[Gaya Island – Rising Dragon Updraft Formation Area]
BOOM—!!
Deep beneath the churning surface, a colossal vortex began to spiral.
Water vapor erupted like breath from a slumbering leviathan. The clouds twisted, the sky darkened, and with a deafening roar, the Rising Dragon Updraft awoke.
Thunder cracked. Lightning forked across the heavens.
The storm was no longer approaching—
It had arrived.
[Warship – Foredeck]
At the bow stood Ronan, his crimson-lined trench coat snapping in the gale, his silhouette sharp as a blade against the maelstrom.
Behind him, Rett and the crew braced themselves, every man coiled tight with adrenaline—like bowstrings pulled to their limit.
"Boss!" Rett bellowed over the wind, knuckles white on the railing. "The updraft's fully formed! How the hell do we ride it?!"
Ronan didn't flinch. His eyes—calm, unshaken—fixed on the titanic pillar of water rising in the distance, a spiral of chaos and power.
Slowly, he raised his right hand.
The air around his palm began to swirl.
A ripple pulsed outward—not sound, not wind, but presence.
And then, clear as a bell through the tempest, his voice cut through:
"Set sail."
In the next heartbeat—
Ronan stepped forward. His fingers clenched.
[Air Control]!
BOOM—!!!
An invisible force erupted from him—dense, pressurized, alive—engulfing the entire warship in a transparent dome of high-velocity air. It wasn't just a shield…
It was wings.
"TAKE OFF!" Ronan roared.
[Air Pressure Surge – Burst Mode]!
KRA-KOOOM!!!
And then—impossibly—the warship leapt.
Not lifted. Launched.
Like a dragon unshackled from gravity, the vessel speared upward into the heart of the raging updraft!
Walls of water spiraled. Thunder howled. Wind screamed like a thousand banshees.
Yet through it all, the ship held steady—guided by Ronan's will alone.
[Deck – Reactions]
Rett clung to the railing like a barnacle, his hair spiked into a wind-whipped hedgehog.
"AAAAAH—BOSS!" he shrieked. "This isn't sailing—this is suicide with extra steps!"
Beside him, a bearded veteran trembled, eyes wide as saucers.
"I… I haven't even written my will yet!"
At the helm, the co-pilot wailed, "I'm not a seabird! I CAN'T FLY!"
A lanky old-timer dropped to his knees, hands clasped.
"Gods above—if I reach that Sky Island alive, I swear I'll give up drinking for three days!"
Rett shot back without missing a beat: "You swore off booze for THREE YEARS yesterday!"
Just as panic threatened to consume them—
Ronan acted.
With one hand, he anchored the airflow—lifting, stabilizing.
With the other, his Observation Haki mapped the storm's rhythm like music only he could hear.
—Torrential rain? Counterbalanced.
—Cyclonic shear? Redirected.
—Tearing gales? Guided like rivers through his palms.
The warship danced through the storm—not fleeing it, but commanding it.
A silver dragon carving its path through the sky's fury.
"Hold on," Ronan said—calm, certain.
Rett gritted his teeth, voice cracking:
"Hold on my—?! THIS ISN'T HOLDING ON, THIS IS BEING SHOT OUT OF A CANNON BY A MADMAN!"
RUMBLE—!!
The ship pierced the thunderclouds—
Plowed through the vortex of mist—
Soared past the frozen winds of the stratosphere—
—and broke through.
[The White Sea – First Glimpse]
Silence.
Not the absence of sound—but the hush of wonder.
Before them stretched an endless expanse of liquid white, smooth as polished marble, gleaming under a golden sun.
The White Sea—myth made manifest.
Sunlight fractured across its surface, casting diamonds into the air as the warship cut through the cloudscape, trailing plumes of iridescent spray.
On deck, the crew stood frozen.
Rett's jaw hung slack. "…There really is a sea… in the sky…"
The bearded veteran blinked, dazed.
"…Am I still alive?"
The lanky veteran suddenly burst into tears.
"I didn't pee myself!"
Rett, ever the realist, muttered under his breath:
"…Your trousers are soaked. So unless you've learned to sweat whiskey…"
But no one heard him.
They were too busy seeing heaven.
Ronan stood at the bow, hands clasped behind his back.
His gaze was sharp as a blade, calm as a glacier that had slept beneath the sea for a thousand years.
He squinted across the boundless white expanse, a faint curve tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"Sky Island… White Sea…"
Above the world, a sea of pure white stretched between heaven and earth, silent and infinite. Sunlight pierced through the clouds, spilling gold across the cloudscape like divine light bathing the ruins of a forgotten god.
On the deck, Rett gripped the railing, knuckles white, breath coming in ragged gasps. His face flickered between pallid and flushed, sweat beading on his brow.
"…Boss," he growled through gritted teeth, "this is the first time I've ever felt like you're gonna kill me!"
Behind him, the crew—elite fighters all—clung to rigging and railings, faces twisted in a mix of disbelief and reluctant amusement.
"Cough—cough—Sky Island really exists!" one wheezed.
"Gods above… I thought we'd died and gone straight to the Celestial Gates!"
Ronan barely glanced their way. "What are you shouting about? Can't even handle a bit of elevation? Double your training when we get back."
The deck fell silent. Boots snapped together as one.
Rett scratched his head, grinning helplessly. "Tch… Even up here, you still find ways to work us to the bone."
He straightened, shielding his eyes against the glare.
In the distance, beyond the sea of clouds, the silhouette of an island floated—ethereal, dreamlike, as if stitched from myth itself.
"That… that's the legendary Sky Island?" he murmured.
Ronan narrowed his eyes. His senses stretched outward, brushing against the faint hum of Dial shells and the distant pulse of human presence.
"That's right," he said, voice low and steady. "Sky Island—Skypiea."
He raised his hand.
"All hands—reverse thrust, switch to cloud-skimming configuration! Prepare to land!"
"Aye, sir!" came the chorus.
The crew sprang into action, adjusting sails and Dials with practiced efficiency. The warship groaned softly as its systems shifted, designed not for machines, but for the ancient art of skyfaring—guided by wind, shell, and will.
Ronan exhaled. A subtle current rose around the vessel, gentle yet immense, cradling it like a god's palm guiding a paper boat across the White Sea. Slowly, silently, they glided toward Angel Island.
[Half an Hour Later]
The warship skimmed the outer edge of Angel Island.
Through breaks in the clouds, white-washed buildings came into view—homes clinging to floating earth, wind-powered tracks humming with motion, and armored knights soaring on winged beasts.
Rett leaned over the railing, jaw slack. "…Holy hell. People actually live here?!"
Ronan's eyes remained unreadable. "Civilization doesn't vanish just because it floats. Nor does decay."
Rett blinked. "So… you think this place is corrupt?"
Ronan folded his hands behind his back again. "We'll find out soon enough."
[Outskirts of Angel Island]
A squadron of Sky Knights patrolling on sky fish spotted the warship.
Alarm whistles shrieked through the heavens.
"Intruders! Halt at once and submit to inspection!"
Their captain hovered forward, white cloak rippling like wings in the high-altitude wind.
Rett cracked his knuckles, eyes gleaming. "Boss… wanna stretch those legendary limbs?"
Ronan's eyes flickered. A barely visible ring of compressed air pulsed outward from his body.
Then, with a simple gesture—
The clouds surged.
"What—?!"
"Whoa—!"
The Sky Knights' mounts shrieked, wings flapping wildly as an invisible current lifted them like autumn leaves. They spiraled through the air in graceful arcs before tumbling—unharmed—onto a soft bank of clouds below.
Rett snorted. "Tch. You just let 'em go like that?"
Ronan lowered his hand. "They're guards doing their duty. No need to spill blood over protocol."
Far below, the shaken knights exchanged bewildered glances. Their captain wiped sweat from his brow and fumbled for his Den Den Mushi.
"This is Captain Heron—urgent report! Unidentified vessel inbound… and… they held back. Deliberately."
"Let's go," Ronan said.
"Time to pay a visit to the 'god' of this rotting kingdom in the sky."
The warship surged forward, cleaving through cloud-waves like a blade through silk. Behind it, the White Sea rippled in its wake, torn asunder by its passage.
Ahead, the spires of Angel Island's palace cast long, accusing shadows in the sun.
—The hunt for the Sky Islands had begun.
—And with it, the judgment of absolute justice.