The next morning, just after dawn, Kyle was yanked out of his hammock by Rayleigh and unceremoniously tossed onto the deck. The cold sea breeze hit him like a slap, instantly waking him up.
Roger and Rayleigh stood before him, one on each side like two towering guardian statues.
Roger stood with arms crossed, wearing a smirk that said he was looking forward to a show. Rayleigh, in contrast, pushed his glasses up with a serious expression.
"Before you learn how to harness your Devil Fruit more effectively, there's one fundamental thing you must understand." Rayleigh's tone was calm but absolute. "The Devil Fruit grants you power, but it is your body that carries it. Physical strength is the foundation of everything."
He gestured to Roger. "This guy doesn't even have a Devil Fruit ability. Do you think the result would change if you fought him again?"
Kyle glanced at Roger, who grinned wide enough to show his gums, and quickly shook his head. The memory of that punch from yesterday still lingered like a ghost behind him.
"So, your first training focus is physical conditioning," Rayleigh continued. "That includes improving your fitness and mastering martial arts. What kind of weapon are you planning to use?"
Kyle had been pondering this for a while. His wave Fruit was, in some ways, reminiscent of the Tremor-Tremor Fruit wielded by Whitebeard—the world's strongest man and, in Kyle's memory, the 'family-loving man' whose sons were scattered across the seas. The two abilities were distinct, but there was an elegant overlap.
In theory, he could replicate some of the same effects that Whitebeard's quakes could produce.
"I want a Naginata," Kyle said earnestly, then quickly clarified, "It's like a long-handled broadsword."
"Oh?" Roger raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "Why that one?"
"My power lets me control 'waves'—vibrations," Kyle explained. "With a long-handled weapon, I can channel those vibrations through the shaft into the blade, releasing them on impact like a shockwave. It helps me maintain distance while boosting destructive force."
In his mind's eye, he could picture Whitebeard's colossal figure swinging his bisento and splitting the air itself. Kyle knew he was still leagues away from that, but it was a worthy goal.
"So, a naginata," Roger nodded in understanding. "Not bad, little Kyle! Use the weapon to amplify your Devil Fruit. Kuhahaha!"
Behind his glasses, Rayleigh's gaze glinted with approval. This young man didn't just have talent—he had ideas. That was far more valuable than simple raw strength.
"Since you've made your choice, here's your training plan." Rayleigh pulled out a piece of paper from who knows where and handed it to Kyle.
Kyle took it, glanced down, and the corner of his mouth twitched involuntarily.
"Kyle's Exclusive Physical Enhancement Menu"
Early Morning Routine: Run laps around the ship with a weighted backpack. (Speed determined by the Captain's mood.)
Morning Session: Seawater resistance training. Tie a rope to your waist, swim against the ship's pull until exhaustion. (Captain will randomly throw fish, barrels, etc., during this time.)
Afternoon: Martial arts and practical combat training. Instructors: Rayleigh (Foundations), Roger (Field Combat).
Evening: Extreme evasion training. Stand on deck center and dodge 'affectionate gifts' from the Captain and Vice-Captain. One hit = half dinner.
Night: Meditation and Devil Fruit control exercises.
"...This—" Kyle's eyes skimmed over phrases like 'speed determined by the captain's mood' and 'randomly thrown obstacles', and then the terrifying 'affectionate gifts' section. A thin layer of cold sweat formed on his back.
He was already soaked in fear.
This training regimen practically screamed madness and a lack of regard for human life. Is this even legal?!
"What's wrong? Getting cold feet?" Roger strolled over and bumped him with a shoulder, his grin radiating mischief.
"No!" Kyle gritted his teeth, gripping the training sheet tightly, his eyes blazing with defiance. "I accept!"
And so, Kyle's tragic, fulfilling training life began.
On Day 1, he barely managed to circle the ship thirty times before Roger, in a sudden burst of excitement, spun the helm hard. Kyle was thrown across the deck like a pinball, skidding on his face for a solid seven meters.
On Day 2, while struggling to stay afloat behind the ship during seawater resistance training, a sea beast suddenly emerged and slammed into his back. Kyle swallowed half the ocean. On deck, Roger was laughing so hard he nearly fell over, slapping his thigh like it was the best comedy show he'd ever seen.
On the afternoon of Day 3, after Rayleigh had just taught him the basics of naginata handling—how to grip, swing, sweep, and stab—Roger charged at him sword in hand. "Come on, little Kyle! Time to test your progress!"
"Clang! Clang! Clang!"
On the deck, Kyle desperately wielded a makeshift naginata—really just a broadsword tied to a long wooden stick—fending off Roger's relentless onslaught.
Roger wasn't even using sword techniques—just raw, unrestrained power. Yet every strike shook Kyle to the bone. His palms blistered, his arms throbbed, and he was steadily pushed back.
"Too slow! Too soft! There's no strength in that swing!" Each of Roger's critiques landed like a hammer blow to Kyle's spirit.
And then came the evening dodge training, which was even more insane.
"Little Kyle! Try my Flying Fish Flick!"
"Kyle, barrel incoming—right side!"
Kyle was jumping around in the middle of the deck like a mouse being toyed with by two sadistic cats. One moment, it was a slippery sea fish hurled by Roger; the next, a wooden plank came flying from Rayleigh at an impossible angle and velocity.
He relied solely on the heightened instincts he'd developed back on the deserted island—his sharpened five senses—to dodge.
"Bang!" A fish slammed squarely into his backside. He froze for a second, then let out a sharp yelp.
"Kuhahaha! Hit! Half dinner for you!" Roger's gloating laughter echoed across the sea like a victory bell.
Kyle clutched his stinging butt, eyes watery, on the verge of crying.
---
Days passed in a blur of hellish training. Kyle collapsed like a dead dog every night, his body aching down to the marrow. Old bruises hadn't faded before new ones were added, forming an ever-evolving abstract painting of pain across his skin.
More than once, he thought he was done for—but every time he hit his limit, Rayleigh would silently apply medicine to his wounds, and Roger would show up with a roasted sea beast large enough to feed ten men.
They pushed him to his limits with ruthless precision… and yet they cared for him in the most direct, unspoken ways.
Little by little, Kyle's passive suffering began to shift.
When he ran with a heavy backpack, he started using subtle shockwaves beneath his feet, offsetting part of the reaction force, lightening each step.
In his duels with Roger, he stopped mindlessly blocking. Instead, he began attaching high-frequency vibrations to the blade of his naginata, detonating them the moment their weapons clashed, dispersing some of the crushing power behind Roger's attacks.
Even though his once-handsome face still swelled up like a pig's head, at least now, he could last a few more moves.
During the evening 'love-feeding' session, he mastered 'Wave Mirage'—bending light around his body at the moment of impact to create a visual distortion, buying him the tiniest sliver of time to dodge.
As for the seawater resistance training… let's not talk about it.
What exactly is a Devil Fruit user supposed to do when submerged in seawater?! Both Roger and Rayleigh had zero guilt and no intention of stopping.
---
One month later.
The sun dipped below the horizon, casting the deck in golden light. Kyle stood shirtless, his bronze skin marked by fine scars. His muscles were no longer just lean—they had gained power, definition, and purpose.
He gripped his simple naginata, breathing steadily and deeply, eyes locked on the man before him.
"Ready when you are, Captain Asshole."
"Kuhahaha! Bring it on, little Kyle!"
Before Roger could even blink, Kyle launched forward—not by charging, but by stomping down and unleashing a shockwave through the deck.
"Sonic Step: Flashbreak!"
The wood beneath his feet shuddered, and the rebound sent Kyle shooting forward like a cannonball—his speed far beyond anything from a month ago.
His naginata carved a fierce arc in the air, a halo of white energy vibrating violently along the blade.
Roger's eyes gleamed with a flicker of surprise—but his grin only widened. Still relaxed, he lifted his sword casually with one hand and slashed forward to meet Kyle's blow, not dodging in the slightest.
"Clang—!"
A deafening crash rang out as metal met metal. A shockwave exploded from the point of impact, sending sea spray and air pressure rolling outward in every direction.
Kyle was blasted backward, staggering and sliding across the deck, his boots digging deep grooves into the wood before he stopped. Blood seeped from his knuckles, his arms trembled, and his chest heaved.
But Roger… for the first time, took half a step back.
Just half a step. And yet his face lit up with more joy than if he'd stumbled upon the One Piece itself.
"Kuhahahahaha! Good job, Kyle!"
Leaning on his naginata, Kyle smiled, the brightest and most genuine smile he'd worn since boarding the ship. Exhausted, sore, bleeding, but undeniably proud.
Beside them, Rayleigh stood silently against the mast, arms crossed, watching with a rare glimmer of satisfaction in his eyes.