The place Garp had pointed them toward didn't exactly scream "official Marine business." It looked more like the backlot of a training field: wide open space, scorched grass patches, a few crates lying around like someone had given up halfway through setting up an obstacle course.
Gale was mid-yawn when someone stepped out from behind a supply shed.
She was young—maybe his age or a bit older—with short, vermilion-red hair that brushed her jawline, sharp brown eyes, and a bandaid stuck across her left cheek like she'd picked a fight with a shrub and lost.
Her Marine uniform was sharp: collared shirt tucked neatly into fitted shorts, brown gloves and heeled boots, and a tie that somehow hadn't strangled her yet.
The standard Marine coat was draped over her shoulders, cape-style. Of course it was. That was the law.
"Ensign Isuka," she said briskly, offering a crisp salute. "I've been assigned to guide you through the recruitment process. You're Gale and Poqin, right?"
"That depends," Gale said, tilting his head. "Are you here to recruit us or arrest us?"
"He means yes," Poqin jumped in, bowing slightly. "Thank you for meeting us."
Isuka blinked, clearly unsure whether she should be taking notes or issuing fines. "Right. Well. Let's get to it."
Gale straightened up and tried to look at least 30% more responsible. That was about his limit.
"The process typically starts with a background check," Isuka continued. "Once approved, new recruits start at the bottom as Seaman Recruits. They do maintenance work around the branch, take general education courses, and, eventually, climb the ranks. That's the standard route."
She glanced at a folder she pulled from somewhere inside that coat of hers. Honestly, Gale was 85% sure that coat had pockets that broke the known laws of physics.
"But since both of you came with a recommendation from Commodore Sicily…" she gave Gale a skeptical glance that said really? him?, "you're skipping the chore work."
Gale tried to look grateful, but also humble, but also very much like someone who hadn't spent the last week dodging seagulls and stealing bread rolls.
"That said," Isuka went on, flipping to another page, "you're not skipping training. You'll need to complete at least two basic courses—one vocational and one combat. Vocational options include: carpentry, medicine, navigation, and ship steering. Combat options are swordsmanship, hand-to-hand, and sharpshooting."
"Ship steering sounds fun," Poqin whispered, nudging Gale. "Do you think they'll let me drive?"
"Only if I'm wearing a life vest," Gale whispered back.
Isuka either didn't hear them or chose to pretend she didn't. "If you're aiming for higher ranks, you'll also need to complete a leadership course. That makes three total which you'll need to ace in three months."
"Three months, three courses," Gale echoed. "Wow. That's—what's the word? Brutal."
"It's efficient," Isuka corrected. "After that, a high-ranking officer will personally evaluate your progress and file a report. Your official rank will be based on that performance."
Gale gave a slow nod, scratching the back of his neck. "So what you're saying is we've got three months to become the most employable Marines alive or get yeeted back to mop duty."
"Correct," she said without missing a beat.
He grinned. "You're growing on me, Ensign."
She didn't smile. "Don't get used to it."
Yup. Definitely a Marine.
...
Early morning sunlight draped over the Marine town like a warm towel—pleasant, but slightly damp and vaguely smelling of salt. Gale trudged down a cobblestone path with a crumpled piece of paper in one hand and a confused frown on his face.
"Shooting range… shooting range…" he muttered, squinting at the hand-drawn map someone had hastily scribbled in ballpoint pen. It had all the artistic finesse of a blindfolded toddler with a caffeine problem. "Is this supposed to be a cannon or a chicken leg?"
He turned the paper sideways. Still looked like a chicken leg.
At least he wasn't homeless anymore. They'd assigned him a small house just off the town square—nothing fancy, but it had walls, a bed, and a suspiciously low number of rats. Poqin had been given a place too, which was both good and terrifying.
Gale had peeked into it earlier that morning and found an empty bag of snacks, a bent spoon, and a chalk drawing of a dinosaur labeled "Poqin's Battle Form."
So yeah, Poqin was thriving.
As for course selection, Gale had picked his trio with the cautious optimism of someone who'd just remembered finals existed. Leadership was mandatory, obviously.
And while Gale wasn't sure he had what it took to command a ship, a squad, or even a stubborn cat, he figured he could at least learn how not to cause a mutiny.
Navigation had been an easy pick. In this world, you either learned to sail or you became driftwood.
Sure, he wasn't expecting to become the next Nami. That girl could probably navigate through fog, lava, and emotional baggage. But if he was gonna keep traveling, he needed to figure out how to get from Point A to Point B without ending up at Point "Oh-God-Why-Is-Everything-On-Fire."
Then there was sharpshooting. That one was… personal.
The memory of the mantis shrimp from Karate Island still haunted him. The way it snapped its claws with enough force to vaporize a log. The glint in its beady little eyes. The sheer disrespect it radiated.
He'd practiced since then, with more than his revolver—tried throwing knives, makeshift darts, even coconuts—but his accuracy remained... let's say "adventurous."
So, yeah. It was time to learn how to actually aim at things and hit them.
Preferably before another seafood-related trauma.
A Marine passed by, and Gale held up his paper like a lost tourist. "Hey, sorry, could you point me to the shooting range?"
The Marine glanced at the map, blinked, and pointed. "Back that way. You're walking toward the bakery."
"Oh thank god," Gale said, turning back. "I was starting to think the bakery was the shooting range and that this town had wildly different ideas about food safety."
He followed the correct path, muttering directions under his breath and trying not to trip over a bucket someone had left in the road. "Left at the fountain, past the statue of that one guy with the overly dramatic pose, then right at the suspiciously aggressive cat."
Somewhere nearby, a voice called out. "Gale! You pass out and start sleepwalking again?"
It was Poqin, lounging on a barrel like it was a throne. He had a lollipop in his mouth and looked exactly like someone who'd signed up for Marine training just to see what would explode first.
"You heading to sharpshooting?" Poqin asked, stretching his legs.
"Yeah," Gale replied. "Assuming I don't shoot myself in the foot with a map first."
Poqin laughed and hopped down. "I'm off to ship steering. I plan to master the art of barely avoiding disasters."
"And hand-to-hand?" Gale raised an eyebrow. "You already fight like you have cheat codes."
Poqin smirked. "True. But it's fun watching instructors try to figure out what species I am."
Gale couldn't argue with Poqin.
Literally.
He didn't have the time.
His schedule for the first month was already packed tighter than a Sea King in a fishbowl: sharpshooting in the morning, navigation in the afternoon, swordsmanship and general workouts squeezed in wherever gravity and nutrition allowed.
Isuka had very politely suggested he take just one course at a time—something about "sustainability" and "not dying of stress-related liver failure."
That advice had entered one ear and sprinted out the other without even stopping for a sandwich.
Sure, others might start balding due to stress, but Gale? Gale thrived in chaos. His first years in this bizarre, rubber-limbed, bird-laying, sky-island-having world had been eighteen-hour days of nonstop survival, training, and letting Kiwanū from Torino Island run all manner of "non-lethal, non-invasive" experiments on him.
The man once tried to see if increased density made Gale immune to electric shock. (Spoiler: no, but ow.)
So yeah—he could handle a little overcommitment.
Leadership class could wait. That one smelled like group projects and mandatory PowerPoints. He'd tackle it in the last two months when he had no more excuses left.
For now, it was gun time.
As Poqin strolled off to "learn" ship steering (read: probably try to Tokyo Drift a Marine dinghy), Gale took a steadying breath and followed the winding path until he reached a sun-scorched training yard surrounded by earthen mounds and haystack barriers.
Target boards lined the far side like little bullseye gravestones, each with more scars than a retired sea dog.
And standing dead center was a woman who looked like she'd won a shootout before finishing her morning coffee.
She wore a long Marine coat draped over one shoulder, black cargo pants tucked into tall boots, and a sleeveless top that showed off toned arms covered in old burn marks and tattoos.
An eyepatch covered her left eye, and across her chest, waist, hips, and back—was enough weaponry to arm a small revolution. Pistols. Rifles. Something that looked suspiciously like a flare launcher duct-taped to a harpoon.
Gale blinked.
"Did I accidentally walk into the villain boss room?" he whispered to himself.
The woman caught him staring and cracked a grin, tossing a bullet into the air and catching it with the kind of ease that made Gale very nervous.
"You the newbie?" she called, voice gravelly with a hint of mischief.
"Uh… yes?" Gale said, walking forward with the stiff shoulders of a man who knew he was possibly about to be very thoroughly humbled.
She gave him a quick once-over, then turned and fired a pistol behind her without looking. The shot ricocheted off three iron plates, spun through a ring midair, and embedded itself perfectly in the bullseye of the farthest target.
Gale's jaw hit the floor before he could stop it.
"Welcome to sharpshooting class," she said, sliding the gun back into a holster that wasn't even on her side five seconds ago. "Name's Rika. You can call me Instructor. Or Ma'am. Or Please-Don't-Shoot-Me. Up to you."
Gale gave a slow, respectful nod.
"Ma'am it is."
Good start. Don't get shot. Don't say anything dumb. Don't ask how many of those guns are actually loaded.
"Alright," Rika said, dusting her hands off like she was about to build a cannon out of scrap metal. "Now that we've had our little meet-cute, it's time to pick your poison."
She gestured toward a nearby rack with what could generously be described as a modest assortment of firearms. A few flintlock pistols, a couple longer rifles with wood stocks and iron barrels, and one that looked like it had been chewed on by a sea beast.
Gale squinted. "Huh. I thought Marines had more variety in their boomsticks."
Rika snorted. "This is the basic rack. We're not handing out bazookas on day one, cowboy."
He winced slightly, then reached into his coat and pulled out his revolver—the same one he'd barely touched since Karate Island. Sleek, matte-black, and heavier than it looked, it had six chambers and an aura of "don't ask where I've been."
"Actually," Gale said, holding it out, "I was wondering if we could work with this instead?"
Rika raised an eyebrow and took it without hesitation. She gave it a quick twirl around her finger—like she'd been born doing it—before flicking it to the side and popping open the bullet wheel.
(Cylinder. That's what it was called. Why did Gale keep forgetting that? Probably because no one on Torino Island ever taught him gun terminology—they just threw coconuts until something exploded.)
Rika whistled low. "Well, look at you, Mr. Fancy. One of those South Blue revolvers, huh?"
Gale nodded. "Took it off a pirate a while back. Never used it much though… my aim's kind of tragic."
She gave him a look. "Like 'missed a target' tragic, or 'accidentally shot your own reflection' tragic?"
"…Define 'accidentally.'"
Rika chuckled and snapped the revolver shut. "Shame. This thing's not bad, but it's not standard-issue Marine gear. We don't even keep the ammo for these lying around."
"Oh." Gale deflated slightly. "So... flintlock it is?"
She paused, clearly thinking, then handed him the revolver back. "I'll send a request to the quartermaster to dig up some compatible rounds. Might take a few hours, maybe a day. Depends on if he's in a mood to hoard or help."
"Does he usually help?"
"No. He once tried to charge me ten thousand berries for a toothbrush."
"Why do I feel like I'm about to get billed for air?"
"Welcome to the Navy, kiddo."
With that, she waved toward the weapon rack again. "Until then, grab a flintlock and get used to the basics. The way I teach, if you can hit a moving target with that, you'll be a monster once you get your hands on something decent."
Gale sighed and grabbed a pistol that looked like it had seen better centuries. The handle was chipped, the barrel slightly warped, and the whole thing smelled like antique regret.
He held it like it might explode in his face at any moment—which, knowing his luck, was statistically likely.
Still, he gave Rika a confident nod, plastered on a grin, and said, "Alright. Let's see if I can manage to shoot something without causing a diplomatic incident."
Rika smirked, already walking toward the range. "Good attitude. If nothing else, you'll make a very entertaining sailor."
As Gale followed, pistol in hand and nerves on edge, he couldn't help but think: Alright. First the basics, then the bullets, then the trick shots.
One step at a time.
And if he shot himself in the foot along the way… well, at least it'd make a good story.
...
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