The Morning After (Age 8)
The first thing Sol felt was thirst. It was a dry, scraping sensation in the back of his throat, like he had swallowed a handful of hot ash.
He groaned, peeling his eyes open. He was in his bed. The morning sun was streaming through the window, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air. It looked normal. Peaceful.
But the silence in the house was heavy. It was the kind of silence that screams.
Sol sat up. His body felt heavy, but not tired. It felt… dense. He looked at his hands. They were normal. No claws, no red skin, no glowing veins. Just the small, calloused hands of a farm boy.
"He's awake."
The voice came from the doorway. It was his father, Bram.
Bram was a large man, a lumberjack who spent his days felling oaks with an axe, but he looked small right now. He stood in the doorway, holding a cup of water. Sol's mother, Elara, stood behind him, her hands twisting nervously in her apron.
Sol took a breath. He knew this conversation was coming. In most Isekai stories, the parents were conveniently absent or oblivious. But Sol's parents were real people, and he had just turned into a red demon in their front yard.
"Hey, Dad. Hey, Mom," Sol said, his voice raspy.
Bram walked over and handed him the water. Sol drank it in one go.
"Sol," Bram started, pulling up a wooden stool. The wood creaked under his weight. "We need to talk about what happened yesterday. About the… the fire. The red skin."
Sol set the cup down. He decided to play the "naive kid" card, but with a twist of truth. He couldn't explain reincarnation, but he could explain the power.
"I ate a fruit," Sol said simply. "Three years ago. In the deep woods."
Elara gasped, covering her mouth. "A Devil Fruit? Oh, Sol… the Curse of the Sea…"
"I know," Sol nodded, looking at his knees. "I can't swim. I found that out the hard way. But… I didn't know it would do that. I just wanted to be strong. I wanted to protect you guys."
Bram looked at his wife, then back at his son. The fear in his eyes softened, replaced by a deep, weary concern. "Sol, that wasn't just strength. You… you changed. The heat coming off you was enough to singe my eyebrows from ten feet away. Those bandits… the one you hit… he's not going to walk right ever again."
"Good," Sol muttered.
"Sol!" Elara scolded, though her voice lacked its usual heat. "That's not how we raised you."
"They were going to hurt you, Mom," Sol said, looking her dead in the eye. The goofiness was gone. For a second, the ancient, stoic spirit of the Asura peeked through. "I won't let anyone hurt you. The fruit gave me power. I'm going to use it."
Bram sighed, rubbing his temples. "We aren't warriors, son. We're civilians. But… we can't stop you from being what you are. Just promise me one thing."
"Anything."
"Don't let the anger take the wheel," Bram said, tapping Sol's chest. "I saw your eyes yesterday. You weren't there. Something else was. If you lose yourself to that power, you're no better than a sea beast."
Sol nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat. "I promise. I'll control it. I'll gamble on myself."
Four Years Later (Age 12)
Time in the East Blue moved like molasses—slow, sticky, and sweet.
Shimotsuki Village was famous for one thing: The Isshin Dojo. People traveled from islands away to learn the way of the sword from the master there. The village echoed constantly with the shouts of "kiai!" and the clatter of bamboo swords.
Sol wanted absolutely nothing to do with it.
He sat on a high branch of a cedar tree, chewing on a stalk of grass, watching the dojo courtyard from a distance.
Down below, a green-haired boy roughly his age was getting thrashed by a girl with dark blue hair.
Zoro and Kuina, Sol thought, kicking his legs idly. They're at it again. That's the 2,000th time she's beaten him? Or 2,001?
It was surreal seeing them. Roronoa Zoro, the future right hand of the Pirate King, was currently crying in the dirt because a girl hit him with a stick.
"Swords are so restrictive," Sol muttered, stretching his arms. "Forms. Stances. Honor. Boring."
Sol jumped down from the tree. He fell forty feet, landing in a crouch without bending his knees. The ground didn't crack—he had learned control—but the impact would have shattered a normal kid's ankles.
He turned away from the dojo and headed deep into the forest. He had his own dojo.
The forest clearing was a mess. Trees were marked with fist-sized indentations. Boulders were pulverized into gravel. This was where Sol spent every waking hour that he wasn't helping his dad haul timber.
At twelve years old, Sol was built like a tank. He wasn't tall yet—he was actually kind of short—but he was wide. His shoulders were broad, and his muscles were dense, compacted like coiled springs.
"Okay," Sol said, shaking out his hands. "Meditation first. Then violence."
He sat in the center of the clearing, crossed his legs, and closed his eyes.
The Asura Fruit was tricky. It wasn't like Luffy's rubber, which was always on. The Asura was dormant until Sol's heart rate spiked or his anger flared. The problem was, when it activated, it wanted to stay on. It was like a drug. It made him feel invincible, and it made him want to break things.
He had to learn to throttle it. To open the valve just a little bit, let the steam out, but keep the boiler from exploding.
Breathe in. Visualize the red gate. Keep it closed.
He sat there for an hour. A deer walked by, unbothered. Sol was learning to mask his presence, a primitive form of what might eventually become Observation Haki, though he wasn't there yet.
Then, he opened his eyes.
"Time to gamble."
He stood up and walked over to a massive granite boulder, easily twice his size.
He didn't activate the Red Mode. He wanted to see how far his base human form could go.
He planted his feet. He grabbed the underside of the rock.
"Hup!"
Veins popped in his neck. His sandals dug into the dirt. The rock groaned, shifting in the soil.
Heavier than last week, Sol thought, grinding his teeth. Come on. Garp threw canonballs the size of battleships. You can lift a stupid rock.
Slowly, agonizingly, the rock lifted. Sol's knees shook. He got it to chest height. Then shoulder height.
He held it there, his muscles screaming.
"Hey! You!"
Sol lost focus. The rock slipped.
BOOM.
It crashed back to the earth, creating a small earthquake. Sol jumped back, dusting off his hands, and looked toward the voice.
Standing at the edge of the clearing was a familiar green-haired boy. He had three wooden swords stuck in his belt and a scowl on his face. He looked lost.
"Zoro," Sol said, recognizing him instantly.
"Who are you?" Zoro demanded, looking from Sol to the massive boulder. His eyes widened slightly. "Did you… did you just lift that?"
"Maybe," Sol shrugged, leaning against a tree. "Did you get lost on the way to the bathroom?"
Zoro turned bright red. "Shut up! I'm training! I'm looking for… uh… strong opponents! Yeah!"
Sol smirked. This was the future Demon of the East Blue? He was adorable.
"I'm Sol. I don't use swords."
"I can see that," Zoro sniffed, regaining his composure. He drew a wooden sword. "You look strong, though. Spar with me."
Sol looked at the wooden sword. Then he looked at his own fist.
"I don't think that's a good idea, Moss-head. I might break your toy."
"Moss-head?!" Zoro bristled, veins popping on his forehead. "I'll make you eat that dirt!"
Zoro lunged. He was fast for a twelve-year-old. His technique was sharp, drilled into him by Koushirou. He swung the wooden blade in a horizontal arc aimed at Sol's ribs.
Sol didn't move his feet. He watched the wood coming. It looked like it was moving underwater.
Too slow.
Just before the sword hit, Sol raised his left arm. He didn't block it; he just caught the wood.
Smack.
Sol's hand clamped around the "blade" of the wooden sword. He didn't flinch. Zoro's eyes bulged. He pulled, but the sword wouldn't budge. It was like it was stuck in a vice.
"You have good form," Sol commented, his voice bored. "But you have no weight behind it. You're swinging with your arms, not your hips."
"Let go!" Zoro shouted, grabbing the handle with both hands.
"Okay."
Sol let go instantly.
Zoro, who was pulling with all his might, flew backward and landed on his butt in a bush.
Sol chuckled. "Go back to the dojo, Zoro. Come back when you can cut steel. Then maybe we'll have a real fight."
Zoro scrambled out of the bush, twigs in his hair. He looked furious, but he also looked… intrigued. He stared at Sol with a new intensity.
"You're strong," Zoro muttered, sheathing his wooden sword. "stronger than the guys at the dojo."
"I aim to be the strongest creature in the world," Sol stated, stating it like a fact. "Swords can break. My body won't."
Zoro huffed. "I'm going to be the World's Greatest Swordsman. I'll cut anything. Even you."
"I'd like to see you try."
Zoro turned and marched off (in the wrong direction).
"Village is that way," Sol pointed to the left.
"I knew that!" Zoro corrected his course and stomped away.
Sol watched him go. It was a small interaction, but it felt significant. He had tested himself against the "Canon" standard. Zoro was strong for a kid, but Sol was in a different league thanks to the fruit's passive density.
But Sol knew better than to get cocky.
"Kuina beats him every day," Sol reminded himself. "And there are monsters in the Grand Line who could flick me into the sun."
He turned back to the boulder.
"Again."
Three Years Later (Age 15)
The news arrived via a News Coo that dropped a newspaper on Bram's porch.
Sol, now fifteen, picked it up. He was taller now, though still compact. He wore loose trousers and no shirt, his torso covered in faint scars from his training in the "Deep Woods" where the tigers and bears lived.
He scanned the headlines.
Captain "Red Hair" Shanks spotted in the East Blue. World Government Summit (Reverie) Approaches. Fishman Pirates causing unrest in the North.
Sol's eyes lingered on the first one. Shanks.
He was in Windmill Village right now. Luffy was probably eating the Gomu Gomu no Mi this very week. The gears of fate were turning.
"The timeline is starting," Sol whispered.
He felt a strange itch in his palms. For ten years, he had stayed in this village. He had mastered the Stage 1 of his fruit—the passive durability and strength. He could now chop down a redwood tree with a single shin kick.
But Stage 2—the Rage Mode—was still volatile. He could turn it on, but turning it off was getting harder. The Asura was growing with him. It wanted to fight. It wanted war.
"Sol!"
His dad called from the shed. "We got an order! The Mayor needs twenty beams for the new dock. Double time!"
"Coming, Dad!"
Sol folded the newspaper and tucked it into his pocket.
He looked out at the ocean, the blue horizon stretching endlessly.
"Two more years," he promised himself. "I turn seventeen, and I leave. I need to be ready to face the world alone."
He clenched his fist. For a split second, the skin on his knuckles turned a deep, magma red, and steam hissed in the cool morning air.
He suppressed it. Not yet.
He had a job to do.
End of Chapter 3