The East Blue, often dubbed the weakest of the seas, carried this title with mixed reception. While it might be the least formidable, it was also considered the most peaceful and stable—at least in the eyes of ordinary folk.
In the midst of such tranquil days, any disturbance, no matter how small, could seize everyone's attention.
Take today, for instance. News of a merchant ship attacked by pirates exploded like a bomb across Loguetown, igniting the town's curiosity.
Pirate attacks on merchant convoys weren't exactly rare in the East Blue. Even a lack of survivors wouldn't typically cause such a stir. But this wasn't just any ship—it belonged to the Goldglint Trading Company, and, by sheer coincidence, the company's president was aboard. That changed everything.
Sarsalian Sherlock, heir to an unremarkable merchant family, began learning the trade from his father at age seven. After his parents' untimely deaths, he took over the Goldglint Trading Company at fourteen. In just nine years, he transformed it from an obscure outfit into a colossal enterprise, leaving countless jaws on the floor.
The Goldglint Trading Company's reach spanned the entire East Blue, its ventures vast and varied. From the ice cream in a neighbor girl's hand to the jeweled ornaments adorning a noblewoman's neck, all bore the company's golden iris crest. Even the Marines, by unofficial counts, relied on Goldglint shipyards for over a third of the warships stationed in East Blue naval bases.
Rumors swirled that the Goldglint Trading Company secretly backed the East Blue's most powerful pirate crew—the Krieg Pirates. The company never addressed these whispers, and the Marines remained silent, their tacit acceptance ensuring most pirates fled at the sight of a Goldglint vessel.
Sherlock, in essence, dominated both the underworld and the legitimate world, overseeing the East Blue with the keen eye of a merchant.
But that was all in the past now.
Loguetown Naval Base
"Some people are just born geniuses, aren't they?"
Smoker exhaled a few smoke rings, staring at the dossier in his hand. Sherlock's "illustrious achievements" over the past nine years forced even the White Hunter, a firm believer in effort over talent, to concede that such unparalleled brilliance couldn't be outworked.
Creak. The office door swung open, and a female Marine with a swift blade at her hip stepped inside. She had a graceful figure, short blue hair neatly trimmed, and bright eyes framed by glasses. Her fair face carried a hint of natural innocence.
The young woman snapped a crisp salute to Smoker.
"Colonel Smoker!"
"Sarsalian's uncle declined the Marines' offer to assist with the search and rescue. It's strange—the Goldglint Trading Company is acting far too calm about this." Despite her airheaded demeanor, the swordswoman's instincts as an exceptional fighter were sharp.
"They declined?" Smoker stubbed out his spent cigar and lit another.
"I'm afraid this attack on Sherlock isn't as simple as it seems. Damn it…" A flicker of disgust crossed his face.
"Tashigi."
"Yes, Colonel! Your orders?"
Smoker handed her the dossier, rising from his chair and setting his feet down from the desk. He grabbed his jitte from the rack.
"Toss those papers. Let the merchants handle their own affairs. The Marines won't get involved."
He paused, then added, "Prepare to set sail. Whoever dared attack a merchant ship in my jurisdiction is begging for trouble!"
Blowing out a smoke ring, Smoker glanced at the golden iris crest on his cigar box, murmuring, "I hope I can still get cigars this good in the future."
With that, he strode out the door.
"Yes, Colonel Smoker!" Tashigi saluted his departing figure, then curiously flipped open the dossier. The first thing she saw was a portrait.
The man in the image had short black hair and fair skin. His eyes, gleaming like midnight stars, radiated unshakable confidence and composure. A pair of silver-rimmed glasses lent him an air of intellect and elegance.
"This is Sarsalian Sherlock? Huh, his glasses look like they're the same brand as mine…"
Ignoring the swordswoman's predictably off-topic musings, the scene shifts to our protagonist.
Screams, gunfire, flames, blood.
BOOM! The roar of cannon fire from the enemy pirate ship.
"President, run!" Those were the last words of his personal bodyguard before a stray bullet struck the man's chest.
Splash. Water sprayed everywhere, followed by utter darkness…
His eyes snapped open.
Blue sky, white clouds, sunlight dazzling. Ah, being alive felt so good…
"Let's see… my ship was attacked by pirates, I jumped into the sea to escape, and now…"
Lying on the beach, the black-haired young man struggled to survey his surroundings, managing a wry smile. Oddly, he showed none of the panic one might expect from someone stranded on an island.
"I actually survived." He instinctively reached to adjust his glasses, only to freeze when he realized his nose was bare. His expression stiffened, and he hurriedly scanned the area. There, half-buried in the sand, were his glasses—the silver frame unscathed, the clear lenses glinting brilliantly in the sunlight.
That his glasses survived such chaos was nothing short of a miracle.
Slipping them on, Sherlock let out a long breath. His gaze drifted to the nearby forest. Having been unconscious for who-knows-how-long, one thought consumed him: food.
Fortunately, he'd learned from books how to identify edible fruits. After devouring seven unknown but delicious fruits, he finally quelled the hunger gnawing at his stomach.
Energy restored, Sherlock adjusted his glasses and stared out at the endless sea, the last fruit in his hand, lost in thought.
The entire attack reeked of something sinister.
"This voyage was kept highly confidential. Fewer than ten people not on the ship knew about it. There's definitely a traitor."
"And the attackers had an Animal-type Devil Fruit user. If they were pirates, they wouldn't be nobodies."
"No pirate would silently sink a merchant ship without a word. They'd at least demand ransom or plunder. Those pirates… they were there to kill!" A shadow crossed Sherlock's face. "And they were too disciplined—uniformed, well-trained, almost like…"
"…the Marines!"
Sherlock's pupils contracted as a portly figure flashed through his mind.
"Duncan!"
Kohler Duncan, the current head of the Kohler Trading Company, one of the few rivals to Goldglint in the East Blue. Sherlock knew him well, and given Duncan's past behavior, orchestrating such an attack wasn't out of the question.
Rumor had it that the Kohler Trading Company had once acquired an Animal-type Devil Fruit from the Grand Line.
"What a clever move, playing the thief to catch a thief. Maybe the ship that attacked me was one I sold to the Marines." Sherlock bit into the fruit savagely, muttering to himself.
"If it was you, don't blame me for what comes next. You want to play dirty? Let's see whose hands are dirtier. The ships I gave Krieg to enter the Grand Line weren't free." Sherlock rubbed his temple and glanced back at the forest.
Under the sunlight, the dense trees cast dappled shadows, stretching endlessly into the unknown, shrouded in mystery.
"For now, I need to figure out my situation." He pulled a pocket watch from his clothes. The sturdy timepiece faithfully displayed the hour. Checking the sun's position, Sherlock confirmed his bearings, marked the sand, and set off to explore.
The island was sizable, and Sherlock didn't dare venture too deep. After two hours, he'd only scouted a small area, but he'd grasped the basics of his surroundings.
"No signs of human habitation."
"There's a freshwater lake, plenty of food sources—water, fish, fruits, turtles, rabbits, insects. Enough to survive."
"No clue if there are dangerous beasts."
"Oh, and one unexpected find."
Sherlock looked at the object before him: a fruit with strange patterns, round like a ball, vibrant in color.
Anyone with a shred of knowledge would recognize it as a treasure of the seas, the cursed gift of the devil, the key to becoming the ultimate landlubber—a Devil Fruit.
"Guess it's true what they say: survive a disaster, and good fortune follows." Sherlock smiled, adjusting his glasses, a dazzling glint flashing across the lenses.
Though he'd never seen a Devil Fruit encyclopedia, he knew this was a Paramecia-type Devil Fruit. Its specific ability, however, was a mystery.
Sherlock had sold countless things, but never a Devil Fruit. He'd heard of auctions in the Grand Line where even the weakest Animal-type fruits fetched over a hundred million Berries.
In the past, his first instinct would've been to calculate how to sell this fruit for maximum profit. Eating an unknown Paramecia-type fruit would've been a distant last resort.
But now, Sherlock understood: every ounce of strength increased his odds of surviving this unknown place.
Influenced by his parents, Sherlock's childhood dream was to become the wealthiest merchant in the East Blue—perhaps the world. He'd worked tirelessly toward that goal, growing the Goldglint Trading Company into a titan, his wealth and reputation soaring like a rocket.
Yet this attack had taught him a brutal truth.
He lacked the strength to protect his fortune.
"Power! If I were like Smoker, I wouldn't be in this mess!" Sherlock's fists clenched, his eyes locked on the Devil Fruit.
Smoker was the strongest person he'd ever met, single-handedly making the seas around Loguetown pirate-free.
"I need the strength to protect what matters to me. I need to become stronger!"
"It's not a Logia like Smoker's, but I don't have the luxury of choice."
Sherlock picked up the Devil Fruit. "Let this be the first step on my path to strength!" He opened his mouth wide and took a resolute bite…
Only to forget the legendary taste of a Devil Fruit.
Moments later, Sherlock recovered.
"So gross… like something from hell." He glanced at the remaining fruit peel, wiping his mouth with lingering dread.
"So, what's my ability?"
Closing his eyes, Sherlock felt for changes in his body. Suddenly, a tremor from deep within his soul jolted him. His eyes snapped open, gleaming with rare excitement behind his glasses.
He extended a hand, and ripples formed in the air above his palm, coalescing into a circular plane—a mirror reflecting his stunned face.
"A mirror?" Sherlock blinked. So, he'd eaten the Mirror-Mirror Fruit, capable of creating mirrors.
"Doesn't seem like a particularly strong fruit." He stared at the mirror in his hand, adjusting his glasses instinctively. Then he froze.
In the mirror, his reflection didn't mimic his movement. Its eyes, cold and piercing, stared back at him from behind the lenses.