The morning sun broke gently over the horizon, casting golden rays across the wild canopy of the island that had become Logan D. Victor Creed's haven, forge, and silent witness.
He stood once more at the summit of the tallest peak. The winds tugged at his white cloak, now marked with the symbol he had forged during his training—a clawed white tiger wrapped in a cyclone, its eyes twin bolts of lightning.
He inhaled deeply, the wind singing across his skin.
"Two years," he murmured. "Two years since I left behind the chains of the Marines. It's time."
He looked out across the endless blue, knowing that beyond those waters lay Water 7—the island of shipwrights, home to the one craftsman he would entrust with the next step of his journey: Tom, the fishman legend, the man who had built the Oro Jackson for the Pirate King himself.
And if Victor was to carve a path of his own—beyond Marines, beyond pirates—he would need a vessel worthy of the storm within.
Departure
Victor crouched low, wind building around his feet. His palms opened to the sky as gusts gathered, swirling and lifting the dust around him into small cyclones. His eyes narrowed. The ground cracked beneath his toes.
With a roar, the wind erupted beneath him, a burst of pressure launching him into the sky like a missile. Trees bent in his wake, animals scattered, and the air screamed with velocity.
He was airborne.
Not falling.
Not gliding.
Flying.
The training had taught him control. Now, it bore fruit. Using wind currents manipulated with Aerokinesis, Victor propelled himself forward like an arrow loosed from a bow. Each burst from his hands and feet guided his trajectory. He soared above clouds, threading between seabirds, wind roaring in his ears.
The ocean stretched beneath him, deep blue and infinite.
He flew.
Not for war.
Not for glory.
But for purpose.
Day One – Over the West Blue
Victor flew low as the day waned, scanning the sea below. The West Blue was vast, but not lawless. He avoided main shipping routes, not wishing to alert Marines or passing pirates to his presence.
His senses stretched through the wind, detecting sails in the far distance. But none were threats—merchants, mostly. He paid them no mind.
As evening approached, fatigue crept into his muscles. Aerokinesis took a toll—especially when used for prolonged flight.
He descended to a small, uninhabited isle, rich with coconut palms and thick vegetation. With a gesture, he cleared a space to rest. Wind pushed leaves away, forming a circle of calm.
Victor sat in its center and closed his eyes.
A steady pulse of Observation Haki scanned the area—no lifeforms within range. Safe.
He ate fruit, meditated under the stars, and slept with his ear to the ground, the wind whispering updates from every direction.
Tomorrow, he would begin crossing into uncharted territory—the waters leading toward Reverse Mountain.
Day Three – Near the Red Line
The Red Line loomed like a wall carved by gods.
Victor had never approached it from this side before. From the Grand Line, yes—but not from West Blue.
He floated high, using layered currents to ascend without exhausting himself. The sight of the colossal landmass brought back memories—some of them stained in blood. It was near here he'd once been stationed as a Vice Admiral. Near here that his loyalty to the Marines had begun to fracture.
He clenched his fists.
That past was gone.
Now, he had new winds to chase.
He soared along the edge of the Red Line, searching. Somewhere along this great wall, he would find the Reverse Mountain, a natural anomaly—rivers flowing uphill, currents pushing ships toward the Grand Line.
There.
A surge in wind pressure revealed the path. Sea-spray rising. A line of gulls avoiding a particular airspace. Victor angled toward it, letting the unnatural flow of the Reverse Mountain guide him.
But even flight could not match the sheer, chaotic power of the currents.
As he approached the entry canal, violent winds spiraled from the force of water surging uphill.
He shifted into his hybrid Zoan form.
Claws sharpened, fur flared in the wind, eyes glowing. He became a storm.
He dove.
The Climb
Reverse Mountain wasn't meant for swimmers—or fliers.
The vertical ascent of the water's surface was madness incarnate. Torrents crashed from every angle. Sea kings roared below. The mountain itself groaned under pressure.
Victor flared his Aerokinesis to maximum. He launched into the center of the stream, using the updraft to ride the water like a bullet.
The storm raged.
He howled.
Thunder cracked behind him as his Fulgurkinesis flared, propelling him faster. His claws cut through vapor and pressure alike. Metal particles from the mountain walls responded to his will, forming a partial shield.
For minutes, there was only chaos.
But then—light.
The peak.
Victor exploded out of the Reverse Mountain with a sonic boom, water spiraling around him in a dazzling cyclone of mist and sunlight.
He hovered above the convergence point, panting.
Below him, to the southeast, lay the Grand Line—Paradise.
He dove toward it, laughter breaking from his lips.
The Grand Line welcomed him like an old adversary.
Day Five – The Calm Belt and First Isles
The Grand Line's first islands were varied and dangerous. Weather changed without warning. Magnetic fields skewed direction. But Victor didn't need a compass.
The wind told him where to go.
His Observation Haki had grown attuned to atmospheric changes. Each shift in pressure gave him signs. His flight path curved as needed, guiding him between whirlpools, away from sea kings, and through the eye of sudden storms.
He didn't stop on most islands.
But on a particularly dense jungle isle, he landed for water and a moment's rest.
He wasn't alone.
A group of pirates—young, loud, and underestimating—watched him from the trees. Their bounty posters fluttered in the wind. He caught the scent of gunpowder. The vibration of swords leaving sheaths.
They never got the chance to strike.
A pulse of Conqueror's Haki rolled from Victor like a wave.
They dropped where they stood—unconscious.
He didn't look back.
He took flight once more.
Day Eight – Approaching Water 7
The skies began to clear.
The scent of salt mixed with something artificial—metal, oil, freshly sawed wood.
And then—music.
Faint, but growing stronger.
The unmistakable clang of hammers, laughter of shipwrights, and the rhythmic creaking of drydocks in motion.
Below him stretched an archipelago of waterways, canals, and gleaming construction.
Water 7.
City of ships.
Victor descended slowly, drawing stares from seagulls, and eventually, people. His arrival, midair and cloaked in wind, sent loose papers flying and hats tumbling down the streets.
He landed softly near a main canal bridge, kneeling to dissipate the gusts before standing tall.
Civilians gasped.
Children pointed.
"Is he... flying?!"
"Who is that?"
But Logan ignored them.
He had a name to find.
Tom's Dock 1
It didn't take long. Victor walked with silent authority, wind subtly parting the crowd for him. When he asked about Tom, no one dared mislead him. His eyes—feral yet intelligent—were impossible to lie to.
Within hours, he stood before the largest of the docks.
Tom's Dock 1—a marvel of engineering.
Metal cranes moved like clockwork. Sea trains pulled into canals. Gigantic ships sat in scaffolding, some nearly complete, others skeletal.
And in the center, wearing blue overalls, towering, and laughing heartily while directing a dozen workers, stood Tom.
A broad-shouldered fishman with a toothy grin, eyes full of life, and arms built like anchors.
Victor waited until Tom noticed him.
It didn't take long.
Tom turned mid-laugh, his brow lifting.
"Eh? We've got ourselves a visitor?"
Victor stepped forward. "You're Tom. The one who built the Oro Jackson."
Tom's grin didn't fade. "Aye. And who might you be, flying down into my dock like you own the skies?"
Victor didn't answer immediately. He reached into his cloak, drew a folded paper, and handed it over.
Tom opened it.
Inside was a sketch.
A ship—not like any on the seas. A cross between a warship and a beast. Surface loaded with cannons on all sides. Four levels inside the ship. Two turbines at the top of the rear of the ship. Two turbines on each two sides of the ship. Armored hull. Energy conductors. And a name at the bottom:
Byakko.
Tom whistled.
"This... isn't just a ship. This is a storm."
"I need it built," Victor said. "And only you can do it."
Tom eyed him with growing curiosity. "What's your name, stranger?"
Victor stepped closer, eyes glowing faintly with wind-swept energy.
"I'm Logan D. Victor Creed. Former Vice Admiral. Now—free man. I walk the path of justice not written in Marine law."
Tom grinned wider. "Heh... 'D,' huh? I always liked your kind. You got guts coming here like this."
He studied the sketch again.
"You got the materials?"
"I will."
"You got the coin?"
"I'll get it."
Tom folded the paper with care and tucked it into his chest pocket.
"Then we've got a deal. I'll build your Byakko."
Logan offered his hand.
Tom took it. The grip between them cracked the air.
"Let's make history," Tom said.
Victor's eyes sparkled "We will."
With that, Victor left the Dock 1 to get the berry needed to build the ship of his design. As Victor left, Tom watched his back and said to himself "A new storm is brewing, and I am sure like Roger, this man will be in the center of it."