The sun had barely crested over the distant hills of Long Ring Long Land when Gildarts began his morning ritual. Dew still clung to the blades of grass and the long, ribbon-like trees swayed lazily in the breeze. A sleepy mist rolled in from the sea, painting the world in a gray-blue haze. Even now, the Devil Fruit haunted his thoughts, tucked safely beneath layers of dried palm leaves in the hollowed-out trunk of a long-dead tree. He hadn't touched it in days, yet every time he passed the hiding spot, he felt the weight of its presence like an itch just behind his ribs.
Today was no different.
He crouched before the hollow tree, peeling back the foliage to check on the fruit as if it were a baby bird he was responsible for. It lay nestled in the folds of his shirt—a shirt that now smelled more like forest than cotton—still perfectly preserved. The fruit's skin was matte red, shaped like a cube and crisscrossed with bizarre square spirals, giving it an unnatural symmetry that seemed to mock the organic chaos around it. The squiggly stem curled upward like a question mark.
Gildarts reached for it with his organic hand, stopping just short of contact. He exhaled slowly.
"This fruit could change everything," he muttered. "Or ruin it."
His voice sounded too loud in the morning stillness, so he stood up and let the foliage fall back into place. Not today. Maybe not ever. He wasn't ready to give up swimming—not here, not when he still relied on fishing, bathing, and occasionally diving into the ponds when a jungle fire got too close. The world of One Piece was cruel to Devil Fruit users who lacked backup or a crew. Right now, he had neither.
— — —
After a cold breakfast of nuts, dried fruit, and a handful of mushrooms Pork had helpfully dropped near his sleeping mat, Gildarts launched into his daily training. It had become more structured in the past week. He started with warm-ups—basic stretches, toe touches, shoulder rolls—then moved into the footwork drills he had cobbled together from old muscle memory and distant anime marathons.
He mimicked Takamura's shuffle, throwing light jabs with his organic arm and adjusting for the weight imbalance of his prosthetic. He practiced dodges from Megalobox, weaving side to side, eyes narrowing as he imagined phantom opponents circling him in the morning mist. Every move was raw and ugly, but slowly, he was finding a rhythm. The punch-and-duck sequences started to feel natural, even fluid.
More importantly, the fear was fading.
When he had first woken up in this world—trapped in the body of a man he only knew from the pages of Fairy Tail—every motion felt wrong. His prosthetic leg dragged, his arm refused to grip, his sense of balance was shot. But now, he moved like a weathered street fighter. Gildarts had grown into his limbs, artificial or not, and discovered new ways to use them that the original Clive might never have considered.
The street brawler instincts came next—quick elbows, low kicks, shoulder checks inspired by brawls from Baki the Grappler and King of Fighters. He mimicked the brutal, close-range slugging of certain characters from Guilty Gear, blending exaggerated wind-ups with real weight behind them. He even recalled an infamous crouching uppercut from Street Fighter, trying it out until he nearly toppled himself.
"Too fancy," he muttered with a wince, shaking the stiffness out of his hip. "Leave the flash to the fictional guys. Keep it simple."
— — —
By midday, drenched in sweat and already sporting the beginnings of a fresh bruise on his left thigh, Gildarts broke for water and a short rest. Pork had returned by then, the long fox trotting out of the tall grass with something squirming in his jaws. A rabbit with absurdly long ears that drug along the ground, or something close enough. Gildarts watched the creature's white-silver fur ripple with every step and held out a hand.
"Good catch, buddy. We'll cook it later."
Pork dropped the rabbit at Gildarts' feet, then slinked into the shade, yawning in that exaggerated way only foxes and cats seemed to manage. He looked smug, as always, with his squinty green eyes and swishing tail.
As Gildarts gulped from his water gourd, he closed his eyes and tried to center himself. Meditation wasn't something he was naturally good at—his mind was too noisy—but it was necessary. Observation Haki, whatever it was, only seemed to whisper when he listened in silence.
He sat still for nearly ten minutes, slowing his breathing, listening to the jungle around him: the buzz of insects, the flutter of wings overhead, the distant crashing of the sea. Slowly, he let the noise of the outside world slip past him and focused instead on feeling.
That's when he noticed it again—the faint prickle at the edge of his awareness, like a heat shimmer or a static charge. Pork hadn't moved in over a minute, but Gildarts knew the fox was about to shift. He didn't see or hear anything—but he felt it.
A moment later, the long fox uncurled and stretched.
There it was.
It wasn't much, not enough to call true mastery, but the instinct was returning more often. Gildarts smiled faintly.
"Progress." he whispered.
— — —
Later in the afternoon, Gildarts resumed work on his camp. The crude tent had been reinforced with animal hide and a layered roof of wide palm leaves. He had driven sharpened branches into the ground to build a low fence—not much more than a trip hazard to anything big, but it kept Pork from wandering too far at night. Beside the tent, he was slowly assembling a lean-to for storage: dried meat, foraged supplies, extra firewood. He even had a small stone-lined pit for smoking meat now, thanks to a lucky encounter with volcanic rock near the island's southern slope.
He spent an hour stitching together a thicker sleeping mat using vines and large strips of bark. It wasn't pretty, but it would keep his back from seizing up overnight. As he worked, he hummed tunelessly to himself, occasionally glancing up to see if Pork was still lounging nearby.
The fox snored loudly under a tree, curled around his tail like a fuzzy noodle.
— — —
That night, after a successful hunt, Gildarts roasted their spoils over an open fire and leaned back to admire the sky. The stars here seemed brighter than back home, sharper somehow. He could see constellations he didn't recognize, entire galaxies painted across the night in sweeping strokes. It was beautiful. And it was terrifying.
He turned toward the hollow tree again. The fruit was still in there, waiting. The weight of it pressed against his thoughts like a lead coin lodged beneath his skin.
"I'm not scared of it," he said aloud, though his voice lacked conviction.
Pork opened one eye and let out a soft snort.
"I'm not," Gildarts repeated, jabbing a stick into the fire. "I just want to be ready. I want to earn it. That fruit could make me strong, sure—but it could also kill me. And worse, it could make me rely on it. What if I eat it and suddenly forget how to fight without it? What if I drown during a storm and all this training is wasted?"
The fire cracked, casting shadows that danced across the trees. Gildarts poked at a chunk of meat, watching the fat hiss and drip into the flames.
"I'll get strong first," he said. "Strong enough that I don't need it. Then I'll decide."
Pork padded over and curled up beside him, tail flicking lightly against Gildarts' shin.
"Don't look at me like that," he muttered. "You don't have to worry about sea monsters and warlords."
Pork yawned and closed his eyes again.
With the fire dwindling to embers and the scent of cooked meat filling the air, Gildarts lay back on his mat and folded his hands behind his head. The stars wheeled above him, silent and ancient.
Tomorrow would bring more training. More hunting. More listening for the world's whispers.
And maybe—just maybe—a sign of what kind of man he was becoming in this strange new world.
— — —
Update Schedule:
11:00am-12:30am
Sunday: Break Day
Monday: 1 Chapter
Tuesday-Friday: 2 Chapters
Saturday: 1 Chapter