Zadael squinted against the burning sun, one hand up to shield his eyes as he scanned the endless dunes that were his home. The Mirage Isles, where the horizon shimmered with heat haze, the sea lapping softly upon the shoreline. His family—a clutch of tall, muscular men with bronzed skin—moved busily about their small encampment of makeshift tents; their shouts and laughter were carried on the arid breeze. They were desert dwellers, a rarity in this almost virgin world, where legend and reality blurred like the mirage which had inspired the islands' name.
But Zadael's mind had strayed far away from the scorching sands beneath him. Memories of that world of steel and concrete haunted him, where even the touch of the sun was a luxury behind panes of glass. A world in which the sea was a whisper from afar, giants did not stride the earth, and adventure was something that happened on the ink of paper or pixels of a screen. It had been a strange, stifling place, yet it was his birthright, the world of his youth; in it, he had grown up in an instant, yet to be pulled up by the roots and hurled into this wild, untamed wilderness.
He often had to wonder if he had simply lost his mind and if his imagination had created this place as a way to cope with a life gone utterly wild and out of control.
He breathed in deep, the calming salty air that would set aflame an inner burning purpose. "Mother," he bellowed—a voice to call thunder itself—the palm trees swaying. Then, out of the darkening inside their tent, a kingly figure arose. Out of eyes now deep-set in his skull spoke volumes of an old sad knowledge. "I am ready to leave," he declared in a voice deep and rumbling over the desert whispers. Then forth came the elders with faces clouded by a mixture of apprehension and awe. "Zadael," one of them said, "are you really certain this is what you want? There is treachery and danger that go hand in glove with the world outside."
Zadael nodded, his green eyes firm and set. "I am. I have to find my right place in this world and learn why I am here." His mother, a great figure even among her people, came forward as her eyes lit with pride and fear. "You are our hope," she said in that deep rumbling voice that vibrated through the cadence of Zadael's heart.
"But beware the shadows lurking beyond our dunes."
The air had thickened with the smell of roasting meats and spices as villagers started to say their farewells—a turmoil of faces, a mix of emotions: they could understand that he was special, that his destiny was not to be locked within their narrow lives. But when the sun was already low and threw long shadows on the ground across the desert, the shore saw the coming of a ship that was different from any other. Inside the wood, it had an iron structure, while the sail was made with the hide of fabulous animals to resist even the most ferocious tempests. That ship was built by a giant. Zadael went aboard light, belied by his stature, and noisily pounded against the planks with his boots. His mother handed him a map whose edges were worn, but whose destinations remained a mystery to anyone but the most well-seasoned traveler. "This will show you the way," she said softly. "But it is your heart that will truly lead you where you need to be."
Before him, a rough motley of sailormen from every quarter of the known world stood staring in a mixture of awe and fear. Tales of giants in the desert were well-known, but hard to believe when one of those giants stood towering before a man. Zadael almost snorted at their reactions, which were quickly overpowered by nervousness. It was now-or-never time—the moment he had dreamed of and dreaded in the same breath. He had left security in the Mirage Isles to seek chaos in the Grand Line.
"Cast off the lines!" he boomed deep into the wood of the ship. The crew was a blur, scrambling from place to place, yet quick and efficient. Ropes unwound and the ship groaned, pulling off the shore, its hull scraping across the sand before the waves washed over it. The villagers on the beach became smaller and smaller, until they appeared to be dots of bittersweet; his heart swelled with longing and excitement.
"¿A dónde, gigante, eh?" exclaimed the peg-legged, eye-patched captain over the cacophony of the sea.
"The nearest island," Zadael replied. His deep voice seemed to vibrate in concert with the waves beneath them, moving in rhythmic motion. "I don't care about its name or reputation. Just take me there."
The captain cocked an eye—the good one—and raked the giant's determined expression. Grunting, he nodded once. "Aye, aye!" he bellowed as he whirled on the rest of his crew. "Set a course for the nearest landfall! And keep a weather eye peeled for any trouble lurking!"
The ship leapt forward, her sails snatching at the wind as though the creature beneath the waves were suddenly ready to fly. He clutched at the railing, knuckles white against the weathered wood, as the vessel began to pick up speed and slice effortlessly across the waves. A motion quite alien to him, the heave and pitch of the ship were so very different from the solid stability of the desert sands. The wind pulled at his clothes, carrying upon it the promise of adventure, the far-flung murmurs of the great sea onward.
"So, you really are from the Mirage Isles, eh?" the young sailor asked, looking up at Zadael with scarcely concealed wonder. The giant nodded, his eyes set upon the horizon. "What is it like to live there?"
"Hot," Zadael replied with a half-smile. "Very hot. Yet, it is a place of beauty in its own way. Secrets that the sea cannot claim are given to the sands there."
The young sailor's eyes fluttered with curiosity. "I heard tales about hidden treasures and ancient ruins. Did you come across anything like that?"
Zadael beamed even wider. "Ours are not the treasures of gold or precious jewels," he said, his eyes going dreamily to the map in his hands. "Rather, it is the stories passed down through generations, whispers of a world few dare to believe in. But now I am searching for another kind of treasure, and that is what one finds beyond our shores."
"One Piece, you say?" exclaimed the sailor, his voice bursting after having the legend whispered to him for years in taverns and sung in sea shanties.
Zadael nodded, his head reeling as memories streamed across his mind—a world he had once thought existed only in the realms of fantasy. He remembered well how his first wake-up call on the Mirage Isles, surrounded by giants, had turned out to be quite a shock. Grained sand under his skin, weight from his new gigantic body, and this unbelievable feeling—could this ever be real? One Piece had always seemed a dream to him, a place of adventure and camaraderie he wanted to jump into so badly. Yet here he was, a living part of all of this. That realization he had kept to himself—a secret that flickered within him, a candle in the dark, lighting the way through strange customs and languages that pertained to this new phase in his life.
Then, with a shadow having fallen across his smile, he turned to the young sailor. "Aye, One Piece," he finally confirmed in a heavy tone of voice, laden with the weight of the legend. "But for me, it is more than just treasure; it is knowing why I am here, why I am who I am." The giant knew the boy would never understand the depth of meaning he had placed on it.
He patted the sailor's shoulder gently and excused himself below deck. The cabin was larger than he had ever seen, and yet so small. The ceiling hung over his head by a couple of inches while the bed looked to have been hewn from the trunk of some enormous tree to accommodate him. He fit in the space at the edge of the bed, his shoulders brushing against the paneling of wood. Barely enough room for a chest and a table bolted to the floor, this was his sanctuary—a small bit of home amidst uncharted waters.
He reached into his pocket and drew out a worn leather pouch; whatever was inside jingled softly. Inside lay smooth stones of all different colors and shapes, one for every member of his family. They connected him to the past, a silent reminder of those who loved him, cared for him, and taught him in the ways of their people. A whispered prayer over them, a silent pledge to return one day, to tell his tales and of the wisdom he was to gain.
He knew this was no journey for the faint of heart, for there had been a serious determination in his mother's eyes when talking to him about the legendary pirate known as Gol D. Roger—a path which he was now trying to undertake. And for that, he would have to become a titan who could stand up against guys like Kaido, Akainu, and many more.
And in the blink of a second, there they were—the closest island in The South Blue cut through waves, its bow slicing like a finely sharpened blade. They relaxed with the giant companion as stories were told and laughter was deeply driven. His character had become respected among them—serene, subtly contributive. Anchoring not too far off the emerald shore finally sent the atmosphere buzzing with excitement.
"Thank you for safe passage," Zadael thundered as he mounted the swaying plank to shore, amidst the echo in the timbers of the ship. The captain saluted him.
"Good luck on your journey, giant," the captain called out, his single eye starting to sparkle. "May the tides of fate bring you to your destiny."
"Thank you," rumbled Zadael, scanning in a wide arc across the lush horizon. He stepped out onto the swaying plank, his huge boots thundering in concert with the creaks and groans of the ship. The crew had turned out to watch him go, agog with wonder, and with just a little envy. They had seen some marvels on their voyage, but none more marvelous than this desert giant who had materialized from a mirage into their midst. It was chartered by the elders of the Mirage Isles, a rare concession to the outside world made for the sake of their promising son.
The nearest shop catering to the seas of fashion was a small, yet renowned, tailor's den in the lively port town of Spicy Shells. It was nestled between a smithy and a tavern, its wooden sign swinging with the breeze, a skull and crossbones stitched in gold thread. "Welcome to the Seabed Stitch," called the tailor—a short stout man with a bushy mustache—hailing from behind the counter. His eyes went wide in surprise as Zadael came ducking through the doorway.
"I need clothes," Zadael said, and his voice echoed in the little shop. "Clothing to fit not only a huge monster such as myself but also clothing that will not make me appear as an out-of-the-desert juvenile delinquent."
The little man looked him up and down; his eyes screwed up while he considered this. "Your luck's in, my friend. The Seabed Stitch suits all shapes and sizes. We stock fabrics from all four corners of the world, patterns that would make even the sea jealous." He waddled over to a huge selection of bolts, his eyes roaming over them as some kind of chef might pick out the perfect ingredient. "Now, let's see what we can create for you."
The next few hours blurred together in a haze of measuring and pinning. The tailor spoke in introductions as Patchwork Pete, but he moved with the energy of a man half his size, chuckling to himself as he jotted down Zadael's dimensions. It tried the giant's patience, but the thought of leaving the desert behind and starting his new life as a pirate kept his spirits high. The other patrons stared on in amazement as he began work, the gasps of their wonder a low hum behind the snap of the tape measure and the whir of the sewing machine.
"Ah, I've found just the thing for you," said Patchwork Pete, hauling up a bolt of midnight-blue material shining with a soft otherworldly light. "They say it's a bit of treasure from the moon itself." He winked. "Or so I was told by the merchant who sold it to me."
Zadael laughed, a low rumble in his chest, the kind that made ink bottles and needles on the shelves rattle. "Whatever it is, it's beautiful."
Patchwork Pete beamed with pride, and his mustache did a merry jig with excitement. "This shall be fitting for a man of your caliber," he pronounced, pressing the cloth against Zadael's chest. The blue did appear almost black in the dimness of the shop lights, but as Pete pulled it closer to the window, the threads shimmied with a silver sheen.
"Then let us begin," Zadael said, his brilliant white smile flashing out against dark skin. The foppish tailor scurried about the giant form, his quick fingers dancing across him as he muttered and scratched on a piece of parchment. The air was thick with fabrics and sweet, fresh-baked bread wafting in from next door.
"Well, what is your name, young giant?" asked Patchwork Pete as he worked the flying-ahead fabric under his big-but-agile hands.
"Zadael," the giant replied as he watched where the flying-ahead fabric was subjected to the tailor's needle.
"Well, Zadael," said Patchwork Pete, "I think you are a man of stories. What brings you to this island?"
Zadael's eyes shone bright with excitement as he pressed closer, the big frame creaking the floorboards. "I want an adventure," he said—a deep rumble from behind the muscles that almost resonated across the shop walls. "I want to be a pirate, travel the Grand Line, find the One Piece!"
Patchwork Pete did not bat an eye as he digested the rather bold statement from Zadael. He had seen a lot of men move through with big dreams: men who showed up at Spicy Shells with a gleam in their eye and left with nothing but that bitter taste of defeat. There was something about this giant, though. Perhaps it was the unshakeable resolve that seemed to seep from this man or the way his green eyes glittered with an intellectual keenness that was altogether out of place in such a hulking form.
"A pirate, you say?" Pete mused aloud, stroking the twitch in his mustache as he turned back to work. "You've got the stature for it, no doubt. But the Grand Line ain't something you take lightly."
Zadael nodded gravely. "I know of the risks, but I feel an incredibly strong pull to find my fate."
Patchwork Pete kept his head back and assessed the gravity in Zadael's eyes. "Destiny, eh?" He chuckled low in his throat, shaking his head. "I've seen many come and go with dreams like yours, but few return with anything more than a tale to tell."
Zadael didn't even flinch; his gaze was dead set. "I know of the risks," he replied, his tone flat. "But I am different. I am from a place where giants such as myself are more than just a myth. I come to triumph, not just to dream."
Patchwork Pete held the fabric up to Zadael's broad chest. His face was contemplative. "Giants, you say?" After a pause, his eyes shone with skepticism and admiration at the youth before him. "Well, if you are truly part of some destiny, I suppose it is my duty to see you look the part."
Little as he was, energy seemed to burst from him like a jack-in-the-box. He set to work, his flying fingers fairly webs of speed upon the pile of fabric until it slowly began to take shape into a proper pirate's outfit: the shirt tailored to his large frame, the sleeves adequately long to cover his elbows, the V-neck deep enough to bring out his muscular chest. Loose but not baggy, the brown pants allowed for that freedom of movement which a pirate's life did call for. The olive-green belt cinched at his waist finished off the ensemble with that splash of color.
"You know, I've never had the pleasure of dressing a giant before," said Patchwork Pete—the sparkle in his eye betraying a mix of curiosity and mirth. "But I must say, you make for quite the model."
Zadael burst into a deep, grumbling laugh that rumbled across the shop, turning to the mirror with his new set of clothes. "I have never had clothes fit this well," he said to the reflection, adjusting his new outfit. "Your work is truly a masterpiece."
Patchwork Pete stepped back, hands on his hips, and admired his work. "Aye, it'll turn heads, that's for sure," he said, puffing out his chest with pride. "But remember, it's not the clothes that make the pirate. It's the man beneath them."
Zadael nodded solemnly, shining-eyed with excitement. "I will not disappoint," he promised, feeling the weight of new clothes as he would armor.
"Good," growled Patchwork Pete, amiable though, "Let us now behold the price for this finery."
For one moment, Zadael's smile faltered, but he reached into the leather pouch at his side and withdrew a fistful of gold coins. The sight of the treasure caused the gleam in the tailor's eyes to turn like the fabric he worked with. "This should cover it, I believe," Zadael said, setting the coins onto the counter.
"More than cover it," Patchwork Pete said, flashing him a wide grin. In one flash of flourish, he swiped the coins up, quick and neat, counting with his pudgy fingers before stuffing them away. "But let me remind you, the price of looking like a pirate is one thing. The price of becoming one is a whole different matter altogether."
"I am ready for that price," Zadael said flatly. "I have the vigor of my ancestors in me, and I do not retreat."
Patchwork Pete nodded, his grin falling into an expression of respect. "Then be off, Zadael. May the sea ever be at your back."
Out into the middle of the street stepped the giant pirate-to-be, his head ducked sharply to avoid bumping against the low frame above which the bell jingled merrily. The mid-afternoon sun cast long shadows across the cobbled streets of Spicy Shells, thick with the scent of adventure and a distant cry of seagulls. The tide of humanity around him parted as if he were some mighty ship, eyes drawn to the gleaming new clothes that hugged his powerful frame. Children pointed and whispered; marines eyed him warily, while fellow pirates nodded in respectful acknowledgment.
Zadael felt a surge of excitement course through his veins. The world was his for the taking, and he certainly looked every inch the man to take it. He had expected it to take days, if not weeks, to get a suit tailored to his size, but here in One Piece, where cyborgs like Franky are capable of building an entire ship in less than a week, apparently, anything is possible. The pace with which Patchwork Pete labored took him very much by surprise, but he wasn't the kind to question that magic which seemed to flow just beneath the surface of this world.
It wasn't until later in the day, as the sun set and that soft orange glow cascaded over Spicy Shells, that Zadael began searching for a shipwright who could craft him a vessel a giant pirate could be proud of. The roads of stone and dirt were lined with taverns, shops, and the odd pirate gang, though even in the seeming chaos there was a semblance of order. Yards stood grand and proud, a stronghold of nautical power that beckoned to the adventurer within him.
The shipwright was a hard-faced woman with eyes that could bore into a man like the great anchors that held fast the ships she built. Eyeing the young half-elf warily, she watched him approach. "You're a big'un," she said. Her voice was hoarse from yelling over the sea wind. "What're you wanting?"
Zadael didn't bat an eyelash; his smile didn't falter. "I'm looking for a ship," he called out loud enough for the other shipyard to hear him. "A ship that will be able to endure both the hazards of the Grand Line and the whims of a giant's voyage."
The shipwright was a large woman, Lila, who crossed her muscular arms across her broad chest and eyed Zadael from the top of his head right down to his very boots. "I take it you have the funds?" she asked, her tone gruff but not unkind.
"I do," Zadael replied, jingling the leather pouch full of gold he had brought from the Mirage Isles. "But I want more than just any vessel. What I need is a ship that does for my body what it does for my aspirations."
The woman, Lila, eased her stance somewhat, and a flicker of respect danced across her features. "I can understand that," she said, her gaze drifting out to sea. "Any sailor can."
Zadael nodded solemnly. "How long would it take to build a vessel of this caliber?"
Lila rubbed the back of her neck while she considered the task before her. "Three weeks if the tides are at our side and the wood behaves," she said while narrowing her eyes to consider him once more. "But it'll cost you a pretty penny."
Zadael nodded, unconcerned by the timeline or budget. "I'm in no rush," he said. "The sea isn't waiting for anyone."
Lila studied him for a moment before extending a firm handshake despite her human body. "Deal."