*The First Day After The Seasonal Storm.*
Spring Island.
The dense forest rustled softly under the steady breeze of eternal spring. In a quiet clearing, a patchwork workshop stood — made of wrecked hulls, palm trunks, and scrap metal. Inside, tools clinked and voices murmured with focused urgency.
Zoro leaned against a thick wooden beam, arms crossed, brow furrowed in thought. "So, let me get this straight… We've got one chance to leave this island—and it only comes once every five years?"
Freed Kruz, crouched over a makeshift map etched into a slab of old driftwood, gave a solemn nod. The dim morning light from the hut's small window fell across his weather-worn face. "Aye. Five years of waiting, one day of chance. That's the price of Spring Island's so-called paradise."
He tapped the center of the map, where strange lines had been carved in tight patterns. "This island is surrounded by a magnetic field created by underground quartz veins. It bends log poses, scrambles compasses… keeps ships sailing in circles. But once every five years, on the day of the Spring Zenith, the solar currents shift just enough to weaken that field. That's the only time anyone's ever escaped."
A heavy silence fell over the room, broken only by the gentle creaking of the cabin in the breeze. Nami leaned forward, eyes narrowing. "And you're sure it's happening this year?"
Kruz hesitated, then nodded. "The signs are all here. The pollen wind, the blooming stone lilies… and the birds returned to the western cliff. The Zenith is tomorrow."
"Convenient," Binko muttered, half-suspicious, half-hopeful.
Zoro didn't speak, but his eyes never left Freed's. He was measuring the man, like he was weighing the truth in his words.
It was their talk last night that led to this moment, the reason why the crew was even still sitting in Freed's hut, planning instead of trying to escape blindly.
...
The night before…
Kruz had taken them out under the stars, to a field lined with worn stones. The air was quiet, save for the soft chirp of nocturnal insects. A graveyard.
"This," Kruz said, voice low, "is where the others rest. All those who came here, got trapped like me, and… didn't make it."
He moved to one of the stones and brushed away moss. A name carved by hand. Another beside it. Another, and another. Some had dates. Others were just initials.
"I wasn't the first shipwreck. Not by far," he continued. "Some tried to build flying crafts. Others waited for rescue. One even swam off on a raft." He exhaled. "None made it. I survived because I accepted the truth. There's only one path off this island—and it's as rare as it is risky."
He'd then handed Nami an old, brittle journal. Its pages were yellowed, the ink faded, but readable. A log of people slowly losing hope… until their writing simply stopped.
Nami had read it quietly. Zoro stood behind her, silent as a statue. Binko knelt by a gravestone, saying nothing.
But instead of despair, the crew only became more determined.
"We have to leave," Nami had said, closing the journal. "Our crew is scattered. They're waiting for us."
Kruz had blinked. Then, seeing the resolve in their eyes, something shifted in him. Hope—something he hadn't felt in years.
"Actually...there is a way out."
He told them everything.
...
Back to the present…
Freed Kruz stood tall, his weathered fingers resting against the wooden map laid out before them. "Tomorrow," he repeated, his voice steady, "when the Zenith reaches its peak at noon, the magnetic field will weaken—just for a few hours. That'll be our one shot. If we miss it… we'll have to wait another five years."
Zoro's lips curled into a confident grin. "Then let's make sure we don't."
Nami gave a firm nod. "We've waited long enough. Let's get moving."
"I'll get to work on the ship," Binko said, already rising to his feet. His eyes turned to Kruz. "You said you've been here a while… do you have anything left from your old vessel? A wreck? Hull pieces? Anything salvageable would help."
Kruz blinked, surprised by the question, then gave a slow nod. "Actually… yes. There's something. Come with me."
He turned and led them through a winding trail shrouded in spring mist. As they emerged from the trees, the air turned cooler. Before them lay a hidden inlet tucked into the cliffside—still waters reflecting a battered dock.
At its center floated a ship—barely intact, its sails tattered and its hull mottled with years of patchwork repairs and weathering. Moss clung to parts of the sides. Some planks had rotted away. And yet… the keel remained strong.
"This…" Kruz said quietly, "was once my ship. The Ardent Gale."
Zoro whistled low, walking closer. "She's been through hell."
Binko stepped forward, eyes narrowing as he assessed the vessel's condition. "How long's she been sitting here?"
Kruz inhaled. "Ten years, give or take."
Zoro raised a brow. "That long, huh? So you've been stranded here for an entire decade."
Kruz gave a solemn nod.
There was a long pause. Then Binko cracked his knuckles. "Alright. I've worked with worse."
He turned to Kruz. "Do you have any tools left?"
Kruz gave a faint smile. "I've gathered a whole collection over the years—from wrecks, failed rafts, broken dreams." He gestured for them to follow once more.
They arrived at a small storage shack near the cove. Inside, tucked beneath layers of tarps and crates, were rusted saws, handmade clamps, and all manner of tools—some crude, some surprisingly intact.
"These'll do," Binko said, selecting a few with practiced ease. "It'll take all night, but if we work fast, I can make her sail again."
Zoro rolled up his sleeves. "Just point me where you need muscle."
"I'll assist too," said Kruz, already grabbing a toolbox. "She may be old, but she was built to ride the wind. With some luck… she'll do it one last time."
With that, they started working on the ship.
...
The sun dipped low on the horizon, casting a fiery red glow across the skies. The Spring Island canopy shimmered gold and crimson under the fading light, and a hush seemed to settle over the forested cliffside.
Down at the hidden cove, the once-battered dock now held something reborn.
Binko stood beside the repaired vessel—a patchwork masterpiece forged from wrecked hulls, salvaged timber, and the skeleton of Kruz's long-abandoned ship. It wasn't elegant, but it stood proudly, ready to brave the sea once more.
He patted the side of the ship with a satisfied grin. "She'll sail. Might not look like much, but I built her to hold."
The hull let out a soft groan under his touch, as if waking from a long slumber.
Kruz stepped forward, running his hand gently along the polished timber. His fingers lingered on the grooves, eyes misted with memory. "You remind me of myself… back before I gave up trying. Before this island swallowed my hope."
Binko looked over his shoulder and smiled. "Then let's make sure neither of us gives up again."
Zoro, leaning against a piling with his arms crossed, scanned the skies, where the last hints of sunlight kissed the clouds. "Alright. What's the catch?"
Kruz let out a breath, his shoulders heavy. "We'll have to sail through the Whispering Narrows, a canyon of razor-sharp coral and tide funnels. The currents surge like jaws. Mist the entrance by even a few meters… and we'll be dashed to pieces."
Nami stepped closer, fire in her eyes. "You said the signs are in the sky, right? Amber light, petals in the wind?"
Kruz nodded. "Exactly. When the Spring Zenith hits, the sky trees bloom all at once, and their petals ride the current of the shifting winds. That's when the sea opens—but only for a short while."
Outside the cove, the breeze had started to change. The trees rustled differently—faint, irregular bursts of wind whispering through the leaves.
"It's starting," Kruz murmured. "The Zenith is close."
Binko crouched and fastened a final brace, wiping sweat from his brow. "She'll be ready to sail by dawn."
Zoro approached the side of the ship, tapping one of the reinforced beams with his knuckles. "Feels solid. You did good, Binko."
The shipwright grinned. "Wasn't just me. Kruz's parts, Nami's charts, your lifting—all of it counts."
Nami looked up at the streaks of orange stretching across the sky. "This is our window. If we miss it, we stay trapped here for five more years."
Kruz stood quietly beside the vessel, eyes locked on the horizon. "I've waited ten years," he said softly. "Ten years of watching ships break, of carving headstones for dreamers who never made it. I thought my time had passed. But then… you all showed up."
There was silence for a moment.
Zoro gave a small smirk, placing a hand on his sword. "Then let's make this count. No delays, no regrets."
Nami and Binko nodded in agreement.
...
New World.
Somewhere across the vast, unpredictable seas of the New World, a Marine vessel cut through the water, its sails taut under the morning breeze. The salty wind howled past the deck, where vigilant eyes scanned the endless blue.
"Sir! Small rowboat spotted—quarter mile off the starboard bow!" a lookout called from the crow's nest.
The captain stepped forward, squinting into the distance. "Bring us about. Slow the ship. Let's see who's out here alone."
A cutter was quickly lowered into the sea, and a small team of Marines rowed toward the drifting vessel. As they drew closer, their eyes settled on a single figure seated inside—a man dressed in tattered rags, hands loosely clutching the oars, his expression vacant, pale in the golden light.
One Marine stood, hand on the edge of the cutter. "Hey! Identify yourself!"
The man lifted his gaze slowly, his eyes hollow and distant. "I… don't know," he said flatly. "Do you know who I am?"
A wave of unease passed through the boarding party. The Marines exchanged glances.
"You don't remember your name? Family? Anything?"
The man opened his mouth, but a sudden pulse of pain hit him. His hands flew to his temples as he winced. "I… can't… remember…"
His face twisted. He rocked in the seat. A deep groan left his lips.
"Something's wrong with him!" a Marine called out.
"He's fainting—!"
Before anyone could react, the man collapsed forward, slipping over the side and plunging into the sea with a splash.
"Man overboard!"
Without hesitation, one Marine dove after him. Water churned as he grabbed hold of the sinking man and pulled him back to the surface. Moments later, the man was hauled aboard the main ship, soaked and breathless.
The crew gathered, surrounding the limp figure sprawled across the deck. The mystery deepened—who was this man, and why had the sea returned him, nameless and broken?
They laid the man gently onto a table, wrapping thick blankets around his trembling shoulders. His skin was cold, his expression still blank.
The ship's medics moved in swiftly, checking his vitals—pulse steady, shallow breathing, no external wounds apart from bruises. One of them carefully examined his head for any signs of trauma.
Then—
BANG!
A deafening gunshot tore through the air, and a bullet slammed directly into the side of the man's skull. The sound echoed across the deck like a thunderclap.
Instantly, the Marines ducked for cover, shouting in alarm.
From the distant waters, a ship crested a wave, with its sails torn, and a black flag fluttering at its mast. A grinning pirate stood at the bow, with a long-barreled sniper rifle still smoking in his grip.
"Kakakaka! One shot, one kill!" he cackled, his voice cutting through the wind. "Oi, Marines! Don't say I never did you a favor. I just took care of your dead weight!"
On the Marine ship's deck, the captain's jaw clenched.
"Enemy vessel spotted," he barked. "Prepare to engage!"
The Marines snapped into action. They instantly grabbed their rifles and swords, rushing to formation as the pirate ship veered toward them.
Meanwhile, the man who'd been shot lay sprawled on the cold wood. Medics rushed to him with hearts sinking, expecting to find a corpse.
But then, something stirred.
The man's fingers twitched.
A breath escaped his lips.
And then, slowly, impossibly, he rose.
Gasps rang out, and those medics looked at him with wide eyes. The light in his eyes, once dull and clouded, now burned sharp and focused. His voice, low and steady, broke the silence.
"My name… is Yohan."
The deck fell silent. Even the wind seemed to still.
Every Marine stared in disbelief. Their hands froze mid-motion. Their eyes locked on the man who should not have stood.
A young officer stammered, "Yohan…? Which Yohan?"
The man looked up, and though he trembled with lingering pain, his voice was iron.
"Monkey D. Yohan."
The captain's face went pale. He snapped around. "Contact HQ. Now. We have a situation."