Week one of boot camp ended with what Commander Ripper called "Final Friday"—a day of competitive exercises where recruits were ranked and evaluated.
Jake had been dreading this since Marcus mentioned it on day three.
"It's not that bad," Marcus had said, which Jake had learned was Marcus-speak for "this is going to be absolutely terrible."
He was right.
"Listen up, maggots!" Ripper bellowed as they assembled in the training yard at dawn. "Today, you will be tested in four categories: Combat, Physical Fitness, Tactical Knowledge, and Seamanship. Your scores will determine your training track for the remainder of boot camp. High performers get advanced instruction. Low performers get remedial training. Everyone else gets standard track."
Standard track. I want standard track. Please, please let me get standard track.
"We'll start with Combat!" Ripper announced with far too much enthusiasm. "Single elimination tournament! Thirty-two recruits, one winner!"
Jake's stomach sank. Tournament brackets were the worst possible scenario for someone trying to stay unnoticed. Win too much, you stand out. Lose immediately, you get remedial training which meant more attention and more time to potentially be noticed.
I need to lose in the middle rounds. Not first round—that's too obvious. Not final rounds—that's too much attention. Somewhere in the middle.
The brackets were posted, and Jake scanned them quickly. He was matched against a recruit named Torres in the first round—a stocky guy who'd been struggling with the combat drills all week.
Okay, I can work with this. Beat Torres, lose in round two or three.
"First match! Morrison versus Torres! Step up!"
Jake entered the sparring ring, a chalked circle about six meters in diameter. Torres looked nervous, which made two of them. The rules were simple: force your opponent out of the ring, pin them for three seconds, or make them submit. No weapons, no lethal techniques.
"Begin!"
Torres came in aggressively, throwing wild punches. Jake blocked and dodged, remembering the defensive drills from earlier in the week. He wasn't trying to win quickly—that would be too noticeable. Instead, he let Torres tire himself out, blocking and retreating.
"Morrison, stop running and fight!" Ripper yelled from the sidelines.
I'm not running, I'm tactically repositioning.
But Ripper had a point. If Jake just defended the entire match, it would look suspicious. He needed to at least attempt some offense.
Torres threw another wide punch. This time, instead of dodging, Jake stepped inside the guard—something he'd seen in the drills—and pushed. It wasn't elegant, it wasn't powerful, but Torres was already off-balance from his wild swings.
Torres stumbled backward, his foot crossing the chalk line.
"Winner: Morrison!"
Jake blinked. That was... easier than expected.
Torres looked embarrassed. Marcus was grinning from the sidelines. And Ripper was making notes on a clipboard.
Great. Now I have to lose the next round without it looking suspicious.
Jake's next opponent was a guy named Davis—one of the stronger fighters in their group. This should be easy. Davis would steamroll him, Jake would put up a decent fight to avoid remedial training, and then he could fade back into comfortable mediocrity.
"Begin!"
Davis came in like a freight train. Jake barely got his guard up in time, feeling the impact rattle his bones. He blocked twice more, then attempted a counter-strike that Davis casually swatted aside.
Good. This is going exactly as planned.
Davis pressed the advantage, forcing Jake backward. One more solid hit and Jake would be out of the ring. Perfect.
Except Davis got overconfident. He threw a big haymaker, clearly expecting to end the fight. Jake's body reacted on instinct—ducking under the punch and sweeping Davis's leg.
It was pure reflex. He hadn't even thought about it.
Davis went down hard. Jake, thrown off-balance by his own unexpected success, fell on top of him.
"One! Two! Three! Winner: Morrison!"
No. No no no. That wasn't supposed to happen.
Jake scrambled to his feet, offering Davis a hand up. Davis took it with a rueful grin. "Nice move, man. Didn't see that coming."
"Neither did I," Jake muttered honestly.
Marcus was now openly cheering from the sidelines. Other recruits were looking at Jake with interest. Ripper's clipboard notes were getting longer.
This is a disaster. I was supposed to lose that round.
"Alright, that's enough entertainment," Ripper announced. "We're moving to bracket round three. Winners, prepare yourselves!"
Jake's next opponent was Marcus.
"Of course it is," Jake said to the universe. "Of course I have to fight my only friend."
Marcus looked apologetic as they entered the ring. "Sorry, man. I'll try not to hurt you too much."
"Please do hurt me. Knock me out of the ring in the first five seconds."
"Can't do that. People are watching now. You're one of the surprises of the tournament."
I don't want to be a surprise. I want to be forgotten.
"Begin!"
Marcus came in fast but controlled. Unlike Torres's wild swings or Davis's overconfident haymaker, Marcus fought smart. He tested Jake's defense with quick jabs, looking for openings.
Jake blocked and dodged, but he was already tired from two previous fights. Marcus was fresh, skilled, and knew exactly what Jake's defensive patterns were from their training together.
Come on, just end this. Knock me out.
But Marcus wasn't going for a quick win. He was treating this like a real fight, showing respect by not holding back. Which meant Jake had to actually try, or it would be obvious he was throwing the match.
They circled each other. Marcus feinted left, struck right. Jake barely blocked it. The impact sent him stumbling backward, his foot inches from the chalk line.
So close. Just one more hit.
Marcus pressed forward. Jake tried to dodge but his tired legs betrayed him. He slipped on the dirt—
—and his hand shot out to catch himself, accidentally grabbing Marcus's uniform and pulling him off-balance.
They both went down in a tangle of limbs, rolling across the ring. When they stopped, Jake was somehow on top, pinning Marcus's shoulders.
"One! Two! Three! Winner: Morrison!"
The training yard erupted in cheers and surprised shouts. Jake couldn't believe it. Marcus looked equally stunned.
"That was completely accidental," Jake said, still sitting on his friend.
"I know," Marcus replied. "You just accidentally won again."
"I'm really bad at losing on purpose."
"Yeah, I noticed."
Jake helped Marcus up, and they exited the ring together. The other recruits were clapping Jake on the back, congratulating him. He wanted to scream.
"Morrison!" Ripper called. "Take a fifteen-minute break. You're in the finals!"
No. Absolutely not. This is the opposite of what I wanted.
His final opponent was Jenkins—the same guy he'd demonstrated defensive techniques against earlier in the week. Jenkins looked determined and slightly angry, probably still embarrassed about that first day.
Jake spent his fifteen-minute break trying to figure out how to lose without making it obvious. The problem was that everyone was watching now. If he just rolled over, they'd know something was wrong.
Maybe I can just... actually try and let skill decide? Jenkins is better than me. He should win.
"Final match! Morrison versus Jenkins! This is for the Combat Champion title!"
There's a title? Nobody mentioned a title. I don't want a title.
Jake entered the ring one more time, exhausted and sore. Jenkins looked ready to murder him, which honestly might be a relief at this point.
"Begin!"
Jenkins came at him like a man possessed. No hesitation, no testing, just pure aggressive offense. Jake's defensive instincts kicked in—block, dodge, retreat, block again.
But he was tired. His arms were heavy. His legs felt like lead. He couldn't keep this up much longer.
Jenkins landed a solid hit to Jake's ribs. Pain exploded through his side, and he gasped. Jenkins followed up with a push that sent Jake stumbling backward.
His foot touched the chalk line.
Yes! Finally! I'm about to lose!
Except Jake's heel caught on a rock. He fell backward, arms windmilling—and somehow, impossibly, his flailing hand caught Jenkins's uniform.
They both went down. Jake landed outside the ring.
Jenkins landed on top of him.
Also outside the ring.
There was a moment of confused silence.
"Uh," the referee recruit said, looking at Ripper for guidance. "Sir? They're both out of the ring?"
Ripper walked over, examined the situation, and consulted his rulebook. "According to regulations, if both fighters exit the ring simultaneously, the winner is determined by who had better control. Morrison was falling, Jenkins was pulled. Morrison loses."
Thank you, obscure regulations! Thank you, thank you, thank you!
"Winner: Jenkins!"
The training yard applauded. Jenkins helped Jake up with a satisfied grin. "Good match, Morrison. You're tougher than you look."
"Thanks," Jake said, genuinely relieved. "You deserved that win."
"Damn right I did."
Jake limped back to the sidelines, where Marcus was waiting. "Well, you made it to the finals. That's pretty impressive."
"That was a nightmare. I accidentally won three matches I was trying to lose."
"Maybe you're just better at fighting than you think?"
"Or maybe this universe hates me."
The physical fitness test was next—running, push-ups, pull-ups, and other exercises designed to measure raw athletic ability. Jake performed adequately, landing himself in the middle of the pack. Not impressive, not terrible. Exactly where he wanted to be.
Finally. Something going according to plan.
The tactical knowledge test was a written exam covering Marine protocols, basic strategy, and rules of engagement. Jake answered the questions honestly but didn't try too hard. He knew a lot more than he let on—his meta-knowledge of the One Piece world gave him insights into pirate tactics and behaviors that wouldn't be discovered for years—but he carefully kept his answers basic and by-the-book.
The seamanship test was trickier. They had to demonstrate knot-tying, basic sailing knowledge, and navigation skills. Jake had shown talent for navigation earlier in the week, which meant he couldn't suddenly be incompetent without raising suspicion.
He performed well—not exceptional, but solid. Good enough to pass, not good enough to get special attention.
I hope.
At the end of the day, Ripper assembled them all to announce the results.
"The following recruits have qualified for advanced combat training," he began, reading from his list. "Jenkins, Marcus, Davis, and—"
Please don't say my name. Please don't say my name.
"—Morrison."
Of course.
Jake tried not to show his dismay as half the recruits looked at him with envy and the other half with respect. This was exactly what he'd been trying to avoid.
"Advanced combat training means extra drills, specialized instruction, and higher expectations," Ripper continued. "You four will be training with Lieutenant Commander Garp when he visits next month."
Jake's blood ran cold. Garp? As in Monkey D. Garp? As in the Hero of the Marines who throws cannonballs like baseballs and punches through mountains?
"That's amazing!" Marcus whispered excitedly. "Garp is a legend!"
Garp is terrifying, Jake thought. Garp is friends with Roger the Pirate King. Garp is Luffy's grandfather. Garp is the last person I want anywhere near me.
But he couldn't refuse. Refusing advanced training from a Vice Admiral would raise too many questions.
Jake Morrison had been in this world for one week, and already his plan to be forgettably mediocre was falling apart.
As they were dismissed for the evening, Marcus clapped him on the shoulder. "See? I told you you'd end up being important."
"I hate you so much right now."
"You say that, but you don't mean it."
"I really, really do."
That night, Jake lay in his bunk and stared at the ceiling, trying to figure out how his simple plan of "be average and survive" had resulted in "accidentally qualify for elite training with one of the strongest people in the world."
Okay. New plan. Survive Garp's training. Don't die. Don't stand out too much. Don't accidentally impress him. Just... exist quietly until this nightmare ends.
From the bunk below, Marcus's voice drifted up. "Hey, Jake?"
"What?"
"You know what's funny?"
"Nothing about this situation is funny."
"You keep trying to be average, but you keep accidentally being good at things."
"That's not funny. That's horrifying."
"Maybe the universe is trying to tell you something."
"The universe can shut up."
Marcus laughed softly. "Get some sleep, man. We've got another five and a half months of this."
Jake closed his eyes and tried not to think about the fact that in one month, he'd be training under Monkey D. Garp.
Strategic cowardice, he reminded himself. Just keep your head down. Survive. Don't get involved in anything important.
How hard could it be?
The universe, listening to this thought, laughed.