One Piece: Marine's Justice

"Did you hear the news?"

"Of course I did. Some random punk from who-knows-where just got added to this year's Elite Class."

"I heard he got in through a special combat assessment, that's why he joined midway."

"What a load of crap. That kid's only fifteen, right? No way he passed some secret combat test. He must've pulled strings to get in!"

"I bet Zephyr-sensei doesn't like him either. Otherwise, why would he leak word that anyone who can beat that brat can take his place in the Elite Class?"

Before nightfall, a rumor had already spread like wildfire across the Marine Academy. By the time dinner rolled around, nearly every student had heard it:

A mere fifteen-year-old had skipped the Academy's brutal preliminary trials and directly joined the Elite Class, the 16th cohort's final member.

The dorms, the mess hall, the training grounds, even the bathhouses, everywhere on campus buzzed with speculation. Although the official word claimed he'd passed a special live combat exam approved by Marine Headquarters, few bought into it.

Most of the cadets who hadn't made the cut were far more willing to believe the new recruit was just some nepotism case. How else could a fifteen-year-old possibly pass a test tougher than the Academy's own entrance trials?

And there was something else fanning the flames.

A message had leaked from the office of Zephyr, the Academy's Chief Instructor. It said that anyone who could defeat the new kid would take his place in the Elite Class.

To the students, this was a godsend. It painted Zephyr as a paragon of justice, someone unwilling to turn a blind eye to the corruption of Marine Headquarters. Unable to defy the top brass directly, he'd come up with this clever loophole, leave it to the students to oust the backdoor entrant.

Honestly, the theory made a lot of sense, and even Cross, the boy at the center of it all, almost believed it himself when he heard the rumors.

Back in his office, Zephyr nearly burst into laughter when he found out how his offhand comment had ballooned into such a grand narrative. He hadn't expected a simple remark to elevate his image so dramatically.

...

Meanwhile, Cross had already retrieved his belongings from Borsalino's warship. After settling into his single-occupancy dorm, he strolled casually along the Academy's clean stone-paved paths, ignoring the stares and whispers around him. He made his way to the second-floor dining hall of Building 16.

The Marine Academy's meals were free of charge, but they were tiered by floor. The first floor was for regular students, the second was reserved for Elite Class cadets, and the third served instructors exclusively.

That said, if you had money, even regular students could buy meals on the upper floors. And since the food there was leagues better than the mass-produced fare on the first floor, many of the more well-off students chose to dine on the second or third levels.

The third-floor dining area had private booths, expensive and limited, requiring advance reservations. So the second floor naturally became the go-to spot for students who wanted good food and had the coin to spare.

"I'll take a medium-rare steak, one milk cake, and an apple salad."

"One macaroni plate, a bowl of tomato-egg soup, two grilled meats, and a silver cod fillet!"

"Miso ramen, a roasted chicken, and a fried pork cutlet!"

"Five bowls of white rice, grilled snail, and a portion of smoked chicken!"

The second-floor dining hall was spacious and brightly lit, with hundreds of students packed inside. It was loud and chaotic, most of them were paying for their meals out of pocket.

But the moment Cross walked in, the room shifted.

Heads turned one after another. Hundreds of eyes zeroed in on him. The buzzing chatter dulled instantly.

Within seconds, the entire dining hall fell into a stunned, almost unnatural silence, as if a roaring blaze had been doused by a bucket of ice water. Even the kitchen staff paused, bewildered, unable to make sense of the sudden shift.

Among the six grade levels at the Academy, students as young as fifteen or sixteen were extremely rare. So the moment Cross stepped in, it was clear he was the infamous new arrival.

"Heh... is this your idea of a welcome party?"

Cross tilted his head, amused by the crowd's reaction. His tone was teasing, completely unfazed.

No one answered.

Expressions across the hall ranged from curious to irritated, smug to indifferent. No one moved, no one spoke.

Cross didn't seem to mind. When no one responded, he simply gave a bored shrug and strolled over to the nearest food window to order dinner, completely at ease, as if nothing unusual were happening.

There's a saying: "If I'm not embarrassed, the awkward one is you."

In truth, many in the room wanted to challenge Cross and claim the last Elite Class spot.

But the world isn't short on clever people. Plenty of cadets hesitated. The rumor said Cross had connections high enough to bypass the Academy entirely. That kind of influence couldn't be taken lightly.

After all, these students would soon be full-fledged Marines. Was it really worth antagonizing someone with powerful backing over a single Elite Class seat?

So no one moved. Uncertainty froze them in place. Each hoped someone else would make the first move.

"Five fillet steaks, medium-well. Three orders of macaroni. One fried pork cutlet. A roasted chicken, three grilled meats, and a bowl of tomato-egg soup!"

At Window No. 1, Cross rattled off his order, then casually held up a black iron card, his official Marine Academy identity pass, so the kitchen staff behind the glass could see.

The cook gave a quick nod and began plating his food. Most of the dishes were already prepped and only needed plating; only the steak had to be cooked fresh.

Soon, Cross walked away with a tray stacked high with steaming, fragrant dishes. He found an open seat, sat down, and began to eat without a care in the world.

The food wasn't bad, definitely better than the first floor's grub. While it didn't quite compare to the cuisine at Juen, it was on par with a decent restaurant.

But it was Cross's unbothered demeanor, his blatant disregard for the tension in the room, that finally pushed some over the edge.

"You've got some nerve, brat!"

Three burly cadets slammed their utensils down and rose to their feet, surrounding Cross with imposing glares.

"If you've got something to say, wait till I finish eating. Thanks."

Cross didn't even lift his head. His voice was calm, polite, not the least bit aggressive.

And that, more than anything, set them off.

"You little punk! You asking for a beating?!"

The largest of the three bellowed as he raised a hand, ready to slap Cross across the face.

But the next instant...

A cold gleam flashed.

Before anyone could react, the man's hand was pinned to the wooden table by a dinner knife. His scream echoed through the silent hall.

"AAAGGHH—!"

"M-my hand… my hand—!!"

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