The raft swayed gently in the shallow inlet, tethered to a split boulder by thick vines. A red moon had hung in the sky the night before, and the air now felt heavier, as though the island itself had taken a breath and refused to release it.
Gildarts stood knee-deep in the warm water, spear in hand, eyes scanning the ripples for any hint of movement. He was shirtless, sun-browned, and visibly leaner than when he had first arrived. Life here demanded it. Hunting, building, hauling timber, and rowing the raft across inlets and narrow lagoons had whittled him down into something sharp. Still nowhere near the monstrous strength Gildarts Clive had wielded in Fairy Tail… but something.
And yet, something else had begun gnawing at the edges of his awareness—an itch beneath the skin that had no clear source.
He hadn't sensed it right away. Days earlier, while meditating under the shade of a long-limbed tree, the world had briefly sharpened around him. The wind had whispered louder, the leaves clearer, the sounds of rustling grass and chittering birds momentarily elevated to unbearable clarity. For a single, flickering second, he had felt everything.
Then it was gone.
Since then, he had tried every day to coax it back, to nudge whatever dormant part of him that had stirred. That focus, that perception—he knew the name. Observation Haki. He had read about it, seen it through manga panels and anime frames. Now it hovered just beyond reach, teasing him.
"Come on," he muttered, squinting at the water. "Just a little push…"
The spear tip quivered in his grip. A long shadow slithered beneath the surface.
With a grunt, he lunged. The spear jabbed downward, disrupting the water with a splash, but missed its target. A long, sleek, eel-like, silver fish darted away into deeper waters.
He sighed and pulled the spear back up, droplets sliding off the shaft. His legs ached from crouching in the water, and the humid air clung to his skin like a second layer.
Behind him, his small, temporary camp waited: little more than a lean-to and fire pit beneath spirintwisted trees, set up not far from where he had landed on this new segment of the island. He hadn't dared venture too far inland yet. The jungle was thicker here, stranger. The trees leaned at odd angles, and the animals, when he glimpsed them, were lankier and faster. The whole place felt ancient and watched.
But he couldn't go back—not yet. His fruit search had turned up nothing but unfamiliar plants and a cluster of mushrooms he had wisely chosen not to touch. No Devil Fruits. No odd glowing trees. No strange pulsing roots. Just the dull ache of disappointment and the persistent grumble of hunger.
He stabbed the water again. Another miss.
"Damn it."
He stepped out of the lagoon and shook off his legs. His calloused feet scraped against the gravel, and the remains of old spear-fishing attempts—broken shafts and scattered scales—littered the nearby shore.
He needed protein. He needed answers. He needed a break.
Collapsing onto a flat rock, he let the spear rest against his shoulder and closed his eyes. The sun bore down. Somewhere overhead, birds cackled and wheeled. Beneath all of it, he searched for that stillness again. That moment of clarity. He inhaled deeply.
Empty your mind. Listen. Feel everything.
It didn't come.
Instead, what he did feel was the slow creep of unease. Not physical. Not even logical. But instinctual.
It started in the gut. A slow churn. Then it rose—across his chest, into his throat. The hairs on his arms stood up. He blinked and sat upright, every muscle tensing. The jungle had gone quiet. The birds had stopped. Even the insects had gone still.
The lagoon water rippled unnaturally.
He stood, spear gripped tight. His heart thudded in his chest—not from exertion, but warning.
Something moved beneath the surface. Something huge.
Ripples spread from the center of the inlet, slow and deliberate. The water shifted in a wide circle, as though the very sea held its breath.
Then he saw it.
Not fully. Just a shape. A glimpse. A pale yellow coil beneath the blue, long and thick and sinuous. It slid like a serpent, its body brushing the floor of the lagoon. Then a ridge rose—black-spotted and finned—slicing the water like a dorsal blade.
"No… but this water is too shallow..."
He backed up instinctively, tripping over driftwood as he stumbled. The Master of the Waters had arrived.
It rose slowly, like a god unfurling from sleep. Its head breached the surface first—elongated, reptilian, covered in yellow scales with oily black spots dotting its crown. Two massive eyes opened, gleaming pink with slit pupils. They locked on him instantly.
Gildarts froze.
There was no mistaking what this was. A Sea King. A real one. Not the cartoony beasts of the early Grand Line—this was an apex predator. Ancient. Territorial. A monster that had ruled this island's waters long before any pirate flag had been hoisted.
And it was staring directly at him.
"I didn't do anything," he said quietly, uselessly. "I'm just fishing…"
The beast opened its mouth. Rows of jagged, wet fangs gleamed in the sun. Its breath was hot, and it exhaled with a low rumble that made the water tremble.
Gildarts turned to run.
The wave came first.
The beast lunged forward—not a full breach, but enough to send a tidal surge crashing toward the shore. Gildarts dove behind a rock as the water exploded past him, sweeping away his lean-to, scattering his supplies, and pulling his raft from its mooring.
"No—damn it, no!"
He scrambled to his feet as the sea king loomed closer, its body sliding toward shore like a tidal serpent. It wasn't attacking—yet. But it was watching, head low, tongue flicking from its fanged mouth.
It was toying with him.
He backed up further, breathing fast. His hands trembled.
This wasn't a fight he could win. Not now. Not in this body. He had no Devil Fruit. No Haki. No magic. Just a spear and desperation.
"Shit! SHIT!"
There was nowhere to run. The jungle was behind him, but the beast could reach through the trees. The water offered no safety either—not against something that owned it.
His legs threatened to give out.
The Sea King raised its head slightly, its pupils narrowing. It opened its jaws wider—and let out a deep, echoing screech that shook the trees and set flocks of birds fleeing from the canopy.
The sound cut through Gildarts's mind like a blade. His ears rang. His body locked.
Fear took him. Real fear. Not anxiety. Not stress. Terror. The kind that came from knowing you were utterly powerless.
He fell to his knees, gripping the spear as if it could anchor him to life itself.
His breath hitched.
"Please…" he whispered. "I'm not ready. I'm not supposed to die here—!"
The Sea King lunged.
And something inside him snapped.
It wasn't visible. Not at first. But in the space between heartbeats, something ancient and vast erupted from deep within his chest—a tidal wave of raw willpower, unshaped and untrained but primal in its force.
The world shook.
Not physically, but through something deeper. A spiritual quake.
The trees bent. The water recoiled. Birds dropped from the air mid-flight, stunned. The Sea King froze mid-lunge, eyes going wide.
Then it screamed.
Not a roar, but a cry of pain—or fear. Its entire body convulsed as an invisible pressure crashed over it. For one terrifying instant, it looked smaller. Not in size, but in presence. Like a nightmare shrinking before the light.
Then it collapsed, slamming into the water with a massive splash, its head slumping sideways.
Stunned. Out cold.
Silence fell.
Gildarts remained kneeling, panting, wide-eyed, his hands digging into the sand. The spear lay discarded beside him. Every muscle in his body trembled.
He had no words. No understanding. Only the aftermath.
A moment passed. Then another.
He looked up, slowly. The Sea King floated in the lagoon, breathing slow and shallow. Alive—but motionless.
"What… was that?"
He didn't know. Not really. But deep inside, he felt it. That burst. That force.
Conqueror's Haki.
He hadn't tried to awaken it. Hadn't even believed it might live inside him. But whatever strange cosmic lottery had landed him in this body had given him more than muscles and scars.
It had given him presence. Potential.
And in a moment of pure, unfiltered desperation, it had come crashing out of him like a tidal wave.
He laughed. Just once—a dry, shaken thing.
"Well. That's new."
Slowly, he stood. His knees wobbled. His breath was still ragged. But he was alive. The Master of the Waters lay dormant, stunned but intact, and the jungle had not claimed him.
He turned to the wreckage of his camp. The firepit was gone, scattered. His food supplies were ruined, half-swallowed by the tide. The raft had drifted back to shore but now rested at a precarious angle, one of its lashings loosened by the wave.
Still, he was alive.
And more than that—he had a weapon now. One he hadn't understood until today.
Not a sword. Not magic. Not even a fruit.
Will.
He stared out over the lagoon, the breeze returning slowly, rustling the treetops once more.
The Sea King shifted slightly in the water, groaning in its sleep.
"Your scales are too thick," Gildarts said softly. "I'm not strong enough to fight you. Not yet."
He picked up the spear again, hands steadier now. A faint ember burned in his chest—no longer fear, but resolve.
"I'll be back... you asshole."
— — —
Update Schedule:
11:00am-12:30am
Sunday: Break Day
Monday: 1 Chapter
Tuesday-Friday: 2 Chapters
Saturday: 1 Chapter