It was no more than a casual wave of his hand, as if he were swatting away a fly buzzing near his ear.
'Get lost before I change my mind and throw you overboard myself.'
Even though Zaraki never said the words out loud, the meaning in his eyes was obvious enough that Ace swallowed back the mess of emotions rising in his chest.
He took one last look at the figure standing between him and everyone on the shore.
That back was not broad, but in that moment, it looked steady enough to hold up the whole sky.
Skipping any drawn-out goodbye, Ace turned around and yanked the mooring rope free with his healed arm.
The small sailboat had already caught the current, surging forward over the water like a fish breaking loose from a net and putting more than ten meters behind it in the blink of an eye.
"Trying to run?! In your dreams!"
A roar exploded across the sea like thunder.
Zaraki narrowed his eyes against the salty wind.
Hundreds of meters away, on the deck of the dog-headed warship, the old man in the oversized suit with rice crackers still stuck to his chest had already stomped halfway through the railing in a fit of rage that completely ignored his age.
Garp did not even glance at the shrinking sailboat at first.
His eyes locked on Zaraki standing at the pier and on Ace fleeing behind him.
"Bogard! Bring me the cannon ball! The big one!"
At his shout, a group of marines rushed across the deck in a panic, dragging over a heavy iron ball linked to thick black chain.
The giant sphere slammed against the warship's deck every time it swayed, each impact making the nearby sailors flinch.
'Is this old bastard planning to blow up the whole pier?'
Zaraki's lips twitched as he felt the mood behind him change.
The villagers had stopped pleading and were now just standing there trembling.
For ordinary people in peaceful East Blue, violence on Garp's level was basically a natural disaster.
"Hey, old man," Zaraki called out, not moving an inch even though the weathered wooden pier under his feet creaked from age and seawater rot.
"Is this what you call your Fist of Love? This is more like dropping a meteor on the village."
The sea wind whipped across his forehead, but it did nothing to dim the dangerous light in his eyes.
By then, Ace's boat had barely crossed a hundred meters.
If that chained iron ball landed, the little sailboat would be smashed into floating debris before it ever reached open water.
"Here it comes!"
With another terrified shriek from Luffy, Garp grabbed the chain with one hand on the distant deck.
In the next instant, the old man's arm bulged with terrifying force.
"Get back here, you brat!"
The gigantic iron ball tore free with a white burst of compressed air and shot toward the pier and Ace's retreating boat with the force of a black meteor.
Its shadow swallowed the sunlight.
The pressure alone made Ace turn around in panic, his pupils shrinking as the iron ball rapidly filled his vision.
The screaming wind around it made it hard to breathe.
'There's no dodging that.'
Just as despair started to sink into Ace's chest, a fierce presence flashed into the corner of his eye.
Zaraki stood at the very edge of the pier, directly facing the incoming iron mass, lowering his center of gravity.
From this distance, he could hear the shrill scream of metal tearing through the air.
The force of it raised goosebumps all over his skin.
But it was not fear.
The Kenpachi template inside him trembled violently, and the blood in his veins seemed to ignite.
His entire body was screaming for one thing.
To cut.
'This is it.'
Zaraki tightened both hands around the dead branch he had grabbed by the roadside after tossing away the broken wooden sword from before.
A real blade would have been better.
The Asauchi in his System Space was the obvious choice.
But even now, he did not draw it.
He wanted to see how far he could push this crude power first.
Breathing methods? Useless.
Technique? Not the point.
All he had to do was pour that manic urge to slash into one explosive swing and let his soul drive the strike.
Right before the iron ball could smash apart the pier, the light in Zaraki's eyes flared.
His body felt like an erupting volcano.
Spiritual pressure burst out of him in a crushing wave, distorting the air around the pier and forcing the villagers back.
"Haaahhh!!!"
With both hands gripping the branch, he swung down with everything he had.
It was not a refined sword technique.
It was a crude slash fueled by spiritual pressure, instinct, and violent force.
Yet at the instant of the swing, a golden crescent of sword pressure tore free from the branch and shot upward like a rising moon.
Boom—!!!
The collision shook the sky.
The golden slash struck the incoming iron ball head-on, and the giant steel sphere split apart in midair under the overwhelming impact.
It was not the elegant precision of a master swordsman cutting steel.
It was brute force and sword pressure crushing through metal so violently that the ball broke into two clean halves.
A savage shockwave exploded outward from the impact, churning the seawater below into massive walls of spray.
The recoil that should have destroyed Ace's boat was knocked off course by the explosion, and the rushing air slammed into the little sailboat's canvas like a divine shove.
"Waaaaaaaah—!"
Ace's scream vanished into the wind and surf.
The small boat pitched almost vertically, nearly flipping, but the same violent burst shot it through the coastal blockade like an arrow, sending it racing into the distance until it became a tiny black speck.
Smoke and mist billowed across the docks.
Zaraki remained at the edge of the pier in the finishing posture of his swing.
The dead branch in his hands could not withstand the force he had poured into it and crumbled apart, turning into splinters and dust that stuck to his bloodied palm.
A numb ache spread through his fingers and wrist.
A few drops of blood slid down from his torn skin.
That was the price his ordinary sixteen-year-old body paid for forcing out power far beyond what it was currently built to handle.
But he was smiling.
His heart was hammering like mad, and every cell in his body seemed to be begging for more.
The sea wind gradually blew away the drifting smoke, revealing the front of the dog-headed warship.
Garp had gone quiet.
The old vice admiral stood frozen in his throwing posture, the pure rage in his eyes now replaced by a sharp, assessing stare.
He looked at the young man standing on the fractured pier, empty-handed and wild-eyed, as if he had just discovered an unpolished monster of a prodigy.
The silence that followed felt heavy.
Only the sound of the warship cutting through the waves remained.
The smell of gunpowder mixed with the fishy stench of churned-up seawater and shattered sea life.
Zaraki opened his hand, letting the remaining wood dust scatter into the sea breeze and drift down over the damaged pier.
His palm still tingled.
The muscles near his thumb twitched on their own.
'Still forcing it too hard.'
The Kenpachi template gave him monstrous spiritual power and battle instinct, but his body was still that of a sixteen-year-old from East Blue.
That attack had not been proper swordsmanship at all.
It had been him cramming raw spiritual pressure into a lousy branch and forcing it to release all at once.
Like firing a siege cannon through a rusted pipe.
The only reason it worked was because the pipe had not exploded in his hands first.
And if he tried something like that against real monsters on the Grand Line, the backlash would probably be much worse.
A huge shadow fell over the pier as the warship stopped in the shallow water instead of docking directly.
Then a massive figure leaped down from the deck, which stood more than ten meters above the sea.
The landing sounded less like a person jumping and more like some prehistoric beast stomping onto rotten ice.
The old pier groaned under the impact.
Cracks spread out in every direction from where Garp landed, and the planks beneath Zaraki's feet dipped hard enough that seawater burst up through the gaps and soaked the hems of his pants.
Facing Monkey D. Garp up close was far more oppressive than watching him rage from a distance.
The old man was not releasing killing intent on purpose, but his mere presence made the air feel thick and heavy.
That was the weight of the Marine Hero.
A living legend.
"You brat..." Garp dug at his nose and flicked something gross into the sea before looking Zaraki up and down, his gaze pausing on the bloodied splinters embedded in the boy's palm.
"Who taught you to swing like that?"
For most people, that stare alone would have driven them to their knees.
But Zaraki's blood only ran hotter.
Standing in front of a monster like this made the thrill in his chest surge even more.
"No one taught me," Zaraki replied, shaking out his numb hand as casually as if they were discussing the weather. "I picked up a stick, didn't like what was flying at me, so I cut it down."
"...You picked up a stick and cut it down?" Garp's eyebrow twitched.
At that moment, a gray figure landed silently behind him.
Bogard.
Garp's right-hand man.
The silent swordsman with his cap always pulled low was staring at the two drifting halves of the iron ball out on the water.
His gaze then shifted to the long trench-like disturbance still carved across the spray and sea surface by the released pressure of Zaraki's swing.
It was not a refined swordsman's trace.
It was the ugly scar left behind by overwhelming force.
Bogard slowly turned his eyes toward Zaraki's young but fearless face.
For once, a rare flicker of emotion showed beneath the shadow of his hat.
He stepped closer and lowered his voice at Garp's side.
Even with the sea wind blowing, Zaraki's sharpened senses still caught fragments of the whisper.
"...monstrous body... battle instinct... no polish... all raw..."
Bogard paused, then spoke a little more clearly.
"Vice Admiral, this isn't the technique of a trained swordsman. It's talent and destructive power in their crudest form. If someone guides him properly, Headquarters could produce a terrifying fighter."
Zaraki raised an eyebrow.
That was still ridiculously high praise, but at least it sounded more believable than pretending he had already become some polished monster overnight.
Garp listened in silence for a beat.
Then he threw his head back and burst into booming laughter.
"Pwahahaha! Bogard, your eye for talent is still sharp!"
Before Zaraki could react, Garp's massive hand came down and clamped onto his shoulder.
In that instant, Zaraki felt as if half his body had been caught under a steel press.
The old man's grip was absurd.
Even without any hostility behind it, the casual hold nearly dislocated him on the spot.
"Ouch—damn it, old man! Are you trying to cripple me?" Zaraki hissed, trying to wrench himself free and finding that Garp's fingers felt like an iron vice.
"That brat Ace already slipped away because of you," Garp said, still laughing. "So I can't go back empty-handed."
Ignoring Zaraki's complaints, the old man leaned in, grinning so widely that he looked more like a delighted beast than a vice admiral.
"Listen up, you little punk. Wasting strength like this on some pirate life or fooling around in the mountains would be a damn tragedy. Since you were raised under my watch, you're coming with me to Marine Headquarters!"
"Huh?" Zaraki froze.
'What kind of nonsense development is this? I just helped your grandson escape. Why the hell are you recruiting me?'
"What's with that stupid face?" Garp barked with another laugh. "This is an opportunity other brats would kill for!"
Still gripping him by the arm, Garp started dragging him toward the warship like he had just found a new trophy.
"And don't even think about slipping away. Your hand's still numb from that last swing, right? In your current state, you couldn't shake off even one of my fingers!"
As he was hauled toward the ship, Zaraki twisted his head and caught one last look at Bogard, who had remained behind at the cracked edge of the pier.
The quiet swordsman had one hand resting on the hilt at his waist.
He was not watching Garp.
He was staring at the point where Zaraki had stood moments earlier.
More precisely, he was studying the jagged scar gouged through the planks, seawater, and drifting spray by the overflow of that reckless slash.
Not a clean swordsman's cut.
Just the crude aftermath of a swing that had carried far too much force!