Loguetown did not forget the Prosperous Dawn incident. In the sprawling machine of Marine bureaucracy, Travis Pendragon's name was now a spark that had jumped its circuit. The official report, sanitized by Ensign Voss and his superiors, painted a picture of "aggressive defensive action" and "notable leadership under duress," conveniently omitting the pulse of Conqueror's Haki and the surgical use of a Devil Fruit power. But in the undercurrents—the whispered conversations in officer's clubs, the speculative glances in the training yards—a different story took shape.
He was promoted to Petty Officer, Third Class. A minor rank, but it carried authority over a small fireteam. His squad consisted of Briggs, the silent gunner's mate, and two new recruits from Loguetown who had volunteered after hearing the rumors. It was a tiny command, but it was his. The first formal command of Fleet Admiral Pendragon, a decade before the title would be real.
His days took on a new structure. Mornings were dedicated to his squad: drilling them in the efficient, brutal swordwork of the kingly legacy, instilling the principles of his code—not as philosophy, but as tactics. "We don't bully civilians because it's wrong," he'd say, his voice calm and absolute. "We also don't do it because it turns the populace against us, deprives us of intelligence, and creates more problems than it solves. Justice is the most effective long-term strategy." Briggs, a man of few words, absorbed this like a dry sponge. The recruits, initially baffled, began to stand a little taller, their movements taking on a crisp, purposeful edge.
Afternoons were split between his own training and the shadow war. In a secluded cove down the coast, arranged through Kuro's dead drops, Travis pushed the limits of his power. The Destruction Fruit was no longer a wild beast; it was a hunting leopard, learning to stalk and pounce at his command. He could now fire three of the pea-sized negation spheres in rapid succession, or sustain a single, pencil-thin beam of erasure for five seconds, carving deep, silent grooves in the cliff face. The drain was still immense, a hollowing fatigue in his spirit, but his capacity grew with each brutal session.
At night, he met the growing demands of his Sign-In System. Loguetown was a treasure trove of significance. He signed in at the Plaza of Justice, where the ghost of Gol D. Roger's laugh seemed to echo in the stones. The reward was "Clarity of Purpose"—a sharpening of his Observation Haki, allowing him to sense the emotional intent and loyalty of those around him with greater acuity. He signed in at the old Marine archives, receiving "Tactical Recall"—an enhanced memory for maps, naval regulations, and chain of command, the bureaucratic weaponry of a king.
And he watched Elara. Through Kuro's network, he learned she had left the Prosperous Dawn. The ship's owner, citing the damages and "unnecessary risks," had let her go. She was working now in a cramped, underfunded free clinic in Loguetown's dockside district, treating dockworkers, poor fishermen, and the occasional down-on-their-luck pirate who knew better than to cause trouble. Her charity was undimmed, but the exhaustion was a permanent resident in her eyes. She was the embodiment of a virtue being ground down by a world that had no use for it.
Kuro's reports grew more frequent, more detailed. The strategist was weaving his web. He had established three safe houses in Loguetown, a small network of informants among the street urchins and tavern keeps, and had even begun quietly siphoning funds from corrupt municipal officials into untraceable accounts. The shadow economy of the Pendragon rebellion was taking its first breaths. The latest dead drop contained a new name, a new potential thread: a disgraced former Marine drill instructor in the city, a man whose rigid adherence to rules had gotten him drummed out for refusing to overlook a nobleman's son's failures. He embodied Diligence. Travis filed it away. One piece at a time.
The calm, however, was an illusion. A storm was brewing, and its name was Morgan.
Captain "Axe-Hand" Morgan, the tyrannical ruler of the 153rd Branch in Shells Town's neighboring island, was a blight on the Marine name—a brutal, arrogant man who ruled his domain like a personal fiefdom, his son Helmeppo a spoiled caricature of his cruelty. In Travis's fragmented game knowledge, Morgan was an early-game boss, eventually overthrown by the combined efforts of Luffy and Zoro. But that was years in the future. Currently, Morgan's influence was expanding. He had begun to flex his muscle, demanding tribute from smaller bases, interfering with patrol routes, and his reputation for crushing any dissent with overwhelming, cruel force was spreading through the East Blue like a poison.
A report crossed Travis's desk, a routine intelligence briefing. Morgan's ships had been spotted conducting "inspection raids" near the waters patrolled by Loguetown's 3rd Squadron. It was a provocation, a testing of boundaries.
His new immediate superior, Lieutenant Commander Vance, a competent but politically cautious officer, called a briefing. "Morgan is a problem, but he's a Marine captain," Vance stated, pinning a map to the wall. "Engaging him directly is out of the question. It would be an internal conflict. Our orders are to observe, document any breaches of jurisdiction, and report to headquarters. We do not provoke."
A young, hot-headed ensign spoke up. "He's a thug in a uniform! He's encroaching on our waters, harassing civilian shipping under our protection! We should—"
"We should follow orders, Ensign," Vance cut him off, his voice firm. "The World Government handles internal discipline. Not us."
Travis, standing at the back of the room with the other petty officers, observed silently. The strategic part of his mind, honed by Kuro and the kingly legacy, saw the opportunity within the threat. Morgan was a tumor on the body of the Marines. Excising him would be a clear, powerful demonstration of Equal Justice—a Marine officer held to the same standard as any pirate. It would send a shockwave through the East Blue, bolstering his reputation and exposing the rot within the system. But Vance was right: a direct attack was suicide, both militarily and politically.
After the briefing, Travis retreated to his bunk, a plan already coiling in his mind. He couldn't attack Morgan. But he could make Morgan attack him. He could create a scenario where Morgan's aggression was so blatant, so public, and so clearly against Marine protocol that Loguetown would be forced to respond, and Travis would be positioned to lead that response.
He needed a catalyst. A piece of bait Morgan couldn't resist.
He thought of Kuro's report on the disgraced drill instructor, the embodiment of Diligence. The man, named Arne, ran a struggling, hyper-strict martial school in the city's old quarter, teaching a small group of orphans and street kids with a fanatical devotion to discipline and order. He was a man who believed in the system, but had been broken by its corruption.
That evening, Travis visited the school. It was in a converted warehouse, the air smelling of sweat, sawdust, and determination. Arne was a bear of a man in his fifties, his back still ramrod straight, his eyes missing nothing as he corrected a child's stance with a touch that was firm but not unkind.
"Petty Officer Pendragon," Arne said, his voice a gravelly rumble, after dismissing his students. He had recognized the uniform, his expression guarded. "I pay my taxes. We cause no trouble here."
"I'm not here about trouble, Instructor," Travis said, meeting his gaze. He let a fraction of his Authority of Presence and his new Clarity of Purpose extend outward. He sensed no corruption in Arne, only a deep, wounded integrity, a burning faith in rules that had betrayed him. "I'm here about justice. And a man who spits on the very rules you hold sacred."
Arne's eyes narrowed. "What man?"
"Captain Morgan. He operates outside regulation, tyrannizes civilians, and now encroaches on Loguetown's jurisdiction. My superiors are hamstrung by politics. I am not." Travis stepped closer, his voice dropping. "I intend to stop him. To hold him accountable under Marine law. To prove that the uniform means something. But I need someone who understands that law, inside and out. Someone who believes in the system enough to fight for its soul."
He was offering Arne a chance at redemption, a way to use his fanatical diligence not for a broken system, but to fix it. He saw the conflict in the older man's eyes—the fear, the ingrained habit of obedience, and beneath it, the smoldering ember of outrage.
"You're talking about mutiny," Arne whispered.
"I'm talking about loyalty," Travis countered. "Loyalty to the code, not to the corrupt men who wear the coat. Morgan is the mutineer against everything the Marines should stand for. I need a strategist of regulations. A man who can find the procedural chink in a tyrant's armor."
It was the right appeal. Arne's jaw tightened. The ember glowed brighter. "What would you need?"
"A legal and tactical analysis. Morgan's patterns, his vulnerabilities within the Uniform Code of Military Justice. A scenario where his own aggression can be used to legally justify his removal. Can you do that?"
Arne was silent for a long minute, his eyes distant, running through decades of military law in his head. Finally, he gave a single, sharp nod. "I can. But if this goes wrong…"
"If it goes right," Travis said, "you won't just have your honor back. You'll have helped restore it to the entire East Blue Marine command."
He left Arne with a sheaf of copied patrol reports and intelligence on Morgan's movements, provided by Kuro's network. The second potential Virtue, Diligence, was now engaged.
The plan took shape over the next week, a three-pronged operation of shadow, steel, and law. Kuro, through his channels, would leak false information to one of Morgan's greedy subordinates: a story of a "special logistical shipment" of Seastone components (fabricated, but incredibly valuable) traveling on a lightly guarded Loguetown cutter along a remote lane—Travis's cutter, the Swift, on a "routine patrol" he would subtly alter.
Arne would work day and night, cross-referencing Morgan's known actions with the Marine legal code, building an ironclad case for insubordination, piracy against allied vessels (if he attacked the Swift), and conduct unbecoming an officer.
Travis would be the bait and the blade. He would captain the Swift on its "patrol," his squad ready. He would let Morgan take the first, illegal action. And then he would respond, not as a rebel, but as a Marine officer lawfully defending his vessel and enforcing the code.
The night before the scheduled patrol, Travis stood on the Loguetown docks, looking out at the dark sea. The Sign-In System prompted him, drawn to the place where his plan was crystallizing.
[Location Reached: Loguetown Docks - Nexus of Forthcoming Conflict.]
[Sign-In Available. Strategic Significance: Extreme (Premeditated Enforcement of Justice, Political Gambit).]
[Special Condition: User has orchestrated a multi-layered campaign blending shadow, law, and force.]
[Sign-In to claim reward? Y/N]
He selected Y.
This reward was not a power, but a confirmation. A surge of crystalline strategic insight flooded him, tightening the threads of his plan, highlighting potential flaws: Morgan's son Helmeppo's unpredictable cowardice, the exact wording of the regulation regarding "hot pursuit" across jurisdictional lines. It was a final, perfect polish applied by the system itself.
[Sign-In Successful.]
[Reward: Tactical Acumen (Situational Boost).]
[Effect: For the duration of the upcoming operation, the user's ability to predict enemy actions, adapt to changing circumstances, and leverage the strategic environment is heightened to near-prescient levels.]
He felt the plan lock into place in his mind, a flawless, deadly diamond. He wasn't just preparing for a fight. He was preparing a lesson. A demonstration of the new justice.
He looked toward the clinic where Elara worked, a faint light still burning in the window. He looked toward the old warehouse where Arne was doubtless still pouring over legal texts. He thought of Kuro, a ghost in the city, pulling strings.
The first ring was his squad. The second ring was being forged—the Healer, the Jurist. And the storm, Captain Morgan, was sailing blindly into the web they had woven.
Travis Pendragon turned his back on the sea and walked toward the Marine base. His uniform felt different tonight. It no longer felt like a disguise or a ladder. It felt like a gambler's coat, and he was holding a royal flush. The coming storm would not break him. It would be the anvil upon which his legend, and his new justice, would be hammered into the world's awareness. The game was no longer about survival. It was about sending a message. And Morgan was about to become the messenger.