The world was changing for him, slowly but surely.
Gildarts—if he could still call himself that—awoke to the filtered morning light, golden beams dancing through the treetops of Long Ring Long Land. Dew clung to the leaves above his makeshift tent, dripping rhythmically onto the taut hide roof.
The cool air carried the scent of fresh earth and distant saltwater, and somewhere nearby, Pork yawned audibly and thumped his tail on the ground. The fox had grown attached to him over the past weeks, or maybe it was the other way around. Gildarts had stopped pretending it was just a passing companionship. In this endless stretch of isolation, the oddball creature had become an anchor—his only audience and partner in survival.
He sat up slowly, muscles sore from yesterday's exertions. The prosthetic limbs creaked faintly as he flexed and rolled his shoulders, feeling the cold nipping at his skin. One leg of his old pants had been patched with long fox fur, the other with bark fibers. The clothing, worn and stained, smelled of salt, sweat, and smoke. He'd washed it a few days ago, but that didn't last long when you were hunting, fighting, and sleeping in it.
"Another day," he murmured, stretching out his back. "Another... well, there aren't any dollars here so... ah, whatever."
His breath fogged slightly in the air, and he stepped outside the tent, relishing the feel of damp earth beneath his flesh foot. Pork followed close behind, ears twitching, and with a snort, bounded off toward the nearby pond to start his own morning routine. Gildarts knelt and dipped his hand into a hollowed-out tree stump filled with collected rainwater. He splashed his face, letting the cold shock his senses awake. He stood there for a moment, simply breathing.
— — —
There had been a shift inside him recently—something subtle, like a quiet tension in the wind before a storm. It had started days ago during one of his spear fishing sessions with Pork. Just as he was about to strike, he'd felt something. A shift in the air. A pull in his chest. His body had reacted before his mind had even caught up, jerking to the side to avoid a rockfall he hadn't even seen coming. It was instinct, yes, but more than that—an awareness. A ripple in the air around him, warning him.
Observation Haki.
He'd reread enough of One Piece to recognize it for what it was. It wasn't strong—not yet. But it was there.
Now, each day he trained deliberately to cultivate that sense. He meditated near the water, tried blindfolding himself to feel Pork's movements, listened for the shifting rustle of leaves and creaking of branches. It wasn't glamorous. It was frustrating and often unrewarding, but every now and then, he'd catch something just out of his field of view—a subtle disturbance that kept him from slipping, from missing a fish, or from being caught off guard.
Today would be another step forward. He could feel it.
He spent the morning checking traps—empty, but not disheartening. Gildarts still preferred hunting to scavenging. He made his way toward one of his regular stalking grounds, a dense area of swaying trees where the long rabbits liked to graze. The long animals of this island were bizarre but consistent in their behavior. They followed strange loops and cycles in their paths, and he had begun to predict them with some success.
But today, he had other prey in mind.
The long bear.
He'd seen it twice now—a towering creature with shaggy white fur and eyes that always seemed glazed over, as if the thing ran on pure instinct rather than thought. It was dumb, slow, and intimidating in size, but it was also covered in thick hide, the kind he could use to create warmer clothing for the coming colder nights.
— — —
Tracking the beast took hours. He followed tufts of white fur snagged on tree trunks, broken branches, heavy prints in the muddy earth. The bear's path was one of destruction—a clumsy trail of flattened brush and half-uprooted trees. Eventually, he found it near a clearing, lumbering in slow circles, swiping lazily at a tree that had offended it in some unknowable way.
Pork stayed behind as Gildarts advanced.
He held his handmade spear low, every step deliberate. His heart pounded, but there was no fear—only focus. He'd practiced this dozens of times on smaller prey, and though the stakes were higher now, his hands didn't shake. He circled the beast, moving against the wind, using bushes for cover, always watching.
And then he felt it.
That flicker of awareness—Observation Haki activating without command. He sensed the bear shift its weight before it even moved. He knew it was about to turn. He moved first, ducking behind a thicker tree, holding his breath. The beast glanced around lazily, clueless, and then returned to battering the same unfortunate trunk.
He was ready.
One solid strike to the back of the knee—he jabbed with force, the spear piercing flesh before snapping from the impact. The bear roared, stumbling, and he was already gone, rolling backward behind a log. The beast lunged forward blindly, crashing into the foliage. Gildarts pounced with a large stone he'd picked up from the forest floor, swinging it into the bear's side. It groaned, reared up, and he dove beneath it, striking again, this time at its ribs.
It wasn't a clean fight. It was messy, painful, and he ended up with a bruised shoulder and a cracked rib. But the bear went down eventually. When it collapsed, shaking the ground with a final moan, he sat next to it, panting, soaked in sweat and blood—its and his.
He looked down at the beast, hand trembling slightly. "That was for the coat," he wheezed, half-laughing.
Pork emerged cautiously and sniffed the body before curling beside it, watching Gildarts work. He spent the rest of the day skinning the bear and treating the hide as best he could. The pelt was thick, warm, and would make a perfect winter coat. It wasn't expertly crafted—stitched together with fibers and tied around the chest—but it did the job. Wearing it felt like wrapping himself in victory.
— — —
That night, as he sat beside the fire with Pork snuggled beside him, Gildarts stared at the square-shaped Devil Fruit resting inside a hollowed-out tree trunk. It looked no less strange than the day Pork had found it—brick red, cube-like, with maze-like spirals and a twisting stem.
He still hadn't eaten it.
The hesitation gnawed at him, and not just because he didn't know what it would do. The fear was deeper, more primal. Once he ate it, he'd lose the ability to swim. On an island surrounded by water and an apex Sea King? That could be suicide. He needed to be smarter. Stronger. He needed to be ready.
His eyes drifted to his prosthetic arm as he rotated the wrist joint slowly, then to his leg as he adjusted the strap. Once, these limbs had been burdens. Now they were extensions of himself. It had taken weeks of stumbling, frustration, and ungraceful falls, but now he moved with confidence. His punches were tighter. His steps more deliberate. The street-fighting style he'd started shaping—based on memories of animated footwork, panels of strange flow, and even the exaggerated moves of digital characters—was coming together.
He shadowboxed into the night, letting each movement flow from the last, sweat glistening on his brow. The sound of his feet thudding softly on the packed earth and the hiss of his breath echoed in the clearing. Pork occasionally barked or mimicked a move in response, adding comic relief to the intensity of it all.
He grinned and flicked a jab into the night air. "Take that, Geese Howard," he muttered, referencing an old favorite. "And that's for dodging my Hadouken."
But in all that humor, there was a heartbeat of something real—confidence. Growth. The realization that even without magic or power, he could become dangerous.
The next morning, Gildarts returned to the beach. Not to fish, but to think. He sat on a rock, staring out over the waters that had nearly claimed his life once before. The Master of the Waters hadn't appeared again since their last encounter, but he could feel its presence in the waves. A territorial god of the sea, watching. Waiting.
And yet… he wasn't as afraid anymore.
The wind tugged at his bear-hide coat. Behind him, Pork lay curled up on a sun-warmed stone, snoring softly. The world had changed for Gildarts since waking up here. And now, he was changing too.
One step at a time.
— — —
Update Schedule:
11:00am-12:30am
Sunday: Break Day
Monday: 1 Chapter
Tuesday-Friday: 2 Chapters
Saturday: 1 Chapter