The First Test
The marine base training ground was silent save for the distant cry of gulls and the whisper of the sea. Morde stood alone in the center of the square, the morning sun casting long shadows that seemed to cling to him like regrets. Across from him, Vice Admiral Doberman stood with the imposing stillness of a mountain, his crimson coat barely stirring in the salt-tinged breeze.
"So," Doberman's voice cut through the silence, cold and sharp as a naval blade. "You're the one who bears that cursed power."
Morde's chin lifted in defiance, a familiar arrogance flashing in his dark eyes. "Yes, I am. But you should be more worried about what happens next than what I carry."
Doberman's laughter was a harsh, mocking sound that seemed to offend the very air around them. "You think you can defeat me? A boy barely weaned from his mother's teat, challenging a Vice Admiral? Then come — and be serious about it, or don't bother at all."
Something snapped in Morde then—the last thread of patience, the final shred of restraint. With a roar that seemed to tear from the deepest part of his soul, he charged. The dark seal on his forearm pulsed to life, swirling with malevolent energy that made the air hum. But Doberman had faced far worse in his decades of service. The Vice Admiral didn't even bother drawing his sword.
With a movement so fluid it seemed rehearsed, Doberman sidestepped Morde's wild lunge. "Iron Fist!" he barked, and his hardened knuckles connected with Morde's stomach with the sound of a cannon shot.
The air exploded from Morde's lungs. He crashed to the cobblestones, gasping like a fish thrown ashore, the world swimming in nauseating waves of pain.
"Pathetic," Doberman said, not with malice, but with the disappointment of a master watching a student fail a basic test. "All that power, and you wield it like a child with a stolen sword."
"I… won't fall here!" Morde groaned, pushing himself up on trembling arms. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, painting a crimson streak on the gray stones. "Not to you!"
He launched himself forward again, this time with a flurry of attacks that would have overwhelmed any ordinary marine. But Doberman was no ordinary marine. He moved with an economy of motion that was almost beautiful, each dodge and parry a lesson in efficiency.
"Power without resolve is nothing, rookie," Doberman barked, his voice cutting through Morde's grunts of effort. "Rage without control is just noise." He opened his palms, and bursts of concentrated energy shot forth, not to maim, but to educate—each blast striking Morde's pressure points with painful precision. "Experience is what makes power real. Discipline is what makes it lethal."
At Doberman's sharp whistle, the square suddenly swarmed with movement. A thousand marines emerged from their positions, forming concentric circles around the combatants. The sound of their synchronized footsteps was more terrifying than any battle cry.
Kai's voice echoed in Morde's mind, clear and desperate as if he stood beside him: "Don't ever face the Navy alone! They don't fight with honor—they fight with numbers!"
But the warning came too late. The trap had already sprung.
"Take him alive!" Doberman ordered, his voice cutting through the ranks. "I want to know how a boy from the East Blue came to wield such darkness."
Morde's eyes swept across the sea of white and blue uniforms, the endless rows of determined faces. For a heartbeat, fear threatened to paralyze him. Then something ancient and terrible stirred within his blood.
"Then come and try!" Morde roared, and instead of waiting for the encirclement to tighten, he rushed forward to meet it.
What happened next would be debated in marine barracks for years to come.
The dark seal on Morde's arm didn't just pulse—it erupted. Tendrils of shadow exploded from his body, wild and uncontrolled, lashing out like angry serpents. One marine, a young recruit who couldn't have been more than eighteen, took a direct hit to the chest. He didn't cry out—he simply crumpled, his armor cracking like eggshell, his body slamming against the stone wall with a sickening finality.
The square fell into stunned silence. Even the gulls seemed to stop their crying.
Doberman's eyes widened, the first crack in his professional composure. "Impossible," he breathed. "You can wield that power already? Without training? Without the awakening?"
Morde stood panting in the center of the destruction, his body trembling not from fear but from the after-shocks of the unleashed power. A smirk twisted his bloody lips. "Guess I was born for it."
That smirk, that arrogant defiance in the face of death and consequence, broke something in Doberman. The Vice Admiral's rage became a physical thing, heating the air around him. His hand went to the hilt of his sword, and for the first time, he drew the blade fully. The steel sang a deadly song as it left its scabbard.
"Now you're finished, you foolish pirate," Doberman said, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper that carried across the silent square. "That power isn't a gift—it's a curse. And today, I'll end that curse before it consumes another soul. My final attack—!"
As Doberman assumed his stance, the air growing heavy with intent, Morde found himself frozen. Not by fear, not by the marine's overwhelming haki, but by the memory of Kai's final warning, spoken to him on a rain-swept dock as the world burned around them:
"Listen to me, Morde! If you ever fall into the hands of the World Government… you'll never escape. They'll break you, study you, take you apart piece by piece to understand what makes you work. And when they're done, they'll rebuild you into one of their weapons."
Regret sank into Morde's heart like cold iron, heavier than any blade, sharper than any pain Doberman could inflict. He had been so consumed by proving himself, by testing his limits, that he had walked right into the very fate Kai had sacrificed everything to prevent.
The darkness within him stirred again, but this time, it wasn't answering to his anger or his pride. It was answering to something deeper, something older—the instinct to survive at any cost.
Doberman's blade began to glow with concentrated energy. "Judgment Cut!" he roared.
And Morde made his choice.