The ocean was not supposed to be this violent.That was Stanlee's final thought as he sank beneath the waves.
He'd been nothing more than an ordinary young man on Earth—chasing the thrill of surfing, eager to ride a storm-swept tide that local fishermen had warned him against. Foolishness or arrogance, maybe both, had driven him out that morning. The waves swallowed him whole. The world turned cold, heavy, black. His lungs screamed, his body convulsed, and the ocean offered no mercy.
But then, something shifted.
He didn't wake up in Heaven. Nor Hell. Nor some hospital bed with beeping monitors.Instead, he woke to the sensation of cramped wood pressing into his body, saltwater sloshing beneath him, and the unmistakable rocking of waves.
He was… in a box.
A treasure chest, half-broken but sealed enough to keep him afloat, drifting endlessly across a sea that seemed far brighter, far stranger than the one he knew.
"W… what the hell?!" His infantile voice squeaked, and realization struck like lightning.He wasn't himself anymore. His arms were stubby, his body tiny, his voice that of a baby. He had been… reborn.
The sea drifted on. Hours, maybe days. The sun beat down, the waves lapped, and despite being just an infant, he didn't die. He didn't even feel hunger the way he thought he should. His body was different. Stronger. Durable. Unyielding.
And then, one fateful day, fate delivered him to an island.
It wasn't much at first glance—dense jungle, rocky hills, and a single towering mountain rising at the center. But the chest hit the shore with a dull thud, and a pair of wide, startled eyes peered down at him.
The man was bizarre—half-buried in a wooden treasure chest, his limbs poking out awkwardly, hair wild, beard scruffy. His expression, however, was pure astonishment.
"Oi… a baby?!" the man barked. "Outta a chest?!"
Stanlee blinked up at him, unable to form proper words yet.
The man rubbed his head. "Don't tell me… the treasure itself turned into a kid? Hah?! Did I… did I open a cursed chest?"
He leaned closer, and Stanlee caught the man's scent of moss, salt, and loneliness.
"I'm Gaimon," the man finally said. "Been stuck in this chest for twenty years." His tone grew slightly bitter, but there was a flicker of warmth in his eyes as he looked at the stranded child. "Guess I'm not the only one, huh? Heh. Misery loves company."
Stanlee gurgled something.
"…Did you just laugh at me?" Gaimon asked, scowling. "Cheeky brat."
But his scowl softened as the baby's tiny hand reached out and grabbed his finger with surprising strength.
"Hah… You're a tough one." He sighed, shaking his head. "Fine. Guess I'll raise you. But don't expect toys or candy. All I've got are weird animals, bad cooking, and this stupid chest!"
And just like that, Stanlee found his first family in this new world.
Days turned to weeks.
Gaimon wasn't the best caretaker, but he was all Stanlee had. He fed him whatever he could—fish, fruits, the occasional roasted critter that probably wasn't meant for human consumption. He made up bedtime stories about the animals of the island. And most importantly, he talked.
"Listen, brat," he'd say while roasting a fish. "This world's a rough place. Pirates, Marines, sea monsters. Not a place for weaklings. You'll get eaten alive if you don't toughen up."
Stanlee, even as a baby, understood more than Gaimon realized. He knew where he was. The One Piece world. A place of Yonko, Marines, Devil Fruits, Haki, and dreams vast enough to split the heavens.
And he knew one thing: if he wanted to survive here, he had to become strong. Stronger than anyone.
By the time Stanlee was one year old, his progress shocked even Gaimon.
The boy learned to speak with uncanny speed, babbling words by six months and forming sentences before his first birthday. His eyes burned with intelligence no infant should have.
"Oi, oi, you're not normal, are you?" Gaimon asked one night, watching the child scribble crude letters in the dirt. "Babies aren't supposed to read!"
Stanlee just grinned. "Books… later. For now… training."
"Training?!" Gaimon spat out the roasted fruit he was chewing. "You can barely walk straight!"
But Stanlee was determined.
Each morning, he woke at dawn, sat cross-legged by the shore, and meditated in silence. The waves crashed, the animals screeched, and yet the boy remained still, eyes closed, as though communing with the world itself.
Then came the fishing, the hunting, the endless running through the jungle. By the time he was two, he was hauling in more food than Gaimon himself could manage.
"Unbelievable," Gaimon muttered one day, watching the toddler drag back a boar twice his size. "You're not a baby. You're a monster."
Stanlee just laughed. "Monster? No. Future… traveler."
That word stuck with him. Traveler. Not pirate, not Marine, not king. Just someone who sailed wherever he pleased, free of chains, free of rules.
And with each passing day, the dream grew.
Life with Gaimon wasn't all training and seriousness. There was plenty of comedy too.
"Oi, brat, don't chase the lion with two heads!" Gaimon would yell.
"It's fine! I just wanna see if it runs faster scared or angry!" Stanlee replied, dashing after the confused beast.
Or the time Stanlee tried cooking.
"Brat… what IS this?" Gaimon asked, poking the charred lump on the plate.
"Food."
"This isn't food. This is a crime."
The animals, too, became part of the comedy. Monkeys stole his training weights. Birds mocked his pushups. A crocodile-sized sea king occasionally crawled ashore to watch him squat boulders, tilting its head like a curious pet.
Through it all, Stanlee laughed. For the first time since dying on Earth, he felt alive. Truly alive.
Yet even in laughter, he pushed himself to the brink.
By the age of three, he could run ten kilometers without collapsing. At four, he shattered tree trunks with his fists. At five, he wrestled the small sea king until it slithered back into the waves in fear.
And through it all, Gaimon watched with a strange mix of pride and worry.
"You're not just strong," he muttered one night as Stanlee meditated under the moonlight. "You're… something else. Something this world ain't ready for."
Stanlee opened one eye, grinning. "Good. Let them chase me. I'll never stop."
One day, while exploring the mountain at the island's heart, Stanlee trained harder than ever. Punch after punch, kick after kick, his body crashed against stone. Finally, with a roar, he shattered part of the mountain itself.
From the rubble tumbled something strange: a fruit.
Its skin was patterned with swirling designs, its shape alluring yet ominous. Stanlee recognized it instantly—a Devil Fruit.
Gaimon gawked when Stanlee carried it down. "Th-that's… no way… I've only heard stories, but… a Devil Fruit?!"
Stanlee stared at it silently, tempted. The power of the sea, in his hands. A shortcut to greatness.
But then he shook his head. "No. My body's already strong. Stronger than most. Devil Fruits… they take freedom away. Can't swim. Can't sail free. That's not me."
Gaimon frowned. "But this could make you unstoppable! You sure, brat?"
"I don't need it," Stanlee said firmly. "Keep it. If the day comes… maybe. But not now."
And so the fruit remained in Gaimon's hands, untouched.
That night, as the stars stretched above and the waves whispered against the shore, Stanlee lay awake.
This world was vast. Beautiful. Dangerous. And it was his now.He clenched his fists, feeling the power in his veins, the unyielding steel of his body.
"I'll sail it all," he whispered to himself. "Every sea, every island. No master. No chains. Just me… and my golden flag."
And far away, unseen, the world began to turn.