The island became Stanlee's crucible. Eight years blurred into a relentless rhythm of sweat, power, and the constant, grumbling presence of Gaimon, the world's most unlikely father figure, trapped in his wooden prison.
The Haki Hurricane
At seven, Stanlee's Observation Haki was already impressive. By fifteen, it was the island's nervous system. He sat cross-legged on the highest peak, eyes closed, and felt everything. The heartbeat of the two-headed lion pacing in the eastern jungle. The frantic scuttle of a crab colony uncovering a new tide pool. The precise depth and temperature of every current within a five-kilometer radius of the shore. He could track the flight path of a single albatross a mile out, discerning its hunger and fatigue. It wasn't just sight or sound; it was a constant, overwhelming stream of presence.
"Brat! Stop eavesdropping on the private lives of shellfish!" Gaimon bellowed one afternoon from the beach, where Stanlee was meditating while simultaneously lifting a boulder the size of his chest-box. "It's creepy! And focus! That rock's wobbling!"
Stanlee sighed, the boulder stabilizing instantly. "I am focused, old man. I'm multitasking. Feeling the island and building strength. Efficiency."
"Efficiency my wooden rear!" Gaimon retorted. "You're just showing off! Next you'll be telling me you know what that sea king dreams about!"
Stanlee smirked. "He dreams about chasing a really big fish. And about you not throwing rocks at him." The massive crocodilian sea king lurking offshore gave a plaintive rumble, as if confirming.
Armament Haki became second nature. By ten, Stanlee could coat his entire body in the jet-black sheen of hardening within a heartbeat, turning his skin into armor that could shrug off the sharpest thorns, the strongest bites, and even the jagged edges of the volcanic rock he constantly shattered. He sparred daily with the island itself – punching mountainsides, kicking down ancient trees, letting waterfalls crash onto his Haki-coated form. He hadn't yet grasped the devastating internal destruction techniques of Wano's masters, but his external defense was absolute.
Conqueror's Haki, however, was the wild card. That initial, unconscious burst at seven had been a mere tremor. Now, Stanlee could wield it with terrifying precision. He learned to focus it, to aim it. He could knock out a specific charging boar without ruffling the feathers of a bird perched nearby. He could make a patch of jungle floor tremble just enough to trip a stalking predator. But controlling its scale was harder. One moment of intense focus, a surge of will directed at a stubborn boulder he couldn't quite lift, and the entire island would shudder. Birds would erupt from the trees in panic. Animals would collapse. Gaimon would yell, clutching his chest-box.
"STANLEE! QUIT SHAKING THE ISLAND! YOU'RE GONNA LOOSEN MY JOINTS!"
"Sorry!" Stanlee would call, wincing as he reined in the overwhelming pressure. "Just... trying to make the rock move!"
"Try using your hands, you walking natural disaster!" Gaimon would grumble, righting his chest. "Or better yet, leave the stubborn rocks alone! Not everything needs to be broken!"
The Garuda Soars
The Devil Fruit training was even more spectacular. By twelve, the clumsy, feather-nosed flier was gone. Stanlee could transform fully into the Garuda at will. The beast was magnificent: over twenty meters from talon to wingtip, feathers of pure, shimmering gold that seemed to drink the sunlight. Eyes like molten gold held ancient intelligence. His wings didn't just flap; they commanded the wind. He could summon gales to flatten sections of jungle or create gentle updrafts to carry him effortlessly. Lightning, once a terrifying random strike, became a weapon he could call down from storm clouds he generated, or channel along his wings in crackling arcs. Most astonishingly, he discovered his dominion over water. Not just controlling waves, but riding them. He could skim low over the ocean's surface, his talons and wingtips mere inches from the water, creating a cushion of wind and pressure that prevented him from touching the sea itself. He could even draw water upwards in swirling tendrils, shaping it into shields or lashing whips.
One afternoon, a particularly aggressive pod of Sea Kings, drawn by his power, encircled the island. Stanlee, in full Garuda form, met them mid-air. The battle was terrifying and beautiful. He danced on the wind, dodging colossal jaws and tails. Lightning speared down from storm clouds he summoned, striking the largest Sea King and making it roar in pain. He whipped up a waterspout, lifting another and flinging it miles out to sea. Finally, he unleashed a focused pulse of Conqueror's Haki, amplified by his mythical form. The pressure wasn't just physical; it was spiritual. The remaining Sea Kings didn't just flee; they submerged with a sense of profound awe and terror, leaving the island waters undisturbed for months.
Landing gracefully on the beach, he shrunk back to his human form – now a towering 2.5 meters of lean, corded muscle, his face strikingly handsome beneath a shock of sun-bleached hair, eyes holding the same ancient gold as his beast form. Gaimon, who had watched the entire display from his chest, looked unimpressed.
"Took you long enough," the old man grumbled. "They were making a racket. Scared away all the good fish. And look at the mess you made!" He gestured at the churned water and displaced sand.
Stanlee just grinned, shaking water from his hair. "Freedom isn't always quiet, old man."
The Price of Power (and Gaimon's Cooking)
Living with near-godlike power had its... quirks. Stanlee still couldn't cook to save his life. His attempts inevitably resulted in charred, unrecognizable lumps or, worse, accidental elemental outbursts.
"Stanlee," Gaimon said one evening, poking a blackened, smoking object on a plate with extreme caution. "What... is this?"
"Fish," Stanlee said proudly. "I used a little lightning to speed up the cooking process. Seared it perfectly."
"It looks like a meteorite," Gaimon deadpanned. "And it smells like burnt dreams. I'm not eating this. It'd probably give me indigestion for a decade. Stick to punching things, brat. Leave the fire to me."
The animals had adapted... mostly. The two-headed lion now treated Stanlee with wary respect, occasionally bringing him a (slightly mangled) gift of fruit. The monkeys had learned that stealing Stanlee's training weights (which now resembled small boulders) was a terrible idea, as he could summon a gust of wind to send them flying into the next lagoon. The crocodile-sea king had become his oversized, slightly pathetic pet, often following him along the shore like a scaly, groaning puppy, hoping for a discarded fish head or a pat on its massive snout (which Stanlee usually delivered with a Haki-coated fist that made the beast whimper happily).
Gaimon remained the constant anchor. He complained about the tremors, the strange weather patterns Stanlee sometimes generated, the terrified animals, and the sheer noise of his training. But he also watched with undisguised pride as the boy who arrived in a chest grew into a being who could command wind and wave, who could fell mountains with a punch, and whose will could shake the very ground beneath them.
"You're getting too big for this island, brat," Gaimon said one evening, as Stanlee meditated, a faint golden aura shimmering around him. At fifteen, Stanlee's height meant he often had to crouch to talk to the chest-bound man. "Literally and figuratively. The world out there... it's not ready for you. And honestly? I don't know if you're ready for it."
Stanlee opened his eyes, the golden depths calm but intense. "I will be. I have to be. My dream isn't here, old man. It's out there." He gestured towards the vast, darkening ocean. "Every sea. Every sky. Free."
Gaimon sighed, a sound like wind through dry leaves. "Yeah, yeah. The Freest Traveler. Just... try not to get yourself killed before you even leave the dock, you hear? And for the love of the sea, take some cooking lessons!"
Stanlee chuckled, a deep, resonant sound. "I'll try. No promises on the cooking though." He reached out and gently patted the top of Gaimon's chest-box. "Thanks. For everything."
Gaimon grunted, but a rare, soft smile touched his lips. "Yeah, yeah. Just don't forget where you came from, you oversized canary."
As the stars began to prick the velvet sky, Stanlee looked out at the horizon. He was a force of nature now, a guardian of his tiny island kingdom. But the map box Shanks had given him years ago felt like a lead weight in his pocket. The Vivre Card pulsed with a faint, reassuring warmth against his chest. The time was coming soon. The training was reaching its peak. The Freest Traveler was nearly ready to spread his wings beyond the shores of his childhood. The Grand Line awaited.