The Town of the Beginning and the End
Loguetown.
To the average civilian, it was a bustling hub of commerce, the last stop before the chaotic grandeur of the Grand Line. To the Marines, it was a fortress, a gate that had to be kept shut. But to pirates? It was a shrine.
Sol stood on the cobblestone streets, the collar of his crimson vest turned up against the perpetual drizzle. The sky was a bruised purple, heavy with rain clouds that seemed to park permanently over the island.
"So this is where it happened," Sol murmured.
He wasn't looking at the shops selling over-priced supplies or the weapon stores ripping off rookies. He was looking at the center of the town square.
The Execution Platform.
It loomed over everything, dark and imposing. Twenty-two years ago, Gol D. Roger climbed those steps, smiled, and started the Great Pirate Era with a few dying words.
Sol walked toward it. The crowd parted around him instinctively. He didn't look like a thug, but he carried an aura of density—a heaviness that made people feel like the gravity around him was slightly stronger.
He stopped at the base of the platform. He touched the wet wood.
"The biggest gamble in history," Sol whispered, tracing the grain of the wood. "He bet his life, and the payout was the entire world."
"Hey! You!"
A sharp voice cut through Sol's reverence.
Sol didn't turn around immediately. He recognized the tone. It was the tone of authority. The tone of someone who believed the law was absolute.
Two Marines stood behind him. They weren't the sloppy recruits he'd seen in the villages. These men wore crisp uniforms, standard-issue flintlocks, and expressions of zero tolerance.
"Step away from the platform," the lead Marine ordered, his hand resting on his saber. "Loitering in the execution square is prohibited. Move along, civilian."
Sol turned slowly. He flashed that lopsided, disarming grin. "Civilian? That hurts. I prefer 'Independent Contractor'."
"We don't have time for jokes," the Marine snapped. "This town is under the protection of Captain Smoker. We don't tolerate weirdos. Identify yourself."
Sol considered his options. Option A: Walk away, buy supplies, and leave quietly. Option B: Punch the Marine, cause a scene, and draw out the boss.
Sol's eyes drifted to the Marine base tower in the distance. He could see smoke rising from the top window, defying the rain.
"I'm Sol," he said, stepping away from the platform. "And I'm looking for a lighter. You got one?"
The Marine blinked. "A... lighter?"
"Yeah," Sol pointed to the tower. "I hear there's a guy in town who smokes two cigars at once. Figured he might have a light."
The Marines stiffened. Mentioning Smoker casually was a red flag.
"You're a pirate," the Marine concluded, drawing his saber. "You have the look. Arrest him!"
Sol didn't assume a fighting stance. He just sighed. "I didn't say I was a pirate. But if you want to dance..."
CLANG.
The Marine swung his saber downward. Sol caught the blade between his thumb and index finger.
The Marine gasped, straining to push the blade down. It wouldn't budge. It was like he had struck a statue.
"Iron," Sol noted, inspecting the blade while holding it. "Standard Marine issue. Brittle. Lacks soul."
SNAP.
Sol tweaked his wrist. The steel blade shattered into three pieces.
The Marine stumbled back, holding the hilt, eyes wide with horror. "He... he broke the steel with his fingers!"
"Monster!" the second Marine yelled, raising his rifle.
BANG.
The bullet flew. Sol tilted his head to the left. The lead ball whizzed past his ear, cutting a few strands of hair.
"Your aim is worse than your swordplay," Sol criticized. He stepped forward—a simple, heavy step that cracked the cobblestone beneath his boot.
He grabbed the rifle barrel, crushed it flat like a paper straw, and then flicked the Marine in the forehead.
Thwack.
The Marine's eyes rolled back into his head, and he collapsed into a heap.
Sol looked at the first Marine, who was now trembling.
"Go get him," Sol said softly. His eyes weren't glowing, but they were intense. "Go get the White Hunter. Tell him the House has a challenger."
The Marine didn't need to be told twice. He dropped his broken sword and scrambled away, blowing a whistle that echoed through the rainy streets.
The White Hunter Arrives
Ten minutes later, the square was empty. The civilians had fled the moment the whistle blew. They knew the drill. When the Marines got serious in Loguetown, you went inside and locked the doors.
Sol sat on the edge of the central fountain, flipping a gold coin he'd stolen from Captain Gigan.
Heads, I survive. Tails, I end up in Impel Down.
He caught the coin. He didn't look at it.
The temperature in the square dropped. The rain seemed to thicken, turning into a white mist. A heavy, oppressive presence rolled in from the main street.
Sol looked up.
Walking toward him was a man who looked like he ate gravel for breakfast. He wore a thick white marine jacket lined with greenish fur, open at the chest to reveal a muscular, scarred torso. He had silver hair, a scowl etched into his face, and two lit cigars in his mouth.
On his back was a strange weapon—a jitte tipped with Seastone.
Captain Smoker. The Gatekeeper of the East Blue.
He didn't bring an army. He walked alone.
"You the brat causing a ruckus?" Smoker grunted. His voice sounded like grinding stones. Smoke trailed from his body, mixing with the rain.
"Captain Smoker," Sol greeted, remaining seated. "Big fan of your lung capacity. Seriously, two cigars? In this economy?"
Smoker stopped ten meters away. He assessed Sol with cold, predatory eyes. "You broke a sword with your fingers. You crushed a rifle barrel. You're not a normal thug."
"I eat my vegetables," Sol shrugged.
"Bounty?" Smoker asked.
"None yet. I'm new."
"Then let's keep it that way."
Smoker's arm suddenly dissolved. It didn't disappear; it turned into a rapid, billowing column of white smoke that shot forward like a cannonball.
"White Blow!"
It was fast. Much faster than the anime made it look.
Sol's instincts screamed. He crossed his arms in an 'X' block.
WHAM.
The smoke-fist hit Sol with the force of a truck. Sol skid backward, his boots carving deep grooves into the stone pavement. He slid for twenty feet before digging his heels in and stopping.
Sol shook his arms out. They stung.
"Solid smoke," Sol laughed, a manic grin spreading across his face. "That's cheating physics, isn't it?"
Smoker frowned. "You took that standing up. Most rookies fly through a wall."
"I'm dense," Sol said. "Now... my turn."
Sol lunged.
He burst forward, the ground shattering where he launched. He closed the distance in a blink.
Smoker didn't dodge. He stood there, arrogant in his intangibility. Logia users in the East Blue were gods. They couldn't be touched.
Sol threw a right hook. A punch that could pulverize a boulder. A punch that had killed a Sea King.
His fist connected with Smoker's face.
Whoosh.
There was no impact. No crunch of bone. Sol's fist passed straight through Smoker's head, dispersing it into a cloud of white vapor.
Sol stumbled forward, his momentum carrying him through the smoke.
He spun around. Smoker's head reformed, the cigars still perfectly clamped in his mouth.
"Physics," Smoker mocked dryly, "doesn't apply to me."
Sol looked at his hand. He had felt nothing. Just cool mist.
"Logia," Sol muttered. "The ultimate cheat code."
"If that's all you got," Smoker said, his legs turning to smoke as he propelled himself into the air, "then this gamble is over."
Smoker flew down, swinging his Jitte.
"White Out!"
He expanded his body into a massive cloud, surrounding Sol from all sides. The smoke thickened, becoming solid, wrapping around Sol's arms and legs like snakes.
Sol pulled. He strained.
"Nnggh!"
He could break iron. He could lift tons. But you can't break a cloud. The more he struggled, the tighter the smoke bound him. It wasn't just holding him; it was crushing him.
"You have brute strength," Smoker's voice echoed from the cloud. "Maybe a Zoan fruit. Maybe just a freak. But strength without Haki is meaningless against me."
Haki.
Sol knew the word. Hearing Smoker say it confirmed it. Smoker knew about Haki, even if he didn't rely on it heavily yet.
Sol was trapped. pinned to the ground by the smoke.
"I'm arresting you," Smoker stated, materializing his upper body above Sol, the Jitte raised. "For assault on a Marine officer and destruction of government property."
Sol looked up at the Seastone tip of the Jitte. If that touched him, his passive density might turn off. He'd just be a regular guy.
This was it. The bad beat. The House wins.
No.
Sol's heart hammered against his ribs. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
The frustration boiled over. The indignity of being helpless. The anger of being unable to hit back.
"Don't..." Sol growled.
The heat started in his stomach.
"Don't mock me... SMOKEY!"
BOOM.
Sol didn't use Haki. He used the only thing he had.
Stage 2: Asura Wrath.
His skin flushed a violent, glowing crimson. His internal body temperature skyrocketed to volcanic levels.
Steam exploded off his body.
The physics of smoke are simple: Hot air rises. Heat disperses vapor.
The intense heat radiating from Sol caused the smoke binding him to expand rapidly and lose cohesion. It hissed, sizzled, and was blown upward by the sheer thermal updraft Sol was generating.
"What?!" Smoker recoiled, shielding his eyes from the sudden blast of heat. "He's burning?!"
The smoke grip loosened.
Sol didn't waste the second. He ripped his arms free.
He didn't attack Smoker. He knew he couldn't hit him. Instead, Sol punched the ground.
"WRATH CRATER!"
He drove both crimson fists into the cobblestone street with every ounce of frustration he possessed.
The street didn't just crack. It exploded.
A shockwave of debris, cobblestones, and dirt erupted outward. The ground beneath them collapsed into the sewer system below.
The entire square shook. Dust and steam blinded everyone.
Smoker turned into smoke to avoid falling, floating above the chaos. He peered through the dust cloud, his Jitte ready.
"Where is he?" Smoker growled.
The dust settled.
There was a massive hole in the street, exposing the dark, rushing water of the sewer.
Sol was gone.
The Escape
Sol was running through the sewers. It smelled terrible, it was dark, and he was soaking wet.
He wasn't glowing anymore. He had powered down immediately to conserve energy.
He was panting, clutching his side. He hadn't been injured, but his ego was bruised black and blue.
"I couldn't touch him," Sol wheezed, splashing through the muck. "I couldn't do a damn thing."
He reached the outlet pipe that dumped into the harbor. He kicked the grate open—it flew off its hinges and splashed into the bay.
Sol climbed out, hidden under the docks. The Coffin was moored nearby.
He jumped onto his boat, untied the rope, and pushed off, drifting silently into the fog before hoisting the sail.
As the wind caught the canvas and pulled him away from Loguetown, Sol sat on the deck, staring at his hands.
He had survived. He had escaped Captain Smoker. That was a feat in itself for a rookie.
But Sol didn't feel like a winner. He felt like he had been allowed to leave the table because he was out of chips.
"Haki," Sol whispered to the empty ocean.
He clenched his fist until his knuckles cracked.
"Physical strength has a ceiling. I just hit it. If I want to be the Strongest Creature... if I want to beat Logias... I need to learn to impose my will on reality."
He looked back at the receding silhouette of Loguetown.
"You got lucky, Smoker," Sol grinned, though there was no humor in it. "Next time we meet... I'm going to punch that cigar right down your throat."
He turned to the open sea. Toward the Twin Capes. Toward the Grand Line.
"Okay. Tutorial is over."
Sol reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, tattered notebook he kept. He opened it to a blank page.
He wrote one word in bold, angry letters:
HAKI.
Then he circled it.
"I need a teacher," Sol mused. "Or a punching bag that hits back harder. I guess the Grand Line will provide both."