The final night on the island stretched long and heavy, the air thick with salt and unspoken goodbyes. Stanlee, a colossus of 2.5 meters at fifteen, sat cross-legged on the sand beside Gaimon's chest. A modest fire crackled between them, casting dancing shadows on Stanlee's sharp, handsome features and Gaimon's weathered, perpetually scowling face. The jungle, usually a cacophony of roars and screeches, seemed subdued, holding its breath.
"Alright, brat," Gaimon began, his voice a low rumble, rougher than usual. "Dawn's coming. You're gonna flap those oversized wings and leave this old man stuck in his box. Think you're ready?"
Stanlee met his gaze, golden eyes reflecting the firelight. "I've trained relentlessly, old man. I can command wind and water, sense threats across the island, shatter stone with a punch. What could possibly be missing?"
Gaimon snorted, a sound like stones rattling in a hollow log. "Strength? You've got enough to sink an island fleet! But solo sailing ain't a fistfight! It's about surviving the mundane, the boring, the essential! You've got the power of a god, but you couldn't boil water without setting the jungle on fire!" He jabbed a stubby finger accusingly. "First: Cooking! Remember that 'lightning-seared fish'? Looked like volcanic rock, tasted like despair! You can't live on raw meat and fruit forever! Scurvy'll claim you before any Marine does! Or you'll starve because you incinerated your last barrel of salt pork trying to 'expedite the process'! Find someone who can teach you! Before you leave the East Blue!"
Stanlee winced, a rare show of chagrin. "Cooking. Got it. Added to the list."
"Good," Gaimon grunted. "Second: Navigation. Flying high's fine for spotting islands, but the Grand Line? It's a madhouse! Currents spin like dervishes, islands drift, weather changes faster than a Sea King's lunch plans! You need to read a Log Pose like it's your native tongue, understand an Eternal Pose's limitations, read the stars like a roadmap, the winds like whispers, the water like a living thing! Get lost out there, son, and even your fancy wings won't save you if you blunder into the Calm Belt or a Sea King nursery!"
"I'll master it," Stanlee promised, his voice firm. "Navigation. Essential."
"Third, and the glue holding your solo dream together: Shipwrighting." Gaimon leaned forward as much as his chest allowed, his voice dropping to a serious growl. "That ship Shanks is sending you for? It's not just transport. It's your lifeline. Your fortress. Your weapon. What happens when a cannonball punches a hole? When a storm rips the mast? When you scrape it blind on a hidden reef? You can't punch the splinters back into place! You need to know how to patch it, caulk it, maintain it, understand its very bones! Find this shipwright, Stanlee. Don't just let him build it. Apprentice to him. Beg, barter, clean his floors with your tongue if you have to! A captain who can't fix his own ship is a captain sailing straight for Davy Jones's locker, powered by stupidity!"
Stanlee nodded slowly, the weight of Gaimon's wisdom settling deep. "Understood. Shipwright skills. I won't fail."
Gaimon paused, his gaze sharpening. "And fourth, you stubborn brat: Doctoring. Not a fancy city physician with a powdered wig, but basic field medicine. Setting bones, stitching wounds, knowing what herbs stop bleeding or bring down a fever."
Stanlee blinked, genuinely surprised. "Doctoring? Old man, look at me. Look at us! Have you ever seen me sick? Not once in fifteen years. I spent days floating in the ocean as a baby, exposed to gods-know-what, and didn't even get a sniffle. I've been bitten, clawed, smashed, and electrocuted by my own lightning – I heal before the blood dries. Me getting sick is statistically impossible. Zero point zero zero one percent chance."
Gaimon glared, unimpressed. "Statistics? Bah! You think the sea cares about your numbers? You think every person you might choose to help, or who ends up on your doorstep bleeding out, is gonna be a walking fortress like you? What if you find someone adrift, half-dead? What if you make an ally who takes a cannonball meant for you? You gonna just pat them on the head and say 'Sorry, can't help, I don't do sick'?" He jabbed his finger again, harder this time. "Freedom isn't just about your hide, Stanlee! It's about having the power to protect it, and that includes protecting the lives of those who sail with you, even for a day! Learn the basics. Enough to keep someone breathing until you can get them real help. That's an order, not a suggestion."
Stanlee held Gaimon's intense gaze for a long moment. The old man's logic was infuriatingly sound, rooted in harsh experience and genuine care. Finally, Stanlee sighed, a deep rumble in his chest. "Fine. Basic field medicine. Added to the list. Happy now?"
Gaimon grunted, a flicker of satisfaction in his eyes. "Getting there. Now, where was I? Oh yeah..." He sighed, a sound heavy with years of solitude and fierce pride. "And one last thing, you oversized fledgling. This 'solo' crusade… it's bold. Reckless, but bold. But the world ain't empty. You'll cross paths. Some decent, some vile, most just trying to get by like us. Don't build walls so high you can't see over them. Freedom ain't solitude. It's choosing your companions, even if it's just for a single tide. And remember..." He reached out, placing a surprisingly strong, stubby hand on Stanlee's massive forearm. "...this chest, this island, this grumpy old fool… it's always home. Always."
Stanlee covered Gaimon's hand with his own, a gesture of immense tenderness from the powerful young man. "Always, old man. Thank you. For everything." They sat in profound silence as the fire dwindled to embers, the vast ocean whispering its endless song, the weight of parting hanging thick in the humid air.
The Box Unveiled: A Map & A Mission
Dawn broke, painting the sky in fiery streaks. Stanlee stood on the beach, the wind whipping his sun-bleached hair. Gaimon was positioned nearby, his usual gruffness unable to mask the glistening in his eyes. With a deep breath, Stanlee retrieved the small, intricately carved wooden box Shanks had given him eight years prior. The wood felt warm, humming faintly with latent promise.
He lifted the lid. Inside, nestled on faded velvet, lay two items:
A Letter: Folded crisp parchment, sealed with a simple blob of red wax bearing a stylized 'S'. Stanlee broke the seal. Shanks' familiar, bold script filled the page:
Stanlee,If you're reading this, you've spread your wings. Good. The sea awaits those who dare.The Log Pose inside is set. It points to an island in the far East Blue, tucked away from the main shipping lanes – Shimotsuki Village. Find the shipwright there. His name is Kenshiro. He's ancient, stubborn as bedrock, and possesses hands that can coax life from dead wood. Tell him Shanks sent you for the 'Freest Ship'. He'll understand. He owes me a debt from long before your time.Kenshiro won't merely build you a vessel; he'll forge an extension of your will. But he'll test you. Not just your strength, but your resolve, your understanding of the sea, your respect for the craft. Show him the depth of your dream, not just the height of your power.The Vivre Card remains your lifeline. Burn it only if the ocean itself rises against you.Sail free, Stanlee D. Gaimon. Let the winds carry your legend.- Shanks
The Log Pose: An elegant device. A glass sphere filled with shimmering, iridescent fluid, mounted on a sturdy wrist strap. Inside, a single needle pulsed with a soft, steady blue light, pointing unwaveringly towards Shimotsuki Village. It was calibrated for the relatively stable magnetic fields of the East Blue – his key to finding Kenshiro.
Stanley read the letter twice, etching every word into his memory. He fastened the Log Pose to his thick wrist. The needle pulsed reassuringly. He looked at Gaimon, a determined grin splitting his face. "Shimotsuki Village. Time to meet my shipwright."
Gaimon managed a gruff nod. "About damn time. Now scram before you make me blubber like a beached whale. And don't forget the cooking or the doctoring!"
Flight to Shimotsuki & The Adam's Ultimatum
Stanlee transformed. Golden light erupted, engulfing him. Where the young man stood, a colossal Garuda now perched, its 20-meter wings stretching wide, catching the morning sun. With a powerful downbeat that kicked up a miniature sandstorm and sent Gaimon's chest wobbling precariously, Stanlee launched into the sky.
He flew high and fast, the Log Pose needle a constant guide on his wrist. The East Blue unfolded beneath him – an endless blue tapestry dotted with emerald islands, the wakes of ships like tiny scratches. His Observation Haki stretched effortlessly, mapping the currents, sensing the life below, effortlessly skirting around Marine patrols. He reached Shimotsuki Village by midday. It was a serene island, renowned for its swordsmanship, nestled in a tranquil cove.
He landed gracefully in a secluded cove, shrinking back to human form. Following the Log Pose and his own senses, he found Kenshiro's workshop – a large, open-air structure perched on a cliff overlooking the sea, redolent with the scent of sawdust, salt, and aged wood. The shipwright was exactly as Shanks described: ancient, with a long, snow-white braided beard, sharp, knowing eyes that missed nothing, and hands gnarled like ancient driftwood yet moving with incredible precision as he planed a piece of timber. He looked up as Stanlee approached, his gaze sizing up the towering young man instantly.
"Shanks sent you," Kenshiro stated, his voice like gravel grinding underfoot. He didn't ask; he knew. He set down his plane with deliberate care. "Said you wanted the 'Freest Ship'." He spat a wad of phlegm into a nearby bucket. "Hmph. Freest ship demands the freest wood. Adam's Wood. From the Tree of Adam in the Grand Line. Can't source it here in the East Blue."
Stanlee frowned. "Shanks didn't mention needing to procure the materials."
"Of course he didn't," Kenshiro grunted, picking up a chisel and examining its edge. "The red-haired fool knows I only work with perfection. Adam's Wood is legendary. Lighter than cork, stronger than the finest steel, flexible enough to ride the wildest tsunami, and... it sings with the sea. A ship built from Adam's Wood isn't merely a vessel; it becomes an extension of its captain's spirit. It responds to will, to emotion. Perfect for a 'Freest Traveler'." He fixed Stanlee with a piercing look that seemed to see right through to his soul. "But it's exceedingly rare. Prohibitively expensive. And only found deep within the Grand Line's most dangerous territories, or traded in places where sunlight fears to tread. You desire this ship? You bring me the wood. Bring me a single, unblemished log of pure Adam's Wood, and I will forge for you a vessel that will make the Sea Kings weep with envy and the Marines tremble. Fail..." He shrugged, a gesture of finality. "...and find another shipwright. One who works with common driftwood."
Stanlee's golden eyes hardened with resolve. "Where do I find it?"
A rare, thin smile touched Kenshiro's lips. "There's a dark market island nearby. Siren's Call. Operates beneath the World Government's radar, a haven for the illicit and the desperate. Deals in smuggled artifacts, rare weapons, forbidden Devil Fruits... and occasionally, if the sellers are desperate and the buyers reckless, Adam's Wood makes an appearance. It's a viper's nest, boy. Crawling with pirates, bounty hunters, slavers, and worse. Your wings and your Haki might make you a god here, but on Siren's Call, a god can still bleed if he's not careful. The auction is tonight. Be there. Be unseen. And be prepared to pay a king's ransom... or fight a war."
Siren's Call: The Dark Market Auction
Stanlee flew towards Siren's Call as dusk painted the sky in ominous shades of blood and shadow. The island lived up to its name – a jagged, forbidding claw of rock jutting from storm-tossed seas, perpetually wreathed in chilling mist. He landed well outside the ramshackle, squalid port town, transforming back to human and pulling the deep hood of a simple, dark cloak tightly around himself. He moved like a whisper through the grimy, winding streets, his Observation Haki a constant, vigilant shield. It mapped the hostile intent radiating from shadowed doorways, the hidden weapons beneath ragged coats, the desperate auras of the downtrodden and the predatory gleam of the powerful. The air was thick with the stench of cheap liquor, unwashed bodies, exotic spices, and raw fear.
The auction house was a large, windowless warehouse near the docks, guarded by hulking brutes with scarred faces and crude but effective weapons – axes, clubs, and surprisingly well-maintained flintlocks. Inside, the atmosphere was electric and thick with tension. A motley crowd packed the space: brutish pirates with jolly rogers sewn onto filthy coats, slick brokers in fine but stained silks flanked by silent bodyguards, shadowy figures whose faces remained hidden deep within hoods, and the desperate dregs hoping for a lucky score. The auctioneer, a weasel-faced man with oiled hair and a voice that could cut glass, stood on a raised platform under flickering gas lamps.
"Ladies, gentlemen, and discerning connoisseurs of the rare and forbidden!" the auctioneer crooned, his voice slick. "Welcome to tonight's spectacle! Lot 1! A blade whispered about in the darkest corners of the West Blue! The 'Silent Whisper'! A dagger forged from Wano steel, said to be so sharp it severs not just flesh, but sound itself! Bidding starts at 5,000,000 Berries!"
Murmurs rippled through the crowd. A lean pirate captain with a scar across his throat raised a hand. "Ten million!"
The bidding climbed rapidly, fueled by greed and superstition. Stanlee watched, unmoved, his focus absolute. He needed the Adam's Wood, nothing else. And I have exactly zero Berries to my name, he thought grimly. Shanks had provided knowledge, a map, a lifeline, but no coin. This acquisition would require other methods.
"Lot 17!" the auctioneer announced later, assistants rolling out a large, ornate cage containing a massive, sleeping boar with scales instead of fur and small, vestigial wings. "A rare Zoan Devil Fruit user! The Ushi Ushi no Mi, Model: Minotaurus! Already consumed and captured! A formidable brute or a terrifying guard dog! Bidding starts at 75,000,000 Berries!" The bidding for the caged Zoan was fierce, eventually going for nearly 300 million to a nervous-looking crime lord.
"Lot 25!" A large, ornate vase was presented. "An antique from the Void Century! Believed to depict ancient technology! Bidding starts at 20,000,000 Berries!" This drew interest from historians and collectors alike.
Finally, the auctioneer's voice rose dramatically, cutting through the din. "Lot 37! The pièce de résistance! The crown jewel of tonight's offerings! A prize whispered of in legends, coveted by kings and feared by emperors! I present... a section of trunk, Adam's Wood!!" Assistants carefully rolled out a heavy, dark log onto the platform. It seemed to absorb the light, yet shimmer with a deep, inner warmth. "Hewn from the treeline near Edd War itself! Lighter than air! Stronger than Poneglyph stone! Impervious to rot, cannon fire, and the ravages of time! The perfect material for a flagship that will dominate the Grand Line! Bidding starts at 50,000,000 Berries!"
A collective gasp, then a roar of excitement erupted. Pirates slammed fists on tables. Brokers shouted offers. The bidding skyrocketed with terrifying speed.
"One hundred million!" bellowed a corpulent pirate captain covered in gold jewelry, slamming a massive bag of Berries onto his table.
"One hundred fifty!" squeaked a nervous-looking broker, flanked by hulking guards.
"Two hundred million!" a cold, cultured voice cut through the din. All heads turned. Seated in a secluded, elevated box was a man in immaculate, expensive attire – fine silks, lace cuffs, and a powdered wig. Beside him stood a stern-faced woman in the unmistakable livery of the Goa Kingdom, known for its immense wealth, strict class hierarchy, and its rulers' desperate desire to curry favor with the World Nobles. The man, clearly a high-ranking noble or envoy from Goa, radiated cold arrogance. "The Goa Kingdom requires this wood for a most... auspicious tribute. A gift befitting the Celestial Dragons themselves. Three hundred million."
The crowd fell silent, intimidated by the sheer wealth and implied connection to the World Government's highest echelons. The auctioneer beamed. "Three hundred million! A magnificent bid! Going once—"
"Four hundred million!" The metallic voice of the shadowy figure from earlier, now standing near the back, echoed. Tension crackled.
"Five hundred million!" the Goa envoy countered, his face hardening, not willing to be outbid on such a prestigious gift.
The bidding became a desperate war between the Goa Kingdom's wealth and the shadowy figure's resources. Stanlee watched, calculating. He had no money. His only currency was his power, his wits, and the chaos he could potentially create or exploit. He needed a distraction, a moment where the wood was vulnerable and attention was elsewhere.
"Eight hundred million Berries!" the Goa envoy declared, his voice ringing with final authority, slamming his fist on the railing of his box. "And not a Berry more! This wood will grace the halls of Mariejois!" A stunned silence fell. Even the shadowy figure seemed to hesitate, calculating the cost of challenging a kingdom openly seeking to impress the Celestial Dragons.
"Going once!" the auctioneer crowed, his voice trembling with excitement. "Going twice! Sold to the Goa Kingdom for—"
CHAOS!
The warehouse doors exploded inward with a deafening crash! Splinters flew. A ragtag but brutal horde of pirates poured in, led by a hulking man with a mechanical arm and a shark-toothed grin. "THAT WOOD'S OURS, YOU STUFFY SHIRTS!" the pirate captain roared. "BOYS, LOOT THE PLACE! LEAVE NO RICHES UNTURNED!"
Panic erupted. The Goa Kingdom guards, clad in fine but functional armor, moved with practiced precision, forming a protective shield around the Adam's Wood and their employer, drawing ornate but deadly-looking swords and pistols. The auctioneer dove for cover. Brokers screamed and scrambled for exits. The shadowy figure melted away into the chaos. Stanlee remained near the back, hood pulled low, Observation Haki flaring, mapping the violence, waiting.
The pirates were vicious but undisciplined. They clashed with the Goa guards in a brutal melee. Swords clashed, pistols fired, the acrid smell of gunpowder mixed with blood. The Goa envoy barked orders, his face pale but resolute, his eyes fixed on the prize. The Adam's Wood lay exposed on the platform near the fighting.
Now. Stanlee moved like a phantom through the chaos, a blur of dark cloak. He focused his will. Not a blast, but a scalpel. He directed a thin, razor-sharp thread of Conqueror's Haki towards the pirate captain. It wasn't an overwhelming wave; it was a precise strike aimed at the man's confidence, his command. You are outmatched. Your crew will fall. Flee. Now. They're too strong.
The pirate captain staggered mid-swing, his mechanical arm freezing. His eyes widened with sudden, inexplicable terror. "RETREAT!" he bellowed, his voice cracking. "PULL BACK! IT'S A TRAP! THEY'VE GOT ADMIRALS COMING!"
The pirates, already taking losses from the disciplined Goa guards, hesitated at their captain's panicked order. The Goa guards pressed their advantage, driving the disoriented pirates back towards the shattered doors. The fighting became a rout, pirates scrambling over each other to escape.
In the confusion, Stanlee acted. He darted onto the platform. He didn't grab the wood. Instead, he unleashed a focused pulse of Armament Haki into the platform floor beneath the log. Not to destroy, but to shift. With a grunt of effort, he leveraged the Haki-coated floorboards, tilting the platform just enough. The heavy Adam's Wood log slid off the edge.
He caught it effortlessly. The wood felt warm, alive, humming with a deep energy that resonated with his own. He tucked it under his cloak, its weight significant but manageable for his strength. He turned, intending to melt back into the fleeing crowd.
"STOP HIM! THIEF!" The Goa envoy yelled, pointing, his face purple with rage. "GUARDS! SEIZE HIM! HE HAS THE TRIBUTE!"
Two guards broke off, lunging towards Stanlee with practiced speed. He didn't hesitate. He channeled wind, not into an attack, but into a burst of speed. He became a blur, zipping past the guards' outstretched arms and diving through a side window just as they reached him. Shattered glass rained down. He landed silently in the alley beyond, the precious log secure.
He didn't run. He walked calmly into the deeper shadows, pulling the hood low. Moments later, he launched into the air, transforming into the Garuda high above the chaotic island. Below, the port was in turmoil – Goa guards shouting orders, pirates regrouping in the distance, the envoy furiously demanding the wood's recovery. But Stanlee was already gone, the Adam's Wood a warm, solid weight against his chest.
He hadn't paid a Berry. He hadn't fought a war. He'd used his wits, his Haki, and the chaos created by others to acquire the key to his ship. He'd profited, not in coin, but in opportunity. He banked west, towards Shimotsuki Village, the golden Garuda a silent speck against the moonlit sky, carrying the heart of his future ship. The Freest Traveler was one step closer to his destiny.