A seemingly ordinary plate of fried rice was set before them, yet its rich aroma spread irresistibly through the air.
"Smells amazing…"
Everyone present instinctively twitched their noses, their appetites instantly awakened. Even Sanji, despite his pride, had to admit with a heavy heart that the boy before him far surpassed him in cooking.
"I'm starting!"
Before Damon could stop him, Garp had already scooped up a spoonful and stuffed it into his mouth without the slightest hesitation.
In that instant, his shock was no less than that of Zeff and Sanji.
This… came from a warship kitchen?
Impossible.
Rip!
A sharp tearing sound echoed as Garp's expression froze. It felt as though his very soul had been launched skyward.
Each grain of rice was perfectly coated in egg, plump and distinct, absorbing its full richness. With every bite, the savory aroma of ham blended seamlessly with the freshness of green onions, stimulating his senses again and again.
It was nothing more than a simple home-style dish—yet Damon had elevated it into something worthy of fine dining.
"…This is incredible."
Garp slowly set down his spoon, only then realizing the sudden chill across his upper body.
Damon watched as Garp scrambled to gather the torn remains of his clothes from the floor, utterly speechless.
So that ridiculous reaction actually carried over into reality…
Damon suspected it had something to do with the culinary technique he had acquired—something he mentally referred to as home-style mastery.
After that brief chaos, Damon finally sat down and calmly enjoyed the rest of the meal.
Black pepper steak, charcoal-grilled lamb, seafood risotto, cheesy baked lobster, and smooth cream pudding—each dish reflected the chef's dedication and skill, bringing out the finest qualities of every ingredient and leaving a lasting impression.
Zeff truly lived up to his reputation as a master chef of the Grand Line. Every dish he prepared personally was exceptional.
Yet what surprised Damon even more was something else entirely.
As the food settled in his body, he felt a steady flow of refined vital energy—far richer than what ordinary meals could provide.
"So… the better the food, the stronger I become?" he murmured.
He paused thoughtfully.
"Looks like I'll need a proper chef someday."
Then he added quietly, "Though I'll pass on stubborn brats and grumpy old men."
Sanji's expression darkened instantly.
After the meal, Damon resumed his journey. This time, the warship did not linger in the East Blue, but sailed straight toward the Grand Line.
With Garp gone, the pirates who had been suppressed under his overwhelming presence immediately emerged, celebrating as though a great weight had been lifted.
Two months passed in the blink of an eye.
Standing at the bow of the dog-headed warship, Damon gazed at the massive structure rising in the distance.
The island was surrounded by towering white walls, lined with cannons and guarded by countless Marines. At its center stood a colossal cylindrical fortress, broad at the base and narrowing toward the top. At its peak stood the headquarters building—the office of Fleet Admiral Sengoku.
Above it all, a flag fluttered in the wind—a seagull carrying the scales of justice, with the word Navybeneath it.
At the dock, rows of Marines stood neatly in formation.
As the warship approached, they saluted in unison.
Damon followed Garp into Marine Headquarters. Along the way, officers and soldiers moved briskly, each absorbed in their duties.
Without knocking, Garp pushed open the office door and sat down casually across from Sengoku.
"I need a favor."
Sengoku removed his glasses and wiped them with visible irritation.
"How many times have I told you to knock before entering?"
Garp ignored him completely, even crossing his legs and picking his nose.
Sengoku sighed, long used to his old friend's behavior. His gaze shifted to Damon, and he immediately understood.
"You want this child admitted to the Naval Academy."
He leaned back slightly.
"He's too young. Most cadets are already teenagers."
After a brief pause, he continued,
"Still… since you asked, I'll give him a chance."
"Tomorrow, he'll face one cadet. If he wins, I'll make an exception."
⸻
Spring, Year 1511 in the sea calendar.
A year destined to be recorded in Marine history.
On the vast training ground of Marine Headquarters, hundreds of cadets ran in formation.
At the front was a towering, broad-shouldered man with purple hair.
"Did you all skip breakfast? Move faster!" he roared, suddenly accelerating.
The cadets struggled to keep up, their breathing growing ragged.
Admiral Zephyr—known as the "Black Arm."
A veteran of countless battles, his scarred body bore the marks of war. After losing his family to pirates, he stepped back from the front lines and became the chief instructor of the Naval Academy.
After a grueling 42-kilometer run, Zephyr remained composed, while most cadets were bent over, gasping for breath. Only a few maintained steady breathing.
"Smoker, Tina, Drake, Jonathan…"
His gaze lingered briefly on the strongest among them.
"These are the promising ones."
Just as he was about to continue, he noticed Sengoku and Garp approaching.
Zephyr immediately walked forward.
"What brings you two here?"
Garp ignored the teasing and pushed Damon forward.
"I want him in the academy."
Zephyr frowned.
"That's against the rules. The quota is already full. And he's too young—he won't endure the training."
"Rules aren't everything," Sengoku said calmly.
"I understand your concerns, so here's my decision—he'll challenge a cadet. If he wins, he gets in."
Zephyr's expression hardened. He understood immediately.
This was Garp's determination.
He studied Damon closely. The boy's sharp features and steady gaze strangely reminded him of Garp in his youth.
Could this brat actually be…?
The thought lingered, though he said nothing.
After a moment, Zephyr nodded.
"Fine. But I choose his opponent."
Sengoku raised an eyebrow but didn't object. He knew exactly what Zephyr intended—to select a strong cadet and force Damon to fail.
A test.
Or a rejection.
Zephyr led Damon before the cadets and raised his voice."You all heard it! This kid is going to challenge one of you!"
"He's at least seven years younger than you. If he wins…"
His voice thundered across the field.
"…you'll all be disgraces to the academy!"
He paused, scanning their faces.
"Tell me—do you want that?!"
The training ground instantly erupted into a storm of voices.