Sea Circle Calendar, Year 1460, Baterilla, South Blue.
The sun hung high over the harbor, a bloated coin of brass that turned the water into a sheet of hammered gold. It was a heat that felt heavy, smelling of drying kelp and the metallic tang of the shipyards. Five-year-old Sinbad crouched at the edge of the tide pools, his small fingers slick with brine as he pried at a clam shell fused to the volcanic rock.
Salt spray misted his face, cooling the prickle of the humidity. His purple hair, already long enough to tie back in a stubby, frayed ponytail, stuck to his forehead in damp strands. One rebellious lock poked straight up, a tiny purple mast defiant against the salt-laden wind.
He hummed a tuneless song—a melody that felt older than his five years—while he worked. The rock finally surrendered. The clam popped free with a wet schlick. Sinbad held it up to the light, his eyes widening as the sun caught the iridescent, pearlescent interior. It was a small treasure, but in the quiet vacuum of Baterilla, it was everything.
"Got you," he whispered, his voice lost in the rhythmic thrum of the surf.
A deeper laugh rolled behind him, vibrating in the very air. Heavy boots crunched on the sun-bleached pebbles, a steady, rhythmic sound that spoke of a man who never stumbled.
"Already raiding the sea's pantry, eh?"
Badr knelt beside him, his shadow swallowing the tide pool and cooling the air by ten degrees. The retired Vice Admiral still carried himself like a Great Warship: broad-shouldered, iron-backed, and smelling of cedarwood and old maps. His hair was the same deep violet as Sinbad's, paired with a chin tuft neatly trimmed to Marine regulation. His legendary coat—the one with Justice emblazoned across the back—hung on a peg in the house these days, but the posture stayed. He was a man built for storms, now standing in a calm harbor.
"Your mother will have my head if you fill up on clams before supper, Sin," Badr teased, though his eyes crinkled with pride.
Sinbad looked up. Golden eyes—bright as the coins in a treasure chest—met his father's matching ones. In that collision of gaze, it happened again.
The Double-Vision.
A flash of white-hot static tore through his mind. A memory that didn't belong to a five-year-old: the hum of an air conditioner, the clinical smell of antiseptic, a cramped apartment littered with takeout boxes, and the rhythmic, soul-crushing beep-beep-beep of a heart monitor. The taste of cheap, burnt office coffee coated his tongue. Then, as quickly as the migraine-sharp spike appeared, it vanished. It left only the smell of salt, the heat of the South Blue, and the comforting aroma of his father's pipe tobacco.
"I was saving it for her," Sinbad said, his voice steady despite the lingering phantom of the hospital room. The lie came easy—too easy for a child. He had learned early that adults liked the way he spoke, with a clarity and wit that seemed 'gifted.' He played the part well.
Badr ruffled his hair, his large hand careful not to knock loose the tiny ponytail. "Good man. Loyalty to the cook is the first rule of the sea. Come on. She's waiting."
They walked back along the shore path, the white sand crunching underfoot. Sinbad's small legs pumped to keep up with his father's casual, mountain-devouring strides. Baterilla spread out ahead of them like a postcard: whitewashed houses with terracotta roofs, fishing boats bobbing at the docks like sleeping gulls, and the constant, shrill cry of scavengers overhead.
It was a sanctuary. Far from the Grand Line's madness, far from the future 'Great Pirate Era' that people will whisper about in the taverns. No pirates worth the name bothered with South Blue backwaters. The Marines kept a small outpost nearby, mostly populated by old friends of Badr's—men with scars and missing fingers who came by for rum and to reminisce about the days when the sea made sense.
Esra stood on the porch of their modest home, arms crossed, a wooden spoon clutched like a baton. Her dark hair was pulled back, her Shimotsuki-sharp features—the high cheekbones and piercing gaze of the East—softened only by the smile she reserved for them.
"You two are late," she called, though the warmth in her voice betrayed her. "The bread's already starting to lose its heart."
Badr swept her into a one-armed hug, lifting her slightly off the wood planks and kissing the top of her head. "Blame your son. He declared war on the tide pools and won."
Sinbad ran up the steps, burying his face in her apron. She smelled of fresh dough, rosemary, and something sharp—the oil she used to polish the wooden training swords. For a moment, the world felt solid. The ghosts of his 'other' life—the fluorescent lights and the loneliness of the hospital—faded into nothing. Here, he was loved. Here, he was whole.
Dinner was a hearty fish stew and crusty, warm bread. Badr told stories between cavernous bites: the time he punched a Sea King in its snout to save a supply ship, the time he refused a Direct Order during a training exercise that would have leveled a civilian village. His voice boomed with laughter, shaking the rafters, but Sinbad caught the shadows in the periphery. He saw the way his father's eyes went distant when he mentioned the "higher-ups" in Mariejois.
"Strength isn't just fists, Sinbad," Badr said, pointing his spoon for emphasis. "Any brute can break a wall. True strength is knowing when not to use it. It's the restraint that makes the man."
Esra watched them both, her hand resting gently on Sinbad's shoulder. She had been teaching him the basics of the blade—the battojutsu forms—using a wooden bokken in the yard. Her movements were precise, economical, like a mountain stream. Wano blood, she'd whisper when the wind was right. Stories of samurai, of honor that cut deeper than steel.
After dinner, the atmosphere shifted. The sun bled orange across the water, turning the horizon into a jagged line of fire. Badr lit his pipe, the cherry-red glow illuminating his face.
"There's a storm coming in tomorrow," Badr said, his voice dropping an octave. "A big one. I can feel it in my marrow. Old Joren asked me to help bring his boat in. The Merry Maid is a stubborn girl, and he needs an extra hand with the rigging before the swell hits."
Esra's fingers tightened in Sinbad's hair. "You're retired, Badr. Joren has sons."
Badr grinned, though it didn't reach his eyes. "Retired, not dead, Esra. One day. In and out. I'll be back before the first drop hits the roof."
Sinbad felt a sudden, icy knot tie itself in his stomach. It was that same instinctual dread he felt when he looked at the horizon—as if the sea weren't water, but a hungry, waking god.
That night, sleep was an impossibility. The wind had already begun to pick up, making the shutters chatter like teeth. Sinbad slipped out of bed, his small feet silent on the floorboards. He padded toward his parents' room. The door was ajar, a sliver of moonlight cutting across the rug.
Badr sat on the edge of the bed, his heavy Marine-issue boots being laced with practiced efficiency. Esra stood behind him, her arms wrapped tightly around his neck, her forehead pressed to his back.
"Be careful," she whispered, her voice trembling. "The air feels... wrong, Badr. It's not just the weather."
"Always am." He turned, cupping her face and kissing her with a finality that made Sinbad's heart hammer against his ribs. "Back before supper tomorrow. I promise."
Sinbad backed away into the shadows before they could spot him. He returned to his room and stared at the ceiling, watching the shadows of the trees dance like grasping claws. The wind howled louder, a low, mourning sound.
Morning arrived gray and bruised. The clouds were stacked like piles of slate. The sea churned, whitecaps snapping at the air like rabid dogs. Sinbad stood at the window, watching the last of the fishing fleet scramble for the safety of the harbor. His mother moved through the house with a ghost-like silence, preparing a breakfast that sat untouched on the table.
By afternoon, the storm hit with the force of a cannonade. Rain lashed the windows sideways, turning the world into a blurred, watery gray. Thunder rolled in a continuous, guttural roar. Sinbad sat on the porch steps, tucked under the overhang, his knees drawn up to his chin. Esra tried to pull him inside, but he remained rooted. He was waiting.
Hours crawled by. Boats trickled in—battered, leaking, but home. Old Joren's boat was among them, its sails shredded into ribbons, but it cleared the sea wall.
But Badr did not come up the path.
Esra stood at the gate now, her shawl clutched so tight her knuckles were white stones. Villagers hurried past, heads bowed against the deluge. Sinbad caught snatches of their voices, torn apart by the gale.
"...mast snapped like a twig..."
"...saw the wreckage near the Devil's Throat..."
"...no one could survive that surge..."
Sinbad's chest tightened until he couldn't breathe. The cold feeling from the night before blossomed, freezing his blood.
When the Marine officer finally approached—a man Sinbad recognized as one of Badr's old subordinates—his coat flapped like a broken wing. Esra met him at the gate. Sinbad stayed on the steps, the rain finally beginning to soak his hem.
"Regret to inform you... Vice Admiral Badr... lost to the surge... the sea took her clean, Ma'am..."
Esra didn't scream. She didn't collapse. She simply closed the gate with a click that sounded like a coffin lid. When she walked back to the house, her face was a mask of cold, carved stone.
That night, the house was a tomb. She sat in Badr's oversized chair, staring into the dark hearth. Sinbad crawled into her lap, seeking warmth, but she held him with a desperate, crushing grip that hurt.
"He promised," Sinbad whispered into her shoulder.
Esra's voice was a jagged shard of glass. "The sea doesn't keep promises, Sinbad. It only takes."
The following days were a blur of gray. Villagers brought baskets of food they didn't eat. Old Marines came by, their faces grim, speaking of 'freak squalls' and 'terrible accidents.' But Sinbad, with his too-perceptive ears and his double-memories, overheard the whispers in the market when he went to fetch water.
"Strange black ship... seen on the horizon before the clouds broke..."
"...men in dark suits asking after the Vice Admiral's old logs..."
"...Badr knew things. Things the World Government wanted buried."
Sinbad stopped talking. He spent his days on the beach, hurling stones into the surf with a silent, burning fury. The golden eyes that used to sparkle with a child's wonder now stared at the horizon with a terrifying, ancient focus.
A week after the empty funeral, he sat on the same volcanic rocks where he had hunted clams. The sea was unnervingly calm now, a flat, blue mirror that seemed to mock him. The sunset painted the world in the color of fresh blood.
Something inside Sinbad—the bridge between the boy he was and the man he used to be—finally snapped.
He picked up a heavy, jagged rock and hurled it with every ounce of his five-year-old strength. It skipped across the surface, once, twice, then vanished into the deep.
"It's not fair!" he bellowed at the horizon. His voice cracked, small and insignificant against the vastness. "He was good! He was better than you!"
The wind offered no rebuttal. The tide merely licked at his boots.
Sinbad screamed then—a raw, primal sound that tore at his throat. He threw rock after rock until his shoulder burned and his palms bled, staining the grey stones red.
As he stood there, chest heaving and breath coming in ragged gasps, the world suddenly shifted. A violent pressure built behind his eyes, a thrumming vibration in his very marrow.
For the first time, he felt it: the sea's heartbeat. It was vast, cold, and utterly uncaring. But beneath that oppressive weight, he felt a spark. His spark. A golden heat that rose from his gut to his chest, defying the cold of the ocean.
The world suddenly became hyper-vivid. The colors of the sunset deepened into impossible violets; the sound of the crashing waves became a symphony of distinct notes; he could feel the individual grains of sand beneath his feet.
He didn't know the name for it. He didn't know it was an awakening.
But as he stared out at the water that had swallowed his father, his grief began to calcify into a singular, iron-hard resolve.
The sea had taken his father.
The sea thought it was the master of all things.
One day, Sinbad decided, he would take it all back