After 20 kilometers of frog jumps, Foxy’s legs felt like they were about to give out. It felt like his hips were being torn apart, and his delicate backside felt like it had turned into a sunflower, burning with pain that shot straight to his intestines.
Foxy was the first and the last to finish. He was somewhere in the middle, with Drake still leading the pack.
There were still 80 kilometers to go. A sign marked each segment of 20 kilometers, the first of which indicated the start of the fingertip handstand phase. Seeing this sign, Foxy felt he was about to lose his mind.
After 20 kilometers of frog jumps, his legs were exhausted, but his arms still had some strength left. Taking a deep breath, Foxy flipped himself into a handstand. He managed only two steps before collapsing and eating a mouthful of dirt, almost breaking his long, red nose.
That’s right—Foxy’s nose was long and very red, a blend of Usopp and Buggy’s characteristics. This had strengthened Foxy’s mental resilience; otherwise, he might have cut it off long ago.
Spitting out the dirt, Foxy got back up and tried again. Initially using his palms, he gradually shifted his weight onto his fingers. Sweat poured down like rain as his fingers began to ache, and the blood rushing to his head made him feel dizzy.
He managed a kilometer, falling at least a dozen times. His hands trembled uncontrollably, and his face was as red as a monkey’s behind.
The others were in a similar state. The fingertip handstand was even more challenging compared to the 20 kilometers of frog jumps. After just one kilometer, many were ready to give up, feeling like the remaining 19 kilometers were an insurmountable obstacle.
Some had already given up, lying on the ground or walking away.
“Rest for five minutes every kilometer, and for fifteen minutes every two kilometers. You can do this,” Foxy muttered to himself. Looking at the seemingly endless road, he flexed his fingers and determinedly glared.
After the first kilometer, Foxy had a better sense of balance. This time, he resolved not to fall. He could handle the tenfold effort and sweat.
Starting slow, he gradually increased his speed, pushing himself relentlessly. He fell nine times in two kilometers, resting for fifteen minutes in a shaded spot before continuing. This time, he aimed for three kilometers.
As expected, he fell more than twenty times but didn’t stop until he reached his goal. He rested briefly and tackled four kilometers, five, and another five. He fell repeatedly but ultimately succeeded.
But he couldn’t go any further and eventually passed out.
Foxy wasn’t the first to faint; Gasparde and Shuzo had already been carried off. Berry Good, Shion, and Hina collapsed at 16, 17, and 18 kilometers and didn’t get back up.
Drake completed 20 kilometers of frog jumps, 20 kilometers of fingertip handstands, 20 kilometers of single-leg hops, and half of the 20 kilometers of frog jumps before finally giving in due to his age.
Foxy dreamed he was soaking in a hot spring, his pores opening up, feeling a delightful tingling sensation like a massage from a lovely lady—relaxed and content.
“Foxy… Foxy…” Just as he enjoyed it, the lady turned into a 300-pound blob, lunging at him. Foxy’s hands went cold as he woke up, thrashing about.
Water splashed everywhere as Foxy looked around, realizing he was in a blood-red bath. The faces of others looked back at him, some with disgust, holding tissues to their noses to block the smell.
“Foxy, are you okay?” Drake asked, waving a hand in front of his face.
“What is this?” Foxy’s face turned pale as he realized he was soaking in a pool of blood, smelling of iron and something else.
“It’s a medicinal bath made from Sea King blood and various herbs. Didn’t you soak in this before?” Drake, though frowning, wasn’t as affected as the others.
“Before?”
“When you fainted on the training ground. Gasparde and I brought you here for half an hour, then took you back to the dorm. You were half-conscious, so you might not remember.”
Memories slowly returned. No wonder Foxy felt like he’d eaten and bathed before when he was dazed. It was the Sea King meat and this blood bath.
No wonder he could get up at midnight and train his Devil Fruit abilities for two hours. It was all because of this.
Foxy looked at the bloodbath, the iron smell, and the faint herbal aroma, his eyes gleaming with understanding.
Returning to his senses, he thanked Drake and Gasparde, who were soaking nearby. “Drake, Gasparde, thank you.”
“We’re friends,” Drake replied, patting Foxy’s shoulder with a smile.
“Hmph,” Gasparde snorted, not saying anything, but Foxy wasn’t offended. Maybe that’s just how Gasparde was.
Foxy guessed why Drake might leave the Navy in the future—probably because of his father. But he had no clue about Gasparde’s future betrayal, leading to him becoming a notorious criminal. At least for now, Gaspard wasn’t an evil person. Perhaps something in the future would drive him away from the Navy.
Everything has a reason, just like cause and effect.
“How long have we been soaking?” Foxy asked, realizing they were back at the academy.
“About half an hour,” Drake replied, unsure since he had fainted too.
“What about Zephyr-sensei?” Foxy asked, worried.
“No idea. I woke up here,” Drake said, looking uneasy.
“You didn’t finish?” Foxy asked, surprised. He thought Drake would have completed the training.
“What do you think?” Drake shrugged.
“Aren’t you a Zoan-type ability user, and an ancient carnivorous type at that?”
“How did you know I was a Zoan-type ancient carnivorous user? Did I tell you that?” Drake asked, puzzled.
“Don’t worry about the details,” Foxy said casually.
“Alright. I may be a Zoan-type, but I haven’t had the fruit for long.”
“Oh, I see. But that’s still impressive,” Foxy replied, rolling his eyes at what he perceived as humble bragging.
“By the way, what about you?” Drake asked.
“Me?” Foxy pointed to himself, noticing Gasparde and Shuzo looking over.
“Yeah, last time you just said you’re Foxy, 14 years old, and that was it.”
“Did I?” Foxy was confused.
“What else?!” Drake exclaimed while Gasparde and the others seemed to share the sentiment, looking at Foxy with mild disdain.
“Alright, let’s reintroduce ourselves. I’m Foxy, 14 years old, a Paramecia-type Slow-Slow Fruit user,” Foxy said confidently, hiding nothing.
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