The air in Shells Town Marine Base crackled with a brittle, performative energy. For three weeks, the grime of routine had been scoured away. White walls were repainted, brass fittings polished to a blinding sheen, and every cobblestone in the yard seemed to have been individually scrubbed. Recruits marched in unnaturally perfect sync, their shouts a hair too loud, their faces stiff with the strain of remembering the "correct" expressions: vigilant, loyal, and utterly devoid of independent thought.
Travis moved through the pre-inspection frenzy like a deep-sea current—present, but operating on a different pressure. His morning patrols continued, though Dorn now grumbled about the "spit-and-polish nonsense" interfering with real work. His afternoon sessions with Hackett intensified, the Chief's focus laser-sharp on ensuring Travis's control was absolute and invisible.
"Not a flicker, Pendragon," Hackett had snarled the day before the inspection. "Stirling's a Haki user. Not a strong one, but he'll sense instability. You feel that storm inside you wanting out, you clench your teeth and think about polishing boots. You are a model recruit who got lucky with some gunpowder. You are boring. You are forgettable. You are a non-entity. Understood?"
"Understood, Chief."
The kingly legacy provided the perfect mask. It gifted him an innate, unshakeable bearing that could be misinterpreted as simple, dutiful rigidity. He stood at attention with a stillness that seemed carved from stone, his gaze forward, his expression one of respectful neutrality. It was the ideal Marine facade.
Rear Admiral Henrik Stirling arrived with the noon tide aboard a sleek, three-masted frigate, the Judicious. He was everything Captain Rourke feared: a man in his late forties with a spine so straight it looked painful, a uniform without a single crease out of place, and eyes the color of slate that missed nothing. His every movement was economical, precise, and carried an air of disdain for anything less than perfection. He was accompanied by a prim aide who carried a clipboard and a perpetually disapproving frown.
The inspection was a meticulously orchestrated humiliation. Stirling walked the lines of recruits, his silence more terrifying than any shout. He would pause, examine a slightly tarnished button, a scuff on a boot, a recruit's trembling hand, and make a minute mark on his aide's clipboard. The sound of the graphite scratching was like a nail driving into a coffin.
He reviewed ledgers in Rourke's office, his lips thinning at every minor discrepancy. He observed a training drill, his critique a cold, surgical dismantling of Hackett's methods. The entire base held its breath, a mouse frozen under the gaze of a precise, pitiless hawk.
Travis's turn came during the inspection of the patrol craft. He and Dorn stood ramrod straight beside the Marlin as Stirling paced the dock, his eyes cataloging every frayed rope, every speck of rust.
"Seaman Dorn. Recruit Pendragon," Stirling's voice was clipped, devoid of warmth. "Report your last three patrol actions."
Dorn gave his grunted, factual summaries. Travis followed, his voice clear and concise, sticking rigidly to the official logs. He reported the fisherman with the outdated permit, emphasizing the procedural warning given, framing it as vigilant adherence to maritime law that balanced enforcement with community relations. It was a small thing, but he presented it as evidence of the base's integrated, thoughtful approach—exactly the kind of bureaucratic nuance a by-the-book officer might appreciate.
Stirling's slate eyes rested on him for a beat too long. "A warning. Not a fine. Interesting discretion for a recruit." It wasn't a compliment. It was a probe.
"The infraction was procedural, not criminal, sir," Travis replied, meeting his gaze without challenge. "The mission parameters for harbor patrol emphasize peacekeeping and prevention. A punitive fine could foster resentment and reduce future compliance. A warning served the preventive purpose and maintained positive local liaison."
It was a perfect, textbook answer. The kind generated by a mind trained on strategy games and refined by kingly political instinct. Stirling's eyebrow twitched, almost imperceptibly. He made another note on the clipboard. "I see. And the Coffin Cove action. 'Improvised explosives.' Describe the yield and placement."
This was the minefield. Travis gave a technical, dry description of using "repurposed black powder charges" to "strategically compromise the target vessel's anchor system," focusing on the tactical outcome (immobilization) rather than the method. He used the sterile language of a field manual.
Stirling listened, his expression unreadable. When Travis finished, the Rear Admiral took a step closer. The air grew heavier. Travis felt it then—a faint, external pressure against his senses, a probing, invisible tendril. Observation Haki. Stirling was testing him, searching for lies, for fear, for the instability of power.
Travis didn't react. He called upon the Anchor of Resolve. He envisioned the foundation stone from the cellar, the unyielding solidity of Avalon's blessing. He made his mind a calm, shallow pond, showing only the surface—the diligent recruit. Beneath, the storm of destruction and the depth of the legacy were locked away, buried under layers of disciplined will.
The pressure lingered, sharp and intrusive, then withdrew. Stirling's eyes narrowed a fraction. He had found nothing. No lie he could detect, no hidden power he could identify. Only the unsettling, placid competence of an oddly articulate recruit.
"Efficient, if unorthodox," Stirling concluded, his tone giving nothing away. He turned to Captain Rourke, who was sweating despite the cool breeze. "Your recruit shows… initiative. Ensure it is channeled through proper doctrine." It was a warning wrapped in faint praise.
The inspection ground on for another agonizing hour before Stirling and his aide reboarded the Judicious and sailed away, leaving a base-wide sigh of exhaustion and relief in their wake. They had survived. No one was cited for court-martial. No funding was cut. It was, by Rourke's grim standards, a victory.
That evening, as a tense normalcy began to return, Travis was summoned not to Hackett or Rourke, but to the base's small, seldom-used library—a single room with dusty shelves and a single, guttering oil lamp.
Waiting for him was not an officer, but a civilian. A tall, slender man in a neat but worn grey suit, with sharp, intelligent features and wire-rimmed glasses that caught the lamplight. He had an air of contained stillness, of watching from the edges. In his hands, he held a familiar ledger.
"Recruit Pendragon," the man said, his voice soft, almost soothing. "My name is Mr. Silas. I am with the Inspector General's auxiliary office, auditing logistical reports. I was reviewing the post-action inventory for your Coffin Cove mission." He tapped the ledger. "The report lists the expenditure of six pounds of black powder from the stores. Yet the quarterly stocktake conducted last month, which I have here," he gestured to another book, "shows no such deduction was ever made. The powder is still accounted for."
Travis's blood ran cold. This was it. A paper trail discrepancy. The kind of small, bureaucratic trap that could unravel everything. This man was no combat officer; he was a hunter who used numbers and ink as his weapons.
"Perhaps an error in the ledger, sir," Travis said, keeping his voice even.
"Perhaps," Silas agreed, his smile not reaching his eyes. "Errors are fascinating things. They often point to larger truths. For instance, the medical report for Recruit Lin mentions minor abrasions and shock. No burns, no concussive trauma consistent with close proximity to six pounds of black powder being detonated near solid rock." He closed the ledger with a soft thump. "Then there are the whispered rumors among the recruits. Tales not of explosions, but of… silence. Of things ceasing to be."
He leaned forward, the lamplight casting deep shadows on his face. "I am not like Rear Admiral Stirling. He looks for disobedience to doctrine. I look for anomalies. For stories that don't match their paperwork. You, Recruit Pendragon, are an anomaly."
The game had changed. The threat was no longer a loud, obvious power like Hackett's rage or Stirling's disdain. It was this quiet, patient man with his ledgers and his probing calm. He had seen through the official story.
Travis remained silent, assessing. Denial was useless. Attack was impossible. This man was a bureaucrat, but he represented a deeper, more insidious layer of the World Government's apparatus.
"What is it you want, Mr. Silas?"
"The truth is a currency," Silas said, steepling his fingers. "I collect it. I believe you possess a very valuable truth. A Devil Fruit power. A rare and destructive one. The World Government has a registry for such things. It also has… interests. Someone with your potential could be of great use. Or be a great liability."
He was offering a path Travis had already considered and rejected: becoming a registered weapon of the state. A controlled, studied asset.
"I am a Marine recruit," Travis stated. "My duty is here."
"Duty is a flexible concept," Silas replied. "I will be in Shells Town for another week, completing my audit. Think on the value of truth, and the cost of lies. Anomalies that cannot be explained are often… excised. For the good of the whole." He stood, gathering his ledgers. "Good evening, Recruit."
He left Travis alone in the dusty, lamplit room. The inspection from above had passed. The inspection from the shadows had just begun.
The encounter lit a fire under Travis's long-term plan. He needed a network. He needed allies who weren't bound by Marine bureaucracy. He needed to start building his Round Table, not in some distant future, but now. The first Virtue had been in his mind for weeks: Patience. And he knew exactly where to find its perfect, broken vessel.
The next day, he used his first short leave to go into Shells Town proper, not as a Marine, but in plain clothes. He went to the central bulletin board, a chaotic patchwork of wanted posters, merchant notices, and town gossip. His eyes scanned past the fluttering papers until he found a small, discreet notice, written in elegant, precise script:
"Position sought: Estate Manager or Head of Household. Discreet, efficient, and adept at long-term planning. Inquire at the 'Salty Mermaid' tavern after sundown. Ask for 'Claude.'"
A ghost of a smile touched Travis's lips. He knew that style. The fastidious planning, the alias, the desire for a quiet, controlled life. The notice was weeks old, likely ignored by the locals who had no need for such a specific servant.
Captain Kuro. The "Thousand Plans" pirate, who had faked his death and infiltrated a wealthy family in Syrup Village to steal their fortune over years. He should be there now, posing as the loyal butler Kurahado, patiently weaving his web.
But Travis's knowledge was incomplete, fragmented. Grand Voyage had multiple story paths. In one, Kuro's plan was discovered and thwarted by Luffy years from now. In another, darker path Travis had only glimpsed in a forum, Kuro succeeded, vanishing with the wealth and disappearing forever. The notice suggested a different fork: perhaps Kuro's plan had hit a snag early. Perhaps he was here, in Shells Town, seeking alternative employment, his patience fraying.
It was a risk. Kuro was a dangerous, amoral pragmatist. But he was also a strategic genius, the living embodiment of the patience Travis needed to harness. The first Virtue.
That night, Travis left the base. He wore a dark cloak over his civilian clothes, his Marine identity shed. The Anchor of Resolve steadied him. This was not a Marine operation. This was the first move of Travis Pendragon, architect of the future.
The 'Salty Mermaid' was a dim, smoky place frequented by off-duty sailors and people who didn't want to be seen. Travis spotted him immediately, sitting alone in a shadowed corner. He wasn't wearing his distinctive suit and glasses, but shabby merchant's clothes. Yet the posture was there—the unnatural stillness, the eyes that flicked around the room, cataloging exits and threats. He looked tired, a deep weariness that went beyond the physical. His grand, patient plan had somehow gone to seed.
Travis approached and sat down without invitation. Kuro's eyes snapped to him, sharp and dangerous.
"I'm not buying anything, boy."
"I'm not selling," Travis said, his voice low. "I'm inquiring about the notice. For 'Claude.' I'm looking for a manager. For a very long-term project."
Kuro's gaze turned assessing, stripping away the cloak and youth. "You're a child. Or a Marine. Which is it?"
"I'm a man with a vision that spans decades," Travis replied, meeting his gaze. "I need a strategist. Someone who understands that true power isn't seized in a day, but built, brick by patient brick, while the world looks the other way."
He saw it—a flicker in Kuro's eyes. A spark of recognition, of kinship. This was a language he understood.
"Brick by brick," Kuro repeated slowly, his voice a whisper. "And what is it you're building?"
"Justice," Travis said. The word hung between them, simple and immense. "Not the corrupt farce of the World Government. A real one. Equal. Impartial. It will take time. It will require plans within plans. It will need a mind that can wait, and then strike with perfect precision when the moment is right."
He leaned forward. "I know who you are, Captain Kuro. I know about Syrup Village. I know about your 'thousand plans.' I am offering you a new one. A plan worthy of your patience. Not to steal a fortune from a few rich fools, but to help steal a world from the gods who broke it."
Kuro was utterly still. The weariness in his eyes was replaced by a cold, calculating intensity. He was no longer looking at a boy, but at a possibility. A new game. A greater stage.
"You speak of gods and justice," Kuro murmured. "Big words for one so young. What makes you think you can play that game?"
Travis didn't answer with words. He let a sliver of his will press against the air, not using the destructive power, but letting the sheer, focused weight of his kingly legacy and hardened resolve emanate for a second. It was the aura of command, of a will that had faced oblivion and chosen to build instead.
Kuro felt it. He blinked, the only sign of his surprise. He studied Travis anew, seeing not just the recruit, but the anomaly Mr. Silas had sensed. The potential.
"A long-term project," Kuro said finally, a slow, deliberate smile touching his lips. It was not a friendly smile. It was the smile of a master puzzle-solver presented with the most fascinating puzzle of his life. "I have always preferred the long game. Tell me more… employer."
In the smoky corner of the tavern, the first alliance was forged. Not out of friendship, but out of recognition. The destroyer-king had found his strategist. The spark of the first Virtue, Patience, had been ignited.
The inspection was over. The real work had just begun.