded…"
He read the numbers quietly, voice flat, giving nothing away.
"Add that to the earlier losses and in just half a month, we've dropped almost a tenth of our manpower. Compensation has been paid, but at this burn rate… it's a little too fast."
Smoker sat on the opposite sofa, irritably raking a hand through his hair.
"These guys have zero tactical discipline! In an easy fight they'll howl like wolves, but the moment they hit a tough target—or the moment teamwork matters—they fall apart like a pot of spilled porridge."
"If this keeps up, I won't even have time to train them into real troops before they all die."
Gion, who'd been standing by the window watching the training grounds below, turned around with a cup of coffee in hand, her expression grave.
"Rain, G–17 right now is like an inflated giant—looks fierce, but it's hollow inside. They need time to settle."
Rain set the report down and tapped the desk in a steady rhythm.
"You're both right."
He nodded.
"These soldiers were rotten under Nelson for too long. Money and killing can only spike their nerves—it can't rebuild them."
"They need real tempering."
His gaze deepened, as if recalling something.
"Remember that deserted-island survival training back in the elite camp? If they can't learn coordination, we create a desperate situation for them. Find a place with brutal conditions and monsters everywhere. Confiscate heavy weapons. Force their survival instincts out."
"Not a bad idea," Smoker puffed out a smoke ring. "But is there a place like that around here?"
Rain stood, grabbed a casual jacket off the rack, and tossed one to Smoker.
"Let's go, Smoker. If we're picking a location, staring at maps in an office won't cut it."
His lips curved into a small smile.
"Let's go ask the old sea dogs. The guys who've drifted on the ocean their whole lives—what's in their guts is more detailed than any sea chart."
Golden Crown Island's harbor district—an uproarious tavern that catered to visiting sailors.
Inside the fortress itself, Nelson had scrubbed the place so clean it looked like paradise—no trace of poverty anywhere.
But on the edge of the massive working port, you still had the usual crowd: rough sailors, deckhands, stevedores waiting for unloading jobs.
This was the only place on the island where "unpresentable" people were allowed to exist.
And it was where information flowed.
The air reeked of cheap rum and low-grade tobacco from all over the seas.
Rain and Smoker, dressed in plain clothes, sat in the corner at a small table.
Smoker looked disgusted at the loud, drunk sailors around them and pulled his cap lower.
Rain looked relaxed. He waved over a server, ordered two of the harshest rums on the menu, and flicked a gold coin onto the table.
"I'm looking for something."
He pointed at the coin as it spun, voice low but loud enough for nearby eavesdroppers.
"Any especially nasty islands in nearby waters? Somewhere no one dares go—ideally with vicious beasts?"
"A dangerous island?"
At the next table, an old navigator with a weathered face and a faded sailor's coat heard that and his cloudy eyes lit up.
He snatched the coin without ceremony, wiped it on his shirt, and chuckled.
"Young man, looking for thrills? The Grand Line's full of places like that."
"I'm not interested in ordinary dangerous," Rain shook his head calmly. "I want the kind of place that's truly lethal—an absolute forbidden zone even pirates won't touch."
The old man stared at Rain for a moment, then grinned through missing teeth.
"Then you asked the right guy."
He drained his cup, burped, and lowered his voice.
"If you're talking about the most cursed place around here… you'd have to head southeast."
"Near the edge of the Calm Belt, there's this sea that's always wrapped in fog."
"I only went there once when I was young—storm blew us off course."
As he relived the memory, his hands started shaking; rum spilled as if he'd been dragged back into that nightmare.
"That place isn't something the world's supposed to have… I saw it with my own eyes—some monstrous bird dove out of the fog!"
He spread his arms wide, pupils tight.
"It grabbed a Sea King—more than ten meters long—like it was a worm! Then a giant dinosaur with tusks charged out of the jungle and bit its head clean off—!"
"Down there it's endless killing and feeding. The air stinks of blood. The roars carry ten miles out and still shake your eardrums!"
He swallowed hard, voice hoarse.
"Lots of folks say it's a gladiator pit abandoned by the gods. Only the most vicious, twisted monsters survive."
"Some people even say… the island itself is alive. The plants are as savage as the beasts."
"Giant birds and dinosaurs?" Smoker frowned hard. "Old man, you're drunk. That kind of story might fool children."
"I'm not drunk!" the old navigator snapped, slamming the table. "It's real! That place is cursed!"
Rain's smile only grew.
"Dinosaurs. Giant birds. Carnivorous plants…"
He stood, patted the old sailor's shoulder, and tossed down two more gold coins.
"Thanks. That story was worth the money. I liked it."
Half an hour later—Base Commander's office.
Colonel Moore rushed in, panting, a file still in his hands. Before he'd even steadied himself, he snapped a salute.
"Base Commander! You called for me?!"
"Moore."
Rain sat back, polishing his Ryō Wazamono without looking up.
"Southeast. Near the Calm Belt edge. There's an island—famous one. Right?"
Moore froze. Then his face went pale.
"Y–you… how do you know about that hellhole?"
"There really is a place like that," Moore said, wiping cold sweat, clearly rattled by how frightening the legend was locally. "Right on the edge of the Calm Belt. The environment is brutal. The magnetic field's a mess."
"They say the island's crawling with huge, violent prehistoric beasts. Pirates have tried going in to hunt treasure…"
"Never seen anyone come back."
"Sometimes an empty ship drifts out on the current—covered in massive claw marks. That place is wrong."
"Sounds perfect."
Rain sheathed his blade, satisfied.
"That kind of training ground is exactly what our little pups need. If they won't learn discipline, fear will teach them."
He turned to Smoker and grinned.
"Alright. It's settled. Smoker, you lead the exercise. You're tough, you're a Logia—if something big bites, you won't die."
"Me?" Smoker jabbed a thumb at his own nose, scowling. "Then what the hell are you doing?"
"Me?"
Rain leaned back like it was obvious and gestured at the bustling port outside the window.
"I'm staying here, running the base and coordinating everything. I'm busy."
What he actually meant was: I finally got rank and money—I'm going to enjoy life. That miserable wilderness survival crap can be for you kids who need 'tempering.'
"Tch! Lazy bastard!" Smoker flipped him off.
"And Gion, you stay and help me," Rain added, looking her way.
Gion saw right through him, but only sighed and didn't call him out.
"Alright, Moore—prep ships and supplies."
Rain waved him out.
Moore looked like he'd been granted a pardon. He saluted and hurried for the door.
"Oh, right."
Just as Moore's hand hit the doorknob, Rain asked casually:
"Moore, what's that island called? Is it marked on the charts?"
Moore paused, scratching his thinning hair, struggling to remember the obscure name.
"I saw it once in a navigator's journal…"
"I think it was called… Mer—Merveille?"
~~~
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