The raft creaked beneath his feet, but it held.
Gildarts stepped back, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his arm. For days, he had labored beneath the strange, spindly trees of Long Ring Long Land, scavenging wood, vines, and bark with nothing more than a sharpened stick and stubborn determination. Now, at last, his work stood before him: a crude but seaworthy platform crafted from three lashed logs with a deck of stripped branches layered thick across the top. It wasn't elegant. It wasn't even safe by most standards. But it floated, and right now, that was enough.
He leaned his weight on the mast—a short log of driftwood he'd shaped with endless sawing against a boulder—and stared across the shimmering water. The lagoon beyond curved wide and deceptive, its surface mirror-smooth and tranquil. On the far side lay a stretch of the island he hadn't yet reached, a region obscured by dense groves and twisting mist. Though Long Ring Long Land was technically one island, the strange tide cycle and ring-like layout made it feel like a series of disconnected lands, each demanding effort to reach.
That far shore had been a mystery since his first day here. Now, it called to him like a whisper in a dream—subtle, persistent, and slightly dangerous.
He turned from the water and crouched by his scattered supplies, checking everything for the tenth time. Several woven pouches held fruit and dried meat from the game he'd hunted. He had six long gourds of rainwater sealed with waxy leaves, a few lengths of extra vine rope, and a small, jagged stone blade he'd painstakingly sharpened over the last week, though it more resembled the tooth of a large shark. A single fishing spear, carved from a straight branch and hardened in fire, rested beside the food.
No sails, no compass, no guarantee the raft wouldn't collapse halfway or veer dramatically off course—but still, he had prepared as best as he could with what little he had.
Gildarts sat cross-legged in the grass, back against a tree, and let the cool, humid wind brush his face. His body ached in every place imaginable. His palms were blistered, his shoulders sore, and his stomach constantly grumbling, but he had survived. More than that—he had begun to live in this world. The early panic that gripped him when he first woke up here had dulled into a quiet, calculating resolve.
He was in the world of One Piece, and he was not just some throwaway soul. He was Gildarts Clive. Or at least, he had his body. The magic was gone, true. No Crush Magic, no magical senses, no miraculous system from a bored God or trolling demon. He was vulnerable, mortal, and largely untrained for this brutal environment. But he had his memories. His knowledge. His will. And now, he had a raft.
He ran a hand through his thick, messy, burgundy hair and exhaled slowly. "Alright. Let's talk strategy."
He spread a crude map he'd been sketching in the dirt with a stick—a basic layout of Long Ring Long Land as he'd come to know it. The island was a wide ring, broken by watery inlets and stretches of highland that rose above the tide. The portion he currently lived on, rich with tall trees and awkwardly long animals, had become familiar. But the other parts remained unexplored.
There was a chance, he reasoned, that a Devil Fruit had washed up there, or that some exotic plant or animal might hint at a nearby civilization. His odds were low—but not zero. And more importantly, the farther he pushed himself, the more he could begin training his instincts. He needed to find some spark of power. Haki was real in this world. He'd sensed it—once or twice—when focused deeply, a kind of pressure beneath his skin. If it was there, buried deep, he needed to reach for it. In the meantime, building strength the old-fashioned way would have to do.
Gildarts rose again and stretched, grunting as his back cracked. He gave the raft one final inspection, then nudged it slowly down the muddy slope toward the lagoon. It slipped into the water with a heavy splash, bobbing unsteadily before settling into a lazy drift.
He tied one end of a long vine to a stake in the ground and held the other, easing himself carefully onto the raft. The logs shifted but didn't tip. He crouched for balance, then sat cross-legged in the middle, bracing his spear against one arm. Though, he could swear he heard a quiet crack from somewhere, he brushed it off, reassuring himself that it was perfectly fine.
For a few moments, he simply sat there, letting the warmth of the sun press against his back and the sound of gentle waves fill the silence. It felt strange to be surrounded by so much peace. The world of One Piece was not known for quiet. He knew that beyond the calm ring of Long Ring Long Land lay a sea filled with monsters, pirates, and devil storms. But for now, this little pocket of calm felt like borrowed time.
As he undid the vine and began pushing off with his pole, his mind wandered.
"Luffy's first raft was garbage too," he muttered with a small, weary smile. "Didn't stop him."
There was no denying that he felt foolish at times—this mighty body from one world thrown into another, swinging logs and twine like some marooned caveman. But the truth was, this was his crucible. His proving ground. No powers, no shortcuts. Only hard work, slow gains, and survival.
As the raft began drifting across the lagoon, he sat tall and let the wind comb through his hair. His eyes scanned the long shoreline ahead—dense groves, large boulders, and possibly cliffs beyond. There was no guarantee he'd even be able to dock if the terrain rose sharply. But that was a problem for future Gildarts.
The deeper he drifted, the quieter everything became. Birds stopped calling. The wind seemed to hush. Even the water beneath him felt heavier, denser, as if something vast and unseen were lurking just beneath the surface.
He adjusted his grip on the pole and scanned the depths, suddenly alert.
Nothing moved.
And yet…
A chill crawled up his spine, and instinct took over. He'd only read about magical worlds before. But he knew what tension in the air felt like—not nerves, but danger. The kind of silence that came before something huge stirred.
"Not now," he whispered, a mix of desperate and exasperated, gripping the sides of the raft tighter.
His gut warned him: something watched from below.
Still, nothing surfaced. The water remained smooth. A few minutes later, the feeling began to pass, and Gildarts shook himself free of the tension.
"I'm being paranoid, just nerves..." he muttered, but not without glancing one more time at the depths.
The rest of the crossing took another half-hour, thanks to the slow push and drift of the wind. At last, the new shoreline drew near—rockier than the last, with crooked trees and thick mist winding between their trunks.
He reached the shallows and disembarked, tugging the raft partially onto land and tying it to a boulder with vine rope. His feet touched dry ground for the first time in hours, and a strange satisfaction filled him. He had crossed the water. He had reached the unknown.
Behind him, the lagoon lay still and wide, glimmering under the sun. The opposite shore where he'd lived for weeks now looked distant. It wasn't far by normal standards, but it felt like another lifetime, like growing up and letting go of a childhood playground.
He stepped into the trees, leaving the raft behind, and began exploring.
This side of the island felt… older. The air was thicker, and vines hung low, dripping dew onto oblong mossy stones. Animal prints dotted the mud, but none he recognized. He marked the path with small cuts in tree bark, taking mental notes of terrain, water sources, and edible plants. Though he wouldn't wander far today—he needed a secure fallback—he already felt the itch of discovery taking root. Every step into this forest brought new sounds, new smells, and new possibilities.
Eventually, after mapping out a short loop around the landing site, he returned to the raft and sat on the beach with his legs stretched toward the waves. The sun was dipping lower now, casting long orange shadows through the mist. He'd made it. He was still alive. And tomorrow, he'd push deeper.
As night fell, Gildarts built a small fire from driftwood and sat beside it, sharpening his spear and watching the water. That creeping sense of being watched still lingered, somewhere deep in his bones. He'd ignored it earlier, but it had returned—stronger now, more insistent.
He stared out across the lagoon, eyes narrowed.
The water rippled slightly.
Something large moved beneath the surface—far away, almost imperceptible. Just a flicker. A shadow slipping just out of sight.
His breath caught.
"Is it that thing...?" he wondered aloud, a chill crawling up his back.
And though he didn't know its name or shape, he felt the truth settle into his chest like a weight.
Something owned this lagoon.
Something massive.
— — —
Update Schedule:
11:00am-12:30am
Sunday: Break Day
Monday: 1 Chapter
Tuesday-Friday: 2 Chapters
Saturday: 1 Chapter