What am I going to do moving forward?
Joe sat near the edge of the village, watching
the forest line where shadows stretched long as the sun dipped low.
Yesterday, I survived because I used my head, he thought calmly. But wit alone won't save me twice.
This world wasn't gentle.
If he stayed weak, he would die.
So he organized his thoughts carefully—like placing tools in order before beginning work.
First: strength.
Second: information.
Third… his connection to Monkey D. Garp.
That last one could wait.
What mattered now was understanding where he stood in time.
Fortunately, he could read.
He didn't know how he retained the skill, but words came easily—newspapers, bounty posters, Marine notices pinned to wooden boards. While helping around the village, he read everything quietly, never drawing attention.
Names.
Dates.
Rumors.
Roger was dead.
The Great Pirate Era had already begun.
No Straw Hats. No boy made of rubber.
Joe exhaled slowly.
I'm early. Very early.
That knowledge didn't excite him.
It steadied him.
That night, sleep did not come easily.
Joe lay on his straw mattress, staring at the wooden ceiling as the wind rattled the walls.
The sound reminded him of something else—something far away, yet uncomfortably close.
Glass shattering.
For a moment, the memory tried to surface.
His mother's voice.
The smell of alcohol.
The dull, numbing pain at the back of his head.
Joe clenched his teeth and forced the memory down.
That life is over, he reminded himself calmly.
He wasn't angry anymore. Anger belonged to people who felt helpless.
This time, he had time.
Time to grow.
Time to choose.
Time to live without chains.
Slowly, his breathing steadied.
And for the first time since arriving on the island, he slept without dreaming.
The next day—
"Joe!"
He looked up.
Rook stood near the docks, waving him over.
Joe ran without hesitation.
From that day on, he followed Rook everywhere—not like a lost child, but like someone learning the rhythm of survival. Rook taught him how to hold a knife properly, how to move without wasting motion, how to stay balanced even when fatigue set in.
"Patience," Rook said once, noticing Joe drifting into thought. "One step at a time."
Joe focused immediately.
"Yes."
Rook nodded. "First, your body. Without strength, a weapon is just another way to get yourself killed."
Joe absorbed that in silence.
"I won't fight unless I have to," he said after a moment.
"But if I do… I won't hesitate."
Rook studied him for a few seconds, then gave a short nod.
The training ground lay deep in the forest—a clearing once used by Rook and his father.
The first instruction was simple.
"Run."
Joe ran.
He didn't ask how far.
He didn't ask how long.
Thirty minutes passed. His lungs burned.
He kept moving.
Don't stop.
Just move.
An hour passed.
His legs screamed.
There are beasts in this world that devour the weak.
When his body finally collapsed, he hit the dirt hard. He tried to stand.
Failed.
Still not enough, he thought calmly. Not even close.
Rook stared at him in silence.
"That was good," he finally said. "For a kid your age."
Joe only nodded.
"We'll build you properly," Rook continued. "Slow. Correct. Controlled."
Control.
Joe liked that word.
Strength wasn't about hitting harder.
It was about choosing when to strike.
As the weeks passed, Joe learned something troubling.
A year ago, a small pirate crew had landed on the island.
They weren't famous. They weren't strong by the world's standards. But they had been cruel—stealing food, threatening villagers, leaving only after squeezing the island dry.
Joe listened carefully.
A year ago…
They could come back.
The thought followed him during training.
If they return now, he admitted, I can't protect anyone.
That realization didn't frighten him.
It focused him.
At night, he sometimes lay awake listening to the waves, half-expecting dark sails to emerge from the horizon.
But days passed.
Then weeks.
Then months.
Old Mira watched Joe carefully as he helped her mend a fishing net.
"You work too hard for a child," she said, her voice gentle but sharp.
Joe didn't look up. "If I don't work, I won't eat."
She snorted. "That's not what I meant."
Joe paused, then met her gaze.
"People who don't prepare," he said quietly, "end up relying on others."
Mira studied him for a long moment, then sighed.
"You're afraid," she said.
Joe shook his head. "No."
"Then why train so hard?"
Joe considered the question carefully.
"Because one day," he answered, "someone might need me."
Mira reached out and ruffled his hair. "You're strange, Joe."
He allowed a small smile.
"I know."
The pirates didn't return.
One evening, sitting on the shore beside Old Mira—who always saved him the best piece of fish without ever asking questions—Joe watched the sun sink into the sea.
They're not coming. Not yet.
Relief settled in—not as weakness, but as opportunity.
Good, he thought. That means I have time.
Time to grow stronger.
Time to prepare.
Years later, some would say this island had been protected by luck.
Joe would know better.
Months turned into a year.
Joe trained. Helped the village. Played with children his age. Slowly, naturally, he became part of the island.
One evening, alone in the forest, Joe sat cross-legged with his eyes closed.
Observation Haki, he thought.
He focused on the sounds around him—the wind brushing leaves, insects chirping, distant waves crashing against the shore.
For a moment, he thought he felt something.
A presence.
Then—
A pebble struck his forehead.
"Ow."
Joe opened his eyes and sighed.
A squirrel stared at him from a tree branch, clearly unimpressed.
"So much for that," he muttered.
He rubbed his forehead and stood.
Of course it won't work yet, he reminded himself. This isn't something you force.
Observation wasn't about trying harder.
It was about listening.
And Joe was still learning how to be patient.
One day, scavenging shipwreck debris washed ashore after a storm, he found a box buried beneath splintered wood.
Rotten. Cracked. Almost forgotten.
Inside lay two daggers—rusted, but balanced.
Joe lifted them.
The weight felt right.
Familiar.
His grip tightened instinctively.
For the first time since arriving in this world, Joe smiled.
"This island gave me time," he whispered.
He sheathed the daggers carefully.
"I won't waste it."