Year 1499 of the Sea Calendar. Kanos Atlas: Age 13. Promoted to Ensign of the Loguetown Marine Base.
A year had bled away since the fall of Otto Mann. On the dust-choked training grounds, the rhythm remained unchanged.
Huff— Huff— Huff—
Atlas moved through his drills with a grim, mechanical precision. Though he had already claimed the title of the strongest of the younger generation—though he had ended a "Great Pirate" and earned his stripes as an officer—the sensation of weakness still clawed at his gut.
He remembered the faces in the town after the battle. They weren't cheering for their rescue; they were hollowed out, their eyes reflecting the debris of their lives. That was the fate of the weak in this world: to be preyed upon by the strong, and to be "saved" only after the damage was done.
Faster, he told himself. Stronger.
CRACK!
The bamboo sword in his hand splintered into a dozen jagged shards.
"Atlas! You brat! That's the last one!"
A logistics officer nearby roared, his face turning a shade of purple that matched the sunset. "Five swords this month! You think they grow on trees?"
Atlas rubbed the back of his neck, letting out a dry, awkward chuckle. It wasn't intentional. At fourteen, his body was undergoing a violent transformation. He had shot up to two meters in height, his bone density and muscle mass thickening at a rate that defied standard biology. He was a giant in the making, likely destined to reach the three-meter stature of the Navy's Admirals.
"Brother Atlas!"
A voice drifted from the edge of the grounds. A boy with shock-white hair stood there, panting with his hands on his knees, his eyes filled with a raw, undeniable admiration.
"Yo, Smoker," Atlas called out.
Before he was the "White Hunter" who would haunt the Straw Hat through the Grand Line, Smoker was just a chore boy—a first-class private with a stubborn streak and a habit of following Atlas around like a stray dog. He hadn't found his Smoke-Smoke Fruit yet; he was just a kid trying to keep up with a monster.
Smoker was the second-best in the base, yet he knew the truth: he wouldn't last a single exchange against Atlas. In the past year, Atlas hadn't just hit wooden posts. He had volunteered for every bloody skirmish and coastal raid. He knew that a blade forged in a furnace was useless until it was tempered in blood.
"What's the word, Smoker? You look like you've seen a ghost."
"Don't call me a kid! We're the same age!" Smoker barked, though the bite lacked teeth. He straightened his back. "Colonel Randle is looking for you. Now."
"The old man, huh?"
Atlas tossed the broken hilt of the bamboo sword aside and headed toward the command building.
Colonel's Office
Atlas didn't knock. He shouldered the door open and strolled in as if he owned the floorboards. He and Randle had shared enough missions and "casualty reports" to bypass the formalities of rank.
"Atlas, you delinquent," Randle sighed, not looking up from his paperwork. "One day, you'll learn that doors are meant to be knocked on. At least pretend to respect the uniform."
"I respect the man, Randle. The uniform's just laundry." Atlas dropped into a chair. "Smoker said you had something for me."
Randle set his pen down, his expression shifting from exasperated to dead serious. The air in the room seemed to cool.
"I've been watching your growth. You've outgrown Loguetown, brat. Your potential isn't limited to the East Blue. I see a Vice Admiral—maybe more—when I look at you." Randle leaned forward. "How would you feel about a seat in the Marine Headquarters Recruit Training Camp?"
Atlas went still. The Training Camp was the cradle of the elite. It was presided over by "Black Arm" Zephyr, the former Admiral who had hand-carved the current "Monsters" of the Navy: Akainu, Kizaru, and Aokiji.
Going there meant more than just a title. It meant the Navy Six Styles. It meant the secrets of Haki.
"It's a guaranteed path to the top," Randle continued. "I have a few spots for the base. I want you to take one."
Atlas stared at his hands—calloused, scarred, and still growing. He thought about the gap between himself and the legends. After a long silence, he looked Randle in the eye.
"I want to go, Colonel. But not now."
Randle raised an eyebrow. "Explain."
"I haven't reached my limit here," Atlas said firmly. "If I go to Marineford now, I'm just a talented kid. I'll be lost in the noise. I need to finish building my foundation. I need to be a finished product before I let Zephyr sharpen me."
Randle's eyes softened with a rare, paternal pride. To have the hunger for power is common; to have the discipline to wait for it is extraordinary.
"Fine," Randle nodded. "I'll hold the spot. You and Smoker can head to the Grand Line together when you're ready. I was going to send him in a few years anyway—he's still too raw. When the time comes, you'll have to keep that brat out of trouble."
"No problem," Atlas grinned. "I'll look after the little guy."
Randle ignored the "little guy" comment. He knew that Atlas, despite his age, possessed a soul that had already seen too much of the world.
"Now," Randle said, his voice dropping an octave. "About the second thing..."