The weeks following the cliffside awakening settled into a new, deeper rhythm. The frantic anxiety of the inspection was gone, replaced by a subtle but pervasive change in the atmosphere of Shells Town's Marine base. The anomaly that was Travis Pendragon had been papered over by the Borin scandal, but the feeling of him could not be bureaucratically filed away.
It manifested in small, undeniable ways. When Travis walked through the yard, his Authority of Presence was a soft, invisible radius. Recruits he passed would unconsciously straighten their backs, finish their conversations, or find a sudden need to look busy. It wasn't fear; it was the gravitational pull of a natural commander. Even Hackett, during their destructive control drills, would sometimes pause, his brow furrowed, as if trying to pinpoint a low, sub-audible hum in the air.
Travis's own training evolved. His afternoons with Hackett grew more sophisticated. He could now consistently manifest a pea-sized sphere of negation and send it in a straight line ten feet to strike a target—a rock, a wooden block—and erase a perfect, marble-sized volume. The control was surgical, the drain manageable. He practiced "sculpting" with destruction, using brief, controlled bursts to etch lines in stone or carve specific shapes from wood. It was a far cry from the wild, trench-carving blast of Coffin Cove. Hackett's criticism grew less frequent, replaced by a grudging, watchful silence. The weapon was being honed.
At night, with his Foundation Blade now brighter and more solid, Travis's swordsmanship drills became a blur of precise, lethal motion. The legacy memories flowed into muscle memory. He practiced a knightly style that was all economy and power—no flourishes, just the most efficient line from guard to target. He also experimented with Excalibur's Echo, focusing the minute "severing" concept into his issued cutlass. He could now slice through a thick hemp rope with a whisper of effort, the edge passing through as if the fibers had simply decided to part.
Yet, amidst this growth, the core of his plan—the network, the Round Table—remained a single, hidden node: Kuro, the embodiment of Patience. The dead drops in the banyan tree hollow became a lifeline. The messages were never signed, written in a cipher only Travis (with his kingly strategic knowledge) and Kuro could unravel. They were reports, analyses, and the first threads of a web.
One such report, a week after the cliffside, contained three crucial items:
1. Silas Status: Auditor Silas, having wrapped up the Borin case with commendable efficiency (and a quiet promotion recommendation for himself), had departed Shells Town. His final report noted the "resolute diligence" of some lower-ranking personnel (a glancing, safe mention of Travis) and recommended a "review of logistical oversight protocols." He was gone, his curiosity about the "anomaly" satisfied by a more convenient truth.
2. Local Snapshot: A detailed map of Shells Town's underworld, marking smugglers, informants, corrupt officials on the municipal payroll, and two minor pirate crews who used the port for resupply. It was intelligence Hackett either didn't know or didn't care about.
3. First Target Analysis: Attached was a profile, not of a potential Virtue, but of a problem. A pirate captain named Gristle, operating a cog named the Tide-Cutter. He was small-time, brutal, and unaffiliated. The analysis, however, highlighted two things: first, Gristle had recently been paid a significant sum by a Shells Town councilman to "discourage" a rival merchant's ships. Second, and more importantly, Gristle's favorite drinking hole and boasting place was a dockside tavern called the Rusty Rivet.
The message ended with a single, ciphered line: "A king's justice is best demonstrated. A public lesson requires a suitable stage. The First Ring of your influence may be forged here."
Travis understood. Kuro was presenting him with an opportunity. Not just to eliminate a pirate, but to do it in a way that would send a message, that would begin to shape the local perception of "Marine justice." It was a chance to practice his code—Equal Justice—on a slightly larger canvas, and to see who might be watching.
He needed a team. Groff and Lin.
Approaching them required care. Groff's wary respect was a fragile thing. Lin's awestruck loyalty was untested. He cornered them separately, after lights out, in the shadowed lee of the armory.
To Groff, he was direct. "The pirate Gristle. He's taking money from Councilman Hale to sabotage honest merchants. He'll be at the Rusty Rivet tomorrow night, drunk and boasting. That's a violation of maritime law, collusion with civic corruption, and a direct threat to Shells Town's lawful commerce. I'm going to bring him in. I need someone who won't panic, who can handle a straight fight if it comes to it. Are you in?"
Groff studied him, his eyes hard. "You're asking me? Not ordering me?"
"You're not under my command for this," Travis said. "This is outside the patrol. It's voluntary. It's also the right thing to do. The kind of thing the Marines should do, instead of polishing brass while pirates buy our politicians."
Groff chewed on that, the cynic warring with the capable Marine. He'd seen Travis's power, but also his restraint. He'd seen him come back. Finally, he nodded, once. "I'm in. What's the plan?"
To Lin, Travis appealed to the newfound spark of courage. "Lin, I need someone with a sharp eye and a steady nerve. We're going to take down a pirate who thinks he's above the law because he has a councilman in his pocket. I need you to be our lookout, to watch our backs. Can I count on you?"
Lin's eyes widened, but the fear was quickly overrun by a fierce, burning determination. Travis had saved him. Had given him purpose. "Yes, Pendragon. Absolutely. What do I do?"
The plan was simple, leveraging Kuro's intelligence and Travis's new capabilities. They would go in plain clothes. Lin would watch the tavern's front and rear exits from a shadowed alley. Groff would be inside, blending with the crowd, ready to cause a diversion if needed. Travis would make the approach.
The following night, the Rusty Rivet was a cacophony of raucous noise, pipe smoke, and the smell of cheap ale and unwashed bodies. Gristle held court at a central table, a hulking man with a beard matted with old food, flanked by three of his crew. He was loudly detailing how he'd "convinced" a merchant captain to seek other ports, his laugh a wet, unpleasant bray. The other patrons, a mix of sailors and dockworkers, gave his table a wide berth.
Travis entered alone. He moved through the crowd not with stealth, but with an unnerving, straight-line purpose. His Authority of Presence parted the throng subtly; people shifted aside without knowing why. He stopped at Gristle's table.
"Captain Gristle. You're under arrest for piracy, extortion, and conspiracy to interfere with lawful trade."
The tavern's noise died in a spreading wave of silence. Gristle stared, then erupted in laughter. "Under arrest? By who? You some kind of junior guard dog? Get lost, pup, before I decide to use you as a toothpick."
His crew rose, grinning nastily.
Travis didn't move. He kept his hands visible, empty. "The authority is the Marine code of justice. Your arrangement with Councilman Hale is known. Your actions are illegal. You will come quietly."
The use of the councilman's name wiped the grin from Gristle's face. His eyes narrowed with sudden, violent understanding. This wasn't a random patrol. This was targeted. "You've got a mouth on you," he growled, standing, his bulk towering over Travis. "I'm gonna enjoy shutting it. Permanently."
He lunged, a massive fist whistling toward Travis's head. It was a brawler's move, powerful but slow.
Travis didn't dodge. He didn't need to. He brought his left hand up in a blur, not to block, but to catch. His enhanced strength, fueled by the royal bloodline and Avalon's blessing, closed around Gristle's wrist like a vice, stopping the punch dead an inch from his temple.
The tavern gasped. Gristle's eyes bulged in shock. He tried to pull free, but Travis's grip was immovable.
"You should have come quietly," Travis said, his voice calm, carrying to every corner of the silent room.
With a sharp twist and a surge of strength, he used Gristle's own momentum to slam the pirate face-first onto the table, splintering wood and sending mugs flying. Before the crew could react, Travis moved. He didn't use the destructive power. He used the kingly combat style. A precise, piston-like kick to the knee of the first crewman dropped him with a scream. A forearm strike to the throat of the second choked off his shout. The third found the point of Travis's cutlass—now drawn with blinding speed—pressing against his Adam's apple.
The entire fight lasted less than eight seconds.
Travis looked down at the groaning Gristle, then at the stunned, silent tavern. He raised his voice, letting the Authority saturate it, making it ring with absolute, undeniable conviction.
"Let this be known. The law in Shells Town is not for sale. Justice does not have a price tag. Pirates who prey on the innocent, and the corrupt men who hire them, will find no shelter here. The Marines serve the people, not the powerful."
He hauled Gristle to his feet, effortlessly clamping Marine-issue shackles on his wrists. Groff emerged from the crowd, his face a mask of stunned respect, and took the other two conscious pirates into custody. Lin appeared at the door, nodding sharply—all clear.
They marched their prisoners through the hushed tavern and into the night, leaving behind a sea of wide-eyed stares. The story would be all over Shells Town by dawn. Not a story of a lucky recruit with black powder, but of a Marine who walked into a den of thieves, named a corrupt councilman, and dismantled a pirate crew with terrifying, principled efficiency.
Back at the base, as they booked the prisoners (Hackett stared, speechless for once), Travis pulled Groff and Lin aside.
"You did well. Both of you. This is what we should be doing. Not just following orders, but enforcing justice. There will be more. It will be harder. Are you still with me?"
Groff met his gaze, the last of his cynicism burning away in the furnace of what he'd just witnessed. He saw a leader, not just a powered freak. "I'm with you, Pendragon."
Lin stood straighter than he ever had. "To the end, sir."
They were not Virtues. Not yet. But they were the first ring. The loyal core. The men who had seen the code in action and chosen to stand within its circle.
Later, at the banyan tree, Travis left a single, coded word for Kuro: "Ring forged."
The response came two days later, on a scrap of paper wrapped around a small, smooth stone from the eastern cliff: "The metal holds. The anvil is prepared for the next shaping. A name arises: 'Mender.' A ship's doctor in Loguetown, disillusioned. She embodies Charity. Observation recommended."
The first ring was secured. The second potential Virtue had been identified. The patient, invisible work of building an empire had shifted from theory to practice. Travis Pendragon had taken his code from philosophical principle to public action. The message had been sent. The first, small stone of the old, corrupt order had been dislodged.
And in the quiet of his mind, the sleeping ember of Conqueror's Haki pulsed gently, as if stirred by the first, true act of a king's justice.