The wind that swept through the place was fierce. It wasn't a continuous gale, but rather like a summer breeze, appearing randomly. However, when it did, it had the strength to bend the trees, stirring the clothes of anyone who dared to cross the path to reach that place. It drew a mist that became visible in the distance, like a cloak torn away by the wind, like someone tearing away a piece of the world itself.
This place is subterra, this is not an ordinary island. Some call it "the floating continent." Hidden in the New World, out of reach of all prying eyes, but the size of several countries, a place that could well have been equivalent to 3 or 4 of the islands that made up a yonko's territory. Due to its enormous surface area combined with the New World's climate, the place possessed an enormous number of environments. From relentless deserts where water became a luxury as desirable as a cure for madness, to snowy mountains where it was getting colder and colder, and the creatures knew it. They searched for food in the frozen tundra, and when they saw someone there, they saw another animal, they saw food. There were everything from dense jungles to iron cities, all coexisting in an impossible geography.
But there, on one of the plains of that place, in the middle of a sliver of land that jutted out from the small continent, surrounded by forests with beasts on one side and a coastal city on the other. There stood a tavern right in the middle like the focus of an ellipse, perched high above it as if defying all logic that says it would be blown down by the wind, although that gave it a certain charm, the only beacon of warmth amidst the endless force of nature. Where the bustle of the tavern seemed to never cease. People came and went like waves breaking on the shore: workers seeking warmth, pirates wanting to escape the cold, merchants who preferred smoke and rum to the sound of cannons.
The interior smelled of damp wood, salt, and food. The walls were illuminated by oil lamps even though it wasn't yet night, but even so, the sun, which was beginning to set and should have cast a reddish hue on the horizon, was like a spark drowned in smoke and mist in the distance. The walls absorbed the conversation as if they wanted to preserve it. The lamps cast dancing shadows across the rough faces of sailors and merchants, and the crackling of the fire in the grate beneath a case of stew competed with the constant murmur of rumors.
Glasses clinked, tobacco smoke mingled with the steam from the thick broth. The interior of the tavern was like a refuge outside of time. There, the differences between pirates and merchants, fallen nobles and deserting soldiers, dissolved beneath the common smell of alcohol and the shared need to forget. Everyone had their story, their wound, their secret. And everyone, without exception, talked too much when they drank.
In a corner, almost out of reach of the central light, a man sat alone. Around him, the wood creaked as if the place itself responded to his silence. The sounds reached him clearly, sharply, as if the air knew how to prioritize information. Rumors floated like restless ghosts, searching for a mind patient enough to hear them.
And he listened to them all.
Every story of a monster in the woods. Every whisper of a strange storm frozen in the sky. Every casual mention of a swordsman who didn't bleed, a sailor who spoke to the sea, a boy who slept in the branches of a tree and had aged ten years when he woke up.
Impossible stories.
Or not so much.
In his world, he, too, had been impossible.
No one knew when he had arrived. Maybe he was already there when they opened the door. Maybe he hadn't even come through the door.
The truth is, he didn't move. He didn't speak. He didn't drink. And yet, he listened.
He wore a black cloak that covered his body from neck to toe. The hood cast such a shadow over his face that not even the reflection of the fire could easily scratch his skin. He seemed part of the furniture: motionless, dark, ignored... and yet impossible not to notice.
A waitress passed by their table. For a moment, she seemed to hesitate. Then he continued on, saying nothing. As if his body had decided that ignoring him was safer than acknowledging his existence.
Good. That was better.
The last thing he wanted was premature attention.
For now, he just needed certainty.
"I heard the World Government has put a bounty on a guy from the East," said a drunken man with more gold teeth than coins in his pocket. "A guy who makes people forget who they are. They don't even need to see his face. Just his voice."
"And what does that gain?" another asked.
"Does it matter? Maybe he doesn't even know."
Laughter.
Two tables over, a group of men were laughingly discussing what they'd seen at the port that morning.
"He broke it in two, I swear!" one said, his voice as hoarse as his throat, raw from too many winters at sea. "The whole ship, in one fell swoop! Like a nutshell."
"Tales, Urek," another countered. "No one just breaks a ship apart like that." What was he? A giant?
"No. He was one of those... what do you call them... users."
"Users?"
"Devil fruits," someone muttered, lowering their voice as they spoke. "Damn powers of the sea."
A nervous laugh crossed the table, but the tension was already there. Someone made a gesture of knocking on wood. Another spilled some beer.
"They say there's one in the north of the island that breathes fire. Literal," a third added. "A guy with white hair. He burned down a food stand because the soup wasn't spicy."
The hooded figure didn't react, but his eyes—hidden, invisible—sharpened with each word.
And then, more rumors arrived.
"some say the Revolutionary Fleet intercepted another government convoy," said a skinny man with the hands of a tanner and the voice of a chain smoker. "They didn't steal anything, they just destroyed the papers and stamps. Not a single bullet was fired. But the message was clear."
"That's a lie," replied a young man who looked like a cabin boy. "It was Monkey D. Dragon himself. My cousin was on one of the escort ships. He says you didn't see him coming. You only heard the wind change, and then… everything fell apart."
"Well, you and your cousin live off stories. Dragon is a phantom, like Pluton or the Sea King. No one knows if he really exists."
"And what about those guys with strange eyes seen at the Brisia market?" said another, joining the conversation. They say they didn't speak the language, but one of them levitated a rock just by looking at it. The Marines were so scared they didn't even report it.
"Devil fruits?" someone suggested.
"I don't know. Some said it was something older. Magic, maybe."
"Magic?" Laughter. Murmurs of disbelief. But no one dared rule it out entirely.
From his corner, the hooded man didn't move. But each of those phrases accumulated inside him, like pieces of a puzzle still incomplete. What for others were drunken tales, for him were signs. The way the world behaved, the way they spoke of the government, of pirates, of those "cursed fruits"… everything pointed to a decentralized but ironclad power structure. Dominated by chaos and order in equal measure. By legends who walked and kings who disappeared.
It wasn't an unfamiliar world to him, even if it had a new name. This was a world where rules could be bent… but not broken without consequences.
And he, now, was only an echo of what had been.
"I don't have time to be an echo." he thought
The problem wasn't just the lack of power. It was the lack of resources, of structure. Surviving on the margins was inefficient. The daily grind, the constant running or hiding, were a distraction. And although patience was his ally, every wasted day was one less chance.
A group of men sat nearby, ignoring his presence as if his corner didn't exist. One of them, with a crooked jaw and a scar on his neck, let out a husky laugh.
"And what about the storm that's stalled in the east?" he asked, pouring a drink. "It's been in the same place for weeks. Weeks! The fishermen don't dare approach. Not even the gulls fly around."
"They say there's an island in the eye of the storm," another murmured. "One that doesn't appear on any map."
"There are many islands that don't appear on maps," the third replied. "But none of them are fixed within a storm. That's another thing."
The hooded man finally moved a finger, brushing the rim of his empty tankard. An island hidden by a perpetual storm? Nature or intervention? A climatic phenomenon, or intentional manipulation?
If someone had created that... for what purpose?
More questions. Still no answers.
But the pieces piled up. Slowly. Enough to draw a map of uncertainty and, with it, find the first step.
Because even though the world was covered with endless seas, impossible islands, and creatures that defied reason, one thing remained unchanged:
Power attracts power.
Where knowledge was concentrated, the key pieces came naturally. He just had to find the first focal point, the crack in the wall, the misstep of someone overconfident. And for that, he needed to be in the right place, with the right identity, and the perfect disguise.
Fruits. Powers. Creatures that didn't follow the laws of the world as he knew it. It was the fourth or fifth rumor he'd heard that day. It was no longer a coincidence. It was a pattern.
And in patterns, the truth lay hidden.
The tavern continued to throb with laughter, shouts, and blurred songs. But for him, each voice was a piece. An echo.
"This world... is broken in a different way," he thought.
And yet, more whole than he'd expected.
His posture remained unchanged. His hands, under the table. His name, still a secret.
For now, it remained a shadow. A nameless rumor.
But that was about to change.
Soon, in that forgotten corner of the world, the tide was already beginning to turn.
While he simply sat there, watching through a small window as the fog mixed with rain clouds began to approach, dragged and torn from where it belonged by the fierce winds, he remembered everything that had happened and how it had all begun several weeks ago.