"Clang! Clang! Clang!"
Morning in Water 7 always began with the rhythmic clamor of hammers against metal. Ever since Tom's Shipyard had taken on that world-shaking order, the docks had become the busiest place in the city. The hammering, the screeching of saws, the rough shouts of shipwrights—all mingled with the scent of salty sea air and fresh-cut timber, composing a symphony worthy of a legend's birth.
Months had passed. The keel of the Oro Jackson had long been laid. Its massive ribs, like the chest cavity of a slumbering titan, supported the indestructible trunk of the adam treasure tree. Even in its nascent form, the hull exuded a presence that was at once majestic and intimidating.
Near a quiet waterway, Kyle stood silently, one hand hovering over a discarded iron plate. He didn't disturb the water, didn't make a sound—but the air around him seemed to twist ever so slightly, and an invisible heat began to gather like molten fire ready to erupt.
"Senior… what are you doing? Warming the iron plate?" Nozdon squatted beside him, a seagull perched atop his pointed head, tilting it in curiosity.
"Shh… don't disturb me." Sweat dotted Kyle's forehead as he focused, muttering, "Heatwave Breath…"
A red glow suddenly erupted beneath his palm. The center of the half-inch thick iron plate silently began to melt, glowing as a concentrated heat ray pierced through it with a smooth "whoosh," leaving a perfect circular hole.
"Wow—Sugoi!" Nozdon's eyes nearly popped out, and the seagull flapped in fright, taking off into the sky.
Kyle exhaled deeply, wiping sweat from his brow. Directing and binding infrared waves into a precise beam demanded an incredible amount of concentration, far more than the broad shockwaves he normally used—but the payoff was worth it.
"Now, those iron-clad warships won't even be able to withstand me," he muttered, a small, satisfied smile playing across his lips.
Wave-particle duality, bro…
He imagined what it would be like to demonstrate this move in front of Uncle Kizaru. Can you react to this, bro?
---
Elsewhere, in a rowdy tavern on the other side of the city, the atmosphere was chaotic in a different way.
"Ooh la ooh la ooh la!" Miller Pine, shirtless and gleaming with sweat, strained against Jabba in an arm-wrestling match. Veins bulged across their locked arms, muscles quivering under the pressure.
A crowd of pirates and shipwrights cheered wildly.
"Go, Mr. Jabba!"
"Twist his arm off, Uncle Miller!"
In a corner, Rayleigh sipped his coffee, reading the newspaper leisurely. A chair whistled past him, crashing into the wall, and he barely glanced up, casually brushing sawdust off his paper.
Spencer, meanwhile, was attempting to discuss the subtleties of noble attire with a local fashion designer. Every time he opened his mouth, however, Jabba's roars interrupted, sending his carefully curated image of elegance tumbling into chaos.
Suddenly, Rayleigh's eyes caught a small item in the paper. Marine Commodore Garp had recently "rescued" a group of pirates' slave captives, confiscating a large sum of Berries—some earmarked for resettlement. The report didn't name the Roger Pirates, but the implication was clear: greedy, foolish pirates were responsible.
A playful smile curved Rayleigh's lips. The World Government never failed to claim credit.
But the article ended on a less welcome note: with pirates growing bold, the Marines had dispatched more fleets to patrol the first half of the Grand Line. That was not good news.
---
Returning to the shipyard, Rayleigh found Roger standing with his hands on his hips, eyes sparkling as he watched the shipwrights maneuver a massive plank into place.
"Tom! Faster! My crew can't wait to set sail!" Roger called.
"Don't rush, kid! This is a work of art! DON!" Master Tom hammered the plank expertly, and it fit perfectly.
Rayleigh handed Roger the newspaper. "Looks like we're famous again."
Roger glanced at it and laughed, unbothered. "Kuhahaha! That Garp just got a free wave of glory! Good. Once the ship is ready, we'll sail right past him and show him what's up!"
"The Marines are patrolling more heavily. We should keep a low profile," Rayleigh warned.
"Afraid of whom?" Tom grinned, hammer in hand. "I, Tom, craft ships that fear nothing! Once the Oro Jackson hits the sea, even the Marines' strongest vessels won't be able to touch you! DON!"
His words filled the shipyard with a surge of heroic ambition, energizing Roger and the crew alike.
---
Suddenly, commotion arose. The shipwrights struggled to install a crucial curved plank beneath the bow. The adam treasure tree wood was so dense and unyielding that brute force could damage it, while steaming it to soften it could compromise its sacred properties.
"Damn it! Just a little more!" a shipwright groaned, sweat streaming down his face.
Tom examined it and frowned. This curve was vital for the ship's agility—the very ability to "dance with the waves," as Kyle had described.
"Let me try," Kyle offered.
Under the puzzled gazes of the workers, he placed his palm on the plank. Whispering, "Reverse application of… [Resonance Collapse]," he sent subtle, constantly shifting resonance waves into the wood. Carefully, he sought the exact frequency at which the adam treasure tree would yield without losing its strength.
Seconds later, he found it. "Now! Hit it!"
Tom trusted him completely. With a mighty "DON!" he struck, hammer landing squarely.
"Bang—!"
Instead of cracks or harsh splintering, the plank shifted perfectly into the groove. The resonance waves had momentarily loosened the wood's internal structure, allowing it to slide effortlessly into place. It was seamless—almost miraculous.
The shipyard went silent. Every craftsman stared, mouths agape.
Master Tom's rough hands caressed the plank, trembling. Then he grabbed Kyle like a prized find, lifting him into the air. "You little brat! You're a genius! Stay and be my apprentice! DON!"
"I refuse!" Kyle laughed, dizzy from being hoisted. "I'm going to be a pirate!"
"Kuhahaha! That's my crewmate!" Roger exclaimed, snatching him back and patting his shoulder proudly.
From then on, whenever the shipwrights faced challenges, they'd turn to Kyle, a mix of awe and hope in their eyes. He lent a hand with his Boba Fruit abilities, directing heavy materials with shockwaves or using sound waves to detect flaws, accelerating construction in ways no ordinary crew could.
---
Finally, under the brilliant Water 7 sun, the day arrived.
The Oro Jackson was complete.
It rested in the dock, gleaming in golden sunlight. Its hull, crafted from the sacred adam treasure tree, reflected a warm, almost holy glow. Its sleek, agile lines embodied the power of wind and waves. Even when still, it radiated the majesty of a king, as though it were a living entity, ready to conquer the seas.
Citizens, shipwrights, and all members of the Roger Pirates gathered, eyes wide in shock and awe.
"It… it's breathing…" Nozdon whispered.
Roger stood at the bow, silent, drinking in the sight. The ship carried dreams, camaraderie, and the genius of a visionary. It was not merely a vessel; it was a soul forged for adventure.
Slowly, he turned to his crew, a brilliant smile illuminating his face.
"Alright, my lads!"
His voice rang out across the port.
"Our companion can't wait any longer! Are you ready… to conquer this sea?!"
"Oh oh oh oh oh oh—!"
A thunderous cheer erupted, echoing through all of Water 7. In that moment, the era of the Roger Pirates truly began.
Ãdvåñçé çhàptêr àvàilàble óñ pàtreøn (Gk31)