"Gather!"
Just as Iron Hammer was getting used to his new body, a sharp whistle cut through the air, followed by commanding shouts.
In an instant, every Marine recruit in the square snapped to attention and surged toward the front.
Iron Hammer quickly followed the flow of the crowd.
At the head of the square stood a raised platform. On it, arms crossed and posture imposing, stood the former Admiral—**Zephyr**.
"I am Zephyr," he announced, voice booming across the field, "principal and chief instructor of the Naval Headquarters Elite Training Camp."
"You are all elites—handpicked from branches across the world."
"To forge you into something greater, this camp exists."
"But make no mistake—this program accepts only **one hundred**. And yet, five hundred of you stand here today."
A slow, almost predatory smile spread across Zephyr's face.
"Therefore," he continued, "an assessment is required. Those who pass may stay. The rest—return to your posts."
"I don't need cowards here!"
"Line up! I will test your **Haki potential**—your combat readiness. The top one hundred remain. The rest—dismissed!"
"Move! Quickly!"
At Zephyr's roar, the recruits scrambled into formation.
Within moments, a long line stretched across the square.
Iron Hammer, jostled by the eager crowd, found himself—somehow—**third in line**.
The man ahead of him? **Sakazuki**—cold-eyed, silent, radiating intensity. The future Admiral Akainu.
The one before him? **Lance**, the friendly North Blue recruit who'd greeted him earlier.
Iron Hammer was baffled. *How did I end up third?*
Truth was, while others subtly elbowed for position—some using intimidation, others speed—he'd simply stood still, letting the tide carry him. Meanwhile, someone like **Borsalino** had lazily strolled to the very back and was already napping with his eyes closed.
Now, Iron Hammer stood in the spotlight—whether he wanted it or not.
Zephyr gave a satisfied nod as the line formed, then gestured to his aides. They rolled forward a massive device resembling a reinforced punching post—clearly designed to measure striking force.
"Sakazuki of the North Blue," Zephyr called. "I've heard your name. They say you're strong. Show me."
Sakazuki stepped forward without a word. He planted his feet, drew back his right fist, and—
***BANG!***
—slammed it into the machine.
Gears whirred. Dials spun. The readout stabilized at **2600**.
Zephyr's eyes gleamed.
*2600 Haki potential? Exceptional.*
For context: an average civilian might score **10**. A trained Marine corporal? Around **300–500**. A captain-level officer? **1000–1500**.
Sakazuki's score placed him among elite vice-admiral candidates—even at this stage.
"Very good," Zephyr said, impressed. "2600. And you carry a blade—your true combat strength is likely even higher. Step aside."
Sakazuki nodded once and moved to the observation zone.
Next was Lance. He threw a solid punch—but the machine barely reacted.
**300**.
He sighed, shoulders slumping, and walked silently to stand behind Sakazuki.
"Next—Iron Hammer."
Zephyr's tone shifted slightly—curious, expectant. "Kid, give me your best shot."
Iron Hammer forced an awkward smile. He mimicked Sakazuki's stance: feet apart, fist drawn back—
***Deng…***
A soft, almost pathetic thud.
The machine flickered… and settled on **250**.
Iron Hammer's stomach dropped. *I'm doomed.*
Zephyr's expression darkened. The air grew heavy—like standing before a caged beast. Iron Hammer's hair stood on end.
But just as Zephyr opened his mouth—
"I need a maul stance!" Iron Hammer blurted.
He raised both hands, dashed to the machine, then pivoted sideways.
"General Zephyr—please! One more chance! I'm a blacksmith! Punching straight-on isn't my style. Let me strike the way I was trained!"
Zephyr paused.
Then, slowly, he unclenched his own fist—one that had briefly shimmered **black**.
*Armament Haki.*
Iron Hammer broke into a cold sweat. *He was about to strike me…*
He wiped his brow, heart pounding.
*Okay. Last chance. Hammer-Hammer Fruit—don't fail me now.*
He channeled the Devil Fruit's power. Instantly, his right arm felt dense, metallic—like forged steel.
He gathered his strength, swung his fist in a wide, horizontal arc—
***DUANG!***
A thunderous, resonant crash echoed across Marineford.
**[Ding… Critical Strike Talent Activated!]**
**[Critical Hit: Damage +100%. Attribute Reflection: 100%.]**
The testing machine shrieked in protest. Dials spun wildly—
**2400!**
The crowd gasped.
Iron Hammer exhaled in relief. *I'm not getting thrown off the island…*
But then he frowned. *Wait…*
He pulled up his status panel:
**Haki Potential (Dao Power Value): 2000**
Yet his strike had registered **2400**—which, with a 100% critical bonus, implied a base output of **1200**.
*That doesn't add up… Either the fruit modifies output differently, or I'm not using my full potential yet.*
Still—
"**Excellent!**" Zephyr boomed, clapping him on the back hard enough to stagger a lesser man. "Iron Hammer! I knew I hadn't misjudged you! That strike—unorthodox, yes—but packed with raw power! You've got real talent!"
Iron Hammer forced a grin, bowing slightly.
What Zephyr didn't know was that this "hammer strike" would soon cause chaos—not just in training, but even for **himself**.
Because a blacksmith who hits like a warship's ram?
That changes everything…