Chapter 10 Embers in the Calm Sea
The East Blue stretched outward like an open canvas—tranquil to the untrained eye, but Ashen Veyr knew better.
Beneath the surface of its calm waters, ambition stirred. Pirates sharpened blades in search of glory. Marines turned blind eyes. Entire villages lived under silent tyrannies. And Ashen, newly settled into this fractured corner of the world, was learning its pulse one fight, one island at a time.
He stood aboard a low-profile schooner he'd acquired discreetly in Loguetown, a vessel stripped of any markings that could be tied to his identity. The sails creaked softly in the wind as the sea breeze tousled his ash-white hair. His gaze rested on the shrinking silhouette of Dawn Island behind him, the shadows of its mountain ranges slowly dissolving into the horizon.
Ashen didn't need fanfare. He needed anonymity.
Every move was part of a larger web—his current goal: mapping out East Blue's power vacuum. If Grand Line was the storm, this was the stillness before it, and it was time to understand the pieces at play.
And he had grown stronger.
His mastery of Soru—now at 55% efficiency—allowed him to blur past attacks, reposition in the middle of enemy formations, and cut down multiple targets before they could blink. It was no longer just a technique. It was an extension of his footwork, his thought process, his killing intent.
More than that, his body had begun to respond to high-speed tension with preemptive resilience. His experiments with Tekkai—the defensive Rokushiki technique—were bearing fruit. In recent fights, he'd felt his muscles harden instinctively against incoming force, lessening the shock of impact. And deep inside his core, the Busoshoku Haki he glimpsed during the spar with Smoker stirred like an ember, faint and inconsistent but undeniably real.
Ashen wasn't rushing it. Power built properly was power that could last.
**
He charted a course to the Conomi Islands, a region spoken of in hushed tones. Rumors of the fishman pirate Arlong, whose crew extorted entire villages and treated humans as livestock, intrigued him. Not for moral reasons—yet. Ashen wasn't looking to play hero.
He was looking for information.
For controlled tyranny. For hierarchical crew structures. For exploitable flaws.
He dropped anchor at a nondescript port town on the outskirts of Arlong's sphere of control, cloaked in a grey traveler's coat and a wide-brimmed hat. Few questioned strangers here—especially ones who carried themselves like they could kill without effort.
The mood of the townspeople was palpable. Their smiles strained, eyes dulled from prolonged fear. Children ran barefoot through the alleys with the wary instincts of those who had learned young that noise could draw predators.
Ashen wandered slowly, eyes and ears open. He didn't need to ask questions. Observing told him more than any testimony could. Fishing quotas had doubled. Taxes tripled. The strongest men of the village were missing—conscripted or dead.
And every night, Ashen trained.
He pushed Soru to its limits on rocky shores, tracing spirals through the sand, vanishing between sea stacks in a flash of motion. His record was now a seven-step burst in under half a second, pivoting without dragging his momentum.
He tested Tekkai by leaping from ledges and bracing on impact—forcing his muscles to freeze at the moment of contact. The pain was real. But so was the progress.
And when he meditated, focusing on that invisible armor—the Haki that protected Smoker's strikes—he could feel something coiling just beneath his skin. It was dull and brief, but each flicker confirmed: it wasn't imagination.
He was evolving.
**
On his third night, he intercepted a pirate crew attempting to strong-arm a nearby hamlet into "voluntary tribute" for Arlong's lieutenants. There were twelve of them—half drunk, fully armed, and entirely unprepared.
Ashen gave no warning.
He moved through them like a shadow, Soru launching him forward in a blur. Blades flashed in shallow arcs, timed with surgical precision. A knee shattered. A trachea collapsed. Bones cracked beneath Tekkai-reinforced elbows. The final two tried to flee. Only one reached the treeline—and passed out from blood loss shortly after.
By the time the villagers arrived, Ashen had already left.
He didn't want gratitude. Gratitude bred questions. And questions risked exposure.
**
He marked a few new destinations on his hand-drawn map—Orange Town, Syrup Village, Shimotsuki Village. Places whispered of in bar conversations and bounty reports. Each held unknowns. Each held potential.
Ashen wasn't hunting glory.
He was sharpening his edge.
And the East Blue… would serve as his whetstone.
Ashen left the unnamed coastal village before sunrise, his schooner cutting through the East Blue's gentle swells with quiet urgency. The wind was crisp, the air salt-heavy, and the sky slowly blushing from grey to a soft orange. He didn't need to look back to know the people he helped the night before were already pretending it never happened. That was how survival worked in places like this.
Fear didn't vanish just because the threat was removed. It lingered.
He didn't blame them.
Arlong's influence was more than muscle. It was psychological—a slow poison that turned defiance into suicide and hope into fiction. These people weren't cowards. They were conditioned.
Ashen wasn't there to change their minds. He was there to sharpen his instincts—and follow the ripple.
And the ripple led him toward Orange Town.
According to scattered rumors, the town had recently ousted a pirate crew that had taken it hostage. The names "Buggy the Clown" and "Straw Hat Luffy" surfaced in passing conversations at bars and docks. Ashen took note. These weren't just nobodies. Pirates knocking out other pirates and gathering momentum—those were the kinds of people who eventually entered the Grand Line with headlines behind them.
Ashen was curious, not because of admiration, but because of pattern recognition. People who stirred chaos this early usually ended up as problems—or opportunities—later.
He docked a half mile outside the harbor under the guise of a traveling swordsman and walked into Orange Town without much resistance. The place was still recovering—scaffolding covered shattered buildings, and townsfolk wore looks of mixed gratitude and nervous anticipation. They spoke Luffy's name with reverence and confusion, but what stood out to Ashen was how none of them truly understood what had happened.
Power had visited, swept through, and left them alive. That was all they knew.
He spent the day gathering information, memorizing routes, observing public order. Buggy had fled. Luffy had vanished. The Marines had shown up too late, as always.
That night, he sparred with himself again—on a cliff overlooking the ocean. Soru drills under the moonlight, vanishing and reappearing through shadows, each burst smoother than the last. He wasn't just relying on speed anymore. He was folding it into strategy—strike angles, positional traps, micro-movements to redirect momentum and recover without pause.
Soru Efficiency: 55% → 57%.
His body was adapting faster with each real-world conflict. Tekkai training came next, and tonight, Ashen deliberately threw himself off a fifteen-foot drop, bracing on impact.
The jolt ran through his heels to his spine, but he remained upright. No stagger.
Progress.
When he sat cross-legged to meditate, he reached into himself—toward that nascent Haki. It still flared inconsistently, but it responded better when he thought about protecting himself in moments of danger, not aggression.
A hint of instinct, perhaps. Not yet armor. But the will was there.
**
The following morning, he took down two more pirate crews in transit—small fry on poorly maintained vessels headed for Reverse Mountain. They weren't threats. They were resources. The fights lasted under ten minutes.
Ashen cut down eight men without receiving a scratch.
He left the unconscious ones tied on their own ships, rigged for easy discovery. Marines would find them. Their bounties would feed his coffers.
He wasn't seeking notoriety.
He was building infrastructure.
By the time he returned to his ship, he'd updated his map. Next targets: Syrup Village, Shimotsuki Village, and a few unnamed islets marked with suspicious trade activity.
But that night, as he docked briefly at a quiet port, a familiar presence intercepted him.
The smell of smoke.
The calm drag of a cigar.
And the subtle weight of pressure behind a voice that didn't need to be loud.
"You've been busy."
Ashen turned slowly.
Captain Smoker stood at the far edge of the pier, arms crossed, jitte resting loosely on his shoulder. He wasn't flanked by Marines. This wasn't an arrest.
This was a conversation between capable men.
Ashen tilted his head slightly. "Not as busy as the bounty system suggests."
Smoker exhaled a cloud of smoke. "Three ships. Twenty-two pirates. All wrapped with pretty knots and no blood spilled in public."
Ashen smirked faintly. "Efficiency matters."
Smoker's lip twitched. "So does discretion. But I won't ask questions if you don't give me a reason."
There was a pause.
Then Smoker lowered the jitte from his shoulder and pointed it toward the empty stretch of beach nearby.
"Spar?"
Ashen's eyes narrowed. "Just a spar?"
"No grudges. Just want to see what you've picked up."
Ashen nodded once. "You're on."
The tide rolled in quietly as both men stepped into the moonlit sand, no crowd, no judges.
Just instinct, strength, and growth.
And in the coming clash—Tekkai would awaken under pressure, and Busoshoku Haki would flare for the first time like the first note of a storm.
The beach was silent save for the soft lapping of waves and the rustling of wind through nearby grass. The moon loomed high, casting long silver streaks across the sand. Ashen rolled his shoulders once, loosening the tension as he stepped forward, bare feet crunching against the cool grains. Across from him, Captain Smoker exhaled a stream of smoke that curled like a serpent around his shoulders.
No words. Just a nod.
And then motion.
Smoker moved first—a burst of speed not quite Soru, but close. His jitte swept sideways with practiced weight, aiming for Ashen's ribs. Ashen slid beneath it in a blur, vanishing with a shoom of air displacement. Soru—55% efficiency—had become second nature. Now? It flowed at 57%, and rising with every instinctive movement.
He reappeared behind Smoker and went for a sweeping kick.
Smoker, unfazed, turned into smoke mid-spin.
Ashen's leg passed through vapor.
Logia.
Of course.
Ashen pivoted, backflipped twice, and landed a few meters away. "You don't fight fair."
Smoker gave a wolfish grin. "Fair doesn't make legends."
His body burst into smoke again—this time surrounding Ashen like a suffocating cocoon. Pressure built rapidly in every direction. The Logia's form wasn't just evasive—it was overwhelming. The weight of smoke pressed into Ashen's lungs, his limbs, his mind.
Can't hit what you can't touch… unless—
He dropped low into a defensive stance, gritting his teeth.
And then came the jitte—emerging from the smoke, laced with Seastone, striking toward Ashen's shoulder.
Reflex screamed.
Ashen's arms tensed as he instinctively hardened his stance. His muscles locked. Skin stiffened like iron.
—Tekkai.
The jitte struck with a thunderous clang, and Ashen didn't move an inch.
Pain lanced through his shoulder, but it wasn't from a fracture. It was from resistance.
He'd stopped it.
Smoker blinked, pulling back. "That's not normal."
Ashen flexed his fingers, still in a guarded stance. "Feels like… my body remembered something it never learned."
System Alert: Tekkai – Unlocked.
Tekkai (Iron Body): Initial Stage – 16% efficiency.
Ashen's breathing slowed. His stance loosened. The system's whisper danced across his vision, but the real thrill was internal. Tekkai had activated purely from need—from instinct forged in the pressure of combat.
Smoker grunted. "Not bad. Not many can pull that off in their first taste of a serious fight."
Ashen didn't reply. His vision was narrowing—not from fatigue, but focus. Smoker lunged again, this time striking high with his jitte and following with a sweep of smoke that dragged across the sand.
Ashen dodged the first, deflected the second, and slipped between gaps in the cloud. Soru pulsed with life. He twisted mid-step, appearing behind Smoker again—this time with a fist, not a blade.
He struck.
It connected.
Smoker's eyes widened.
Not much. Just a graze on the jaw. But it landed.
Smoke scattered.
Ashen blinked, shocked.
Busoshoku Haki – Latent.
Condition met: Physical force penetrates Logia defense.
His fist tingled. It wasn't blackened, not yet. But for a brief second, it had been will made real. No shimmer. No glow. Just a pulse of invisible power that carried his intent past the smoke.
Smoker stepped back, wiping the side of his mouth.
Then he smirked.
"Well now," he said. "Seems like I underestimated you."
Ashen lowered his hand slowly, fingers curling into a fist again. "Didn't mean to hit that hard."
Smoker's grin deepened. "I hope you meant to hit harder next time. You've got something most don't."
Ashen didn't answer. The taste of Haki still lingered in his bones.
He hadn't unlocked full mastery. Not yet. But he'd cracked the surface.
Smoker stepped back and slung his jitte behind his back. "That's enough for tonight."
Ashen nodded.
The two men stood in silence for a moment, the ocean whispering at their backs.
"I'll be watching you," Smoker said. "But not hunting you. Yet."
Ashen turned his head slightly, one eyebrow raised.
Smoker exhaled. "East Blue's weak. Full of dreamers. But something tells me you're not just here for a warm-up."
Ashen said nothing, walking past him toward his ship.
As he reached the edge of the dock, he stopped.
"I'm here because this place doesn't know it needs to be ready," he murmured. "But it will."
Then he vanished—Soru humming in the night—leaving only footprints and a trail of silent promise behind him.
The morning sun washed over Loguetown's harbor, casting long golden rays across the docks as Ashen sat cross-legged on the edge of his ship. The spar with Smoker still echoed in his bones, not from pain, but from resonance. Tekkai and a flicker of Armament Haki—real power, drawn from instinct, not instruction.
He rolled a small pebble in his hand, eyes distant.
Soru efficiency: 55% → 57% → 58%.
Tekkai: 16% efficiency.
Busoshoku Haki (Latent): 1% sync threshold.
Not full activation. But it began. That was enough.
He stood and stepped aboard his vessel—a modest but sleek sloop, upgraded with reinforced hull plating and a wind-direction rudder. It wasn't a warship, but with his power? It didn't need to be.
Ashen raised the sails, checked the log compass fixed at the helm, and steered east.
"Next stop," he muttered, "Shells Town."
---
The journey was quiet, unbothered by storms or pirates. A few vessels dotted the horizon—merchants, fishermen, one or two rookies with flags too bold for their own good. None challenged him.
He didn't seek conquest. But he watched.
Two days later, he arrived at Shells Town.
The town hadn't changed much—wooden buildings clustered along a crescent shore, Marine Headquarters still watching over the town from atop a nearby cliff. A memory stirred: Roronoa Zoro, the infamous bounty hunter, had once been imprisoned here before joining Monkey D. Luffy.
But Ashen wasn't here for Zoro.
He was here because five pirate crews had landed in the last week alone—each intending to plunder, seize a ship, or cross into the Grand Line. Only one succeeded. The rest?
Still scattered somewhere.
Ashen stepped into a bar near the main plaza. It was noisy, full of Marines and townsfolk pretending peace wasn't fragile. He didn't blend in, not with the lean, honed air he carried and the silent tension in his stance.
A few turned. No one approached.
He sat at the bar and listened.
"…Some punk with a jagged hook tried to raid the supply depot last night. Marines barely held him off—'til that weird silver-haired guy showed up. Just blinked, and the bastard was out cold."
Ashen smirked.
News traveled fast.
---
By nightfall, he found them.
A collection of mismatched pirate crews—some barely holding formation—had gathered in a cove northeast of town. There were five ships: patched sails, stolen cannon, even a mounted harpoon gun. Most were rookies, but one crew stood out.
A black flag with a violet hourglass.
Ashen narrowed his eyes.
The Dagger Fangs.
A rising pirate crew that had recently ransacked two East Blue islands. Their captain, "Cragtooth" Juno, was known for iron armor plates bolted to his arms and a bounty nearing 9 million Berries—astronomical for East Blue.
Perfect.
Ashen approached from the trees, silent. His breath even, his step light.
He counted two dozen crew members.
He stepped onto the sand without a whisper.
The sentry turned—and fell.
A blur of Soru. One strike. Unconscious.
He moved like a phantom, slipping between shadows. No alarm. Just whispers of movement—until he stood before their campfire.
Juno looked up. "Who the hell—?"
Ashen flicked a rock through the flames.
It cracked against Juno's forehead and knocked the iron-helmed man backward off his crate.
The crew leapt up.
"WHO ARE YOU?!"
Ashen answered by vanishing.
And then chaos erupted.
---
He moved like a storm.
Soru blurred him across the battlefield—one pirate, two, five, all knocked out before their blades left sheaths. A rifle cracked—Ashen ducked, rolled, reappeared behind the shooter, and struck the man's neck with the edge of his palm. Tekkai activated on instinct when a cannonball fired—his shoulder blocked it, skin hardening just enough to absorb the brunt.
Juno roared, charging with metal-plated fists.
Ashen didn't dodge.
He let the first strike hit, absorbing it with Tekkai.
Then—his counterstrike.
A straight jab, silent and controlled.
It hit Juno's gut with force. Not enough to rupture—but enough to hurt, pierce.
The pirate's eyes bulged. He staggered.
Ashen's fist had flickered. Invisible armor coated it.
Busoshoku Haki: 3% sync threshold.
The system whispered, and Ashen smiled.
He knocked Juno out cold with a second punch—clean, no flash.
The rest of the crew froze.
He turned, eyes like tempered steel.
"Take your ships. Take your wounded. Go home."
No one questioned him.
By sunrise, Shells Town's harbor was stacked with surrendered weapons and unconscious pirates. Marine officers—flabbergasted—only caught a glimpse of the silver-haired figure leaving again.
Ashen, standing alone on his ship, checked the system.
New Total Berries: 320,000.
Fame (East Blue): Moderate.
Power brought profit. But more than that—it brought clarity.
Ashen gazed east.
He wasn't done yet.
The sea was tranquil as Ashen's sloop glided across the East Blue, its sails full under a favorable breeze. Behind him, Shells Town faded into the morning mist. Ahead, another dot on the map pulled his gaze: Syrup Village.
He remembered the name from the fragmented canon memories he'd pieced together—Captain Kuro. A cunning pirate who once masqueraded as a butler for years, intent on seizing a wealthy estate. According to records, he was defeated by Monkey D. Luffy's crew.
But that had been months ago.
Ashen's lips tightened.
He wasn't after shadows of the past—he was after the ripples they left behind.
His ship docked quietly by midday. Syrup Village looked peaceful—modest wooden homes, windmills turning slowly inland, and villagers waving kindly as he passed.
But Ashen felt the tension in the wind.
Kenbunshoku Haki (Observation) unlocked: 3% sync.
His senses flared gently, and the illusion cracked. Smiles masked anxiety. Children played in narrow alleys—but always glanced over their shoulders. The local tavern bustled with whispered conversations and quiet glances.
Something was wrong.
---
He entered the tavern, sat quietly, and listened.
"…a new group's been poking around Usopp Manor. Weird ones. Calling themselves the Black Veil Syndicate."
"…they say they're looking for treasure left by the old butler. Creepy bunch—never see their faces."
Ashen tapped his fingers on the table.
Treasure? No. A cover, maybe. A forward unit looking to re-establish control in a region Captain Kuro once held.
He paid his tab and left.
That night, he scouted.
---
Kaya's Manor stood tall atop a hill. The surrounding estate, once overgrown, had been partially cleared. At least ten figures moved through the grounds—masked, dressed in tight black suits. Not Marines. Not bounty hunters.
Mercenaries.
Ashen crouched atop the chimney of a nearby farmhouse, watching through the darkness. His heartbeat slowed. Muscles relaxed.
Kenbunshoku sync: 4%.
He mapped their movements through instinct—every footstep, every flicker of intent. One of them moved toward the manor's cellar door with a crowbar.
Ashen moved.
Flick—Soru.
He appeared behind the guard and struck the back of his neck. The man collapsed.
Three more turned at the sound. Too late.
Ashen blurred again—three strikes, three down.
An alarm rose from the estate, but Ashen was already inside.
The fight was swift.
His body moved like flowing water. One opponent pulled a curved dagger—Ashen caught the wrist, twisted, and drove an elbow into the ribs. Tekkai shimmered faintly over his forearm as another came at him with a metal baton—useless. A single armored punch knocked the attacker out cold.
By the time the last two mercenaries tried to escape through the woods, Ashen had leapt onto a branch ahead of them and dropped like a hawk.
Silence followed.
---
He gathered the unconscious bodies by the manor gate. By morning, the villagers had gathered, murmuring in awe as Ashen stood silently with the tied-up mercenaries.
A Marine patrol arrived within the hour—summoned by a village courier.
Ashen handed over the captives without a word.
"Who are you?" asked the officer, eyes wide.
Ashen simply replied, "A drifter."
And walked away.
---
System Update:
Black Veil Syndicate Sub-Unit Captured: 45,000 Berries converted
Busoshoku Haki (Latent): 6% sync
Kenbunshoku Haki: 5% sync
Soru Efficiency: 59%
Tekkai: 19% Efficiency
New Berry Total: 365,000
Fame (East Blue): High
---
As Ashen set sail once more, he gazed at the map spread before him.
There were still whispers of pirate enclaves in the Conomi Islands, the Goa Kingdom, and even remote islands near Dawn.
But something else gnawed at him—patterns. Certain crews moved in silence, some avoiding the Grand Line altogether, heading instead toward the Calm Belt.
He needed intel. He needed control.
But first—
He smiled faintly.
"Maybe I'll pay Baratie a visit next?"
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