The morning after Stanlee's brutal sparring session dawned crisp and clear. At seven years old, his body ached with the satisfying promise of growth, every muscle humming with newfound resilience. He sat cross-legged on the beach, meditating as the sun crested the horizon, the rhythmic crash of waves syncing with his breath. Behind him, the Red-Hair Pirates stirred – Yasopp sharpening his rifle, Lucky Roux attempting breakfast (and mostly burning it), and Beckman smoking silently, observing the boy with unreadable eyes.
Shanks approached, his presence like a warm tide. He settled beside Stanlee, the sand shifting under his weight. "You're pushing hard, brat. Been a whole week since we landed, and you haven't let up."
Stanlee opened one eye, a faint smirk playing on his lips. "You promised training. I'm collecting." He flexed a hand, where faint bruises from Beckman's Armament Haki were already fading. "Besides, you saw what I can do. You're not getting rid of me that easy."
Shanks chuckled, but his gaze was serious. "No, we're not. Which brings us to something important." He nodded toward Gaimon's treasure chest, half-buried near the treeline. "That Devil Fruit. The one you found in the mountain."
Stanlee tensed. "I told you. I'm not eating it. I won't chain myself to the sea."
"And I respect that," Shanks said calmly. "But have you considered the alternative? Leaving it here?"
Beckman joined them, tossing his cigarette butt into the surf. "Kid, it's not just any fruit. That's a Mythical Zoan. Huma-Huma no Mi, Model: Garuda. A guardian spirit of travelers, a beast of the skies. Supreme power, but gentle in nature. It's… you."
Stanlee frowned. "What do you mean, 'leaving it here'?"
"Think," Beckman pressed, his voice low and urgent. "If word gets out – and it will get out – that a god-tier fruit is hidden on some forgotten East Blue island, who do you think will come? Marines? Warlords? Yonko? Big Mom's already obsessed with rare powers. Kaido collects Zoans like trophies. They'll raze this island, Gaimon, every animal, just to get their hands on it."
Yasopp wandered over, overhearing. "He's right, Stanlee. That fruit's a ticking time bomb. Better in your stomach than in some maniac's hands."
Lucky Roux nodded, mouth full of half-charred fish. "Yeah! Imagine Big Mom finding out! She'd turn this place into a dessert buffet!"
Stanlee's jaw tightened. He looked at Gaimon, who was listening intently from his chest. "Old man?"
Gaimon sighed, a rare somberness in his eyes. "The brat's got a point, Stanlee. I've seen what happens when power like that is left unguarded. Chaos. Bloodshed. This island… it's our home. I'd rather see you eat it than watch it burn."
Shanks leaned closer, his voice dropping. "And think about your dream, Stanlee. You want to sail alone? To be the freest traveler? A Garuda soars. It commands the sky, protects the lost, moves unseen through storms. It doesn't just survive the sea – it rises above it. That's not a chain. That's the ultimate expression of freedom."
Stanlee stared at the fruit, pulsing faintly where Gaimon had carefully stored it. The image of a golden bird, majestic and untamed, flashed in his mind. Supreme yet gentle… It resonated with the core of who he was, who he wanted to be.
"And the weakness?" Stanlee asked quietly. "The sea?"
Shanks grinned. "We've got seastone cuffs on the ship. We can give you some to help you train resistance. Your body's already tougher than most. With time, you might even withstand the paralysis better than most users. And the Garuda Fruit… it's special. Its power isn't just for the sky. It lets you ride currents, glide over water, even maneuver without fully touching it, as if the wind itself carries you. You'll feel it once you learn to sync with it."
A reluctant smile touched Stanlee's lips. "Are you serious?"
"Sure," Shanks replied, his eyes twinkling. "The sky isn't your only playground anymore, brat."
The Awakening: King's Ambition
The world swam in hues Stanlee had never imagined. As the last vestiges of the Devil Fruit's wretched taste faded, a profound warmth blossomed in his core, spreading like liquid sunlight through his veins. He felt… light. Not just physically, but spiritually, as if invisible anchors binding him to the earth had dissolved. A faint, golden shimmer played around his skin, visible even under the bright morning sun, casting dancing motes of light on the sand.
He stood, facing the expectant crew, facing the vast, beckoning ocean. The weight of his dream, the knowledge of the tumultuous future awaiting this world – it all surged within him, a tidal wave of pure, unadulterated will.
"I'm Stanlee D. Gaimon," he declared, his voice ringing with newfound power, resonating with an echo that wasn't quite human. He took a step forward, the golden aura intensifying, swirling like captured sunlight around his fists. "I won't be a Pirate King. I won't be a Marine Admiral. I won't serve any flag but my own."
The wind, which had been a gentle breeze, suddenly picked up, whipping his hair and tugging at the Red-Hairs' coats. It wasn't just wind; it felt like an extension of his own surging energy. The crew fell silent, feeling a pressure that made the hair on their arms stand rigid. Even Shanks, usually unshakeable, straightened slightly, his eye widening as he sensed the raw, unrefined force emanating from the boy – a pressure that wasn't just physical, but spiritual.
"I will sail the Grand Line," Stanlee continued, his voice rising, imbued with the conviction of ages. "I will see the New World. I will stand on the shores of every island, under every sky. And I will do it alone. No crew. No captain. No master. Just me, my ship, and my golden flag."
He raised his clenched fist high. Golden motes of energy, like captured starlight, coalesced around it. "I will be the freest man on the seas! The freest traveler this world has ever known! And anyone who tries to cage me… anyone who tries to take that freedom…"
A sudden, invisible wave of energy rippled outward from him. It wasn't a physical blast, but a wave of pure presence, of undeniable authority. Sand vibrated. Leaves on the nearby trees trembled violently, then stilled as if holding their breath. The jungle creatures that usually watched Stanlee's training from a safe distance – the two-headed lion, the curious monkeys – either scattered in panic or slumped to the ground, overwhelmed. Even the crocodile-sea king, lurking just offshore, submerged with a startled splash.
Gaimon, caught directly in the path of the wave, let out a startled "Oof!" and his eyes rolled back. His chest thumped heavily as he slumped sideways, unconscious.
The Red-Hair Pirates braced themselves instinctively. Yasopp stumbled, Lucky Roux sat down hard with a grunt, and even Benn Beckman dug his boots into the sand, leaning forward against the unseen pressure. Shanks didn't fall, but his grin had vanished, replaced by an expression of profound awe, his single eye fixed on Stanlee.
The wave passed as quickly as it came. The jungle seemed to exhale. The pirates slowly straightened, exchanging stunned looks.
Stanlee blinked, looking around at the scene – the fainted Gaimon, the shaken crew, the eerily still jungle. "What… what just happened?" he asked, genuinely bewildered. He hadn't meant to do that. It had just… flowed out of him.
Shanks let out a low whistle, shaking his head slowly. "You just announced yourself to the world, Stanlee D. Gaimon. That… that was your Conqueror's Haki. Raw, untamed, powerful enough to make even seasoned fighters feel the ground shift beneath them. You didn't knock us out cold, not quite. But you shook everything living and breathing on this island. That's… unprecedented for someone your age."
Lucky Roux, recovering first, let out a booming laugh, though it held a note of disbelief. "Hah! Even the toughest beasts on this rock couldn't stand up to that! Gaimon's gonna have one hell of a headache when he wakes up!"
Yasopp holstered his rifle, a smirk playing on his lips. "Don't you worry, brat. We'll be keeping an eye on you. You've got a dangerous spark… and it's only going to grow into a wildfire. Just try not to accidentally sink any islands before you learn to control it, eh?"
Beckman exhaled a long plume of smoke, his gaze sharp and analytical. "A god-tier Devil Fruit… and now Conqueror's Haki manifesting this young. If the World Government or the Yonko ever got wind of either…" He trailed off, shaking his head. "Best not to think about it. But you're right, kid. That fruit wasn't a cage. It was a key. And that Haki… that's the lock it fits."
Stanlee looked down at his hands, flexing his fingers. The golden aura had faded, but the warmth remained. He felt a strange new awareness – the air currents whispering secrets, the pull of the horizon, the immense, untapped potential coiled within him. He looked out at the sea, the morning light turning the water into a path of shimmering gold. The path ahead was his alone. The Grand Line awaited. The seas called. And he would answer – under his own flag, in his own way… when he was old enough.
The Awakening Takes Flight
The next few days were a whirlwind of discovery and chaos. The Garuda fruit's power wasn't just about strength; it was about connection. Stanlee felt the wind as an extension of himself, the sunlight as nourishment, the sky as a vast, welcoming space.
His first attempt at transformation was… undignified.
"Focus, kid!" Beckman called out, leaning against a palm tree. "Picture it! The wings! The majesty!"
Stanlee screwed up his face in concentration. Golden light flared… and he sprouted a single, magnificent, shimmering feather… right on the tip of his nose. It twitched.
The crew erupted into laughter. Yasopp was howling, pointing. "Looks good on you, Stanlee! Very… dainty!"
"Shut up!" Stanlee yelled, face burning, swatting uselessly at the feather. It stubbornly remained.
Shanks, chuckling, walked over. "Easy, brat. Don't force it. Feel it. The Garuda isn't just a bird; it's a spirit of freedom and the sky. What does freedom feel like to you?"
Stanlee closed his eyes, blocking out the jeers. He thought of the open ocean, the endless horizon, the feeling of Gaimon's finger in his tiny hand, the promise of his own flag. He thought of breaking the mountain, of facing Beckman's Haki, of declaring his dream. A deep calm settled over him.
He felt a shift. Not painful, but profound. A surge of warmth, a feeling of expansion. When he opened his eyes, the world looked different. Sharper. Clearer. He felt… taller. He looked down.
Golden feathers, soft yet strong, covered his arms and legs. His hands had become talons, gleaming like polished bronze. And from his back… stretched magnificent wings, vast and powerful, catching the sunlight and casting shimmering reflections on the sand. They felt utterly natural, like limbs he'd always possessed but forgotten.
A collective gasp went through the pirates. Even the usually unflappable Beckman looked impressed.
"Whoa," Lucky Roux breathed, dropping his half-eaten fish.
Stanlee experimentally flapped his new wings. A powerful downdraft kicked up sand, sending the pirates scrambling back. He felt a surge of exhilaration. With a powerful leap and a concerted flap, he lifted off the ground.
Wobbling.
He shot up about twenty feet, then listed violently to the left, then careened towards the right, wings flapping in a chaotic, uncoordinated rhythm. He narrowly missed a cluster of palm trees, sending coconuts flying, then plunged towards the ocean before managing to pull up at the last second, skimming the waves and sending up a spray that drenched a sputtering Yasopp.
"WOAH! HEY! WATCH THE RIFLE!" Yasopp yelled, shielding his precious weapon.
"Land, you idiot! LAND!" Beckman shouted, though he was grinning.
Stanlee, heart pounding with a mix of terror and elation, focused. He remembered the feeling of calm, of connection. He angled his wings, caught a thermal rising from the sun-baked beach, and managed a somewhat controlled, if clumsy, descent, landing in a heap near Gaimon's chest (which the man had just woken up, groaning).
"Oof! Watch the merchandise!" Gaimon grumbled, rubbing his head. Then he saw Stanlee – the golden feathers, the wings, the talons. His jaw dropped. "…Brat? What in the name of the Sea King did you eat?!"
Stanlee grinned, a beaky, predatory grin that looked strange on his mostly human face. "Freedom, old man. I ate freedom."
Parting Gifts and Promises
The Red-Hairs' stay couldn't last forever. The sea called them too. On their final evening, a bonfire crackled, but the mood was more reflective than raucous.
Shanks approached Stanlee, who was sitting on the sand, idly preening a stray feather back into his wing. The transformation was becoming easier, faster. He could now manifest full wings or just enhance his limbs with feathered strength and speed at will.
"Time for us to shove off, kid," Shanks said, his voice softer than usual. He held out a small, intricately carved wooden box. "This is for you. Open it when you're ready to leave this rock. Not before."
Stanlee took the box. It felt light, but important. "What is it?"
"A map," Shanks said simply. "Not to treasure. To a shipwright. The best in the East Blue. Maybe the world. He lives on an island called Shimotsuki. He's… retired. But he owes me a favor. Tell him Shanks sent you, and that you need a ship built for one. Strong. Fast. Unremarkable. Something that won't draw attention until you want it to."
Stanlee's throat tightened. "Thank you."
Beckman stepped forward next. He held out a pair of simple, dark metal bracelets. "Seastone cuffs. Light duty. They won't paralyze you completely, but they'll dampen your powers enough to help you build resistance. Wear them during training. Get used to fighting weakened. It'll make you stronger when you're free."
Stanlee took them, the cold metal a stark contrast to his warm skin. "Understood."
Yasopp grinned, tossing something small and metallic through the air. Stanlee caught it – a perfectly balanced, lightweight throwing knife. "For when you need to reach out and touch someone from a distance. Practice. You've got the eyes for it."
Lucky Roux simply clapped him on the shoulder – a gesture that nearly sent the seven-year-old face-first into the sand. "Keep eating, kid! Gotta fuel that engine! And don't let Gaimon cook all your food! It's a crime against taste buds!"
Gaimon, sitting in his chest, sniffed. "Hmph. Ungrateful pirates. My cooking kept this brat alive!"
Finally, Shanks knelt, looking Stanlee directly in the eye. "Stanlee D. Gaimon. You carry a heavy will. That Conqueror's Haki… it's a beacon. It will attract the strong, the ambitious, the desperate. It will also attract the jealous and the fearful. Be careful. Be smart. And never forget why you're doing this. Freedom isn't just about sailing where you please. It's about protecting the freedom of others too, in your own way. The Garuda is a guardian, remember that."
Stanlee nodded, the weight of Shanks' words settling deep within him. "I will. I'll be free. And I'll make sure others can be too."
Shanks smiled, a genuine, warm expression. "I know you will. Now, one last thing." He reached into his coat and pulled out a small, folded piece of parchment. "This is a Vivre Card. It's linked to me. If you're ever in real trouble – the kind you can't punch or fly away from – tear a piece off and burn it. I'll feel it. I'll come. Don't use it lightly. But know it's there."
Stanlee took the Vivre Card, feeling the faint, pulsing warmth emanating from it. A lifeline to the Emperor of the Sea. It was almost surreal. "Thank you, Shanks. For everything."
The Red-Hair Pirates boarded their ship at dawn. The sails, crimson against the rising sun, caught the wind. They stood at the rail, waving back at the two figures on the beach – the boy with the impossible potential, and the man trapped in the chest who had raised him.
"Farewell, Freest Traveler!" Shanks' voice boomed across the water. "Make the seas remember your name!"
Stanlee raised a hand, then, on impulse, unfurled his magnificent golden wings and gave a powerful flap, lifting effortlessly into the air. He soared upwards, circling the ship once, a silent, majestic guardian bidding them farewell. The crew cheered, waving wildly.
As the ship dwindled to a speck on the horizon, Stanlee landed softly beside Gaimon. The old man looked up at him, a complex mix of pride, sadness, and fierce love in his eyes.
"They're gone, brat," Gaimon said, his voice gruff but soft. "Just us now."
Stanlee looked at the map box in his hand, at the seastone cuffs on his wrists, at the Vivre Card tucked safely in his pocket. He looked at the vast, endless ocean before him. He was still just a boy, seven years old, with immense power he was only beginning to understand. But he had a dream. He had a name. He had a promise to keep.
"Not for long, old man," Stanlee said, a determined grin spreading across his face. He looked towards the horizon, where the sky met the sea in a line of pure, unbroken possibility. "I have training to do. A ship to find. And a world to see. My journey starts now."
The golden flag of freedom existed only in his heart for now, but soon, very soon, it would fly for all the world to see. The age of the Freest Traveler had begun.