The Little Dream sliced through the cerulean expanse of the East Blue, a solitary speck of shimmering Adam's Wood beneath an endless sky. For Stanlee, the first week of true solo sailing was a stark contrast to the focused intensity of shipbuilding. It was… quiet. Almost oppressively so. The rhythmic lap of waves against the hull, the creak of timbers, the constant whisper of the wind – it was a symphony of solitude, beautiful in its purity, but undeniably boring after the constant activity of Shimotsuki Village.
His days settled into a grueling routine designed to combat the monotony and push his limits. Dawn broke with meditation on the reinforced training deck, legs crossed, eyes closed, reaching out with his Observation Haki. He pushed his senses further and further each day, trying to feel beyond the immediate – the fish swimming deep below, the birds circling high above, the distant pulse of an island's magnetic field. He focused on the concept Kenshiro had hinted at, the legendary "Voice of All Things." He strained to hear the meaning in the wind's whisper, the story in the wave's crash, the consciousness in the fish's dart.
Nothing.
He felt presences, movements, intentions – the sharp spike of a predator's hunger, the panicked flutter of prey. He could track a ship from miles away by the collective aura of its crew. But the deeper connection, the understanding of the world's fundamental language, remained elusive. It was like pressing his ear against a thick wall, hearing muffled sounds but unable to decipher the words.
"Focus," he muttered, sweat beading on his brow despite the sea breeze. He concentrated on a passing pod of dolphins. He felt their joy, their speed, their playful clicks. But he couldn't understand them. Not truly. Just surface emotions. "Damn it. What am I missing?"
Frustration gnawed at him. He'd shattered mountains, commanded storms, faced down an Emperor's first mate. Yet this subtle, internal art defied him. He punctuated the meditation with bursts of physical training – Haki-coated punches against the reinforced deck, sending shockwaves through the ship, sprints along the railing, practicing channeling wind into the "Embrace" system for sudden bursts of speed. The Little Dream responded beautifully, leaping forward like a living thing when he willed it. But the Voice remained silent.
The boredom was punctuated only by the necessities of solo life: fishing (which he excelled at, spearing fish with pinpoint accuracy from the deck), maintaining his small garden (the herbs thrived, the citrus tree showing new growth), and his disastrous attempts at basic cooking. His latest effort – attempting to fry some of his catch – resulted in a blackened, smoking lump that even the aquarium fish seemed to eye with pity. He scraped it overboard with a sigh, the acrid smell hanging in the air. Mirror Ball Island can't come soon enough, he thought grimly.
The Stench of Despair
It was on the tenth day out from Shimotsuki, during another frustratingly unproductive Haki session, that his Observation Haki spiked. Not with the gentle pulse of marine life or the distant hum of an island, but with a concentrated wave of… wrongness. Fear, pain, despair, cruelty – a sickening cocktail of negative emotions emanating from a vessel just coming over the horizon.
Stanlee snapped his eyes open, focusing his gaze. A ship, larger than his, but clearly not a Marine vessel or a reputable merchantman. It was bulky, utilitarian, with barred portholes visible along the lower deck. And the flag… a stylized jester's smile, cruel and mocking. Joker. The name hit Stanlee like a physical blow. Donquixote Doflamingo. One of the Shichibukai. This wasn't just some random slaver; this was an operation feeding the beast itself.
He didn't hesitate. The Little Dream surged forward, wind channeled through the Embrace system propelling it with unnatural speed. As he closed the distance, the details became horrifyingly clear. The stench reached him even before he was alongside – unwashed bodies, waste, and the metallic tang of fear. The sounds were worse: muffled sobs, the crack of a whip, harsh laughter. Through his Haki, he felt the terrified auras crammed below decks – dozens of them. Men, women… and the faint, fragile sparks of children.
Anger, cold and sharp, cut through his frustration. This was the antithesis of everything he stood for. This was chains. This was the ultimate theft of freedom.
He brought the Little Dream alongside the slave ship with precision, close enough to board but far enough to present a challenging target. He didn't transform. Not yet. He simply stood at the railing, his golden eyes blazing, his presence radiating like a furnace.
"Ahoy the slave ship!" His voice boomed across the water, cutting through the ship's grim atmosphere. "You're carrying stolen lives. Release them. Now."
A moment of stunned silence on the slave ship. Then, rough laughter erupted from the deck. Several burly men, armed with cutlasses and clubs, leered at him. One, clearly the captain based on his ostentatious feathered hat and cruel smirk, stepped forward.
"Well, well!" the captain jeered, spitting over the side. "Look what we got here, boys! A little boy playing pirate on his fancy toy boat! Think you're tough, kid? Think you can tell Captain Briggs what to do?" He drew a wicked-looking cutlass. "We're on business for Joker himself! You think some snot-nosed brat scares us? Boys! Teach this fool a lesson! Bring me his pretty boat!"
The slavers roared, raising their weapons, preparing to board or fire the small cannons mounted on their deck. Stanlee didn't move. He simply took a breath and pushed.
It wasn't a wave of destruction. It was a scalpel of pure will, focused Conqueror's Haki directed with surgical precision. You are insignificant. You are weak. You will sleep. The pressure wasn't overwhelming, just… undeniable.
The effect was instantaneous and comical. Captain Briggs's smirk vanished, replaced by wide-eyed terror. His cutlass clattered to the deck. "Wha—?" he gasped, before his eyes rolled back and he collapsed like a marionette with its strings cut. His men fared no better. One by one, the armed slavers crumpled to the deck, unconscious before they could take a single step towards the rail. Their collective aura of cruelty vanished, replaced by the blankness of deep sleep.
Silence descended, broken only by the lapping of waves and the muffled sounds from below. Stanlee vaulted effortlessly onto the slave ship's deck, landing silently beside the pile of unconscious slavers. He moved towards the hatch leading below, his senses alert.
He didn't get far. A figure emerged from the cabin near the stern, drawn by the sudden silence. He wore the crisp white uniform of a Marine Captain, complete with a Marine coat draped over his shoulders. He had a sharp, angular face and eyes that widened in shock at the scene – the unconscious slavers, the towering young man standing amidst them.
"What… what is the meaning of this?!" the Marine Captain demanded, hand instinctively going to his sword hilt. He saw Stanlee's intense gaze, the sheer power radiating from him, and paled slightly. "Identify yourself! You're attacking a Marine-authorized vessel!"
Stanlee turned slowly, his golden eyes fixing on the Marine. "Marine-authorized?" His voice was dangerously quiet. "To transport slaves? For Joker? Don't insult me, Captain. Or yourself. You know exactly what this ship is."
The Captain flinched, sweat beading on his brow. "That's… that's a serious accusation! This is a prisoner transport! For dangerous criminals!"
Stanlee took a step forward. The pressure increased, not Haki this time, just the sheer physical presence of a 2.5-meter-tall man radiating righteous fury. "Prisoners don't include children, Captain. They don't include women weeping in chains. They don't include people stolen from their homes for profit." He pointed towards the hatch. "I can hear them. I can feel them. Your authorization is worth less than the bilge water in this ship's hold. What's your name, Captain?"
"Captain… Captain Riker," the man stammered, taking an involuntary step back. He saw the utter lack of fear in Stanlee's eyes, only cold resolve. He knew, with chilling certainty, that this wasn't a fight he could win. "Look… it's complicated! Joker has connections! He pays well! We just… we just look the other way! It's survival!"
"Survival built on the suffering of others is the weakest kind of existence," Stanlee stated flatly. "You have two choices, Captain Riker. You can join your slaver friends in an unscheduled nap, or you can stand there quietly while I free these people. Choose now."
Riker looked at the pile of unconscious slavers, then back at Stanlee's implacable gaze. The fight went out of him. He swallowed hard. "I… I'll stand quietly," he whispered, raising his hands in surrender.
Liberation and a Fateful Meeting
Stanlee ignored him, turning his attention to the hatch. He ripped the heavy barred door off its hinges with one hand, the groaning metal echoing in the sudden stillness. The air that billowed out was thick with the stench of despair, unwashed bodies, and stale fear. It hit Stanlee like a physical blow, but he steeled himself and descended into the gloom.
The sight below decks was a vision of hell. Rows of iron cages, crammed far beyond capacity. Gaunt faces stared out, eyes wide with a mixture of terror and dawning hope. Whimpering children clung to mothers. Men stared with hollow eyes, broken by their ordeal. The sheer scale of the suffering was staggering.
Stanlee moved quickly but carefully. He snapped the locks on each cage, one by one, the sound of breaking metal echoing like gunfire in the confined space. He didn't speak grand words. He simply acted.
"You're free," he said, his voice low but carrying clearly over the rising murmurs. "The slavers are unconscious. The Marine won't interfere. Come up on deck. Get some fresh air. I have water and food on my ship."
A hesitant cheer went up. People began to stumble out of the cages, stretching limbs stiff from confinement, blinking in the relative brightness filtering down from the open hatch. Stanlee helped the weakest, carrying children and supporting those who could barely walk. He guided them up the ladder and onto the open deck of the slave ship, where the clean sea air was a balm.
On the Little Dream, he quickly set out buckets of fresh water and simple provisions – dried fruit, hardtack (which he hadn't cooked), and some of the fresh fish he'd caught earlier. The freed slaves devoured the food and water with desperate gratitude.
As they ate and drank, Stanlee moved among them, his Observation Haki gently probing, not to invade, but to understand. He listened to fragments of conversation – snippets of homes lost, families torn apart, futures stolen. He felt their relief, their lingering fear, their fragile hope.
He stopped near a woman huddled near the rail, clutching a small piece of hardtack but not eating. She was perhaps twenty-four, with dark hair matted and dirty, but her eyes, though shadowed with exhaustion and fear, held a fierce intelligence. She was thin, clearly weakened, but there was a core of strength there. She stared out at the sea with an expression of profound loss.
"You're from the East Blue?" Stanlee asked gently, crouching beside her.
She flinched slightly, then looked at him, really looked at him. She saw not just the power, but the concern in his eyes. "Yes," she whispered, her voice rough. "Mirror Ball Island."
Stanlee froze. Mirror Ball Island. Kenshiro's words echoed in his mind. The perfect place to learn cooking. He looked at her more closely. The intelligence, the focus… "What did you do there? Before…"
A flicker of pride, mixed with deep pain, crossed her face. "My husband… Marco… and I, we run the 'Rhythm & Roll' hotel. Right in the heart of the festival district. I… I'm the head chef." She looked down at her hands, calloused from work. "They said… they said a chef of my skill was wasted on an island like that. That Joker had… clients… who would pay a fortune for someone who could create such… experiences." Her voice cracked. "They took me from the kitchen. Marco… he tried to stop them. They… they hurt him. And our son… Leo… he's only two…" A sob escaped her, raw and heartbreaking. "I don't know if they're alright. I don't know if I'll ever see them again."
Rita. Her name was Rita. And she wasn't just a chef; she was a mother, a wife, stolen from her life because of her talent. The injustice of it burned in Stanlee's gut. He remembered his own frustration with cooking, his need to learn. Here was the answer, delivered by the cruelest of twists.
"Rita," Stanlee said, his voice firm with resolve. "Listen to me. You will see them again. I swear it."
She looked up, hope warring with despair in her tear-filled eyes. "How? We're in the middle of nowhere. They… they said they were taking us to Sabaody. To be sold…"
"They're not taking anyone anywhere," Stanlee stated, his golden eyes hardening. "This ship is going to Loguetown. I'm turning it over to the authorities there. Specifically, to Captain Smoker."
"Smoker?" Rita echoed, recognition dawning. "The White Chase? They say he's… incorruptible. Hates slavery."
"Exactly," Stanlee nodded. "He'll see justice done for you and everyone else here. And once that's done…" He met her gaze directly. "I will take you back to Mirror Ball Island myself. On my ship. The Little Dream. I'll get you home to Marco and Leo."
Rita stared at him, disbelieving. "You… you'd do that? For me? For a stranger?"
"You're not a stranger," Stanlee said softly. "You're a victim of the same chains I fight against. And…" He took a breath. "I need a teacher. A chef. Someone who can teach an idiot like me how to cook properly, how to feed himself right. Kenshiro sent me to Mirror Ball Island to learn. It seems fate brought the teacher to me instead." A small, wry smile touched his lips. "What do you say, Rita? Teach me to cook, and I'll get you home to your family. Deal?"
Tears streamed freely down Rita's face now, but they were tears of relief, of dawning hope. She looked at this impossible young man – powerful enough to take down a slaver ship single-handedly, yet offering her a deal based on mutual need and respect. She saw the sincerity in his eyes.
"Deal," she whispered, then stronger, "Deal! Oh god, deal! I'll teach you everything! Just… just get me home to my boys!"
Stanlee nodded, a genuine smile spreading across his face. He stood up, addressing all the freed slaves gathered on the deck. "Listen up! We're setting course for Loguetown! We'll be there in three days! Captain Smoker will ensure you're all returned home safely! On my ship, you'll have food, water, and shelter! No one will harm you again!"
A ragged, heartfelt cheer rose from the rescued people. For the first time in days, perhaps weeks, hope felt real.
Three Days and a Destination
The voyage to Loguetown was tense but purposeful. Stanlee transferred the weakest and youngest to the Little Dream, where Rita immediately took charge of the small galley, miraculously transforming Stanlee's limited stores into simple but nourishing meals for the children and infirm. Watching her work – her efficiency, her intuitive understanding of flavors and nutrition – was a revelation. Even with makeshift tools and ingredients, she created magic. Stanlee helped where he could, fetching water, chopping vegetables under her strict supervision, absorbing her lessons like a sponge.
On the slave ship, Stanle kept Captain Riker and the unconscious slavers secured in the now-empty cages, under the watchful eyes of a few of the stronger freed men. Riker remained sullen and terrified, offering no trouble. The atmosphere on the slave ship was somber, a mix of relief and lingering trauma, but the daily routine of care and the steady progress towards Loguetown helped.
Stanlee used the time to continue his Haki training, but now with a different focus. Instead of straining for the elusive Voice, he practiced control. He focused on maintaining a constant, low-level Observation Haki, monitoring the well-being of everyone on both ships – the faint spark of a child's fever, the spike of anxiety in a former slave, the sullen resentment of Riker. He learned to filter the noise, to focus on specific signatures. It was less glamorous, but far more practical.
Finally, on the morning of the third day, the distinctive silhouette of Loguetown appeared on the horizon – the bustling port town perched on the edge of the Grand Line, the place where the Pirate King began and ended his journey.
Stanlee brought the Little Dream alongside the slave ship, guiding both vessels towards the main Marine docks. The sight of the two ships approaching – one sleek and strange, the other clearly a slaver – caused a commotion. Marines scrambled into formation on the docks, led by a figure instantly recognizable even from a distance.
Captain Smoker stood at the end of the pier, cigars clenched in his teeth, billowing white smoke that matched his hair. His sharp eyes narrowed as he took in the scene: the towering young man standing calmly on the deck of the smaller ship, the freed slaves huddled on the slaver's deck, the Marine Captain in a cage looking utterly miserable, and the pile of unconscious slavers.
Smoker didn't shout. He didn't draw his jitte immediately. He simply walked down the pier, his heavy boots thudding on the wood, his gaze locked on Stanlee. The sheer force of his presence, his reputation for uncompromising justice, silenced the dockside chatter.
"You," Smoker growled, the smoke curling around his head as he stopped at the edge of the pier, looking up at Stanlee. "What's the meaning of this? And who the hell are you?"
Stanlee met his gaze without flinching. He saw the intelligence, the suspicion, and beneath it, the fierce dedication to duty Kenshiro had described. This was the right man.
"My name is Stanlee D. Gaimon," Stanlee said, his voice clear and strong, carrying across the water. "I intercepted this vessel, the 'Jester's Grin', operating under the authority of the Warlord, Joker. It was transporting slaves, including children, taken from various East Blue islands." He gestured to the cages. "The slavers are unconscious. The Marine Captain, Riker, was complicit in their operation. The freed people are seeking justice and passage home."
Smoker's eyes flickered over the scene, taking in every detail. He saw the terror in Riker's eyes, the hope on the faces of the freed slaves, the sheer, undeniable power radiating from the young man before him. He didn't sense a lie. He sensed overwhelming strength and a chillingly righteous anger.
"Joker…" Smoker muttered, the name like poison on his lips. He turned to his men. "Take these ships into custody. Secure the prisoners. Get medical attention for everyone on that slaver ship. I want full statements. And get that damn Joker flag down!" He turned back to Stanlee, his jitte now in hand, but not raised. "You. Stanlee D. Gaimon. You interfered with a Marine-authorized vessel and assaulted its crew. That's a serious offense."
Stanlee nodded slowly. "I did. To stop a greater crime. Captain Smoker, these people need help. They need to get home. I need to ensure that happens. Especially," he gestured towards Rita, who stood near the rail of the Little Dream, her eyes fixed on Smoker with desperate hope, "Rita, head chef of the Rhythm & Roll hotel on Mirror Ball Island. She needs to get back to her husband and two-year-old son."
Smoker's gaze shifted to Rita. He saw the exhaustion, the fear, but also the fierce determination. He looked back at Stanlee. The weight of the situation, the clear evidence of corruption and slavery, the sheer power of the young man before him… it was a lot. But Smoker was a man who dealt in facts and justice.
"Fine," Smoker grunted, lowering his jitte slightly. "We'll handle the slavers and Riker. Justice will be done. As for the victims…" he looked at the assembled freed people. "We'll arrange transport back to their home islands. Marine resources will be utilized." His gaze settled back on Stanlee, intense and probing. "But you and I, Stanlee D. Gaimon… we're not done. You're strong. Unnaturally strong. And you fly a flag of freedom while wielding power like a weapon. That makes you dangerous. And interesting. Don't leave Loguetown without talking to me again. Understood?"
Stanlee met his gaze, seeing the challenge, the warning, and the grudging respect. "Understood, Captain Smoker." He offered a small, respectful nod. "Justice first. Then… we'll talk."
As Marines swarmed the two ships, securing prisoners and organizing the rescued, Stanlee stood on the deck of the Little Dream beside Rita. She watched the Marines work, tears of relief finally flowing freely.
"They're really going to help us?" she whispered, her voice trembling.
"They are," Stanlee said firmly. "Smoker keeps his word. And I keep mine." He looked towards the bustling town of Loguetown, then back at Rita. "Get your statements done. Rest. Then we set sail for Mirror Ball Island. You're going home, Rita. And I'm finally going to learn how to cook something that doesn't taste like burnt regrets."
A watery laugh escaped Rita, the first real sound of joy he'd heard from her. She looked at him, a genuine, if weary, smile touching her lips. "Deal, Stanlee D. Gaimon. Deal."
The Little Dream rested in Loguetown's shadow, a symbol of freedom amidst the bustle of justice. Stanlee's journey had taken an unexpected turn, but the path forward was clear. He had a promise to keep, a skill to learn, and a formidable Marine Captain who wanted answers. The Freest Traveler's adventure was just beginning to heat up.