By the time Stanlee turned three, the island no longer felt like an unforgiving wilderness. It was his playground, his training ground, his entire kingdom.
Every morning, he rose before dawn. He would sit cross-legged on the sand, eyes closed, breathing steady, until the sun's first rays kissed the horizon. Meditation came first. Always. Clearing his mind, sharpening his focus, listening to the strange pulse of the world.
Then came fishing. Not with rods or nets—Stanlee simply dove into the shallows and grabbed fish with his bare hands. Sometimes he threw them like spears onto the shore, where Gaimon, still half-asleep, would grumble about being pelted awake by breakfast.
"Oi, brat, fish are for eating, not for assassinations!"
"Breakfast served," Stanlee replied with a grin.
By the time he was five, the routine had grown brutal. Meditation until dawn. Fishing and hunting until mid-morning. A ten-kilometer run through the jungle at noon. Push-ups until his arms quivered, sit-ups until his stomach ached, squats until the ground cracked beneath him.
And then came the weights.
At first, he used stones. Then boulders. By six, he was hoisting rocks heavier than houses. The jungle echoed with the sound of boulders slamming down, animals scattering from the tremors.
"You're insane," Gaimon muttered one day, watching the boy squat a stone bigger than his own chest-box. "You're a demon child."
Stanlee grinned through clenched teeth. "No… traveler. Strongest traveler."
The animals weren't sure what to make of him anymore. The two-headed lion gave him a wide berth. The monkeys stopped throwing fruit and instead watched his training like spectators at an arena. Even the crocodile sea king no longer dared charge into the jungle—after Stanlee punched it unconscious at five years old, it lingered only near the shore, sulking like a scolded pet.
It was during one of these training sessions, at age six, that the mountain itself became his opponent.
Stanlee stood before the towering rock face, sweat dripping down his brow, muscles coiled. For weeks, he had been striking it—punches, kicks, headbutts—testing his strength against stone. Cracks spiderwebbed across its surface. And on this day, with a roar that echoed across the island, Stanlee delivered the final blow.
The mountain split.
A massive chunk crumbled away, crashing into the jungle below. Dust billowed. Birds shrieked. Gaimon's jaw hit the ground.
"…Brat," Gaimon croaked. "You just… broke a mountain."
Stanlee panted, his knuckles bloody but already healing. And then, from the rubble, something rolled free.
A fruit.
It was unlike anything he'd seen before—dark blue with swirling golden patterns, shaped like a claw curling in on itself. The air around it seemed heavier, charged with unseen energy.
"A Devil Fruit," Stanlee whispered.
Gaimon gasped. "You're kidding… A fruit like that was hidden in this mountain?!"
Stanlee picked it up, feeling the strange energy radiating through his hand. For a moment, he was tempted. If his body was already like steel, if his regeneration already surpassed legends, what heights could he reach with this?
But then he shook his head. "No. I don't need it."
"Don't be stupid," Gaimon said quickly. "That thing could make you a god."
"It'll also chain me," Stanlee countered. "I won't swim. I won't surf the sea free. I'll be just another land boulder. That's not who I am."
Gaimon stared at him for a long moment, then sighed. "You really are insane. But… you're you. I won't argue."
So the fruit remained untouched, stored carefully in Gaimon's chest-box. Its power slept, waiting.
But the island felt it. The trees grew twisted, animals mutated into strange, almost mythical forms. The Devil Fruit's presence warped nature itself, and Stanlee began to notice.
"This island's alive," he muttered one evening, watching a three-eyed boar clash with a serpent that breathed steam. "And it's because of that fruit."
Gaimon just shivered. "Sometimes I think this place is cursed."
Around that same year, Stanlee finally asked a question that had been eating at him.
"Oi, Gaimon," he said one night, roasting fish over a fire. "What year is it?"
Gaimon blinked. "Eh? The year?"
"Yes. The calendar year."
The older man scratched his scruffy beard, thinking hard. "Uh… I don't really keep track. I think… it's around 1509? Or 1510? Something like that."
Stanlee froze. He knew enough to guess. Luffy, if memory served, was born in 1509. That meant… he was probably a year older.
"Why do you care about the year, brat?" Gaimon asked.
Stanlee shook his head. "Just curious."
But inside, his thoughts raced. If I'm right, then I'll grow up just ahead of the main story. But how far? One year? More? What if I run into the Straw Hats too soon?
That night, he considered a dangerous thought. What if I recruited Nami? She'd be safer. Stronger, with me. I could build my own crew…
But then he pictured Luffy, smiling with his Straw Hat, his crew by his side. He thought of destiny, of how things were supposed to unfold.
"No," Stanlee whispered to himself. "I won't interfere. I won't steal what's theirs. That crew is written in the stars. I'll sail solo. Just me, my ship, my flag."
He clenched his fists, decision firm. "I'll be the freest man alive. Not a pirate. Not a Marine. Just… Stanlee D. Gaimon."
The waves seemed to approve, crashing against the shore in rhythm with his heartbeat.
By seven, his strength had become something monstrous. He could lift boulders weighing tons. His punches left craters in the ground. His skin, already unnaturally hard, now shrugged off blades and teeth like they were nothing.
But more than that, something else stirred within him.
Sometimes, during meditation, he felt presences. Animals approaching before they appeared. The flutter of wings, the rustle of leaves, even the movement of the sea itself. It wasn't sight. It wasn't sound. It was something deeper.
"Haki," he whispered one morning, though he barely understood the word.
Gaimon gave him a confused look. "What's that mean?"
"Don't know yet," Stanlee admitted. "But I'll find out."
That night, sitting by the fire, Gaimon looked at him with tired but proud eyes.
"You're not just strong anymore," he said. "You're something else. Something the world will notice. And when they do… you'll have enemies. Marines. Pirates. Monsters."
Stanlee smirked, tossing a stick into the flames. "Good. Let them come. I'll crush anyone who tries to chain me."
He looked up at the stars, voice steady, eyes blazing.
"I'm Stanlee D. Gaimon. And I'll sail this world free, no matter what stands in my way."
The jungle grew silent. The animals seemed to bow their heads. And in the distance, the sea king surfaced, watching him with eyes that glimmered with something like fear.
For the boy who had once been lost in a chest was no longer just a survivor. He was becoming a legend.