The wind howled through the canopy, weaving between the twisted trunks and rattling the leaves like distant drums. Somewhere in the heart of the island, amid the wilderness untouched by civilization, stood a man.
His muscles flexed under the weight of dozens of stone chains wrapped around his limbs. His breath was steady despite the burden. Sweat glistened on his bronzed skin, rolling down his chest and evaporating into the air charged with static.
"Victor Creed died when he left the Marines, but I can't just toss the name Creed away. After all, it's my mother's maiden name." He said as he observed the vast sea.
Logan D. Victor Creed—once a Vice Admiral of the Marines—was no longer a man confined by rank or protocol. The day he consumed the Tiger Tiger no Mi, he was reborn. No longer merely a weapon of the government, he had become a force of nature.
And nature, he knew, did not yield easily.
Year One – Month One
The first thing Logan learned was restraint.
The power that surged through him after consuming the Mythical Zoan fruit was intoxicating—feral, violent, primal. His body changed when he tapped into it; muscles expanded, claws formed from his fingers, fangs emerged from his mouth, and his eyes turned a piercing white with vertical slits. His presence alone could flatten birds mid-flight. He had felt the world shift under his roar.
But with great power came the risk of losing control.
He began simply: meditation under the waterfall. For six hours each day, he sat unmoving, allowing the crushing water to slam into him, forcing him to keep his body and mind grounded. The first week, he nearly drowned. By the third week, he could maintain his Zoan hybrid form without slipping into full transformation.
He recorded everything—how the lightning flickered in his nerves, how wind rushed to his call, how the metal beneath the earth trembled at his will. His Observation Haki became a map of these sensations. He practiced using it not just to sense presence, but to read the shifting currents of the wind.
That was his first fusion: Observation Haki + Aerokinesis.
Month Three
Logan stood at the edge of a cliff, arms wide, eyes closed. Around him, the breeze shifted subtly—curious, alive. He had learned to feel it all.
Birds flapping their wings a mile away.
The ripple of a distant stream.
Even the heartbeat of a lizard hiding under a log.
By extending his Observation Haki through the air currents, Logan turned the entire forest into an extension of his senses. He no longer just saw or felt others—he breathed them in.
It wasn't easy. It required full immersion. Each breath he took had to be in rhythm with the wind. Each exhale sent his presence outward. Slowly, he crafted what he called the Silent Tempest—a continuous field of Observation Haki that piggybacked on every gust, every shift in air pressure. In this mode, nothing could hide from him.
By the end of the third month, the island was blind to him no longer.
Month Five
The transformation into his Zoan hybrid form became second nature. But Logan wasn't content with control. He needed synergy. Harmony between man and beast.
He spent his days sprinting through the jungle on all fours, running in tiger form from sunrise to nightfall. He chased deer, birds, even the wind itself. Each step honed his speed. Each leap was a lesson in weight, balance, strength.
At night, he switched to weight training. Boulders strapped to his arms. Tree trunks lifted and balanced. He crushed stones with his bare hands, embedded iron in his skin, and wrapped vines around his limbs while pulling against them to simulate combat strain.
He called it Beast Discipline—a regimen not of survival, but of thriving. The White Tiger wasn't just a form; it was a lifestyle.
Month Eight
Lightning became his obsession.
Fulgurkinesis—it lived in his spine, crackled in his veins. Every time his emotions surged, sparks flickered across his body. But Logan wanted control, not emotion-triggered bursts.
So he experimented.
He would sit under a stormcloud, refusing to flinch when the bolts struck nearby.
He ran metal poles through the ground to guide lightning to strike at his feet, testing how close he could get without activating his Haki.
Eventually, he reached into the storm itself—arms stretched to the heavens, daring the skies to respond.
When the lightning finally struck him directly, he screamed, but did not fall.
Instead, his body absorbed the energy. He channeled it down his limbs and released it through his claws.
He had become a conduit.
Now, when he fought, electricity danced between his fingertips like eager serpents. Each strike could paralyze. Each roar was a thunderclap.
But still, he kept training.
Month Ten
Metal. Ferrokinesis.
Logan had nearly ignored this ability, thinking it crude. But over time, he understood its subtle brilliance.
He began by practicing with iron-rich soil. With time, he moved on to manipulating buried deposits, forcing ore to the surface. His control expanded—he could now reshape broken weapons, fuse shattered rocks, and even summon needle-like shards to surround him in a protective ring.
But he didn't stop there.
He forged claws from pure ore, embedding them into his transformation. Then he coated them in Armament Haki—not just for power, but to perfect the fusion of ability and will.
The process was slow. Months of trial and error. Countless failures.
But on the last day of the year, Logan stood under the moonlight, roared, and unleashed his full transformation:
White fur streaked with lightning. Wind spinning around his form like a cyclone. Iron claws glinting with blackened Armament Haki.
He had become the storm.
Year Two – Month One
With power came pride—but Logan refused to be complacent.
The second year was dedicated to refining what he now called Tri-Fusion State—the harmony of all three elemental powers through his Zoan form. Wind, lightning, and metal—each interlinked, each supporting the other.
He trained each day with strict purpose.
Morning: Windflow Combat—using air currents to guide movement and amplify speed.
Afternoon: Stormheart Conditioning—harnessing electricity to stimulate muscles, heal damage, and boost reflexes.
Evening: Iron Mantle Trials—surrounding his body with magnetic metals and forcing himself to repel or attract them for hours to build strength and discipline.
At night, he meditated. Haki was not only a tool, but a state of mind.
His Armament Haki grew deeper—his strikes left cracks in stone, his body glowed with a dark sheen, unbreakable.
His Observation Haki evolved. Now, he could not only sense motion, but intent—the shift in the wind before a predator lunged, the moment before a leaf fell.
And at the center of it all was the White Tiger's roar—an aura of Conqueror's Haki so fierce, it could split trees apart with silence.
Month Seven
It was time to challenge his Conqueror's Haki.
The rarest of the three, and the most volatile.
Logan had never learned to control it fully. It emerged only in moments of crisis—when he consumed the fruit, or during peak adrenaline. But he couldn't afford to rely on spontaneity. Conqueror's Haki was the will to dominate, to lead, to stand above. If he was to face the world again, he had to own it.
So he isolated himself.
For seven days, he ate nothing. Spoke nothing. Surrounded by mirrors of polished metal, each reflecting his own eyes, Logan focused inward.
He summoned memories. The screams from Ohara. The cold dismissal of Akainu. The quiet betrayal of justice. He embraced his fury—but refused to let it consume him.
Then, he roared.
The air shattered.
Mirrors exploded.
Trees bent and cracked.
The mountain shook.
For the first time, Logan commanded his Conqueror's Haki. And the world obeyed.
From that point forward, he could imbue it into strikes. Not just as force, but as presence. Each movement carried weight—enough to make animals bow. Enough to split boulders without touch. He began weaving it into his wind attacks, using it to guide his lightning, to direct the movement of metal.
It was his Willstorm Technique—the fusion of Haki and Devil Fruit.
Month Eleven to Twenty-Four
Logan stopped counting time.
The training became his life.
He added unpredictability to his routines: training blindfolded, practicing under the waterfall during thunderstorms, running through the forest during hurricanes. He pushed his body to the brink, then forced it further.
Every week, he would break himself down.
Every week, he would rebuild himself stronger.
Every week, he would surpass his limit, right there and right then. And go beyond.
He developed unique forms:
Tempest Fang – Claws enhanced with wind and lightning, capable of rending steel.
Storm Mantle – A full-body defensive stance using magnetized metal armor guided by wind currents.
White Pulse – A shockwave of Conqueror's Haki wrapped in wind, blasted from his roar.
Flash Rift – Moving with wind-assisted speed and striking with a thunder-infused claw, causing sonic booms on contact.
He even developed a silent technique: Still Fang—a strike executed in complete stillness, using wind vacuum and silent lightning, impossible to detect until it hit.
Each technique was refined again and again. Muscle memory etched them into his bones.
But he wasn't just growing stronger—he was becoming whole.
Final Day of Training
Logan stood at the peak of the island's only mountain, staring out at the endless sea. His body was bare save for the iron gauntlets he had forged himself. His white hair fluttered in the wind. Scars crisscrossed his chest like ancient script.
Around him, the island was quiet. The forest bowed in reverence. Even the air waited.
He took a deep breath.
His body shifted—fur covering his arms, fangs extending, claws gleaming. Wind spiraled around him, lightning shimmered along his skin, metal plates hovered in formation.
He didn't roar.
He exhaled.
And the world trembled.
Two years of solitude. Two years of discipline. Of pain. Of hunger. Of discovery.
He had not simply trained.
He had been forged.
Now, he was ready to return to the world—not as a Marine.
Not as a deserter.
But as the White Tiger of the West.
A symbol of true strength.
A storm in human form.
A reminder that justice must have a soul.
And when he walked down that mountain, the earth itself seemed to whisper:
"He is coming."