The oppressive quiet of the hidden island sanctuary didn't merely shatter; it imploded. A distant thrum, a resonant vibration that to any normal infant would be an imperceptible background hum, vibrated through Jiang Chen's tiny, nascent eardrums like a cosmic gong struck with dire intent. He was swaddled in a simple crib, nestled deep within a secluded, weathered house on the edge of a cliff, its sturdy timbers groaning against the relentless sea wind. The rhythmic crash of waves, usually a soothing lullaby, now felt like the inexorable ticking of a desperate countdown, each surge against the shore mirroring a frantic beat within his own undeveloped heart. His infant eyes, still mostly unfocused, snapped open, betraying a consciousness far older and more discerning than his fragile form suggested.
Marines.
The word, a cold, hard fact from a world he himself had spun into existence, echoed in his ancient consciousness. Even without his full, boundless spiritual sense, the subtle shifts in the island's atmosphere—the low hum of approaching vessels, the building tension in the very air, the frantic, hushed movements of the few loyal caretakers who had guarded his mother's secret—were screaming danger. They weren't just approaching; they were descending, a relentless tide of state-sanctioned justice poised to engulf this tiny, fragile haven. The gentle hand that had caressed his forehead moments ago, filled with such profound maternal tenderness, was gone, replaced by the hushed whispers of panic, like dry leaves rustling before a storm, carrying the scent of fear and resignation.
The first explosions ripped through the island, distant but unmistakable, each concussive blast vibrating through the very foundations of the earth. Wooden structures groaned in protest, splintering and collapsing, and the acrid scent of burning timber mixed with the sharp, clean tang of sea salt, creating a noxious cocktail that stung his tiny nostrils. Shouts, sharp and authoritative, pierced the air, followed by the rhythmic clatter of boots on rough terrain, drawing ever closer, a relentless, predatory beat. Rouge, her face pale with exhaustion and fear, yet alight with a terrifying resolve, snatched him from his crib, clutching him tightly to her chest. Her movements, despite her advanced state of physical depletion, were surprisingly swift, imbued with a desperate, almost primal strength born of pure maternal instinct. She pressed him against her, her frail body a fragile, living shield against the encroaching chaos.
"Run!" a gruff, loyal voice, belonging to one of the few remaining allies who had helped conceal her, bellowed from outside the small, isolated house. "We'll hold them off! Get the child to the boat!"
"No!" Rouge's voice, though hoarse from strain and whispered exertion, was imbued with an unyielding steel. "Protect the child! That is the only order!" She knew her fate was sealed; her only purpose now was to ensure his survival, a single-mindedness that transcended fear, a will stronger than any physical barrier.
Jiang Chen's nascent senses were overwhelmed, assaulted by a cacophony of stimuli. The world outside the small room became a maelstrom of raw, unrefined energy – the blunt, forceful presence of Marine soldiers, hardened and radiating a rigid adherence to their 'justice,' clashing with the more erratic, less refined surges of the few brave villagers and scattered allies who dared to resist. He could not sense Haki from them, for they possessed none, but their intent was a palpable wave of aggression. They were closing in, relentless in their pursuit of the Pirate King's lineage. The house itself, once a haven of peace, now thrummed with the impending rupture of its very existence, each creak of wood, each distant shout, a harbinger of doom.
He, the former Jiang Chen, who had cleaved mountains with a thought and shifted seas with a casual flick of his wrist, who had commanded galaxies and stared down cosmic deities, was utterly, horrifyingly helpless. His infant body, fragile and uncoordinated, could not move, could not speak, could not defend. All he could do was observe, a silent, ancient mind trapped within a screaming, vulnerable form. The irony was a bitter taste in his mouth, metallic and acrid. He had designed this world, had imbued it with its fantastical powers, weaving its very laws into existence with his dying immortal spark. And now, in his moment of greatest need, these very powers, not yet his to command, threatened to consume him, rendering his vast, ancient knowledge moot. The perfection of his creation, a world that operated on its own distinct principles, was now a cage.
The door, old and weathered but stout, burst open with a deafening crack, splintering inward under the force of a determined charge. Two burly Marines, their faces grim and set with the cold conviction of their duty, stormed into the room. They were armed only with standard-issue rifles, their bayonets gleaming in the dim light, devoid of any special abilities. Their presence felt like a physical weight, pressing down on the very air, their determined glares fixed on Rouge and the bundle she clutched.
"Portgas D. Rouge!" one of them bellowed, his voice filled with the self-righteous zeal of absolute justice, echoing the World Government's decree. "You are under arrest for harboring the child of the Pirate King! Surrender the infant, and we shall make this swift!"
Rouge didn't answer. Her breath hitched, but her eyes, deep pools of defiant love, blazed with an almost manic intensity. She stood her ground, her frail form a bulwark against their advance, a testament to a maternal will stronger than any weapon. It was a force so potent, so pure in its maternal ferocity, that the hardened Marines hesitated, momentarily taken aback, their practiced resolve faltering in the face of such raw, fearless protection. This was not the expected trembling, defeated woman; this was a force of nature, driven by the most profound, unyielding love.
Incredible. Jiang Chen's internal monologue, usually analytical and detached even in the face of existential threats, was now laced with genuine awe, a profound sense of vindication for his own creative genius. The perfection of the 'will' in this world. It transcends mere spiritual energy or physical might. It is the very essence of their being, capable of manifesting as tangible, Haki power, shaping their own limitations into strength. This woman, a 'mortal' in my previous universe, is embodying a 'Dao of Protection' through sheer, unyielding will, defying death itself for a time. My creation is truly magnificent, capable of generating such profound miracles from the simple, yet potent, force of life.
But even the purest will, unbacked by external power, could not stop a bullet, especially when faced with the cold, unyielding precision of Marine weaponry.
A sharp crack, then another, deafening in the enclosed space. Rouge cried out, a strangled sound that ripped through Jiang Chen's tiny body, a sound of profound anguish. Her grip on him tightened momentarily, then slackened with terrifying finality. Warm, wet blood, thick and coppery, seeped through the rough cloth of his swaddling, staining his cheek with the grim reality of her sacrifice. He smelled copper, a sharp, metallic scent that superseded the salt and the smoke, mingling into the scent of impending death. His infant body trembled uncontrollably, a raw, physiological response to terror, but his mind, ancient and calculating, was registering every agonizing detail, every fading pulse of life.
His mother, his creator's vessel, was dying. Her life force, once so vibrant and tenacious, was flickering like a candle in a gale.
"Rouge!" The gruff voice from earlier screamed, laced with raw anguish, echoing the futile despair of those who had tried to protect her. "No! You bastards!"
The Marines, momentarily stunned by their own actions, seemed to falter, perhaps registering the moral weight of killing a defenseless, albeit defiant, woman. A flicker of something akin to shame crossed their faces, quickly suppressed by years of indoctrination. But the mission was paramount, the orders absolute. One of them, driven by duty, stepped forward, his hand reaching for Ace, intent on securing the 'devil child.'
A sudden, earth-shattering tremor. The very ground beneath them vibrated violently, not from an explosion, but from a colossal, crushing force, a single, immense weight slamming into the island with pinpoint precision. The air itself seemed to ripple with a pressure so immense, so overwhelmingly powerful, that the Marines in the room, even the most seasoned, involuntarily buckled, their knees threatening to give out beneath them. It was a presence, a singular, dominant will that dwarfed all others on the island, a crushing weight of personality that defied resistance, born purely from the physical presence of its wielder.
This… this is the force of a truly dominant will, expressed through sheer physical power, Jiang Chen observed, his inner turmoil momentarily eclipsed by the resurgence of fascination, a detached analysis borne from millennia of observing cosmic phenomena. Not a spiritual pressure as I knew it, but a potent, undeniable aura that bends the weak. A master of pure physical force, indeed.
A figure burst through the shattered doorway, not through stealth or cunning, but through sheer, unadulterated brute force, leaving a man-sized silhouette blasted into the reinforced wood. Monkey D. Garp. The "Hero of the Marines."
Garp's face, usually set in a jovial grin or a fierce battle scowl, was etched with a rare, profound sorrow as he took in the scene. Rouge, bleeding profusely, but still clutching the infant. The two shocked, but recovering, Marines, their faces a mixture of confusion and a dawning understanding of their superior's fury.
"You fools!" Garp roared, his voice like thunder, shaking the very foundations of the house. It was a feigned fury, Jiang Chen realized, a carefully orchestrated performance for the benefit of his subordinates, a necessary charade to maintain plausible deniability. But beneath it, a sliver of genuine regret, of a plan pushed to its absolute limit, resonated, adding a layer of authenticity to the deception. "What have you done?! You were ordered to secure the child, not harm the mother! You've jeopardized the entire mission!"
Garp quickly moved to Rouge, his large, calloused hand gently supporting her head, his eyes shadowed with an ancient sadness. His gaze was fixed on her fading life force, a profound sorrow emanating from him, a silent farewell to a brave soul. He did not kneel, but his stance was one of deep respect and mourning.
"Garp… you're late," Rouge whispered, a faint, weak smile, yet grateful. Her eyes, filled with an all-encompassing love , looked down at the infant in her arms, a silent plea passing between them. "Please… keep him safe… his name is… Ace."
And then, her eyes glazed over, the light of life dimming and extinguishing. Her grip, which had held him so fiercely even in the throes of death, finally loosened, releasing him into the world. Jiang Chen, felt the stillness and weak life force that descended upon her body, the cessation of her heart's beat, the extinguishing of that vibrant, unique 'will' that had so captivated his mind.
He felt it all. The warmth of her cooling body against his skin. The cessation of her breath, the final exhalation of life. The last, agonizing release of her life force, dissolving into the very fabric of the world he had created.
A wave of profound, illogical, yet utterly overwhelming grief washed over him, drowning his thoughts in a deluge of pure, unadulterated emotion. Tears, hot and uncontrollable, streamed from his infant eyes, scalding his cheeks. A primal wail, raw and piercing, tore from his tiny throat, a sound of raw, unadulterated agony that had nothing to do with the analytical, detached observations of Jiang Chen, the cultivator. It was the visceral cry of Ace, the newborn, the son who had just, irrevocably, lost his mother, a profound wound carved into his nascent soul.
He knew, intellectually, why this had happen. The narrative threads of destiny. But the infant Ace felt only the searing pain. I could have saved her.
He thought, his infant mind burning with a newfound, terrifying intensity, a fury that threatened to consume him. To have commanded the very fabric of the cosmos, to have wielded power capable of shattering stars, yet be rendered utterly impotent in the face of my own mothers death. To be a god in another life, reduced to a weeping baby in this one, unable to save a simple mortal life that mattered so profoundly to me. This pain…
The bitterness, the searing pain of his mother's death, all coalesced into an unshakeable, burning resolve. His ancient soul, fractured and diminished by the tribulation, now burned with a fire fiercer , hotter than any celestial flame. This pain, this profound weakness, would be his ultimate motivator.
His tears continued to fall, mingling with her blood on his cheek, a silent testament to his failure. I failed to ascend to true immortality in my previous life, and I failed to protect the one who gave me this second chance, who nurtured me from oblivion. This will not happen again. Never again will I be this helpless, this utterly at the mercy of my others.
He had seen the limits of this world's power. Even the most powerful beings were constrained by its inherent laws—Devil Fruits negated by seawater, the physical and mental limits of those who could only rely on their innate strength. Neither, he realized, truly encompassed the boundless, transformative power of true cultivation, the ability to transcend and redefine fundamental reality. The powers here were magnificent in their own right, but they were still contained within the framework he had established.
The Dao of Saint Realm.
The concept, a pinnacle of existence in his previous universe, a state beyond all suffering and limitation, solidified in his mind, becoming his singular, all-consuming goal. It was a realm of complete self-mastery, where one's physical body, spiritual essence, and mental will fused into an unbreakable whole, transcending the very laws of reality itself. It was a state beyond immortality, a true communion with the universe's foundational principles, granting the power to redefine existence. That was the only path to absolute control, the only way to ensure he was never again trapped by his own designs, never again a helpless spectator to tragedy.
I will not merely master Haki—should I even find it here. I will not merely wield Devil Fruit powers, should I ever acquire one. I will transcend them. His infant body, cradled gently by Garp's massive, calloused hands, felt a profound, internal shift, a reawakening of energies long dormant. It was the nascent stirring of his lost cultivation base, the reawakening of a primal hunger for power, but now tempered by the bitter taste of loss and the profound understanding of his own creation. I will break through these heavens. I will ascend to the Dao of Saint Realm, the pinnacle of cultivation, the ultimate freedom. And I will do it here, in this world that I crafted, proving its perfection by mastering it from within, by surpassing even the limits I set. I will become the ultimate variable, a force that even the heavenly dao cannot control.
He closed his eyes, his wails slowly subsiding into ragged gasps, his tiny body trembling with the weight of his newfound resolve. Garp, assuming the infant had simply exhausted himself from the trauma, cradled him gently, his gaze distant and troubled, burdened by the secret he now carried, the heavy weight of a promise made to a dying woman.
Garp stood, the unconscious Marines and the lifeless body of Rouge the only witnesses. He could hear the escalating chaos outside, the shouts of the lower-ranking Marines sweeping the island. More dangerous, though unseen, was the subtle shift in the air, a faint, almost imperceptible hum that only a man of his experience could discern. CP0. They wouldn't be far behind, sniffing out any inconsistencies, any deviations from the rigid script. Their presence was a silent, chilling threat, ensuring no one, not even a Marine Vice Admiral, dared defy the World Government's absolute will.
He had bought precious minutes, but the window was closing. "Alright, Ace," Garp murmured, his voice gruff, his gaze sweeping the devastated room. "Time to go." He carefully adjusted the infant in his arms, securing him against his chest. His plan was audacious, bordering on suicidal, but it was the only way. He had chosen a remote island for Rouge's hiding, not just for secrecy from the Marines, but also to facilitate this escape.
Moving with a deceptive grace for a man of his bulk, Garp avoided the main paths, leaping over debris, ducking under fallen trees, making his way towards a secluded, pre-arranged rendezvous point on the opposite side of the island. He could feel the faint, unsettling 'presence' of CP0 agents now, like cold tendrils probing the atmosphere, their methods far more subtle and invasive than standard Marine patrols. They wouldn't hesitate to question his actions, to analyze every detail.
He reached a small, hidden cove where a tiny, unassuming fishing boat was tethered, bobbing gently in the waves. A lone, trusted aide, a grizzled old fisherman whose loyalty had been bought with a lifetime of quiet favors, was already waiting. "Everything ready?" Garp grunted, his voice low.
The fisherman nodded, his face etched with worry. "Aye, Vice Admiral. Provisions are packed. Ready to sail the moment you're aboard."
Garp carefully placed Ace into a padded basket in the boat's hull. "You're taking him to Dawn Island, in the East Blue. To a village called Foosha. There's a woman there, a bandit. Dadan. Tell her Garp sent him. Tell her… tell her he's my grandson and she's to raise him as her own, far from Pirates and marines for now. Tell her it's an order." The words tasted bitter in his mouth, a lifetime of duty clashing with the desperate need to protect. The East Blue, weakest of the seas, a backwater far from the attention of the World Government's elite. It was the perfect hiding place.
"The East Blue?" The fisherman looked aghast. "But, Vice Admiral, that's… that's so far. And CP0 will be looking."
"Precisely why it's the safest place," Garp stated, his gaze hard, scanning the horizon for any hint of a black-suited figure. "They'll never expect me to send him to such a quiet backwater. And they'll never think to look for him being raised by bandits." The irony was not lost on him; the hero of the Marines entrusting the Pirate King's son to criminals. It was a farce, a desperate, necessary deception. "Now go. And don't look back."
As the small boat slipped silently into the pre-dawn darkness, disappearing beyond the reef, Garp watched, his back to the now-arriving Marine reinforcements. He felt the cold, analytical gaze of a distant CP0 agent, perhaps even an unseen cipher from the World Nobles themselves, sweep over the island, searching, assessing. He had to play his part perfectly.
He's safe now. For a while, at least. Garp closed his eyes, his massive shoulders slumping imperceptibly. A new life. And a new, secret legend beginning in the weakest of seas.
And Ace, nestled in the rocking boat, far from the burning island, felt the lingering pain of loss, but also a burgeoning sense of purpose. He was no longer a cosmic anomaly; he was Ace. He was going to the East Blue. And the grand, tumultuous journey of his cultivation, was about to truly begin.