The first year was chaos.
Stanlee, despite being reborn as a baby, was no ordinary child. He was too aware, too sharp, his tiny hands always reaching, his eyes always studying. Where most infants cried and drooled, he muttered words in broken syllables, practicing the language of this strange world with unnerving determination.
Gaimon, however, had no idea what to do with a baby.
"Oi, brat, you can't just chew on tree bark!" he scolded one day, pulling a splinter out of Stanlee's mouth.
The baby glared at him with surprising seriousness. "Fiber."
"…Fiber?!" Gaimon nearly choked. "Who the hell says 'fiber' at your age?! You're not even supposed to know what food is!"
Stanlee just gave a toothless grin, clearly proud of his vocabulary.
Despite his complaints, Gaimon adapted to fatherhood—or something close to it. He fed Stanlee fish roasted over crude fires, mashed jungle fruits into something vaguely edible, and tried to sing him lullabies.
The songs, unfortunately, were terrible.
"♪ Treasure, treasure, I love treasure… got stuck in a chest, what a displeasure… ♪"
Stanlee covered his ears. "Stop… torture."
"You brat! Don't sass me when you can't even walk straight!"
But behind the bickering, a strange warmth grew. Gaimon, long alone on the island, had someone to talk to. Someone to care for. Someone who made his days less bitter.
And Stanlee? For the first time in two lives, he had a family.
By his first birthday, Stanlee spoke fluently. By two, he could read crude letters scratched in the dirt. By three, he wrote them himself.
"Oi, Gaimon," Stanlee said one morning, pointing at the letters he'd scrawled: F R E E."That's my dream."
Gaimon squinted. "Free? Free what? Free food? Free treasure?"
"No." Stanlee shook his head. "Free life. Sail anywhere. Be free."
Gaimon blinked at him, stunned by the conviction in the boy's eyes. "You're… a strange one, brat." He chuckled bitterly. "Guess freedom is something I can't give you. Stuck as I am."
Stanlee placed a tiny hand on Gaimon's chest-box. "Then… I'll be free enough for both of us."
Training began in phases.
At one, he meditated by the shore, sitting cross-legged for as long as his small body allowed. Gaimon thought it was ridiculous until he noticed the animals creeping closer, drawn by some invisible aura around the boy.
At two, he started fishing and hunting, dragging back catches that dwarfed his tiny frame. The animals began to recognize him—not as prey, not even as predator, but as something… other. Something untouchable.
At three, he added running. He dashed through the jungle barefoot, dodging roots, swinging from vines, leaping across rocks. He fell, bled, bruised—but every cut healed too quickly, every bone mended too strong.
"Monster," Gaimon muttered when he saw the boy punch a tree until it cracked. "You're turning into a little monster."
Stanlee smirked. "Better monster than victim."
Not all training was serious. Stanlee had a playful side, especially when animals or Gaimon were involved.
Like the time he tried lifting Gaimon's chest.
"Oi, oi, brat, don't tug on my box!" Gaimon yelped as Stanlee tried to squat him like a weight.
"Training." Stanlee grunted, face red with effort.
"I'm not a dumbbell, I'm your old man!"
Or the time he hunted a two-headed lion by smacking its backside with a stick.
"Stop poking it! It'll eat you!" Gaimon screamed.
But Stanlee just laughed as the lion chased him in circles, until he tired it out and sat triumphantly on its back.
Even the crocodile-sized sea king became part of the comedy. It often slithered ashore, snapping at monkeys, until Stanlee punched its snout one day. Since then, it lingered near him like an oversized pet.
"Why… why do you have a sea king as a pet?!" Gaimon cried, exasperated.
Stanlee shrugged. "Punching bag."
The crocodile growled as if in agreement.
One of the funniest discoveries came from the News Coo—the seagulls that delivered newspapers.
"Oi, Gaimon," Stanlee asked one morning, "why don't I ever see birds selling newspapers here?"
Gaimon grunted. "Hah. Used to come sometimes. I didn't have money, so I ignored them. Once, I got annoyed and threw a rock at one. Knocked it clean outta the sky."
Stanlee's jaw dropped. "You… you assaulted the news?"
"They kept coming," Gaimon said with a shrug. "So I kept throwing rocks. Guess word spread in the bird world. Haven't seen one in years."
Stanlee buried his face in his hands. "No wonder I know nothing about the world outside. You declared war on journalism."
"Bah," Gaimon snorted. "Waste of money anyway. What's news to a man stuck in a box?"
Stanlee, however, made a silent vow. The first time I see one of those birds… I'm buying every newspaper it has. I'll read the world, even if this island's cut off.
Of course, when the time came years later, he really would chuck a stone at one. Some habits are contagious.
But the lack of newspapers didn't mean Stanlee stopped dreaming. Each night, lying on the sand, he stared at the stars.
"That's where I'll go," he whispered. "Everywhere. I'll sail to islands unknown, skies uncharted, seas untraveled."
Gaimon sighed. "Brat… you're talking like a pirate."
"No. Not a pirate." Stanlee shook his head firmly. "A traveler. Pirates chase crowns. Marines chase laws. I'll chase freedom."
Gaimon gave him a long look, then chuckled softly. "You really are strange. But maybe… maybe you're exactly what this world needs."
By the end of his third year, Stanlee was no longer just a baby. His body, already freakishly strong, had the density of steel. His cuts healed in minutes, his bruises vanished by the hour.
He could run across the island in less than half a day, carrying fish twice his size. He could wrestle wild beasts until they submitted. He could even meditate so deeply that he swore he felt the jungle breathe, the sea whisper.
It wasn't Haki—not yet. But the seed was there.
And Gaimon knew it.
"One day," Gaimon said one evening, watching Stanlee balance on one leg atop a boulder, "you're gonna shake this world to its core."
Stanlee just smiled. "Good. Then the world will have no choice but to hear my dream."
He pointed at the sky, eyes blazing with determination.
"I'll raise a golden flag. A flag of freedom. And no one—not pirates, not Marines, not even the heavens—will stop me."
The wind caught his voice and carried it across the sea, like a promise written in the waves.