June, Year 1499 of the Sea Calendar. Loguetown Marine Base, East Blue.
The morning sun arrived as a soft, bruised purple, casting long shadows across the concrete of the training grounds. While the rest of the base still slept, a rhythmic, heavy thudding echoed against the walls.
Atlas ran.
His silhouette was no longer that of the scrawny, hollow-eyed boy who had collapsed at the gates a year ago. He was a pillar of functional muscle, his breath coming in measured, bellows-like blasts. Heavy iron weights were strapped to his wrists and ankles, biting into his skin with every stride, but he didn't slow.
Huff... huff...
In this world, stamina was the currency of survival. The Admirals and the Emperors of the Sea could clash for days without rest; a "five-second man" was a dead man. Atlas knew that his talent wasn't in a flashy Devil Fruit, but in the foundation he built now.
As the sun climbed higher, Atlas pivoted from his run. He snatched a weighted bamboo sword from a rack.
Swish! Swish!
The air shrieked as he swung. There was no elegance to his movements—no secret techniques or inherited styles. He practiced the basics: the chop, the slash, the thrust. Thousands of times. Over and over. He was building the "floor" of his strength, knowing that a skyscraper is only as stable as the earth beneath it.
"9,994... 9,995..."
By the time he finished, the ground beneath him was darkened by a pool of his own sweat. He collapsed backward, lying spread-eagled in the center of the yard.
I made the right choice, he thought, staring up at the sky.
The Horse Talisman.
Without it, this level of overtraining would have shattered his body months ago. He would have been a cripple by twenty. Instead, he felt a cool, soothing sensation washing through his muscle fibers. The Talisman didn't just "cure illness"; it acted as a perfect biological reset button.
It repaired the micro-tears in his muscles instantly, allowing him to train at 200% capacity every single day. He had even discovered that by consuming massive amounts of food, the Horse Talisman could accelerate his metabolism to a state near Life Return, mending wounds mid-combat as long as his stamina held out.
The mark of the Horse in his mind was fading—not disappearing, but merging. It was becoming an instinct, a part of his very DNA.
Atlas stood up, his 1.9-meter frame casting a shadow that reached the mess hall. He had outgrown everyone his age, and most of the adults. He had spent the last year challenging every Marine on the base, systematically working his way up the food chain. Lieutenant Wright, the man who had brought him in, couldn't even touch him anymore.
"Yo! Uncle Karl! Ten servings!"
Atlas stepped into the mess hall, grinning at the burly, bearded chef.
"You again, you little monster," Karl grumbled, though his hands were already moving to plate enough meat to feed a small squad.
Atlas fell upon the food like a predator. He was eight-tenths full when the world outside exploded in sound.
WOOO— WOOO—
The base's emergency siren wailed, a jagged, piercing cry that cut through the morning calm. Atlas froze, a piece of meat halfway to his mouth. His eyes sharpened, the playfulness vanishing instantly.
Colonel's Office
Colonel Arthur Randle slammed the receiver of the Den Den Mushi back onto its cradle. His face was a mask of grim determination.
"Orderly!" he barked. "Sound the assembly! Every combat-ready soul on the plaza, now!"
Minutes later, the training ground was a sea of white uniforms and "Justice" cloaks. Atlas stood among them, his heart hammering a war-drum rhythm against his ribs.
Colonel Randle stood before them, his eyes sweeping the ranks. "A town within our jurisdiction is under siege. Pirates are burning homes while we stand here breathing! Justice shall not be profaned! All units—move out!"
"JUSTICE! JUSTICE! JUSTICE!"
The roar of hundreds of men shook the air. Atlas felt the blood rush to his head, a fierce, electric heat spreading through his limbs. The training was over. The hunt had begun.