The Long-Necked Tribe did not live like a village.
They lived like a system.
Sanji realized this on the fifth day.
Not because anyone told him.
Because nothing was wasted.
Nothing was loud.
Nothing was accidental.
Their structures were grown, not built.
White stone and living wood woven together into tall, spiraling towers that followed the natural curves of the cliffs. Paths were narrow, designed to teach balance. Open spaces were rare — and always elevated.
"You learn to fall before you learn to fight," REM told him when she saw him watching the children train.
They were young.
Very young.
And they were blindfolded.
The children did not run.
They listened.
They stood on narrow stone beams above shallow drops while others threw small stones near them.
Not at them.
Near them.
The goal was not to dodge.
It was to feel.
"They learn awareness before movement," REM said. "Movement comes later."
Sanji crossed his arms.
"…Sounds familiar."
Their discipline was not cruel.
But it was absolute.
They woke before the sun.
Stood in silence.
Breathed.
Then trained.
Not in strength.
In presence.
Haki was not something special here.
It was literacy.
Those who could not feel intent were considered… uneducated.
"Not everyone is like you, though," Sanji said as he and REM walked along a high path.
"No," she agreed. "But everyone learns."
"…Even kids?"
"Yes."
"…Rough childhood."
She looked at him.
"This sea eats gentle things."
Sanji did not argue.
They trained in three things:
Stillness
Placement
Endurance
Fighting was secondary.
A tool.
Not a goal.
Their warriors did not flail.
They occupied space.
They did not chase.
They denied.
"They've been here a long time, haven't they?" Sanji asked.
"Longer than maps," REM said. "Longer than the World Government."
"…Figures."
"The Grand Line tried to kill us," she continued. "It failed."
Sanji noticed something else.
No one here was impressed by him.
Not his speed.
Not his fire.
Not his Haki.
He was… average.
That bothered him less than he expected.
He spent part of each day trying to salvage his ship.
Or what was left of it.
The sloop had not sunk.
It had been disassembled by the shore.
Sanji worked alone.
Collected planks.
Sorted nails.
Used heat carefully.
Cooked resin from sap.
Improvised.
He did not rush.
This was not Baratie.
There was no help.
REM watched him sometimes.
"You fix ships like you fight," she said once.
"…How's that?"
"You do not force things. You persuade them."
He smirked.
"…Comes from cooking."
At night, he was sore.
Tired.
Bruised from daily sparring.
But something else was happening.
Slowly.
Quietly.
He was… adapting.
He began to feel the island.
The cliffs.
The wind patterns.
The way the ground carried sound.
The way the people moved before they moved.
"This place would kill most pirates," he said one evening.
"Yes," REM replied. "That is why we are still here."
Far above them, in a tower no one spoke about…
Something watched.
Something old.
And something that had decided:
The outsider will not leave unchanged.