Sea Circle Calendar, June 18, 1512.
East Blue – Southeast Shore of Shiga Island.
Coconut palms swayed gently over the sun-bleached sands, the luxurious villa nestled behind the treeline looking out over the crystalline sea.
Beneath the shade of a coconut tree, a teenage boy lounged on a beach chair. He wore oversized sunglasses, flared pants, and nothing on his upper body. A lazy smile curled on his lips as he watched a group of bikini-clad won laughing and playing in the surf.
He didn't look that old, but the lean, honed muscle sculpting his body spoke of brutal discipline and hard-won strength—scars slashed across his chest and abdon, long and jagged, evidence of past battles so fierce they'd leave most n dead or broken.
Just then, a burly man in a sharp black suit ca sprinting across the beach, dress shoes slipping slightly in the sand. A long scar ran down his cheek, and he clutched a rolled-up newspaper in one hand.
"Boss! We've got a situation—Big Cat just hit several of our places on Center Street," the man panted, respect and tension in his voice as he stopped before the teen.
"Ah, it's you, Gorbo. You bring my paper?" The boy tilted his head slightly, lowering his shades to reveal a surprisingly ordinary—but radiantly confident—face.
"Yes, sir! Today's edition." Gorbo bowed slightly as he offered the paper with both hands.
"Talk to . Details," the boy said, flipping the paper open casually.
"Yes, sir. Just got word from Center Street—Big Cat Sams took his crew and wrecked one of our casinos and two bars over on East Street. They also trashed four inns and two restaurants we protect." Gorbo's voice was calm and asured, but his eyes burned with fury.
"Big Cat Sams..." The boy furrowed his brow in thought before realization struck. "That the sa loser I kicked out to West Street a year and a half ago?"
"That's him," Gorbo confird with a nod.
"How the hell'd that coward grow a spine? He couldn't even fight back when I crushed his whole gang and sent him packing like a mutt!" The teen's brows arched in disbelief.
"Any idea how many guys he brought?"
"Sa bunch as before, more or less. But a few unfamiliar faces showed up—and those ones fought like hell. Our fifty n took heavy damage. So dead. If Oliver hadn't been off in Loguetown buying swords, they wouldn't have made it past the first place," Gorbo spat, barely suppressing his rage.
"Heh... so he's got backing now." The boy's voice turned cold, contempt dripping from his words. "No way any gang on Shiga Island would dare touch us otherwise."
He stood up from the lounge chair, brushing sand from his legs. "Take your n and head there first. I'll catch up after I change."
"Yes, boss." Gorbo bowed again before turning to leave.
He knew better than anyone: their young leader didn't just look strong—he was the strongest man on all of Shiga Island. Two years ago, this boy had arrived alone, and by sheer force alone, had taken over the island's criminal underworld. Anyone who had dared challenge him had ended up in a pool of their own blood.
Now, the once-laughingstock island punk had claid the wealthiest zones—Center Street and the docks—for himself. Over two hundred formal mbers answered to him. Including affiliates and hangers-on, his power base numbered over five hundred.
In Shiga Island's underground world, one na now ruled all:
Chris T. Aeridar.
Aeridar ambled through the forest, scratching his head lazily as he skimd the newspaper. The front page was nearly half-covered by a photo: seven figures, each distinct—so tall, others short, so lean, others burly. There were n and won, one man with hawk-like eyes and a sword, another built like a Fish-Man. Among them, one woman stood out with stunning beauty.
The background: a massive fortress emblazoned with the bold, unmistakable insignia of the Marines—a seagull crest above the word "NAVY."
The headline read:
"Seven Warlords of the Sea: Official mbers Confird"
The article went on to explain: These were seven infamous pirates recognized by the World Governnt, each possessing the destructive power of a natural disaster and the military might to rival a nation. The "Seven Warlords of the Sea" were a legalized faction of pirates granted status and power by the Governnt to counterbalance other threats on the seas.
With their induction, their forr bounties had been frozen, and all previous cris were pardoned. Though technically still pirates, they were allowed to plunder as they pleased—so long as they paid tribute when caught and responded to Governnt summons.
In return for this delicate alliance, the World Governnt would overlook many of their "requests" and judge them not just as criminals, but as assets, worthy of negotiation and preservation.
Aeridar chuckled.
"So the Marine HQ—Marineford—has finally assembled all seven Warlords..."
He murmured, "Now the Grand Line's tripartite balance begins: Navy, Warlords, and the Four Emperors. A three-way stalemate of terrifying power."
He clenched the newspaper tightly, excitent rising in his chest.
"My blood's boiling just thinking about it... hahahaha! The Warlords, huh? Just wait. It won't be long before my na's among them."
Tossing the paper to the ground, Aeridar laughed heartily as he walked out of the woods.
Back at the villa, Aeridar changed into a sleek black suit with the help of a few diligent maids. Two large n in matching black suits flanked him as he strolled leisurely toward the center of town.
Ten minutes later, Aeridar made a flashy entrance into the main plaza of Center Street.
The square was huge—white marble tiles gleaming underfoot, a large fountain at the center, flower beds lining the periter. But no civilians were in sight. Instead, two opposing gangs faced off in a tense standoff.
On Aeridar's side, over a hundred rugged n in identical black suits, pants, and shoes gripped short-handled axes and flintlock pistols. At the head stood the ever-imposing Gorbo and a tall, handso man with striking blue hair.
Opposite them was a ragtag band of seventy or so. Their clothes were mismatched and tattered, weapons ranging from clubs to old rifles. They looked like scavengers, not fighters. At the front stood a hulking brute in a filthy floral shirt—Big Cat Sams.
"Boss!"
"Aeridar-sama!"
"Morning, Boss!"
The suited n greeted him with bowed heads and reverence.
"You idiots ever heard of synchronized greetings?!" Aeridar sighed, waving a hand dismissively.
"Hahahaha!"
The suited n erupted in laughter at his annoyed tone.
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