Marine Calendar Year 1500, April—half a month until May.
Foxy had been in this world for two months and twenty-four days, and it had been a month since he joined the Marine Academy.
Under the scorching sun, on the running track of Marineford, many young trainees could be seen carrying enormous logs, running swiftly while sweating profusely. They didn’t rest even once in their hundred-kilometre run. Upon reaching the academy’s back mountain, they neatly placed the logs on the ground, then rolled down the slope with their hands on their heads, only to climb back up to have their lunch.
After a twenty-minute break, they rolled down the hill again, then ran a hundred kilometres to the quicksand marsh, where they gritted their teeth and swam a lap. After a twenty-minute rest, they began a sequence of frog jumps for twenty kilometres, ten-finger handstands for twenty kilometres, one-legged jumps for twenty kilometres, frog jumps again for twenty kilometres, and finally, running twenty kilometres back to the academy by sunset.
Before this gruelling regimen, they would start their day, while it was still dark, by running three laps around the track, totalling thirty kilometres. After breakfast, they would do 1,000 push-ups and sit-ups before carrying logs for their hundred-kilometer trek.
If one stood at a vantage point, one would see that the Marine Academy, the back mountain, and the quicksand marsh formed a triangle.
After a month of high-intensity training, Foxy had adapted to the regime. He had previously failed during the ten-finger handstand segment, but through continuous effort, he eventually succeeded in making it back to the academy.
As the sun set, casting red hues across the sky, the trainees stood at attention, drenched in sweat. Many had grown more robust and more muscular. Their clothes were torn, and they bore bruises and wounds. Foxy, standing still, had changed significantly.
His scattered aura had sharpened, and his hair had grown long, reaching his waist. After trimming his eyebrows, his sharp eyes had become more appealing, though his long, red nose remained the same, and his square chin had become more rounded. He had developed four-pack abs, his posture was tall and straight, and he had grown ten centimetres in height, now standing at 190 cm.
And he was only 14 years old.
“As per Admiral Zephyr’s instructions, those who haven’t completed the training within a month are eliminated. Now, two additional training items will be added.”
The person standing in front of the trainees was not Zephyr but a rear admiral, as Zephyr had left for the New World on a mission five days ago and had not yet returned. The rear admiral and five other officers oversaw the training, all prearranged by Zephyr.
The trainees collectively groaned at the announcement of additional training. Typically, this time was reserved for dinner, bathing, and free time, including rest or developing their Devil Fruit abilities.
Ignoring the groans, the rear admiral gestured for an officer to bring a box.
“Form two lines and draw lots. Those with odd numbers, step forward,” he ordered.
Foxy stepped forward, being number eleven. Unfortunately, Drake and Gasparde had even numbers.
Foxy reached into the box and pulled out a wooden plaque with Gasparde’s name on it. Others did the same, drawing plaques with even-numbered names.
“Those whose names were drawn are your opponents. Fight as if your life depends on it. The loser will wash socks and clothes for the winner and one hundred other socks and clothes from the academy,” the rear admiral stated flatly. “Read out the names on your plaques.”
“Dajin.”
“Sicily.”
“Drake.”
“Gasparde.” Foxy looked at Gasparde, who returned his gaze with a spark of rivalry.
Both Foxy and Gasparde had resolved to go all out. Neither wanted to wash over a hundred socks.
“Begin,” the rear admiral commanded as he and the officers stood by to watch.
“Foxy, you’re going to lose,” Gasparde announced confidently.
“Hmph, it’s not certain I’ll lose,” Foxy retorted.
In the past month, everyone had become familiar with each other. Despite the competition, they were friends and less formal than before.
“You’ll be washing those socks,” Gasparde sneered, cracking his knuckles.
“Bring it on,” Foxy said, gesturing for Gasparde to come at him.
“I won’t hold back,” Gasparde declared, transforming his hands into two green spikes.
At the same time, Foxy prepared his Slow-Slow Fruit technique, his fingers forming the familiar orchid-like gesture.
Gasparde rushed at Foxy, his speed impressive. His right spike aimed at Foxy’s neck, while the left aimed for his heart. At the last moment, Foxy dropped to the ground, shooting a pink ring from his left hand that struck Gasparde’s chest.
Instantly, Gasparde moved as if in slow motion, frozen mid-attack. Foxy stood up leisurely, dusting off his pants.
The slow effect now lasted fifteen seconds, ample time considering Gasparde’s similar strength. Foxy had never revealed the specifics of his ability, even to Drake. Thus, Gasparde was taken by surprise, and his confidence shattered.
“Gasparde, you lose,” Foxy declared, his smile cunning. Gasparde’s eyes widened in disbelief.
Foxy’s punch landed on Gasparde’s chest, but it sank into his body, sticking to the candy-like substance. Gasparde’s eyes glinted with triumph.
“Right, your fruit is a special Paramecia type,” Foxy muttered, quickly grabbing handfuls of sand and throwing them at Gasparde’s chest. His subsequent punches connected solidly.
The soft candy-like substance hardened with the sand, allowing Foxy to land several punches before the slow effect wore off. Gasparde collapsed in pain, unable to fight back.
With fifteen seconds gone, Gasparde groaned, falling and rolling back, clutching his aching chest.
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