The Grand Line did not wait for him.
It did not test him.
It did not warn him.
It punished him.
The first mistake Sanji made was trusting the Log Pose too much.
The second mistake was assuming the sea would care.
The needle pointed south.
So he went south.
For three days, the sea was calm.
Too calm.
On the fourth day, the sky turned the color of old steel.
The wind did not rise.
It arrived.
The storm did not look like a storm.
There were no dramatic clouds at first.
Just… pressure.
The air became heavy.
The waves grew taller without becoming violent.
And then—
The world tilted.
The sloop was lifted like a toy and thrown sideways.
Sanji barely managed to tie himself to the mast before the rain came down like thrown knives.
"…Tch—!"
The Log Pose spun.
Not slowly.
Wildly.
South meant nothing anymore.
The sea decided something else.
He fought the wheel for hours.
Maybe longer.
Time stopped being measurable.
The wind howled.
The mast screamed.
The sail tore.
The world turned white and black and nothing in between.
And then—
The sound changed.
From water…
To stone.
The impact threw him into darkness.
Sanji woke up choking on salt and sand.
His body hurt.
Not training-hurt.
Wreck-hurt.
The sloop was in pieces.
Not sunk.
Broken.
Wood scattered across a narrow black beach.
The sea was calm again.
Like nothing had happened.
"…You've got to be kidding me…"
He sat up slowly.
Checked his arms.
Legs.
Ribs.
"…Still here."
He looked around.
Tall black cliffs.
Strange white trees.
Mist drifting low over the ground.
No signs of civilization.
No signs of anything.
"…Uncharted," he muttered.
He stood.
And felt it.
The air was… watched.
Not hostile.
Not friendly.
Evaluating.
His Haki whispered at the edges of his senses.
"…Great."
The first spear missed his head by an inch.
It embedded itself in a rock behind him.
Sanji turned slowly.
Tall.
Too tall.
A man with a long neck, easily twice normal length, standing on the cliff above.
Then another.
Then five.
Then more.
Lean bodies.
Simple clothes.
Stone weapons.
Eyes that did not show curiosity.
Only assessment.
"…I'm guessing 'hello' isn't going to work," Sanji said.
No response.
Another spear flew.
Sanji stepped aside.
Did not attack.
Did not retreat.
Just… watched.
The group vanished into the mist.
He didn't get ten minutes.
They came in pairs.
Then trios.
Then groups of six.
They did not surround him.
They tested him.
Attacks from blind angles.
Ambushes.
Hit-and-fade strikes.
No words.
No warning.
No attempt to communicate.
Sanji did not chase them.
Did not overextend.
He defended.
Redirected.
Disarmed.
Never broke bones.
Never killed.
But never let himself be touched twice.
By sunset, he was bleeding.
Not badly.
But constantly.
Small cuts.
Bruises.
A split lip.
"…You people don't get tired, do you…"
No answer.
Only more attacks.
He tried to leave.
They blocked the paths.
He tried to sleep.
They attacked at night.
He tried to signal.
They ignored him.
Three days passed like that.
Three days of being hunted.
Three days of not being welcome.
On the fourth day, he finally snapped.
Not in rage.
In decision.
When six of them attacked at once, he stopped holding back.
Not lethal.
Not cruel.
Overwhelming.
They came in fast.
They went down faster.
Disarmed.
Pinned.
Thrown.
Breathing.
But defeated.
Sanji stood in the center, breathing slowly.
"…I'm not your enemy."
No one answered.
They just… stared.
Then, one of them—older, taller than the rest—stepped forward.
Looked at the fallen.
Then at Sanji.
Then turned away.
And said a single word, in a language Sanji did not understand.
But the meaning was clear.
"Watch him."
That night, for the first time…
They did not attack.
They did not speak.
They just… observed.
Sanji sat by a small fire made from wreckage.
Staring into it.
"…So this is how it starts," he muttered.
No crew.
No ship.
No map.
No welcome.
Just an island that did not want him.
And people who would not acknowledge him—
Until he proved he deserved to exist there.
Far away, deeper in the island…
Something else watched.
Something older.
And much more important.