The sun rose gently over the long, meandering plains of Long Ring Long Land, casting golden light across the dew-kissed grass and shimmering off the surface of the pond.
Gildarts stood beside his raft, the patched and reinforced vessel bobbing gently in the shallows. It looked far different than when he first lashed logs together with vines and desperation. Now it had a base layered with hardened bark and interwoven reeds for insulation, tall curved planks that suggested a rudimentary keel, and crude but strong ropes binding it all together.
He stood still for a while, letting the wind brush past his face, the distant calls of local wildlife echoing faintly in the air. A few final provisions were wrapped in animal hides and secured onto the raft. Dried meat, native fruits, a few canteens of filtered water, odd bones and stones that might prove useful, and the precious fruits of the land he'd gathered—seashells, rare leaves, even small nuggets of copper and gold he'd stumbled upon during his last few days exploring the island.
But the most significant weight he carried now was the one within him—the brick-red Devil Fruit he had eaten days ago, now churning in his gut and altering his very being. The power of Crush had made itself known in several chaotic, unintended ways, turning trees to cubes, breaking boulders with mere touches, and once splitting an entire hilltop like it was sand. It had scared him, thrilled him, but also humbled him. The power was vast, and utterly beyond his current control. But he had it. It was his.
Gildarts turned his head slightly. Pork sat at a distance, the long fox with silver-white fur perched on a rock, his ears twitching and eyes squinted in that perpetually judging look. Gildarts had offered to take him along—more than once—but the fox had refused. The animal had nudged his hand in farewell this morning and then walked away to watch from afar.
"Guess this is it," Gildarts murmured. He stepped aboard the raft. It dipped with his weight, but the structure held.
A long wooden pole, shaved into a crude oar, was tucked into a rope slot at the side. He pushed off the shore, letting the morning current guide him as he paddled slowly down the narrow river that fed into the ocean.
It was quiet. Too quiet, almost. Each splash of the oar into the water was a reminder that he was no longer surrounded by the natural ambiance of the island he'd come to call home. Trees gave way to open lagoon, and finally, the mouth of the river opened wide into a familiar, sapphire-blue lagoon ringed by stone pillars and shallow coral beds.
As his raft drifted deeper into the lagoon, something shifted beneath the water.
A ripple. Then another. Then silence.
Gildarts tensed, his hand tightening around the oar. He scanned the water. The raft swayed as a sudden swell lifted it.
A yellow ridge broke the surface, then a sleek, scaled spine. Black spots shimmered as the sunlight caught them. Then two massive magenta eyes appeared, followed by a ridged snout and a mouth lined with jagged, overlapping teeth.
The Master of the Waters.
The same Sea King that had nearly ended him before.
Gildarts didn't panic. Not this time.
He stood slowly, breathing steady. His limbs no longer trembled as they once had. His instincts were sharp now, honed by hardship and training. He had studied the waters. He had prepared for this.
"You're not catching me off-guard again," he said under his breath.
The sea king lunged, erupting from the water with a roar that sent a blast of air across the lagoon.
Gildarts raised his hand. Not to strike, but to direct. He pivoted, shifted his weight, and called upon that still-developing sixth sense—the refined perception he'd cultivated during his long isolation. He felt the pressure before the beast moved, predicted the arc of the attack before it began.
He leapt.
Landing on a protruding fin, he scrambled forward, dodging the snapping jaws and dragging with him a thick loop of vine rope. His movements were coordinated, calculated. His mind raced through the plan.
He lashed the vine behind one of the beast's fin-spines. Then another. And another.
The Sea King thrashed, twisting and diving, trying to dislodge him.
Gildarts gritted his teeth and held on, limbs burning with effort. He wasn't fighting the monster—he was breaking its will. This wasn't brute force. This was domination by audacity, by grit, by the culmination of every ounce of training and resolve he had forged over months.
"You're not killing me," he growled through gritted teeth. "You're working for me now, damn thing."
It took time—long, exhausting minutes of struggle and risk—but eventually, the massive creature slowed. Its movements lost their frenzy. The predator became still, breath heaving beneath its scaled ribs.
Gildarts leapt back to the raft, panting and somehow, miraculously untouched by water. He held tight to the vines now looped through crude hooks along the raft's side. One last heave, one last command through his posture and voice and glare—and the Sea King complied.
It began to swim.
The raft jerked forward.
The sudden speed nearly threw him off, but Gildarts dropped low, clinging to the raft with one hand, the other holding a tied loop of vine like reins.
It worked.
The Sea King pulled the raft, cutting across the lagoon with powerful strokes. The wind snapped against Gildarts' makeshift cloak, water spraying across his face and making his limbs suddenly feel like Playdough, but thankfully, he had already tied the creature down and had the strength to move away from the flying mist. The sea opened before him—vast, endless, and perilous.
He wasn't going to cross it in a day. Or a week.
But he was no longer stranded.
He had taken the first real step off Long Ring Long Land.
Behind him, the semi-submerged ringed island shrank into the distance. Trees became silhouettes. The fields became brush strokes of green and yellow. The mountain ridge vanished behind a cloud.
And Pork…
Gildarts glanced back one last time. The long fox was just a speck on the highest hill, watching silently.
The raft creaked, wind howled, and the sea rolled endlessly ahead.
Gildarts sat down cross-legged on the deck of his raft, soaking wet and triumphant. He didn't smile, but his eyes were filled with fire.
He had a devil's power in his blood, the ocean beneath him, and a monstrous beast tied to his will.
The world was about to open.
He would be ready for it.
— — —
Update Schedule:
11:00am-12:30am
Sunday: Break Day
Monday: 1 Chapter
Tuesday-Friday: 2 Chapters
Saturday: 1 Chapter