Mario's heart hammered in his chest. He tried to calm himself down, but it was useless. The fragile, pages in his hands felt less like paper and more like live wires, channeling the raw, untamed spirit of a legend directly into his soul. So, with shaking hands, he continued to read.
„My dream is coming true day after day. We are finally sailing the New World, the treacherous second half of the Grand Line, a sea filled with powerful pirates, strong winds, and unpredictable weather….It is so much FUN! I didn't feel like this for a long time."
Mario could almost feel the salt spray and hear the groan of the Oro Jackson's timbers. He felt Roger's excitement, a contagious, manic joy that made his own mundane existence feel like a pale imitation.
„Well its not all fun and games. Our navigator Scopper had a hard time navigating through the sea. Its refreshing to see him flustered! Had to poke fun at him."
A small, incredulous laugh escaped Mario's lips. He was reading the private taunts of the Pirate King aimed at his legendary navigator.
„We are finally ahead of Rocks D. Xebec. I must say he is a formidable opponent; and Edward crashed his ship onto an island which is funny as HELL, not to mention we escaped an encirclement from Garp. I'm having the time of my life I must say, although we are still far away from our goal."
Seeing the names of famous pirates and marines written so casually—Rocks, Edward Newgate, Garp—Mario's mouth went dry. These weren't distant myths; they were rivals and obstacles in a man's diary, written about with the same casual frustration and amusement one might use for a difficult neighbor.
„The last fight with Rocks. It was strange. Our clash was more violent than ever. That meathead still wanted to be the king of the world. Crazy bastard. And in the fight for my life, somehow both of us used this mysterious power called Haki."
Mario read with rabid interest, absorbing every word from the journal. This was it. The foundational secret of the world's strongest.
„I'm not a smart man, but Rocks pushed me to the brink and somehow I used it? I don't know how to explain it, but Rayleigh said that it was a power needed to grow stronger. To survive the New World. Apparently he read about it in some book he found long ago, but strangely he had trouble learning it."
Mario turned page after page with shaky hands, the parchment whispering secrets older than he was. He could almost not believe what he was reading. The contrast was staggering: the erudite Rayleigh, struggling with theory, while Roger, the man of action, simply did.
„But for me it was different. I awoke it in the midst of the battle and after that it flowed? Damn, I can't explain it in writing, but I can try…."
Mario's heart beat faster. This could be it. The key.
„This power that Rocks used first was interesting to say the least. He coated his arms and legs with that Haki power and gained such power I could hardly stop it. I was prepared to lose, but as we clashed I felt it, I mean I saw it. The energy that radiated from his chest, I believe, to his fists, coating them, making him stronger. And somehow, in desperation, I felt that same power inside of me."
A shocking revelation to Mario. So the Pirate King learned Haki from his opponent by accident? By sheer instinct and will? Mario knew that Roger was formidable—he wouldn't be the Pirate King otherwise—but to reverse-engineer a supreme power in the middle of a life-or-death struggle was a level of genius that was frankly frightening.
„But I found it somehow crude. Why coat your fists with that power? Why don't use that power directly on your muscles or heart? I willed it, controlled it. And guided it in a desperate attempt to counter Rocks and succeeded. Inside of my body, this power spread like wildfire. I gained the strength I never had and barely defeated him for… now."
Mario forgot to breathe for a moment. This wasn't just an entry about discovering Haki; this was a fundamental deviation from its common application. While the world learned to coat themselves, Roger was infusing himself.
This was stupid, broken LUCK! He hadn't just found a manual; he had found a heresy, a different path forged by the King himself.
„After the fight, and my dear doctor Crocus patched me up, I finally had some time to ponder about the strange power I gained. It was exhilarating and fun! I never thought that you could use this power like this. Here I will write everything I can about it so that maybe I can leave it for someone in the future…"
Mario's heart tightened.
For someone in the future.
Was it for his successor? For Ace? No, Roger was definitely not with Portgas D. Rouge yet… that poor woman. A wave of profound sadness washed over him. This journal, this incredible treasure, was born from a moment of joyous discovery, a gift cast into the future without a specific recipient. And it had landed in his hands.
He started frantically absorbing all he could. The ink seemed to pulse with a faint, remembered energy.
„It starts not in the muscles, but deeper. In the breath. Not the air you breathe, but the breath of your spirit. Feel for the silence between your heartbeats. That's where it sleeps. For me, it was a heat, a drumming that matched my WILL, not my pulse. Rocks pushed his out, a shell. I drew mine in, a furnace."
Mario's eyes widened. This was beyond theory; it was a direct transmission of feeling. He closed his eyes, trying to feel that silence, that internal drumming. At first, there was only the frantic thumping of his own heart, the product of excitement and fear. But as he focused on Roger's words, on the image of drawing power in rather than pushing it out, something shifted. A faint, almost imperceptible warmth bloomed deep in his core, a single ember where before there was only warm air.
It was gone as quickly as it came, but it was real.
He looked down at his own hands, no longer shaking, but now clenched into determined fists. With the insights from the Pirate King himself, a path he never knew existed was now unfolding before him
Mario memorized the contents of the journal as quickly as he could, his mind a steel trap snapping shut around the core principles. He didn't bother with the anecdotes or the casual jabs; he focused solely on the feeling, the methodology of Roger's technique. He seared the lessons into his brain, branding them onto his consciousness so he would never forget them. The concept of the "breath of the spirit," the silence between heartbeats, the act of drawing power inward as a furnace rather than projecting it as a shell—these became his mantra.
Satisfied he had stolen the fire if not the entire torch, he carefully returned the journal to its dusty sanctuary on the forgotten shelf. It was no longer his to read, but to practice.
He stepped outside the lighthouse, and the world felt different. The salty air was sharper, the cry of the gulls more distinct, the crash of waves against the rocky shore a rhythmic drumbeat counting down to his transformation. He looked at the mundane scene—the jagged rocks, the swirling tide pools, the vast, empty horizon—and could not help but marvel. It was all the same, yet everything had changed because he was changing. The potential for power hummed in the very atmosphere.
But marveling was a luxury he couldn't afford. He had a full day only for himself, and he intended to use every single second of it.
Finding a flat, sun-warmed stone overlooking the churning sea, he sat cross-legged, closed his eyes, and began the arduous task of turning theory into reality. He pushed the excitement, the fear, and the awe to the background. He focused on his breathing, not the air filling his lungs, but on the concept Roger had described—the "breath of his will." He sought that elusive silence between the frantic hammering of his own heart, the quiet space where willpower could be forged into something tangible.
It was a struggle. His mind was a riot of thoughts, his body itching with impatience. But he persisted, clutching Roger's words like a lifeline, trying to manifest his willpower into his spirit, to find the dormant ember and will it into a flame. But...
Willpower… does he have it?
The question echoed in his mind.
He thought of the journey so far. The terror of Arlong Park, the desperation of his blow against Smoker, the grueling training under Zoro and Sanji. He had endured it all. But was that just survival? Was it just a fan's desperate attempt to stay in the story?
No.
This was no longer just a story. he knew that. The grain of the stone under his thumb was real. The salt-stained, blood-stained coat in the corner was real. The friends currently trapped inside a whale were real. Their dreams, their laughter, their impending heartbreaks—they were all devastatingly, beautifully real.
And he had seen their end.
A cold fire ignited in his chest, burning away the last vestiges of his detachment. He wasn't just a visitor. He was a participant. The rage he had felt screaming at the pages of a butchered finale—that wasn't just the passion of a fan. It was the righteous fury of someone witnessing an injustice done to people he loved. The profound sadness that had hollowed him out for days after Ace's death, the bitter disappointment at the fates of so many—it hadn't been for fictional characters. It had been a premonition.
All of it—the rage, the sadness, the love—had coalesced inside him and manifested as a single, unshakeable wish. A wish so powerful it had torn him from his world and thrown him into this one. It wasn't a passive desire to see a different ending. It was an active, burning need to save them. To stand between them and the tragedies he knew were coming.
That was his willpower.
It was the will to defy a written destiny. The will to stand before emperors and gods and say "no more." The will to look into the eyes of Portgas D. Ace and tell him he would not die on that platform. The will to ensure that the laugh they shared at the end of their journey was one of true, untainted joy, not a bittersweet memory overshadowed by loss.
His knuckles white. A faint, almost imperceptible shimmer, like heat haze, flickered around his hand for a second. It wasn't the controlled Armament Haki he'd used against Smoker; it was raw, emotional, a physical manifestation of his vow.
"Yes," he whispered into the silence, his voice low but absolute, a vow made to the ghosts of the past and the future he would protect. "I have the willpower."
He had the will to change everything.