The Grand Line was still young in those days.
The charts were incomplete, the sea routes unpredictable, and the world was filled with mysteries waiting to be claimed. Pirates, marines, kings, and dreamers chased rumors like they were gold. Among them sailed the man whose laughter split storms and whose presence bent fate itself.
Gol D. Roger.
On the deck of the Oro Jackson, morning sunlight glittered over polished wood and the salt-sprayed sails billowed with confidence. The crew was in good spirits, though that was nothing unusual. Laughter came naturally to this ship. The sea seemed less dangerous when Roger was smiling.
"Land ho—! No wait—something ho—something strange ho!" yelled the lookout from the mast, stumbling over his own words.
Rayleigh, polishing his sword near the rail, lifted his head with calm curiosity. "Funny way to announce an island."
"This isn't just any island," the lookout replied, voice uneasy. "I've never seen anything like it."
Roger's grin widened, instantly interested. "Oh? Now that's more like it. Show me."
He strode across the deck, coat fluttering behind him, every step full of unshaken confidence. His crew gathered around, drawn in by instinct. Roger lived for the unknown; if something was strange, he wanted to be the first to see it.
The mist ahead of the ship parted slowly, like curtains opening for a stage.
And there it was.
An island.
But not like any island the crew had seen before.
The sea around it was unnaturally still. No waves rolled toward it. The wind seemed to fade as they approached. The air grew heavier, as if something ancient was watching them.
The island's cliffs were carved with tall stone pillars, each etched with faded symbols that time itself seemed to have forgotten. Vines wrapped around the stones like frozen veins, and faint streaks of glowing blue light pulsed beneath the cracks.
Rayleigh checked his log pose.
The needle spun in circles, completely lost.
"Impossible," he murmured. "Even eternal log points don't do that."
Roger laughed softly. "A place that the world refuses to acknowledge. Now that's the kind of treasure I like."
Beside them, Scopper Gaban frowned, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "Captain… there are records of islands that appear and vanish across centuries. Myths, really. But if one were real—"
Roger clapped him on the back. "Then we'll be the ones to confirm it."
Even for him, there was a seriousness in his eyes. Something about this island called to him on a level deeper than curiosity. Something like… a memory he had never lived.
The Oro Jackson approached the shallow waters. No waves broke. It was as though the sea itself bowed in silence.
"Drop anchor!" Rayleigh commanded.
The clanking of chains rang out, then silence returned—heavy, expectant.
The first landing crew formed without being asked. Rayleigh, Gaban, Crocus, several seasoned fighters, and of course, Roger at the lead. No one questioned whether he should go. Roger always went first.
When their boots hit the sand, the silence of the island was almost overwhelming. No birds. No wind. No insects. Just the hum of something unseen, vibrating beneath the earth.
Roger knelt beside one of the ancient stone pillars. The carvings were unlike any script modern scholars used. They curved and spiraled like music carved into stone.
Rayleigh traced the markings with careful fingers.
"These symbols… they resemble the ones we've seen on certain ruins in the New World. But older. Much older."
Crocus, the ship's doctor, squinted thoughtfully. "This island predates most known civilization."
Gaban exhaled. "Don't say it. Don't even joke about it."
Roger didn't look away from the pillar. "The Void Century."
The words hung like thunder.
The crew felt it too. That era was not just lost. It was erased.
Something about this place was wrong. Not evil. Not threatening. But wrong. Like it was never meant to be found.
And yet Roger smiled.
"We move."
They walked through the stone forest toward the center of the island. The ground was cracked, split by glowing blue veins like rivers of light frozen beneath ancient rock. The deeper they went, the stronger the hum in the air became. It felt like a distant heartbeat.
Or a memory calling to them.
The path ended in a clearing.
Before them stood an enormous stone gate, taller than any ship mast, carved with the same spiraling symbols. The gate was split down the center, a thin line of blue light pulsing like a pulse.
Rayleigh's voice was low. "This isn't a ruin. It's a lock."
"Or a door," Gaban corrected.
Roger stepped forward, laying his hand on the cool, ancient stone.
The hum beneath the earth grew louder.
A rumble echoed across the clearing.
The gate responded.
Blue light surged through the cracks, tracing the symbols, the pillars, the ground—everything came alive at once.
The crew tensed, hands moving to weapons on instinct.
The gate began to open.
The air tasted like old storms and forgotten time.
On the other side of the gate was darkness—warm, deep darkness, like the inside of a heartbeat. Something moved within it. Not a creature, not a shadow, but a presence.
A voice, soft as an echo across a thousand years, whispered:
"Welcome back."
Roger did not flinch.
His grin widened.
"Let's see what the world tried to forget."
He stepped through the gate.
And the island woke.