The fires of war on Greyscale Island had finally died down, but Barron knew all too well—true strength was forged not in victory, but in the calm that followed.
Two weeks later, the island had taken on an entirely new look. The ruins of the harbor had been cleared, replaced with sturdier fortifications.
Patrol squads moved in disciplined formation, and the residents of the island slowly began returning to a semblance of normal life.
Barron stood inside the council hall, a detailed recruitment list spread across the table before him.
"Young Master," Hall reported as he flipped through a stack of documents, "so far, we've managed to recruit nearly three hundred reliable sailors and fighters.
Most of them are young men native to Greyscale Island, but there are also a few former fishermen who had been oppressed during Rugo's reign."
Barron gave a slight nod.
"Three hundred," he murmured, his voice low and steady. "Just enough to crew six medium-sized warships. But it's not enough."
Standing nearby, Kane added, "I've already arranged for a selection process among the island's orphans. They're young and adaptable. If we train them from the ground up, they'll become one of our most loyal forces."
Barron looked up, the corners of his lips curving into a faint smile.
"Good. Orphans make the best soldiers. From the moment they begin to understand the world, we'll instill in them our ideals."
Hall's eyes flashed with a glint of approval.
'No wonder even Kane pledged his loyalty to you. You're always looking several steps ahead.'
At the same time, on the training field near the docks, Eric was putting his newfound strength to the test.
He had consumed the Silverback Gorilla Devil Fruit, and its power was beginning to awaken within him. Standing before a massive boulder, his brows furrowed and his stance lowered.
"Hah—!"
With a powerful shout, he wrapped his arms around the stone—easily over a thousand kilograms—and heaved it into the air, then shattered it with a single punch.
*BOOM!*
The rock exploded into fragments, scattering in all directions.
The newly recruited fighters nearby widened their eyes in awe, whispering among themselves.
"So that's the power of a Devil Fruit? Incredible!"
Eric's arms bulged with tense muscle, and his already powerful build looked even more imposing than before.
His ash-grey hair shimmered faintly under the sun, and though sweat beaded across his forehead, it couldn't mask the confident grin on his face.
His weapon of choice was a pair of reinforced knuckle-dusters—combined with his newfound strength, each punch packed terrifying force.
From a distance, Barron approached, having witnessed the entire display.
"You're adapting well, Eric," Barron remarked, his voice carrying a hint of admiration.
Eric turned and flashed him a bright smile.
"This fruit's power far exceeds anything I imagined," he said, holding out his palm. Thick hair began to grow between his fingers, radiating raw strength. "But I still need time to master it completely."
Barron nodded.
"No need to rush. Power alone means nothing—it's how you wield it that matters. You're one of my most trusted allies. I'm counting on you to help us go even further."
Eric gave a firm nod.
"Understood, Young Master."
That night, Barron sat in his room, flipping through the pages of an old sword manual.
The paper was yellowed with age, the edges frayed by time, but the inked words remained vivid. It was a book his father had left behind after attaining the title of Swordmaster.
"When I was young, Father always protected me. I barely skimmed this book back then," Barron murmured, his gaze distant under the dim lantern light.
Ever since arriving in this world, he had come to understand the true importance of personal strength. Swordsmanship was part of his father's legacy—and it was a legacy he was determined to carry forward.
His weapon of choice was a sharp longsword, paired with a pistol at his waist—an unusual yet effective fighting style.
Drawing the sword from its sheath, Barron stood and began practicing basic slashing movements. Each strike was firm and deliberate. Sweat streamed down his forehead, but he paid it no mind.
Elsewhere, Kane was training at the shooting range.
His weapons: a long rifle and a pistol holstered at his hip—precise and deadly. Raising the rifle, he took aim and fired. The bullet pierced the bullseye.
"Good... but still too slow," Kane muttered, quickly reloading and firing a series of shots in rapid succession. Each one hit its mark, the sound of gunfire echoing crisply across the range.
Standing nearby, Hall let out a low whistle as he watched.
"Kane, your aim's sharp. But in battle, speed is king," Hall commented, twirling a dagger and a short blade between his fingers with practiced ease.
Hall was an assassin-type fighter. His combat style emphasized speed and stealth. Sliding his blades back into their sheaths, he crossed his arms.
"The Young Master was right. Everyone needs to push their limits. This sea has no mercy for the weak."
Kane cast him a sidelong glance. "I don't need your reminders. I know what's at stake."
The two exchanged a brief look, then both chuckled quietly.
In the weeks that followed, Greyscale Island not only recovered but began to flourish.
The new recruits received formal training, while the orphans were sent to special camps for basic education and combat instruction.
Barron, Kane, Hall, and Eric trained together daily—pushing themselves with intense physical drills, combat exercises, and team-based tactics. Every session was demanding and disciplined.
During one such training match, Barron faced off against Hall. Sword in hand, Barron met Hall's lightning-fast strikes head-on.
The short daggers in Hall's grip flashed like silver streaks, probing Barron's defenses with pinpoint precision. Barron parried each blow, the clash of metal ringing out in the air.
Hall moved with uncanny agility, circling to Barron's side and slicing toward his shoulder. Barron retreated a step, blocking the attack with his blade.
"You're fast—but not decisive enough," Hall taunted, grinning as he kept up the pressure.
Barron didn't answer. He steadied his breathing, focusing on Hall's movements.
Suddenly, he stepped forward, swinging his blade from an unexpected angle. Hall crossed his daggers to block, but the force behind the strike left his arms numb.
"Not bad," Hall said, retreating swiftly to reset his stance. "You've come a long way."
Barron wiped the sweat from his brow, a faint smile on his lips. "You're still holding back. Show me what you've really got."
Hall's expression shifted.
He flipped his daggers into a reverse grip, his movements turning sharper, faster. He closed in like a shadow, his blades slicing rapidly, targeting every gap in Barron's guard.
Barron was forced back, his sword blurring with each motion as he defended with precision. But the onslaught was relentless, and his stamina began to wear thin.
"Time to get serious," Barron muttered, abruptly changing his tempo.
*SWOOSH!*
He swept his blade in a wide arc, forcing Hall to leap backward, then twisted the blade downward in a sharp slash toward Hall's ankle.
Hall dodged with a roll but was pushed to the edge of the training ground. Crossing his daggers, he barely blocked the next strike, the sheer power numbing his arms once more.
"Alright... now that's real progress," Hall said between breaths, his eyes gleaming with approval.
Barron gave a quiet laugh and sheathed his sword. "Still a long way to go. I've got work to do."
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