The cobblestone path leading up to Shells Town's Marine branch was steeper than it looked. With every step, Travis's new-found resolve warred with the old body's persistent weakness. The "Royal Bloodline" physique was a promise, not a gift—a latent potential that hummed beneath his skin, but did nothing for the hollow ache in his stomach or the tremor in his overworked legs.
The headquarters loomed, a symbol of imposing, bureaucratic power. The white facade was stained with sea salt and bird droppings, a hint of the neglect that festered within. Two raw recruits, looking barely older than him, stood at attention by the door, their postures perfect but their eyes glazed with boredom.
Travis pushed open the heavy wooden door.
The inside was a study in controlled chaos. The air smelled of cheap ink, sweat, and stale coffee. A large, lazy ceiling fan did little to dispel the heat. Desks were piled high with teetering stacks of paperwork. Marines in various states of uniform—some crisp, most disheveled—moved with a lethargic purpose. A harried-looking clerk was arguing with a fishmonger over a docking fee. No one looked at the ragged boy who entered.
He made his way to a long, scarred wooden counter. Behind it sat a portly Marine petty officer, his uniform straining at the buttons. He was engrossed in a newspaper, a steaming cup of something foul-smelling at his elbow.
"Excuse me," Travis said, his voice steady, cutting through the low din.
The petty officer didn't look up. "Duty rosters are posted on the wall. Complaints go to Lieutenant Chalmers. Lost and found is on Tuesdays."
"I'm here to enlist."
That got his attention. The officer lowered his newspaper, his eyes—small and shrewd—sweeping over Travis from head to toe. He took in the ragged clothes, the thin frame, the calloused but unmarked hands of a deckhand, not a fighter. A slow, dismissive smirk spread across his face.
"Enlist?" he chuckled, a wet, unpleasant sound. "Boy, the charity kitchen is two streets down. We're not running a orphanage. We need fighters. Men who can hold a rifle and follow orders. You look like a stiff breeze would snap you in half."
The insult was casual, practiced. This was a man who judged worth by bulk and bluster. Travis felt a flash of heat—not from anger, but from the new, kingly instincts that recoiled at such petty arrogance from a man in a position of service. He quashed it. This was the first test.
"I can follow orders," Travis said, his tone devoid of emotion. "And I learn quickly. I need the work."
The officer leaned back, his chair groaning in protest. "Why? Running from something? Debt? A girl?" His eyes gleamed with the prospect of gossip.
Travis met his gaze. "I believe in justice. I want to serve."
The statement, delivered with a calm, absolute seriousness, was so alien in the cynical atmosphere of the office that it caused a brief, palpable silence. A nearby clerk paused his writing. The petty officer's smirk faded, replaced by genuine bafflement.
"Justice," he repeated, as if tasting a strange fruit. He barked a laugh. "Kid, you've been reading too many pamphlets. This is Shells Town. We keep the peace, collect the taxes, and make sure the merchants don't knife each other over the best stalls. 'Justice' is what the captain decides it is after his third bottle of rum."
Another test. A temptation to be corrupted, to show he could 'play the game.'
Travis simply waited, his expression unchanged. The petty officer sighed, the fun gone out of the interaction. He saw not defiance, but a kind of dull, stubborn resolve. The kind that was more annoying than rebellious.
"Fine. Fill these out." He slid a thick sheaf of papers and a quill across the counter. "Name, age, place of origin, next of kin. Sign at the bottom. You'll get a basic physical. If the doc doesn't laugh you out of his office, you'll get a bunk in the recruits' dorm. No pay for the first month. You'll earn your keep scrubbing decks and cleaning latrines. Understood?"
"Understood." Travis took the quill. He filled the forms with the details of his new identity—Travis Pendragon, age 16, orphan, no next of kin. The penmanship, he noticed, was neat and precise, a subtle influence of the legacy. He signed with a flourish that felt instinctively right.
As he handed the papers back, the petty officer glanced at the signature. "Pendragon, huh? Fancy name for a dock rat. Don't let it go to your head." He stamped the top form with a heavy thud. "Dormitory is out back, past the yard. Find Chief Petty Officer Hackett. He'll put you to work. And kid?" He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial grumble. "Lose the 'justice' talk. It makes people nervous."
Travis nodded, a non-committal gesture. He turned and walked through the busy room, feeling the occasional curious or pitying glance. He pushed through a rear door and emerged into a sun-baked courtyard.
The contrast was immediate. Here was the raw, physical reality of Marine life. Recruits—dozens of them—were drilling in ragged lines under the shouted commands of a red-faced, bull-necked man who could only be Chief Hackett. Others were hauling sacks of grain, polishing rust off cannon barrels, or engaging in clumsy sparring matches with wooden batons. The air rang with grunts, curses, and the thud of impacts.
It was brutal, simple, and honest in a way the bureaucratic interior was not. Travis watched for a moment, analyzing. The techniques were basic, the discipline poor. These were not the elite forces of the Grand Line; these were the canon fodder of the East Blue, taught to point and shoot, to overwhelm with numbers.
"Oi! You! Scrawny one! You just gonna stand there and gawk?"
Chief Hackett was striding toward him, his shadow falling over Travis. He was a mountain of muscle gone slightly to fat, with a thick black mustache and eyes that had long ago lost any patience for idealism.
"Recruit Travis Pendragon, reporting, sir," Travis said, snapping to what he hoped was a passable approximation of attention. The kingly instincts provided a vague template of military bearing, but the body lagged behind.
Hackett circled him like a shark. "Pendragon. Paperwork boy. The clerk said you had a mouth on you. 'Justice,'" he sneered, mimicking a prissy tone. "You know what justice is here? It's doing what I tell you, when I tell you, until you puke or pass out. Understood?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good. See that pile of rust?" Hackett pointed a thick finger at a small mountain of corroded anchor chains near the forge. "You're going to polish every link until I can see my ugly face in it. No meals until it's done. Move!"
It was mind-numbing, back-breaking work. The sun beat down. The coarse sandpaper tore at his hands, reopening fresh callouses. The legacy physique helped him endure, but only just; it was like having the blueprint for a steel girder while your body was still made of clay. It prevented collapse, but did not eliminate the pain, the fatigue, the hunger.
As he worked, Travis observed. He saw Hackett take bribes from a merchant to ignore an overloaded cargo ship. He saw a corporal sell "surplus" rations out the back gate. He saw a recruit beaten bloody for dropping his rifle, while another who was the nephew of a local councilman lounged in the shade, untouched.
His code—Equal Justice—screamed in silent protest at each violation. But the strategic part of his mind, the gamer who understood grinding and resource management, counseled patience. He had no power, no standing. An accusation now would see him tossed in the brig, or worse, thrown out onto the street to meet his "scripted" fate.
So he polished. Link by agonizing link. He became a fixture of the yard, the silent, stubborn new kid. The other recruits ignored him, or mocked him in passing. He was an island.
At the end of the third day, his hands bleeding and raw, his vision swimming with exhaustion, he finally polished the last link. He stumbled to Chief Hackett, who inspected the chain with a grunt, finding no fault.
"Fine. Mess hall's closed. Scullery might have scraps." Hackett turned away, already bellowing at another recruit.
Travis didn't go to the scullery. He walked past the dormitory, past the snoring bodies of exhausted boys, and out to a secluded part of the rear wall overlooking the sea. The moon was high, painting a silver path on the water.
He sat, his body screaming, and finally let the frustration surface. This was the reality. This grinding, ignoble struggle. Was this the path to becoming Fleet Admiral? Years of polishing chains and biting his tongue?
As if in response to his despair, a gentle, golden warmth pulsed from his chest. Not the fierce heat of the sign-in, but a soothing, steadfast ember. A silent reminder: A king is forged in hardship, not crowned in comfort. Your first duty is to endure. Your first kingdom is your own spirit.
The words weren't audible, but the meaning was clear, imprinted by the legacy. This was the training. Not just of the body, but of the will. To practice his code here, in the smallest way. To do the job perfectly, even when it was meaningless. To be just in his own labor, when no justice was given to him.
He looked at his bloody hands, then out at the vast, star-dusted sea. A calm settled over him, colder and harder than the despair. This was level one. The tutorial dungeon. And he had just completed the first fetch quest.
He had a bunk. He had a place, however lowly. He was inside the system.
Tomorrow, he would polish chains again. And he would watch, and learn, and wait. The first move had been made. The game was afoot. And Travis Pendragon, the extra with a king's legacy and a destroyer's future, had passed his first, miserable test. The long, patient climb had truly begun.