The Sea Sparrow limped into Shells Town harbor just past dawn, its sails patched with torn hammocks and its crew of three looking like ghosts dragged from the depths. Travis stood at the bow, the weariness in his bones held at bay by the Anchor of Resolve. His face was a calm mask, but his mind was a whirlwind of calculation. The return was a victory, but the true battle was about to begin—the battle of perception.
Groff steered them to the Marine dock with a quiet competence that had replaced his former cynicism. He avoided Travis's eyes, his movements stiff with a new, unspoken wariness. Lin hovered close, his earlier terror now sublimated into a fierce, protective anxiety. They were not a unit, but they were bound by the shared secret of the cliffside and the silent trench in the sand.
Chief Hackett was waiting for them, flanked by two stone-faced corporals. His expression was a familiar blend of contempt and anticipation—the look of a man expecting to sweep up a mess.
"The philosopher returns," Hackett sneered as they tied off the lines. His eyes scanned the deck, noting the missing fourth recruit. "Where's Pell? Sleeping off the adventure?"
"Recruit Pell deserted, Chief," Travis said, his voice flat and clear, carrying across the quiet dock. "He abandoned his post and commandeered the secondary vessel during enemy engagement. We have classified him as a deserter."
Hackett's sneer faltered. He'd expected failure, deaths, excuses. He hadn't expected a clean, bureaucratic declaration. "Deserter," he repeated, the word tasting strange. "And the pirates? Let me guess, they were feeling merciful?"
"The pirate threat at Coffin Cove has been neutralized, Chief," Travis continued, as if reading from a report. Which, in his mind, he was. "Their primary vessel, the brigantine Sea Vulture, was left crippled and adrift with significant structural damage to its anchor system. We engaged a landing party, inflicted casualties, and disrupted their command structure. They are no longer an operational threat to local shipping."
He delivered the facts without embellishment, without a trace of boastfulness. It was the dry language of a after-action report, and it was utterly disarming.
Hackett's eyes narrowed, flicking from Travis to Groff's stoic face and Lin's nervous nod. He saw no joy of victory, only the grim residue of survival. Something had happened out there. Something that had cowed his loudmouth bully and turned the sniveling coward into a silent acolyte.
"Crippled, you say," Hackett mused, a dangerous glint entering his eye. "And how, exactly, did three recruits and a deserter manage to 'cripple' a brigantine? Catch them napping?"
This was the moment. The first public accounting of his power. Travis had considered lying, concocting a story about fire or luck. But the code—Equal Justice—applied to truth as well. Lies were a corruption, a shortcut that would eventually unravel. His power was a fact. Hiding it was impossible; controlling the narrative was essential.
"I utilized a Devil Fruit ability, Chief," Travis stated, his tone still neutral. He raised his right hand, palm up. He did not summon the destructive power—he was too drained, and it was too volatile—but he let a faint, visible wisp of grey smoke, smelling of ozone and nothingness, curl from his skin. It was a parlor trick, a whisper of the storm within, but it was undeniable.
The two corporals took an involuntary step back. Hackett's face went pale, then flushed. "A… Devil Fruit?" The words were a strangled whisper. In the East Blue, Devil Fruit users were legends, monsters from the Grand Line. They were not supposed to be quiet, troublesome recruits.
"The Destruction-Destruction Fruit," Travis confirmed, closing his hand, snuffing out the wisp. "I consumed it during the engagement when our situation was untenable. It allowed us to complete the mission."
Hackett was silent for a long moment, his mind visibly racing. A Devil Fruit user under his command was a double-edged sword of colossal proportions. It was a potential weapon of immense value. It was also a catastrophic liability, a rogue element that could bring down the entire base if it went wrong. And this one came attached to the 'justice' fanatic.
"I see," Hackett said finally, his voice carefully controlled. "You three. To the debriefing room. Now. Not a word of this to anyone else. Is that clear?"
"Yes, Chief," they chorused.
The debriefing was a tense, closed-door affair in a windowless room that smelled of old sweat and fear. Hackett, joined by a nervous Lieutenant Chalmers—the paper-pusher from Travis's first day—grilled them for two hours. Travis led the narrative, sticking to a simplified, tactical version of events: Pell's panic, the chase, the desperate fight on the cliff where he found and consumed the fruit, the tactical retreat, and the disabling of the Sea Vulture's anchor chain to cover their escape. He presented it as a series of hard choices and leveraged luck, downplaying the sheer, terrifying scope of his power.
Groff and Lin corroborated his story with terse, one-word answers, their loyalty—or their fear—holding firm. They had seen the unmaking. They knew the truth was stranger and more frightening than the report.
When it was over, Hackett dismissed Groff and Lin to the infirmary for check-ups. He ordered Travis to remain.
Once the door closed, Hackett leaned across the table, his voice a low growl. "Listen carefully, Pendragon. You are a walking catastrophe. That power… it's not a toy. It's a death sentence for you and everyone around you if you can't control it."
"I understand, Chief."
"Do you? The World Government has a very specific interest in Devil Fruit users. Especially new, unregistered ones with… destructive talents. They could ship you off to some Cipher Pol lab to be studied, or worse, hand you over to the Warlord program if they think you're ambitious enough." Hackett's eyes were hard. "For now, what happened at Coffin Cove stays in this room. The official report will state you used improvised explosives. Do you understand? No more smoke tricks. No demonstrations. You will report to the base's training grounds every day after your regular duties for 'special remedial conditioning'—which means you're going to learn to control that thing inside you before you erase this whole damn town. Under my supervision."
It was a threat, but it was also an opportunity. Containment and training. Hackett was trying to control the weapon, not break it. For now, that served Travis's purpose. He needed to learn control far more than he needed notoriety.
"Understood, Chief."
"Get out of my sight."
The ripples began immediately.
News that the punishment detail had not only survived but succeeded—that Pell had turned deserter and the others had "blown up a pirate ship"—spread through the recruit ranks like wildfire. The story was gloriously mangled in the retelling, but the core truth remained: Pendragon had done the impossible. The quiet, polishing ghost was gone. In his place was a figure of dangerous rumor.
He saw it in the mess hall that evening. The usual clusters of recruits gave him a wider berth, but their eyes followed him—not with mockery, but with a mix of fear, curiosity, and a new, grudging respect. Groff sat alone, brooding over his stew, but when a recruit from another squad made a snide comment about "philosophers getting lucky," Groff silenced him with a single, venomous glare. Lin, sitting close to Travis, straightened his spine a little, as if some of the residual awe was reflecting onto him.
Travis ate in silence, observing. The social geometry of the base had shifted. He was no longer at the bottom. He was now an unknown quantity, a node of unpredictable power. It was a fragile, dangerous kind of influence, but it was influence nonetheless.
The next afternoon, after a day of hauling crates under a scowling Hackett (who watched his every move like a hawk), Travis was summoned not to the training grounds, but back to Captain Rourke's office.
The Captain looked even wearier. The report on his desk was the sanitized version. He studied Travis as if seeing him for the first time.
"Improvised explosives," Rourke said slowly, tapping the report. "A creative interpretation of your 'Equal Justice,' I suppose. Destroying their means of predation. Efficient, if unorthodox." He leaned back. "Hackett tells me you show… potential. And a unique set of challenges."
"I wish only to serve effectively, sir."
"Effectively." Rourke tasted the word. "Your little stunt has attracted attention, Pendragon. Not the good kind. The kind that asks why one of my recruits is running unsanctioned, high-risk demolitions." He paused. "There is an inspection team arriving from Loguetown in three weeks. Rear Admiral Stirling. A by-the-book, glory-hounding climber. He will review everything. Morale, discipline, readiness."
Rourke's meaning was clear. Travis was a smudge on the ledger, a potential scandal waiting to happen in front of a superior who would use any failure to advance his own career.
"Your 'special conditioning' with Hackett will be accelerated," Rourke decided. "I want you competent, or at least not obviously homicidal, by the time Stirling arrives. Furthermore, you are hereby reassigned. You will join the base's regular patrol rotation. Low-risk harbor and coastal duty. I want you visible, following procedure, looking like a normal, if unusually diligent, Marine. The story is you got lucky with some stolen black powder. You will stick to that story. Am I clear?"
"Perfectly clear, sir."
"Dismissed."
As Travis left the office, he felt the walls of the game constricting around him, but also defining his playing field. He had gone from invisible, to problem, to asset-in-training, to PR liability, all in the span of a day. The system was reacting to him. He was no longer an extra following a script; he was a variable altering the equation.
That night, under a sliver of moon, he finally had a moment alone in the corner of the yard. He opened his palm and focused. Not on unleashing destruction, but on feeling its shape. A tiny sphere of negation, no larger than a pea, flickered into existence above his palm, humming with silent, grey potency. He held it for three seconds before his concentration frayed and it winked out, leaving his hand trembling.
Control. It started with a pea. It would have to be enough.
He looked out at the dark sea, thinking of the Sign-In System, now quiet. Coffin Cove had given him the key to his destruction. Shells Town had given him his foundation. He needed more. He needed knowledge, allies, and places of power to sign in.
The inspection in three weeks was a threat, but also a stage. And the regular patrols… they would take him to new locations. New opportunities.
The path was narrow, lined with watchers and traps. But Travis Pendragon stood upon it, a king's legacy in his soul, a destroyer's power in his hand, and a code in his heart. The first mission was over. The long campaign had truly begun. The ripples he had made were already spreading, and soon, they would become waves.