(See author's note)
4118/8/0/1 — 10am to 38tm
The introductions on the pier lingered long after the first waves of excitement crested, evolving into a tapestry of shared stories and tentative bonds that stretched the morning's light across the wooden planks like golden threads. The sun climbed steadily toward its zenith, casting elongated shadows that danced with the gentle sway of the docked ships, the Red Force's massive hull creaking softly against the moorings as if murmuring secrets to the Silent Gale beside it. Villagers had begun to trickle down from Foosha in earnest, drawn by the commotion and the promise of reunion—Makino leading the way with her gentle smile that seemed to soften the edges of the world, a woven basket of fresh bread slung over her arm, the loaves still steaming from the oven, their crusts golden and crackling with the subtle aroma of herbs baked into the dough. Dadan followed, her grumbling voice a familiar rumble that cut through the chatter like a distant thunder, flask of something strong—likely her homemade brew—tucked under one muscular arm, her presence a mix of reluctant affection and protective bluster. Donden trailed behind, his inventor's mind already whirring, tools slung over his shoulder in a leather satchel that clinked with each step, eyes bright with curiosity at the newcomers, his thoughts likely racing toward questions of ship construction, material sciences, and the mechanical wonders the pirates might carry from distant seas.
The air filled with the mingled scents of sea salt carried on the persistent breeze that whispered through the bay, the yeasty warmth of baking dough wafting from Makino's basket like an invitation to comfort, and the faint metallic tang from the quicksilver lakes hidden deeper on the island, a subtle undercurrent that reminded everyone of Foosha's hidden mysteries, the lakes' surfaces rippling with an unnatural sheen even from afar. Laughter echoed across the pier as Usopp regaled a group of wide-eyed village children with tales of his "great adventures," his voice rising and falling in dramatic cadence, hands gesturing wildly to emphasize impossible feats—defeating sea monsters with a single slingshot stone, outrunning hurricanes on foot—his stories growing taller with each retelling, the children's gasps fueling his enthusiasm. Luffy matched him story for story, the two boys already thick as thieves, their shared energy sparking like flint on steel, Luffy's tales of training in the ridges blending seamlessly with Usopp's fabrications, creating a hybrid narrative that had the listeners hooked.
Uta hummed a soft tune that drew smiles from the crew, her melody weaving through the chatter like a gentle current that smoothed rough edges and lifted spirits, notes light and teasing as they tested her voice against the morning calm, the sound carrying a subtle resonance that seemed to harmonize with the waves lapping at the pier's pilings. AO watched from the edges, his presence a quiet shadow that flickered in and out of notice, observant eyes taking in the newcomers without drawing undue attention, his stance one of cautious evaluation rather than outright withdrawal.
Shanks clapped his remaining hand on Luffy's shoulder, the gesture firm and warm, a captain's assurance wrapped in the kind of paternal affection that came from years of watching over the boy from afar. "You've got a good crew here, kid," he said, his voice carrying that easy charisma that made men follow him into hell and back. "But parties don't plan themselves. We've got one day before we sail—let's make it count. Turn this farewell into something they'll talk about for years."
The decision was unanimous, a collective nod rippling through the group like a wave: a farewell feast, a proper send-off for Luffy, Uta, and AO as they prepared to leave Foosha behind for training in distant horizons that promised growth and challenge. The villagers buzzed with mixed emotions—pride in their children's growth shining in every smile and congratulatory pat, sorrow at the parting tugging at voices that cracked slightly during hugs and well-wishes—but the Red Hair Pirates turned it into celebration, their infectious energy transforming the bittersweet undercurrent into something vibrant and alive, a testament to the pirate way of facing change with raised cups and bold hearts. "One night," Shanks declared again, his tone leaving no room for doubt, "unguarded, unhurried. For the kids who've grown so much, for the village that's raised them strong, for the sea that's calling us all onward."
They needed a venue worthy of the occasion, something grander than the cramped pier or the open village square that would leave guests exposed to the whims of weather or the prying eyes of passersby. Shanks eyed the nearby jungle fringe, where ironwood trees towered like ancient sentinels guarding secrets, their trunks deep red with sap that flowed like molten iron when tapped, hardening into unbreakable resin that could seal wounds in wood or bind structures with the strength of forged metal. "We'll build it ourselves," he said, the idea sparking in his mind like a flint strike, his grin spreading to the crew as they caught the vision. "A longhouse—part hall for gathering and stories, part boat in shape to remind us of the sea. Something sturdy, something to remember us by when we're gone, a gift to Foosha that stands long after we've sailed."
Construction began immediately, the crew moving with the seamless coordination of men who had raised camps in howling storms that tore at canvas like hungry beasts, forged shelters on drifting ice floes where the cold bit deeper than any blade, and turned barren rocks into temporary havens fueled by sheer will under fire from pursuing fleets or rival crews. They ventured into the jungle under Donden's guidance—the village inventor and scientist whose mind was a whirlwind of gears and formulas, his enthusiasm palpable as he led the way through underbrush, pointing out the best specimens with a craftsman's eye. "Red trees," he called them, voice eager with the thrill of discovery as he tapped a trunk experimentally, sap oozing slow and viscous from the shallow cut, gleaming like liquid metal in the dappled light filtering through the canopy before hardening in the air with a faint crystalline crackle that echoed softly. "The sap flows like iron when heated—viscous, metallic, with properties that bind stronger than any adhesive I've synthesized in my workshop. It sets harder than steel once cooled, resists rot from moisture, fire from embers, even prolonged salt exposure that would corrode lesser materials. I've experimented with small samples for tools and prototypes—sealing cracks in metal, reinforcing joints in inventions—but never on this scale. Revolutionary—imagine ship hulls reinforced with this resin to self-repair leaks, or mechanisms that adapt to stress without breaking. The grain holds patterns that could even channel energy if aligned right."
Shanks nodded appreciatively, already directing teams with gestures and shouts that cut through the jungle's ambient hum of insects buzzing, leaves rustling, and distant bird calls piercing the foliage. "Cut clean—respect the grain," he instructed, his voice carrying authority honed from commanding through chaos. "We want beams that sing when struck, resonating like a well-tuned instrument, not splintering under load or failing when the winds howl."
The ironwood groves were a realm unto themselves, a cathedral of towering trunks rising straight and unyielding toward the canopy high above, where leaves filtered sunlight into golden shafts that danced across the forest floor like living spotlights, illuminating patches of moss that glowed softly with bioluminescent veins and fungi that released spores in faint, shimmering clouds that caught the light like floating diamonds. The bark was rough and crimson like oxidized blood, veined with darker lines that seemed to pulse faintly when the blade bit deep, as if the trees lived with a slow, deliberate heartbeat synced to the island's deeper rhythms, perhaps echoing the ley-lines that Donden theorized ran beneath the soil. Sap welled from wounds like blood from a vein, thick and metallic-scented with a hint of ozone, carrying a warmth that lingered on the skin long after contact, hardening into amber-like resin that the crew collected carefully in buckets and barrels scavenged from the ships, the material already proving its worth as it sealed small cuts in tools or bound loose ropes with unnatural strength and flexibility.
They felled selected trees with Haki-infused axes—ordinary blades dulled almost instantly against the wood's resilience, edges turning blunt after mere strokes as if the grain itself fought back, forcing the crew to channel their aura into the tools for clean, precise cuts that sliced through with a satisfying ring. Timber fell with deep, resonant thuds that echoed through the jungle like distant drumbeats, shaking loose leaves from branches above and startling hidden birds into frantic flight, their wings flashing colors against the green. Crewmembers hauled the logs back to the beach in teams of six or eight, muscles straining against the weight that was deceptive—heavy yet balanced, the ironwood's density making each piece a challenge that built camaraderie in shared effort and sweat. Laughter flowed freely amid the grunts, songs rising in rough harmony as they worked—sea shanties adapted to the task at hand, verses improvised about red trees bleeding iron sap and building halls that would stand against time itself, the rhythm syncing pulls and lifts to make the labor feel like a dance rather than drudgery.
Beckman oversaw the foundation with his usual precision and understated command, pipe clenched between teeth as he marked out pits with stakes and string, testing soil stability with probes and adjustments, digging deep into the sandy earth to line them with heart-spall fragments scavenged from crates brought ashore—dense black diamond shards that anchored the structure against the island's subtle shifts and potential quakes, the material's weight settling into place with a finality that spoke of permanence. "Solid as the Heart itself," he muttered around the pipe stem, smoke curling lazily upward as he drove a test post into the ground, the spall gleaming darkly in the earth like buried stars, its faint red-gold veins pulsing in response to the surrounding intent.
Lucky Roux directed the frame-raising with booming commands that carried over the din, his massive frame casting long shadows as he positioned massive beams of ironwood, lifted into place with ropes and pulleys rigged across temporary scaffolds built from lesser jungle woods. The red grain gleamed in the sun like polished ruby under oil, sap still oozing from fresh cuts in slow rivulets that hardened into natural seals, binding joints without need for additional fasteners, the resin's metallic sheen catching light in ways that made the structure seem alive. The longhouse took shape as a hybrid masterpiece—hall on land for gathering and feast, boat-like in its graceful curve to evoke the sea's undulating embrace, roof arched high like an upturned hull to shed rain and allow smoke to rise freely through vents cut with precision, walls slanted at precise angles for wind resistance and structural integrity, a central ridge beam running the full length like a ship's keel, strong enough to support the weight of memories, merriment, and the occasional drunken tumble.
Godeor, the dwarf smith whose hammer had forged countless blades and tools for the crew over years of voyages, hammered ironwood pegs into joints with rhythmic blows that rang like forge anvils struck true, the wood's density producing clear, bell-like tones under his hammer rather than dull thumps, each strike a note in the symphony of creation. "This'll outlast us all, mark my words," he grunted between swings, sparks flying as he heated edges with a portable brazier and tempered them against the grain, drawing out the sap's metallic properties to create even stronger bonds that fused wood to wood like welded steel. Rauk Ironjaw and Grorn the minotaur, stalwarts of boarding parties and heavy lifts through countless raids, hauled the heaviest logs with chains clinking in time to the songs, their raw strength turning what would have been days of backbreaking labor into mere hours of coordinated effort, grunts mixing with jokes as they competed good-naturedly for who could lift more without straining, their laughter booming like distant thunder.
Merriwell Tickt the gnome, the crew's tinkerer whose gadgets had saved them from traps and tight spots on a dozen islands, rigged intricate pulley systems with blocks and tackles that multiplied force tenfold, his small hands flying with precision as he adjusted tensions, tested loads, and incorporated counterweights to balance the heaviest beams. Sylphie the sylph, helmswoman whose windsense had steered them through gales, glided above the site on subtle currents she summoned, directing gusts to ease lifts and steady swaying beams, her presence a whisper of wind that cooled sweat-soaked brows and lightened the air. Bronk the satyr, Uta's uncle and the crew's longtime morale booster whose music had lifted spirits through storms and sieges, played lively tunes on his pipes as he worked, the melodies evoking wild dances under starlit skies and boosting morale, notes weaving through the air like invisible threads binding the crew in rhythm and purpose. Hruk the orc, quartermaster whose organizational skills had kept supplies flowing through blockades, conjured temporary crates for tools and resin buckets with efficient Nen gestures, while Mi-Li the kobold, stealth operative whose infiltrations had won them treasures untold, slipped through tight spaces between beams to secure hidden braces and check alignments from angles no one else could reach without ladders or risk.
The structure grew swiftly under their combined efforts, evolving from skeletal frame to solid form as the sun maintained its extended glow, the island's unique cycle stretching daylight into a prolonged afternoon where shadows lengthened slowly but light held steady. The longhouse reached fifty meters long and twenty wide, its roof peaked high with vents cut precisely for smoke and star-gazing, walls of layered ironwood planks fitted tongue-and-groove for seamless strength and weatherproofing, sealed with hardened sap that gleamed like polished metal in the shifting light, creating natural patterns that caught the eye like veins in living marble, resilient against the elements and time. Open sides faced the sea to invite the cooling breeze and views of the bay, framed with arched supports that evoked ship prows cutting through waves, while a central fire pit was dug deep into the earth and lined with river stones smoothed by centuries of flow, flanked by long benches carved from fallen logs, their surfaces sanded smooth for comfort during long tales and toasts. The floor was packed earth topped with woven mats from local reeds harvested that morning by village helpers, patterns intricate and welcoming, colors blending earth tones with sea blues in a nod to Foosha's dual nature.
By midday—hour 20 in the island's extended glow, when the sun hung high and the light stretched long without fading into dusk—the longhouse stood complete, a testament to pirate ingenuity, village aid, and the ironwood's unyielding gifts. Villagers had contributed throughout the build—Makino bringing linens and tablecloths embroidered with simple floral patterns that added a touch of homey warmth, Dadan hauling ale barrels with gruff efficiency and the occasional curse when one slipped on uneven ground, Donden sketching improvements on scraps of parchment with charcoal sticks, testing sap seals with heat from a small torch and pressure from improvised clamps, his scientific glee evident in every note he jotted about viscosity, hardening times, and potential applications. "This resin—it's like living metal," he marveled repeatedly, scraping samples into vials for later analysis in his workshop. "Binds with Haki if infused right—imagine the applications for mechanisms, reinforcements, even self-repairing components. Revolutionary, truly—the molecular structure must align with aura fields in ways I've only theorized."
Shanks surveyed the finished hall from the central doorway, satisfaction evident in his grin as he ran his hand along a beam, the ironwood warm and resonant under his touch, the grain seeming to respond with a faint vibration. "Good work, everyone," he called, voice echoing through the space. "Solid as oaths, warm as rum. Now—party."
The celebration ignited as the sun maintained its high perch, flames kindled in the central pit with ember-vein stone scavenged from the crew's supplies, the rocks burning steady and hot without excessive smoke, their glow casting flickering shadows across the ironwood walls that seemed to absorb and reflect the light in deep crimson hues as if the structure itself joined the revelry. The smell of grilling sea-king filled the air—massive cuts from a beast hunted in the bay earlier that week, flesh tender and rich with the flavor of deep ocean currents, seasoned with island herbs like wild thyme and sea rosemary, spices from distant ports—cinnamon sticks ground fresh, peppercorns cracked for bite—and basted in sauces that sizzled and popped as fat dripped into the fires, sending up savory smoke that curled through the rafters and out the vents, drawing hungry glances from all corners and mingling with the salty breeze to create an aroma that promised comfort and indulgence.
Music rose in waves, filling the hall with life—Bronk's pipes leading with lively satyr melodies that evoked wild dances under starlit skies and forgotten groves, notes trilling high and dipping low in rhythms that quickened pulses and loosened limbs. Village instruments joined in harmony: fiddles scraped with enthusiastic bows by local musicians, strings vibrating with the passion of folks who played for joy rather than perfection; drums thumped with callused hands on taut hides stretched over wooden frames, beats deep and primal like the island's heartbeat; flutes trilled bright counterpoints carved from bamboo, their tones light and piercing to cut through the din. The rhythms pounded like hearts in unison, feet stomping on the packed floor in time, voices rising in rough harmony to old sea shanties passed down through generations and new verses improvised for the occasion, lyrics celebrating Luffy's wild spirit, Uta's voice, AO's mystery.
Ale flowed freely from Dadan's barrels, dark and foamy with a bite that warmed bellies from the inside out, foam clinging to mugs and mustaches alike, the brew's subtle bitterness balanced by hints of caramel from malted grains. Rum from Roux's stores passed in flagons that never seemed to empty, smooth and fiery with notes of vanilla and spice that burned pleasantly on the way down, loosening tongues and sparking tales. Laughter boomed and echoed off the ironwood walls, the red grain seeming to glow warmer in the firelight as if absorbing the joy, sap seals holding firm against spills and heat, the resin's metallic sheen catching flames in sparkling reflections that turned the hall into a living lantern.
The longhouse thrummed with life—crew and villagers mingling without barrier, tables laden with food that groaned under the weight: roasted sea-king meats glistening with juices and crackling skin scored for flavor, portions carved thick and served on platters of woven leaves; bread fresh from Makino's ovens with crusts that shattered satisfyingly under teeth, interiors soft and steaming; fruits bursting with tropical sweetness—mangoes dripping golden nectar when sliced, star-apples tart and bright with juicy flesh, quicksilver berries with their faint metallic tang that tingled on the tongue like a subtle spark. Side dishes piled high in abundance: grilled vegetables charred to perfection on skewers, their edges crisp and centers tender, flavored with garlic and oil; rice steamed with herbs in massive pots, grains fluffy and aromatic; seafood caught that morning and fried crisp in batter light as air, shrimp and fish popping with freshness.
Shanks held court at the head table, his presence a magnet drawing people like moths to flame, his tales of New World exploits flowing from his lips in a steady stream—carefully edited to thrill without revealing strategic secrets, stories of storms that swallowed entire skies in swirling vortices of rain and lightning, islands that floated on clouds with edges dropping into abyssal voids, beasts that sang lullabies in voices like crashing waves before striking with claws that rent steel. The crew added embellishments with the ease of long companionship—Beckman's dry wit punctuating with factual corrections that only heightened the drama, Roux's booming laughs underscoring moments of triumph or narrow escape, Yasopp demonstrating impossible shots with empty bottles that shattered precisely on distant marks, the glass exploding in satisfying bursts that drew cheers.
Makino approached the head table with Dadan and Donden during a lull in the music, her concern softening her features amid the revelry, basket now empty but hands clasped in quiet worry. "Shanks... you're really taking them? Luffy, Uta, AO—so young, with so much life ahead here in Foosha, roots they've just begun to set."
Shanks' expression turned serious, though his grin lingered at the edges like a promise of reassurance, leaning in so his voice carried low amid the revelry's swell. "I seen a flash of the future, Makino. Clear as dawn breaking through fog. Something coming—big, world-shaking, the kind of event that reshapes seas and destinies. Beneficial to me and him both, paths crossing in ways that change everything for the better if we're ready. Training's not just play or whim; it's preparation for what's ahead, forging them into something unbreakable. They'll come back stronger, ready for it all."
Dadan crossed arms, flask in hand, her gruff tone masking deeper care. "Boy's reckless enough already. You sure this won't break him instead?"
Donden pushed up his glasses, intrigue sparking behind them as he considered the scientific angles. "And this training—on that island you mentioned briefly? The properties you described—elemental fluctuations, material anomalies—hold immense scientific potential. Could revolutionize inventions back here, from tools to structures. Samples, data—"
Shanks smiled mysteriously, raising his cup in a toast that included them all. "You'll understand when he gets back. In the future, it'll all make sense. Trust me—it's for the best."
The party swelled as the hours stretched in the island's extended glow, the light holding steady like a prolonged afternoon that blurred into evening without abrupt shift—drunken songs rising in volume as inhibitions fell, dances forming spontaneous circles where feet stomped in time to the drums, partners switching with laughs and spins that sent skirts twirling and coats flapping. Toasts rang out to adventures ahead, cups clinking with the sharp ring of glass on glass, spills mopped with good humor as the ironwood floors proved resilient, absorbing liquids without stain. Stories traded hands like treasured loot: villagers sharing tales of Foosha's quiet days—storms weathered, harvests celebrated, children raised with love—while the crew recounted edited New World escapades that drew gasps and wide eyes, tales of treasures unearthed from sunken realms, alliances forged with unlikely allies, narrow escapes from perils that sounded too fantastical to be true yet carried the ring of authenticity in their telling.
Children darted between legs with the boundless energy of youth, Usopp leading a pack in exaggerated reenactments of battles against imaginary foes, sticks wielded as swords, shouts echoing as they "defeated" sea kings and rival pirates. Uta joined Bronk in a duet that hushed the hall momentarily, her voice blending with his pipes in harmony that raised gooseflesh and brought tears to a few eyes, the melody a poignant farewell wrapped in hope. AO observed from the fringes, slipping in and out of conversations, his quiet demeanor a counterpoint to the boisterous energy, drawing subtle nods from Beckman who watched with guardian-like vigilance.
As revelry peaked, the atmosphere thick with smoke and joy, a crewmember—deep in his cups, face flushed with rum and laughter, steps unsteady as he danced a jig—stumbled near the storage crates stacked against a far wall, his boot connecting with a containment pod in a clumsy kick that sent it wobbling precariously on the uneven floor. The pod, a reinforced metal cylinder etched with celestial markings and sealed for transport, teetered for a heartbeat, then the rubberized seal popped with a sharp hiss like escaping steam, the sound lost amid the din but fateful in its consequence.
The Gum-Gum fruit bounced free, its purple surface gleaming oddly in the firelight, rolling across the floor in a chaotic path that seemed almost playful—knocking over mugs that splashed ale in foamy arcs across tables, bouncing off boots and benches with erratic hops, arcing over heads in improbable leaps that drew chuckles as hands reached out and missed by inches, the fruit slipping through fingers like a greased pig amid shouts of "Catch it!" and "What's that?"
It landed squarely in Luffy's open mouth mid-laugh, He swallowed instinctively, the fruit sliding down his throat before he could even register its taste—sweet and strange, like chewing on sunlight mixed with rubber, a burst of warmth that spread through his chest like liquid fire chasing away the chill of surprise. The hall fell silent for a heartbeat, not from shock or realization, but from something deeper, more primal—an invisible wave rippling outward from Luffy's core, a force that had been simmering within him since birth, now ignited by the Devil Fruit's essence. This force, often whispered about in ancient tales as "the force" or simply "a force," was the Midichlorians he had been producing and releasing unknowingly all his life, microscopic entities that bridged the gap between life and the unseen energies of the world, multiplying in his blood like stars awakening in a night sky.
In that suspended moment, as the fruit's power fused with his being, the Midichlorians surged—a cascade of activation that froze time itself for a scant second, the world halting in mid-breath. Laughter hung unfinished on lips, cups paused halfway to mouths, flames in the central pit stilled like painted fire, their orange glow locked in place. The force extended beyond Luffy, touching the latent Midichlorians that had spread from him over the years, subtly influencing those around him—villagers who had felt unexplained bursts of resolve during hard times, People who had survived impossible odds with a sudden clarity. Now, they multiplied exponentially, a chain reaction that amplified the freeze, holding the hall in stasis as if the universe itself paused to witness the change.
Within Those frozen Seconds, Luffy blinked twice—each blink a gateway, a flicker of visions that transcended the present, pulling him into echoes of lives past.