Somewhere in the East Blue.
Thunder cracked and rolled through the skies as storm clouds churned overhead, dark and seething. Bolts of lightning writhed like serpents within the black clouds, illuminating the skies with violent flashes. Gale-force winds howled over the sea, whipping up towering waves that crashed and clashed in a chaotic fury. A torrential downpour hammered down from the heavens like a flood from above, sheets of rain pelting the ocean surface in relentless waves.
From afar, the surging sea looked like a living monster—wave after wave tumbling in from the horizon, growing taller and louder as they approached. It felt like something out of Journey to the West, with the Dragon King himself emerging from the deep, leading a battalion of sea creatures into battle—or perhaps like the wrath of a furious sea god made manifest.
A blinding flash of lightning split the sky, bathing the roiling sea in harsh white light. In that instant, a massive triple-masted warship with a snarling wolf's head on its prow could be seen braving the storm, the Chris rocking and lurching violently with every wave, as though it were a mere toy in the hands of the ocean.
It had been eight days since their first real battle. Since then, the crew had bested two pirate crews with combined bounties barely in the millions. Nothing major.
But just past ten o'clock that night, they'd sailed into this hellscape. The wind had picked up without warning, and then came the lightning, followed by a torrential downpour. With no islands in sight, there was nowhere to seek shelter—not even a sliver of land to hide behind.
"Reel in the sails—hurry!"
"Row! Get below deck and use manpower if you have to!"
Raindrops the size of thumbs slammed down on the deck with deafening thwacks. Dimitri was a whirlwind of motion at the bow, shouting orders as he waved his arms, soaked to the bone by rain and salt spray—but entirely unbothered by it, his focus unshakable.
"Hard to starboard!!"
Gilbert Arlan, shirtless and flushed from the effort, wrestled with the ship's wheel. He usually appeared lean and elegant in uniform, but now, muscles bulged beneath his skin like a seasoned gym trainer, veins throbbing with effort.
The deck was pure chaos. Over a hundred crew members rushed back and forth—some scooping out water with buckets, some pulling down the sails, others securing crates and equipment before the storm could throw them overboard.
"One, two, three—heave!"
"One, two, three—heave!"
Under the mainmast, Oliver, also shirtless, revealed a broad, scarred chest as he gripped a rope tightly. With five or six crewmates beside him, he pulled hard at the sails, shouting rhythmically, even as he grumbled under his breath.
The crew beside him didn't complain aloud, but their expressions said it all—exhausted, grim. The wind cut in relentless bursts, the rain fell like a god dumping the ocean from above, and the world had vanished into a white-gray blur. It was like the sky had hung a waterfall between heaven and earth.
And the waves—if not for their captain in the crow's nest atop the mainmast, who was blasting the towering, fifty-to-a-hundred-meter-high waves apart with Impact Waves or Impact Cannons, the Chris would've been swallowed whole long ago.
"Maximum Ring: Impact Wave!"
A deep boom reverberated through the air as moisture and pressure twisted the atmosphere. A massive, transparent shockwave shot from the ship, cleaving through a monstrous wave and splitting it clean in half. The sea surrounding them suddenly stilled—eerily calm—but everyone knew it wouldn't last. The walls of water still loomed on either side.
In that brief flash, the full shape of the Chris was illuminated—and so was the man at the top.
"...Nature's power... it truly is something humans can never hope to control," murmured Aeridar, wiping rain from his eyes.
He stood alone in the crow's nest, shirt clinging to his skin. His white short-sleeved shirt was soaked through, his hair plastered to his forehead. His eyes, bloodshot and heavy, stared at the waves rising in the distance—and the storm clouds beyond.
In just twenty minutes, he had shattered five waves, each as tall as mountains. Regular Impact Waves didn't even make a dent. Only Maximum Ring-level blasts or Impact Cannons worked on monsters like these.
And he couldn't stop. If the ship capsized, anyone else aboard might have a sliver of hope. Even the weakest among them might survive. But not him. As a Devil Fruit user, if he hit the ocean, he was as good as dead—no matter how strong he was.
So the Chris... was his only chance.
Time dragged on. No one knew how long the wolf-headed warship battled through the storm. It felt like a whole night had passed.
Suddenly, a sailor on deck lifted his head—and froze. Then he shouted, voice cracking with emotion:
"There! Look! LIGHT!"
"Where do you see it?"
"There's light—I see it too!"
Every sailor on deck turned toward the horizon—at the faint glow shimmering at sea level. Their eyes welled with tears. That tiny glint of light... it was hope.
Aeridar collapsed onto the floor of the crow's nest with a heavy thud, finally letting out a long breath. His whole body trembled. His eyes were rimmed red with fatigue, hands still faintly crackling from the energy of his last attack.
He didn't know how long he'd been holding out. He didn't know how many Maximum Rings or Cannons he'd fired. He just knew one thing: he was utterly exhausted. All he wanted now... was sleep.
"Head toward the light! This is the last stretch! Push through!"
Dimitri, his own eyes bloodshot, shouted from the deck. They couldn't relax just yet—they were still in the storm's grasp.
The crew roared, adrenaline surging through their bodies like lightning.
"My path as a swordsman sure isn't easy," Oliver muttered, running a hand through his soaked, short hair, sounding more wistful than annoyed.
"Tch. You talk like you've been through hell. Anyone listening would think you survived a war—not just a bit of wind and rain."
Gorbo had just climbed back up from below deck, scowling as he heard Oliver's dramatic tone.
Gorbo looked like he'd been chewed up and spit out by the sea. He was drenched, filthy, and had a piece of seaweed stuck to his head. He'd been below, directing efforts to patch a nasty hull breach caused by an unknown collision.
"Oh, shut it. Don't think you're some jungle warrior just 'cause you're wearing seaweed on your head."
Oliver shot back without missing a beat.
And so the two sat on the deck, tossing jabs at each other even as the storm still churned behind them.
Roughly an hour later, the Chris finally emerged from the heart of the storm.
Behind them, the sky was still wracked with lightning and thunder, rain lashing down in torrents, waves soaring high as mountains. But ahead—peace. Calm waters stretched out beneath a soft, golden sunrise. Seagulls glided overhead, and the warm rays of dawn fell gently across the deck.
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