Only those who had truly lived at sea understood how exhausting—and monotonous—it could be. Endless waves, an unchanging horizon, and days that blurred into one another.
After more than a month at sea, the warship still hadn't returned to Marine Headquarters. Instead, it continued drifting through the East Blue.
Garp, quite clearly, was in no hurry to go back.
On the deck, a boy in a trainee uniform stood among seasoned Marines, training alongside them.
"Ha! Ha! Ha!"
Damon planted his feet firmly, knees slightly bent, his body swaying in perfect rhythm with the rise and fall of the ship. His fists cut through the air again and again, precise and unwavering.
The morning sun rose, casting golden light across the sea.
After long exposure, his skin had taken on a healthy olive tone rather than darkening. Months of relentless training—and proper nutrition—had transformed him completely.
He was no longer the frail boy from the Gray Terminal.
His physique had hardened. His muscles had taken shape.
Strength now showed in every movement.
⸻
That morning, after training, Damon didn't return to his usual chores.
Instead—
he was summoned by Garp.
The Vice Admiral studied him with a rare look of approval.
Originally, Garp had deliberately placed Damon at the lowest rank—to test him.
In the Marines, strength alone wasn't enough.
Obedience mattered just as much.
A soldier who could not follow orders would never rise far.
But Damon had exceeded expectations.
He carried out every task without complaint. Cleaning, labor, discipline—he did it all flawlessly.
And more importantly—
he had earned the respect of everyone aboard.
Even Garp hadn't expected that.
What surprised him even more was Damon's willingness to learn.
Under Garp's deputy, he had studied everything: navigation, geography, culture, language.
Because a true commander wasn't just a fighter.
A Marine leader needed to understand the sea itself.
If a navigator died, the commander had to take over.
If they entered unfamiliar territory, they needed knowledge—not just strength—to survive.
Otherwise, they weren't fit to lead.
Garp didn't want Damon to become just another officer.
He wanted something more.
Someone capable of standing at the very top.
Because the Navy lacked that kind of leader.
Strong fighters existed.
Strategists existed.
But true leaders?
Rare.
Garp had once placed that hope in his own son.
And that had ended… badly.
This time—
he didn't want to fail again.
⸻
"Damon," Garp said casually, "take the day off."
"You've earned it."
He added after a pause:
"We're leaving the East Blue soon. Next stop… the Grand Line."
Damon didn't refuse.
A rare break was not something to waste.
Soon after, the warship changed course.
Within a few hours, something appeared on the horizon.
A structure—
floating on the sea.
A restaurant.
⸻
The Baratie.
A floating restaurant, famous across the East Blue.
The warship docked beside it, and Garp stepped onto the platform, with Damon following behind.
Just as they approached—
a blond boy was kicked out of the restaurant.
He rolled across the ground before landing at the entrance.
Without a word, he stood, dusted off his clothes, and shouted back inside:
"You old man! My method is right!"
"That's how you make food people actually enjoy!"
As Damon passed by, he paused.
He recognized him.
Sanji.
Damon glanced at him, noting the curled eyebrow, the stubborn expression.
Then he spoke calmly:
"The moment you step into a kitchen… you take responsibility for every dish you make."
"A chef's job is simple."
"Make something worth eating."
Sanji froze.
That wasn't what he expected.
He had imagined some veteran chef saying those words.
Not—
Someone his own age.
His expression twisted immediately.
"And who the hell are you to lecture me?!"
⸻
A faint frown crossed Damon's face.
He hadn't meant to provoke him.
Some people were simply… difficult.
Before he could respond, a voice echoed in his mind:
"Ding."
"Reward condition met."
"You have earned a draw."
The irritation faded slightly.
Before Damon could act, a man stepped out of the restaurant.
Tall. Weathered. One leg replaced with a wooden prosthetic.
Zeff.
"Sanji!" he barked. "Since when do you treat customers like that?!"
"Apologize. Now."
Sanji turned away, refusing to respond.
Zeff sighed, frustration clear on his face.
Then—
he turned toward Garp.
And bowed.
Deeply.
"I apologize for the disturbance."
His tone was respectful—careful.
Because he recognized him.
Garp.
The Hero of the Marines.
Garp glanced at him… and immediately knew who he was.
"Red-Leg" Zeff.
Former pirate captain.
But—
he said nothing.
Pretended not to notice.
This was his day off.
And he had no intention of working.
⸻
As Damon stepped inside, he felt a tug on his sleeve.
He turned.
Sanji.
Still staring at him.
Still unwilling to back down.
Damon glanced at the result of his draw—
and smiled faintly.
"You asked what right I had, didn't you?"
He rolled up his sleeves.
Then looked at Zeff.
"Mind if I borrow your kitchen?"
⸻
At that moment—
something changed.
Knowledge flooded Damon's mind.
Techniques. Experience. Instinct.
Years of culinary mastery—
as if he had lived them himself.
Garp hesitated.
"Damon… don't cause trouble."
Damon waved him off.
"Relax. I've been practicing in the ship's kitchen."
And with that—
he stepped inside.
⸻
Zeff crossed his arms, watching coldly.
A kid? Competing with Sanji?
Ridiculous.
Even under his guidance, Sanji still had much to learn.
What could this boy possibly do?
In Zeff's eyes—
this was nothing more than childish pride.
Still…
he watched.
⸻
The kitchen was spotless.
Compact—but fully equipped.
Damon picked up a knife.
And in that instant—
Zeff's expression changed.
The movement—
was flawless.
Efficient. Precise. Natural.
Like a veteran chef.
The blade moved like flowing water, slicing ingredients with effortless grace.
Ham. Green onions. Eggs.
Each cut—perfect.
No hesitation.
No wasted motion.
Damon turned, ignited the stove, and heated the pan until it shimmered.
Oil.
Then—
action.
Ingredients hit the pan one after another, each step perfectly timed.
His wrist moved with control, tossing the wok with practiced ease.
Rice danced through the air.
Egg coated every grain.
Golden.
Fragrant.
Perfect.
For a moment—
the kitchen fell silent.
Because standing there…
was no longer just a boy.
But a chef.