The sun rose over Batro Island, casting gold across a place once stained with pirate blood. Where gunfire and chaos once ruled, now stood a Marine base — small, but solid. The banners of justice flapped in the salty wind, and below them, Seaman Apprentice Dax Verno stood at attention, bandages crisscrossing his body like a second uniform.
"…Dismissed!" barked a commanding voice.
Recruits broke ranks, laughing, stretching, sighing with relief — all except one.
Dax stayed still for a moment longer, eyes fixed on the horizon where the sea kissed the sky. His body ached from the morning drills, and the bruises on his ribs throbbed with each breath. But his heart? Steady as ever.
"Hey Wall of Guts!" a voice called out. "You planning to stare down the ocean next?"
Dax turned, grinning wide. "If it throws a punch, I'm ready."
It was a running joke among the recruits — "Punchbag Dax", the guy who never dodged. In training matches, he'd take hit after hit and still be the last man standing. The instructors called it idiocy. His peers? Half admiration, half disbelief.
Today marked the first day Dax was officially a Marine. No longer a recruit — but far from a hero.
Later That Morning…
The streets of Batro Island buzzed with life. The Marine presence had stabilized the region, but tension still lingered in the alleys. Some folks smiled at the sight of the uniform. Others spat near his boots.
Dax didn't mind either way.
"Justice isn't a smile, it's a shield," he muttered to himself, repeating his late grandfather's words. The man had died years ago when pirates ruled Batro — a local blacksmith who stood up for innocent villagers. Dax hadn't forgotten.
As he passed a small bakery, a crash rang out.
A woman screamed.
Without thinking, Dax sprinted toward the sound.
Inside a Storefront
A burly man with rusted iron gauntlets had a shopkeeper pinned against a wall, while two others raided the register. One of the thugs turned as Dax stormed in.
"Back off, Marine. This ain't your business."
Dax didn't reply. He stepped forward.
The thug raised a pipe and swung.
Crack!
It slammed against Dax's shoulder, forcing him a step back — but he didn't fall. Blood trickled down his arm, and his coat tore further at the seam. He gritted his teeth.
The thug blinked. "The hell are you made of?!"
Dax's smile was calm. "Hope you didn't throw your best shot."
Before the man could react, Iron Pulse Smash — a brutal punch slammed into his gut. He crumpled like a folding chair.
The second thug came in with a wild kick.
Dax didn't flinch.
Another blow to the ribs. He took it.
Then he moved.
Another Iron Pulse, this time to the jaw. The thug spun midair before hitting the floor.
Only the gauntlet-wearing brute remained. A full head taller than Dax.
"You think taking hits makes you a hero, kid?"
Dax's fists tightened. "No. I think taking the hits so others don't… makes me a Marine."
Five minutes later, backup arrived to find Dax sitting on a crate, bloodied but grinning, two unconscious thugs behind him and one shackled at his feet.
"Did you… take them all on alone?" a fellow Seaman asked, eyes wide.
Dax shrugged. "Just did what I was trained to do."
The other Marine looked him over — bruises, cracked lip, bleeding shoulder — and muttered, "You sure you're not suicidal?"
Dax chuckled. "Nah. Just stubborn."
That night, as he lay in his bunk, sore and stitched up, Dax stared at the ceiling.
He'd won his first fight as a Marine. Protected a shopkeeper. Took hits most wouldn't walk away from. Yet… something lingered.
"If I hadn't taken those blows… would I have stopped them faster?"
"Is pain my weapon… or my crutch?"
He closed his eyes. The journey had begun, and the sea was vast. But one thing was certain — he wouldn't dodge fate. He'd meet it head-on, fists clenched, heart unyielding.
And somewhere, across the Grand Line… the world was beginning to take notice of a rookie Marine with a steel will.
The next morning came like a punch to the face.
Literally.
"RISE AND SHINE, WORMS!"
The barracks door exploded open with a metallic clang as a shadow filled the doorway — towering, broad-shouldered, and built like a warship.
Captain Bron Hammertide — a wall of a man with arms like battering rams and a voice that made cannons sound like whispers.
He walked between bunks with booming steps, dragging a massive anchor over one shoulder like it was a sack of rice.
"Today's not your day off! It's the start of your damn future!" he bellowed.
Half the recruits groaned. Some scrambled into their uniforms.
Dax sat up with a wince, clutching his taped ribs, the pain still fresh from yesterday. A bruise blossomed over his shoulder like a dark flower. But his eyes? Clear. Steady. Ready.
Bron stomped to the front of the room and held up a clipboard the size of a ship's rudder.
"You sorry excuses for Marines are going to spar. Not with wooden swords. Not with pillows. But full-contact combat. And when you're done coughing up blood, you'll be judged by real monsters."
He grinned.
"Three Vice Admirals are arriving on this island today. Each one's forming a new squadron for deployment across the Grand Line. You catch their eye, you might just skip the desk jobs and sail straight into legend."
The room fell silent.
Dax's heart thundered. Vice Admirals?
Garp's rank.
These were people who commanded entire fleets — titans who could wipe out pirate crews with a glare.
Bron raised one beefy hand and pointed toward the training field.
"Ten minutes. Bare fists. No mercy. Let's see who's Marine material… and who's just playing soldier."
The Training FieldThe open ground was lined with new recruits, all in Marine whites. Some were stretching, others shadowboxing, a few just trying not to throw up from nerves.
Dax stood near the back, arms crossed, ignoring the dull throb in his ribs. The sun gleamed off his wrapped knuckles.
A few recruits glanced at him.
"Isn't that the kid who tanked three thugs yesterday?"
"Yeah. Freak doesn't block or dodge. Must like getting hit."
"He's gonna get wrecked today."
Dax ignored it. He wasn't here to impress them. He was here to endure.
Captain Bron raised a horn to his mouth.
BWAAAAHHH!
"First round: Dax Verno… versus Riko Hensuke!"
Riko was tall, lean, and quick. Known for his kicks. He spun a toothpick between his lips and cracked his knuckles.
"Hope you're not too sore from yesterday, Punchbag," Riko grinned as they stepped into the circle.
Dax just raised his fists.
The Match Began.
Riko didn't hesitate. He came in fast — a sweeping kick aimed at Dax's ribs.
WHACK.
Dax didn't move. The blow hit clean. He exhaled, pain shooting through his side — but stayed standing.
Riko's eyes widened.
"You're still standing?"
Dax stepped forward. WHAM! — a jab to Riko's guard. Then another kick — this time to Dax's thigh.
Dax grunted, but didn't flinch.
He smiled.
"I told you. My body breaks. My will doesn't."
Riko threw a third strike — a spinning roundhouse to Dax's temple.
It connected.
But as Riko landed, Dax was already moving.
Iron Pulse Smash.
His fist rocketed into Riko's stomach with a boom, folding him instantly.
The crowd fell silent as Riko dropped.
Bron raised a thick arm. "WINNER — DAX VERNO."
As the matches went on, whispers spread.
"Did you see him?"
"He took all those hits and still dropped Hensuke!"
"Is he crazy or a monster?"
And high above the training field, on the overlook of the base tower, three figures stood in silence, observing through spyglasses and Den Den Mushi lenses.
One wore a dark blue coat with medals shaped like storm clouds.
Another, a tall, lithe woman with a katana at her waist, expression unreadable.
And the third? A wide-chested old man with a jagged scar across his nose and the biggest laugh you've ever heard.
Vice Admiral Gorin "The Steel Roar."
He cackled as he watched Dax take another blow and retaliate with perfect timing.
"Heh. Reminds me of myself at that age. But dumber."
The woman next to him raised an eyebrow. "He fights with no defense. A walking liability."
Gorin just grinned wider. "Or maybe… he's the kind of fool this era needs."
Back on the field, Dax wiped blood from his lip as another name was called. He wasn't done. Not yet.
He was going to fight his way into one of those Vice Admirals' fleets.
One punch at a time.
Dax barely had time to catch his breath when Bron's voice rang out again like thunder.
"Next match: Dax Verno vs. Muko 'The Mule' Dregg!"
The crowd murmured.
Muko Dregg lumbered into the sparring ring, cracking his neck and dragging his boots like weights. The man looked less like a recruit and more like a cannonball that grew arms. Nearly 7 feet tall, arms thick as tree trunks, a square jaw covered in stubble.
"...That guy's still a recruit?" someone whispered.
"Was a prison laborer. Joined the Marines to reduce his sentence," said another.
Dax exhaled, flexing his fingers. His body screamed at him to sit down. His ribs burned, and his jaw throbbed from Riko's last kick. But his heart?
Still steady.
Muko grinned, flashing chipped teeth. "You like takin' hits, huh? Good. 'Cause I don't stop swinging till the bell rings… or bones break."
The match began.
Muko rushed in without warning, fists swinging like wrecking balls.
BAM!
Dax barely managed to absorb the first blow to his forearm — it felt like a log smashing down on him.
Then came the second — a hook that rattled his teeth.
Blood sprayed from his mouth. The force staggered him backward — but he didn't fall.
Muko laughed, raising both fists and hammering down with a double axe handle.
CRACK!
Dax stepped into it.
The strike slammed into his shoulder and back, nearly buckling his knees. He dropped low, not from pain — but to counter.
He launched an uppercut into Muko's gut, followed by a hard elbow strike to the ribs, then a short-range headbutt to the bridge of Muko's nose.
Blood spurted from Muko's face.
The big man stumbled.
Dax surged forward, ramming his knee into Muko's thigh — not flashy, but dirty and effective — slowing the brute's stance. Then he followed it with a rapid-fire combo: two body shots, a cross to the jaw, and a brutal stomp to the instepof Muko's foot.
"NNGH!" Muko roared, swinging wildly.
Dax ducked, took a grazing blow to the ear, and returned fire with a devastating liver punch.
The crowd winced. Muko froze — just for a second — then dropped to one knee.
That's when Dax grabbed him by the collar, whispered, "You done?" — and slammed a straight right into Muko's nose.
Muko hit the ground.
Out cold.
Silence.
Then Bron bellowed: "MATCH OVER! DAX VERNO — VICTORY!"
Some recruits clapped. Others stared in stunned silence.
Dax turned and limped back to the bench, bloodied and bruised, but eyes still burning.
One of the medics tried to check him.
"I'm good," Dax muttered, voice cracked but firm.
"You're not," the medic said bluntly.
Dax only smiled. "But I'm still standing."
Meanwhile, on the overlook, the Vice Admirals took notes.
The tall woman, Vice Admiral Yurika "The Crescent Blade", narrowed her eyes. "He's reckless. Brutal, yes, but sloppy."
Vice Admiral Gorin scratched his chin. "He adapts. Fast. Uses pain like a weapon. Not efficient — but effective."
The third Vice Admiral, a quiet man with hawk-like eyes and a high-collared coat, finally spoke.
Vice Admiral Rael Vos, known as "The Ghost Signal."
"He doesn't fight to impress," Rael said. "He fights to protect. Even now, he's making sure the medics go to his opponent first. That's Marine instinct. Not ego."
Yurika scoffed. "And when he's sent to the New World? His guts won't stop a Logia."
Rael's eyes didn't blink. "Then we make sure his will sharpens into something more."
Below, Dax sat on a bench, spitting blood into the dirt, wrapping a fresh cloth around his knuckles.
He didn't know it yet.
But eyes from across the world were starting to take notice.
And the name Dax Verno was about to leave Batro Island.
Carried on whispers.
Wrapped in scars.
And etched into Marine history.