The morning sun rose over Long Ring Long Land like a slow-rolling tide, casting a golden warmth across the endless plains. Gildarts stood at the edge of a wide, stagnant marsh, barefoot, soaked up to the knees, clutching a curved branch like a crutch. His breath came slow, steady. He had been awake since before dawn.
No sign of a Devil Fruit.
He had combed every stretch of this island over the past few days. Climbed long warped trees, sifted through dense reed beds, and overturned every odd-looking plant in hopes of discovering that iconic swirl, that unmistakable texture.
Nothing.
"I figured it wouldn't be easy," he muttered, pushing aside a vine. "But I was hoping for beginner's luck."
He had considered eating random fruits just to test their effects, but the risk wasn't worth it. Some fruits were poisonous. Others simply weren't edible. And without medical supplies, a single mistake could mean death.
He sat down under a thick-barked tree, panting. His prosthetic leg ached where it rubbed against the stump of flesh—raw and angry from too much walking. Every step was a reminder: this world didn't care that he was a transmigrator. That he was supposed to be "special." It would chew him up and spit him out like any other weakling.
The sky above him shifted, clouds drifting like lazy giants. He closed his eyes and breathed in deep.
— — —
"If Devil Fruits are out of reach," he whispered to himself, "then maybe it's time I stopped thinking like a Fairy Tail mage… and started thinking like a pirate."
He thought back to what he knew about the world of One Piece—not just the flashy battles and larger-than-life villains, but the underlying structure of power. Devil Fruits weren't the only path to strength.
There was Haki.
He chewed on a strip of dried meat, letting his mind drift to the vague descriptions he remembered from the manga. Observation. Armament. Conqueror's. All three types had sounded mysterious on paper, but now… now they felt tantalizing. Real.
But how did one train something like Haki? There were no scrolls, no instructors. Just instinct and repetition. He'd have to feel it out, blindly.
He began that day with what he called "The Stillness Drill." A not so cool name for meditation, he's still a weeb after all.
Sitting cross-legged beneath a tree, he closed his eyes and focused on his surroundings. He listened—truly listened—to the rustling of leaves, the whistle of wind across grass, the chirping of unseen birds. He paid attention to every minute sensation on his skin: the itch of a bug bite on his forearm, the press of the breeze against his chest, the subtle warmth radiating from his prosthetics.
It was agonizing at first. His thoughts ran wild—memories, anxieties, half-formed theories, missing the simple comforts of his college life like microwave dinners and browsing forums. But slowly, over hours, he slipped into something quieter. Deeper.
There was no sudden breakthrough. No moment of cosmic realization.
But something in him shifted. The world felt a little clearer.
— — —
The next morning, he began pushing his body.
There was no gym, no equipment. Just rocks and logs and his own stubborn will. He began with a simple routine: push-ups, sit-ups, squats. He adapted them to his uneven weight distribution, compensating with pure core strength.
Every movement tested his endurance. His missing limbs threw him off-balance constantly. But the pain—oh, the pain—reminded him that he was still here. Still alive.
He climbed trees with his good arm and teeth. Lifted boulders to build shoulder strength. Practiced one-legged jumps until he could land without wobbling. Everything he did was with the thought that someday, a pirate might step off a ship and try to kill him. Or a marine, or whoever, either way, his life hung in the balance.
He needed to be ready.
By the end of the week, his body was sore, but stronger. He'd carved lean muscle onto his already powerful frame, reawakening the physical might this vessel was once known for.
But something still gnawed at him—some formless pressure that physical training alone wouldn't solve.
— — —
On the seventh night, a storm rolled over the island. Wind howled. Rain pounded. Thunder cracked like cannon fire.
Gildarts sat in a cave he'd taken shelter in, staring into a dwindling fire, his metal prosthetic leg cold against the stump of his leg from the chilly rain water. Outside, the wind threatened to tear trees from their roots. It sounded like the sea itself was angry.
He gritted his teeth, clutching a sharpened spear. Lightning flashed. For a second, he saw his reflection in a pool of rainwater.
He didn't look like himself.
He looked like Gildarts Clive—the prosthetic limbs, the sharp eyes, the aura of calm danger. But in his heart, he still felt like the kid who used to argue on anime forums about who would win in a fight—Enel or Laxus.
"Am I really him?" he asked the storm.
Silence.
Then a whisper of a memory surfaced—Rayleigh's words to Luffy: "Haki is the power of will."
What was his will?
Why was he here?
Was it enough to just survive?
He stood, limping to the mouth of the cave. The rain lashed against his face, cold and stinging. He raised his voice into the void.
"I'm not Gildarts. Not really. But I'm going to live. No matter what this world throws at me."
And with that declaration, something pulsed in his chest. Just for a second. A flicker.
He didn't know what it was.
But it felt like the first step toward Haki.
— — —
The next day, under clearer skies, he began working on a raft.
A real, sea stable boat was a long-term goal, but he needed something simple to base it on first—just enough to explore the island's surrounding edges or cross to one of the ring-shaped little islets he spotted in the distance.
He stripped trees for the fibrous and soft inner inner wood to make pseudo ropes. Cut bamboo with chipped stone. Lashed logs together with makeshift twine crafted from lengthy knotted weeds.
It was slow, painful work. Splinters stabbed rough and calloused skin of his hands. His muscles screamed from overuse, nubs of his missing limbs long rubbed raw. But every time he felt like quitting, he reminded himself: You don't get to wait around for rescue in this world, it's just you here.
By the end of the third day, he had something on the way to a shifty raft—barely. A rectangular frame of driftwood and vines, with a single oar carved from a flattened plank.
It was ugly. It was unstable.
But it was his.
— — —
Nights were the worst.
There was no one to talk to. No screen. No music. Just the sound of insects and the gentle lap of waves. His mind turned constantly—replaying manga panels, imagining battle scenarios, weighing his odds against people like Buggy, Smoker, or even low-level bounty hunters.
He wasn't ready. Not yet.
But he was getting there.
Each day was another piece of armor. Another stone in the wall between him and death. And somewhere on this island, maybe just offshore, was a chance. A fruit. A power. A destiny.
Or maybe there was nothing.
Just the journey.
And for now… that was enough.