The raft creaked and groaned as the sea slowly stretched around it in all directions, endless and uncaring. Gildarts sat at the bow, elbows resting on his knees, staring at the rippling surface as his fingers toyed with a jagged, raw silver nugget. The morning was calm—too calm, maybe—and that meant it was a perfect time to train.
Since eating the Devil Fruit, the dormant power in his body had flared to life, demanding he learn its boundaries. It hadn't been a gentle awakening. Things he touched crumbled into floating cubes with the slightest loss of focus. He had to learn control, and fast. The sea wouldn't wait for him to master it, nor would whatever came next.
He reached over to a cluster of bruised tropical fruit near the center of the raft and picked up a small, ripe yellow one with thick skin and black ridges. His fingers tightened around it, concentrating not on strength but intent. For a brief moment, the power surged beneath his skin—unstable and hungry. He imagined the fruit remaining whole.
Then it shattered. Not into pulp, but into dozens of pristine yellow cubes that hovered in midair for a breathless second before collapsing into a pile on the wooden boards.
He sighed. "That's the third one this morning."
The power was fascinating, intoxicating even. Crush wasn't just strength—it was destruction distilled into pure force, commanded with thought alone. But it was also temperamental. Inanimate objects broke cleanly into uniform blocks; stones, fruit, even a spare boot he'd accidentally kicked during a nightmare had been reduced to tidy cubes.
Living things? That he hadn't dared test. Not since the first day, when a fish had brushed his leg and he'd reflexively lashed out. The poor creature had erupted into a swarm of tiny, wriggling versions of itself. It had eventually reverted to normal, flopping into the water and escaping, but the experience had been disturbing.
He wasn't ready to use it in a real fight—not yet.
Still holding the silver nugget, Gildarts tried again. This time, he channeled just a whisper of the energy, enough to make the metal vibrate in his hand without disassembling it. A thin crack traced its surface, but the nugget remained intact.
"That's better," he muttered.
His brief victory was cut short by a violent lurch. The raft jerked sideways, nearly throwing him off balance. Water splashed across the deck. Gildarts spun toward the stern, instincts flaring.
The Master of the Waters was acting up again.
The massive Sea King thrashed beneath the waves, its scaly bulk twisting violently against the ropes binding it to the raft. The cords strained, taut as harp strings, groaning under the pressure. One of the knots slid half an inch along the beam it was secured to.
Gildarts rushed to reinforce it, slamming his knee into the wooden planks as he skidded across the slick surface. He grabbed the nearest coil of vine rope, yanked it tighter, and double-knotted it around the Sea King's makeshift harness.
"Not today," he growled through gritted teeth. "You're staying right here."
The beast stilled slightly at the sound of his voice, though its golden eye remained fixed on him with deep hatred.
It hadn't tried to escape outright since being forced into submission, but Gildarts never trusted that silence. Each day, it seemed to test the limits more—pulling harder, resisting direction, lingering at night near the edge of the raft like a predator waiting for a slip in awareness.
He reinforced all the ropes again, checking every tie-down, anchor point, and length of vine. By the time he was done, his arms ached and the sun had climbed high overhead.
He slumped back against a crate, breathing heavily. "You know what I think? You're smarter than you look," he muttered toward the water. "And that's the problem."
He couldn't relax—not while the beast was leashed to his only mode of transport. One mistake, one failed knot, and the creature could drag him into the depths. Or worse—abandon him in the open ocean.
He kept his training sessions short that day, focusing only on manipulating tiny pieces of fruit and spare rope fragments. He needed better control, but he also needed to remain alert.
That evening, as the sun dipped behind the horizon and the sky bled red across the clouds, Gildarts lit a crude oil lamp fashioned from an old coconut shell and driftwood wick. The light was weak, but it cast enough of a glow for him to open his notes. The pages were crude, stitched from bark and pressed leaves, but they served their purpose.
He scratched out a new entry in careful strokes:
Day 11 since setting sail. Crush fruit still unstable. Control is improving on small items. Cannot risk testing on raft materials.
Sea King continues to resist. Tension rising. Ropes need constant maintenance. Consider more durable bindings.
Long-term plan: Reach Jaya. Trade native fruit, metals, shells for currency. Proceed to Water Seven. Acquire proper vessel. Reevaluate next course from there.
Sleep minimal. Training must be balanced with alertness.
He closed the notebook and leaned back. The stars overhead blinked into view, silent witnesses to his struggle. The raft rocked gently beneath him. The Sea King drifted in place, silent for now.
For the next three days, the pattern continued. Gildarts refined his control over Crush, working with smaller and smaller items. He learned to exert enough power to dent without destruction, to crack without collapse. A piece of coral now broke into halves rather than cubes. A fruit's skin peeled away under his touch without vaporizing.
Progress.
Still, the Sea King grew more restless. Once, during the night, it tugged hard enough to tilt the raft. Another time, Gildarts awoke to find two of the vines frayed nearly to breaking. Whether it was escape or sabotage, the message was clear: this forced partnership wouldn't last forever.
On the fourth day, he decided to test the reassembly ability again. He chose a small stone—one of the decorative, sparkling ones he planned to sell—and deliberately crushed it into cubes. They hovered mid-air for a second, then clattered down like dry bones.
He closed his eyes and reached inside himself, grasping for the pull he felt when reassembling the fish days ago. His fingers twitched.
Nothing.
He focused harder. Sweat dripped down his brow.
The cubes trembled. One of them floated up—then another. A dozen followed, circling in a lazy orbit like they were waiting for orders.
With one sharp breath, he willed them back into shape.
The stone snapped back together. Not perfect—it was cracked and dull—but it was whole.
He collapsed backward, exhausted but triumphant. "Now we're getting somewhere."
The next evening, as twilight dipped the world in indigo and the air chilled, Gildarts returned to the front of the raft. He stared out at the unbroken line of ocean. Still no land in sight. Still no clouds on the horizon.
He pulled his coat tighter.
The Sea King swam slowly beneath, now more obedient after several days of no success in rebellion. Maybe it was beginning to accept its new role—or maybe it was planning something.
Gildarts didn't care. He wasn't here to beg for mercy or hope for favors. He was here to survive, to grow stronger, and to push forward.
The ocean would test him. The world would try to break him.
But he had the power to crush it.
And eventually, he'd learn how to use it.
— — —
Update Schedule:
11:00am-12:30am
Sunday: Break Day
Monday: 1 Chapter
Tuesday-Friday: 2 Chapters
Saturday: 1 Chapter