A Giant's Journey (One Piece OC)

And so, for the next three weeks, Spicy Shells became something of a temporary home for Zadael. He had found a cozy tavern named "The Leaking Kraken," the owner of which, Grog, had taken a liking to him. Grog had a soft spot for people chasing their dreams. He offered Zadael a room above the tavern, which by his standards was small but felt like a mansion compared to the cramped cabin on the ship that brought him here.

The tavern was warm and inviting; he could smell roasting meats and hear guffaws within. Its wooden floors had surely seen a thousand pirate boots, and the stories on its walls were legion, what with old maps and fish bones and ship wheels repurposed as décor. The patrons themselves were an assortment of pirates, marines, and locals, each with their own story to tell, and Zadael listened well. He was never much of a talker; actions were his preferred way of speaking, but he was quite curious about the lives of others—mostly those who lived by the code of the sea.

Zadael's hair had grown longer and wilder. He had always kept it close-cropped, but here in Spicy Shells there was none to tell him otherwise. He went to a quiet place near the harbor to trim it, not wanting to be a spectacle in the tavern. The scissors felt awkward in his large hands, and he ended up a bit uneven, but it suited him. The long, wavy locks made him look more like a pirate, more fearsome, and the walrus mustache and chin beard gave a touch of maturity to his otherwise youthful-looking face.

It was quite a contrast to the buzzcut he'd sported when he first arrived.

At the stool nearest the bar, Zadael found Grog polishing a mug with a tattered cloth, a knowing smile playing on his grizzled lips. It was quieter than usual in the tavern for the night, and had cleared out early.

"So, Zadael," Grog began, his eyes ablaze from the whiskey he had been nursing, "you're a man of destiny, for sure. But you'll need more than muscle to find the One Piece."

Zadael nodded solemnly, his massive frame seeming to slump slightly under the weight of Grog's words. He had been thinking the same thing; his size was an advantage and a hindrance in equal measure.

"I've seen how you wield that wooden weapon," Grog continued, waving the mug he'd been polishing. "It's all brawn and that won't do. You need a weapon that plays to your size, something to give you the edge without making you too predictable."

Zadael took a sip from his own mug, the cool liquid quenching his thirst but not his curiosity. He knew of those legendary pirates Grog had spoken of: Whitebeard with his mighty Gura Gura no Mi and naginata; Kaido with his dragon form and the kanabo.

"What do you propose?" he asked, his deep voice booming through the tavern.

Grog leaned forward, the fumes of whiskey wafting up into the air toward Zadael. "Find your way to your weapon," he said, boring his gaze into Zadael. "Only you can decide what suits your soul, lad. It's not just about power but how you wield it."

A surge of resolution ran through Zadael. He knew the crusty old pirate was right: to be a great warrior of the sea, he had to develop more than just brutish strength; finesse and strategy that could come only from a weapon that was an extension of his own spirit. He slammed his mug down. "I'll do it," he said, rising. "I'll find a weapon that's truly mine."

With a nod of approval, Grog handed him the whiskey. "Here, take this with you. It'll loosen your thoughts, but don't let it dull your senses. The sea doesn't wait for the drunk to sober up." The night had wrapped Spicy Shells in a placid embrace as Zadael emerged from "The Leaking Kraken." Wet cobblestone streets reflected the soft light of the moon above, while buildings rose high; their long shadows stretched out like dark sentinels, watching over the quiet city. The cries of seagulls echoed through the alleys, and the distant sound of the waves dashing against the shore acted as a gentle reminder as to his purpose. The air was cooler than normal with a faint smell of salt and fish from the market.

The whiskey warmed his belly as Zadael walked down to the harbor, the wooden planks creaking beneath his feet in time with his heavy steps. The whiskey had indeed loosened his thoughts, and his mind began to wander to the weapon he so dearly sought. He did not want something to kill easily; he wanted a tool that could disable, a weapon that would reflect his own reluctance to kill. He could picture in his mind a large rectangular block attached to a sturdy green hilt.

The design was simple yet effective at delivering a bone-crushing effect without spilling blood. Its weight would be considerable in his hand—a solid reminder of the power he had in his possession and the responsibility that he would have to face.

When he reached the water's edge, the moon was riding high in the sky, its silvery light rippling with the waves. He breathed in deeply, the tang of salt in the air, before he heaved the now-empty whiskey bottle into the sea. It smashed into the rocks with a satisfactory sound, fragments of glass spinning into the dark waters. The mingling of the fumes of the alcohol with the sea breeze created a heady perfume, calling out what seemed the very essence of the ocean.

Zadael closed his eyes and bowed his head in silent prayer.

It was a gesture he had not made in a long time, not since his mother held his hand and whispered words of hope into his ear as a child. Now, though, as a man setting out on his own journey, he felt the sudden need to seek guidance from whatever forces might be listening.

As he prayed, he felt something come alive inside of him, a warmth spreading from the bottom of his stomach to the ends of his fingers. When he opened his eyes, he saw that his form was outlined in soft blue light, and the air became still, as if it was holding its breath.

The Lord had awakened within him, and the world around him shifted ever so subtly yet profoundly. The whispers of the waves grew louder; the stars in the sky seemed closer, and the fabric of reality felt… moldable. It was power he had not anticipated, and for a moment, Zadael was taken aback by the sheer weight of it all.

When he awoke the next morning, the tavern was already stirring. Grog was busy serving breakfast; the smell of eggs and ham filled the air. Zadael's dreams had been alive with vivid battles and adventure, always accompanied by the weapon he had envisioned constantly in his mind.

He had hoped they were just that—dreams—but as he climbed the stairs to his room, he found the object of his desire waiting for him, propped against his door. For the block of metal was real, its exact dimensions and weight as he had imagined, with a hilt wrapped in green leather, the blade unblemished, shining with the first light of morning. Reaching out, he took it in his hands with a sense of awe, and the power coursed through him as if the weapon itself had answered his prayer, coming into being from the very bowels of his soul. Grog looked down at him with a knowing smile as he came down the stairs, the weapon in hand. "Looks like someone was blessed by the sea last night," he said, not a hint of surprise in his voice.

Zadael nodded, still awed by the heavy block of metal that now felt as if it were an extension of his arm. He swung it around experimentally, the weight perfectly balanced. The green leather of the hilt was already molding to the shape of his hand, as if it had been made for him alone.

"Aye, it seems I've been," he muttered, trying to wrap his head around the implications of this newfound ability. The Lord was more than a dream—he was reality, a gift through which he might shape Zadael's destiny. He knew he wasn't something to be used as a tool, but the thought of possibilities intoxicates.

He found a quiet corner in the busy tavern and began to test the weapon, his movements fluent and deliberative. He could feel, with every swing he made, the power of his prayers flowing into the metal, imbuing it with might that was more than the sum of its physical form. He tested its might against the wooden chairs and tables, the resounding thumps echoing through the room, drawing curious glances from the early patrons.

The weapon he'd summoned soon came to represent his new potency and identity. The people of Spicy Shells had taken to calling it the "Prayer's Maul," not knowing the truth behind the relic. To them, it was a legendary blade, a charm that could slice any hindrance. With every whispered tale and awestruck glance, Zadael felt a ballooning sense of responsibility.

He knew the power was in him, not in the sword, yet he allowed the myth to grow. It was a means of keeping the Lord a secret, a way of making sure that only those who truly understood his nature could tap into his might.

The day of departure was getting closer, and with it came the excitement over all that lay ahead.

Lila had told him his ship was ready, strong enough to face the most vicious of storms and the most terrifying of sea monsters. Zadael had spent every waking moment with her, learning the intricacies of shipbuilding and navigation. Her knowledge was boundless; love for the craft infectious. He had come to respect her as much as a master shipwright, albeit one who shared in chasing the dream.

When he went to take his leave, she looked him up and down, her eyes touching on the Prayer's Maul at his side. "That's quite the weapon you've got there," she said, gruff with admiration.

"It chose me," Zadael said, rapping the hilt. "It's time for me to take my leave, Lila."

The shipwright looked him dead in the eye, her gaze not wavering. "Aye, I can see that," she said. "You've got the look of a man who's found his path. Just keep in mind, though, the sea's a fickle mistress. Treat her with respect, and maybe she'll show you some mercy."

Zadael nodded solemnly, his hand firm on the Prayer's Maul. "I will," he said. "And I won't forget what you've taught me."

Lila's eyes softened, and a smile crept onto her lips—rare to see. "You're going to make a fine captain, Zadael," she said, her weathered hand patting him in a way that was firm on his shoulder. "Now get out of here before I start crying. I've got work to do, and I can't have you turn this shipyard into a sob fest."

Zadael let out a chuckle, surprised at the pang of sadness he felt. He had grown to care about Lila; under her tough exterior lay a heart of gold. "Fair winds and calm seas to you, Lila," he said, his voice thick with emotion.

"And to you, lad," she said, her own eyes misting slightly. "Now go on, don't keep the ocean waiting."

With a final nod, Zadael turned and strode through the tavern, his heavy boots clomping against the floorboards. The patrons looked up from their drinks, whispers of his impending departure hanging in the air. Grog, ever stoic, waited by the bar, glanced up from his mug, and offered a firm handshake.

"You've got what it takes, Zadael," Grog said, his eyes reflecting the flicker of the candle light. "Don't you forget that."

"I won't," Zadael said, his voice reassuring as his grip was tight. "This place, this tavern. it's been a haven for me. You've all been like family."

Grog's grin grew. "Aye, and don't you forget it. You're ever welcome back at The Leaking Kraken with stories of your adventures or just to rest your weary bones."

The crew he'd managed to scrape together was a motley bunch: a selection of hopefuls and veterans drawn by his quiet confidence and the promise of treasure beyond their wildest imaginings. They stood on the docks as early morning light played across their faces, readying themselves to set sail on a ship now emblazoned with the name "Zadael's Zenith" in bold, gold letters across its prow.

"All hands on deck!" Zadael bellowed, his deep voice carrying over the din of the harbor as the crew scurried to their stations. They were a mix of species, from mostly burly humans to the rare but nimble minkfolk, each with their own stories of hardship and ambition. They had come to Spicy Shells seeking fortune, and in Zadael they found a leader they believed could deliver it.

The ship groaned as it pulled on toward the dock, ropes creaking and its wooden hull scraping against worn timber. Zadael gripped the helm, his heart hammering in his chest. He had never captained a ship before, yet as he grasped the worn steering wheel, suddenly the power of the Lord swelled up through him, imbuing him with an unexpected confidence that was at once both shocking and exhilarating.

"All right, mates," he bellowed to his crew over the light lapping of the waves. "We've got a long way to go. We're looking for adventure, treasure, and a little infamy on the way." The crew looked up at him with a mix of excitement and trepidation. A few had seen battle; the others hadn't left their mother's side before signing up. All, though, held one thing in common: hope that Zadael could lead them to their dreams.

"Let's get to know each other," Zadael announced, his green eyes glinting with mirth. "Line up, and we'll see who's got the stuff for the open water." He swung the Prayer's Maul up onto his shoulder, where the metal was shining in the early light. The crew looked at one another, some of them grinning in anticipation, while others swallowed hard.

They began to step forward, one at a time, raring at the chance to prove themselves to their new captain: humans with rough-hewn faces and scars from past battles; the lithe minkfolk, moving with a predatory grace; even a couple of sea giants, each of whom dwarfed Zadael. They swung their cutlasses and roared their challenges, each more ferocious than the last.

"Alright, lads and lasses, show me what you're made of," Zadael bellowed, a fiery glint in his eye. His voice boomed across the deck, and the sea itself seemed to hold its breath.

The first to step forward was a wizened pirate by the name of Bonesaw Bill. His visage had been carved by gales from countless battles, and his reputation preceded him for his vicious cutlass skills. He eyed Zadael and the Prayer's Maul with caution, knowing size did not always equate to strength. "You want to see what we're made of?" Bill sneered, his teeth gleaming in the early light. "I'll show you what fear really is, boy."

Bill charged toward Zadael with a roar, his cutlass hissing through the air like a serpent. Zadael's eyes narrowed, and with a gentle swing of his hand, the Prayer's Maul swung down, greatly misleading in size. There was a loud clang of metal striking metal as the maul connected with the blade, and a shower of sparks appeared out of the contact area. The force behind the blow was so heavy that Bill stumbled backward, his face registering a mixture of shock and awe.

"You've got spirit," Zadael said, his voice a low rumble. "But can you keep it up when the seas are against us?"

Bill, still panting and a little unstable on his feet, glared up at the giant captain but knew better than to argue. He had seen men with half the size and none of the finesse take down whole ships single-handedly. If this was the kind of strength Zadael brought to the table, then he was more than happy to serve under him.

Next in line was a young mink; her eyes were aglow with excitement. She was lithe as a cat, and strong as a dozen men. Her name was Tessa, and she burned to prove herself.

"You're next." Zadael called out, his voice a thunderclap that silenced the murmurs of the crew. The young mink stepped forward, her tail swishing in anticipation. She had grown up listening to tales of fierce pirate battles and had been yearning to prove herself in combat. "I'm ready, Captain," she said, trying to sound brave even though her heart was pounding.

Zadael nodded, his eyes assessing. "Let us see what you are, Tessa." He swung the Prayer's Maul in a lazy arc, its weight seemingly defying gravity in his powerful grasp. Tessa sprang to the side, her paws blurred as she targeted his legs, her claws glinting dangerously. But Zadael was faster than he looked.

With a roar, he brought the maul down, and the very air seemed to shudder as he arrested its fall, scant inches from her. She leaped back, barely clearing the blow.

"Good," he grunted, his eyes gleaming with approval. "But not good enough." He took a step forward, the boards of the ship groaning beneath his massive boots. Tessa's eyes turned steely, her teeth bared as she took a defensive stance. The crew watched with their hearts in their throats as the two of them circled each other.

Save for the slap of the waves against the hull of the ship and the harsh breathing of the combatants, there was little other sound, for the tension in the air was almost palpable. 

With a roar, Tessa launched herself at Zadael again, claws out in deadly dance. But the captain was prepared, his maul swinging in a gracious arc, countering every move she made. Each time she struck, it found only air, and each time he swung, she barely managed to avoid the crushing blow. 

"You're fast, girl," Zadael grunted, his eyes never leaving hers. "But you've got to be more than that if you're going to survive in this world." Tessa's eyes blazed and she sucked in a deep breath, pooling her strength. She couldn't hope to meet him in brute force, but she did possess speed. 

With a howl, she flung herself at Zadael once more, claws wheeling in whirlwind steel. She aimed again, trying to get him off guard. But the captain's reflexes were lightning-quick, and in his free hand he snatched the paw of hers, holding it firmly but not painfully. "Fear is a good teacher, Tessa," he said, his voice calm despite the vicious fight. "But it's not the only one." 

He twisted his grip, and she yelped, dropping to the deck. He offered his hand to help her up, and she took it, though her pride was bruised. 

One by one, the crew stepped forward, each one eager to take up the challenge. Zadael met them with a steely gaze and a swing of the Prayer's Maul that never seemed to tire. They flung themselves into the fray, some having more enthusiasm than skill, others acting with a cunning that surprised him, but in the end, none could best him. 

"You're all strong," Zadael said, his breathing a little labored from the effort. "However, strength is not just a matter of muscles; it's the will to keep going even when all hope seems lost." His eyes scanned over the defeated pirates and minks, searching for signs of resentment or anger. Instead, he saw something else: respect. 

"Now that we have seen what you're made of," Zadael announced, "it is time for us to set sail." The crew, while bruised, nodded in unison, for they knew the captain was testing them, pushing them till their limits were reached so he could understand their potential. The fear they felt was not just for his overwhelming power but for the trials ahead that they had encountered before. 

​They knew not all of them was going to make it, but they also knew with Zadael at the helm, they had a fighting chance.​ Before they left the dock, Zadael took a moment of silence, eyes closed, his grip tightening on the Prayer's Maul. It was a silent, quick prayer, one that only he could hear. He prayed for their safety—that the Lord give them the strength to overcome all that lay ahead, together with the wisdom to navigate these troubled waters of pirate life. 

But deep down, he also prayed for the innocents they would meet, those whose lives would never be changed by the cruel tides of fate. The One Piece show had painted a picture of adventure and camaraderie, but the reality was far more brutal. Zadael was sure that in his years of searching for this mythical treasure, he would make decisions that would haunt him and take lives that had never sought his. Heavier than the knowledge sat upon his shoulders, yet he did push it aside for the time being. He had a crew to lead, a ship to command, and a destiny to forge.

The morning following the sparring, Zadael called the crew unto the deck, his voice bellowing across the harbor. "Gather around!" His gaze spun to the motley group, taking in the bruises and cuts acquired the previous day. "Today, we organize ourselves into the roles that fit our strengths. Those who can fight will be our warriors, protecting us from the dangers of the sea. And those who cannot will be the lifeblood of this ship: the cooks, the navigators, the repairmen-each as vital as the muscle that swings the sword."

Mumbles spread, and some of them looked at their calloused hands, others at their still shaking fists. First to step forward were the sea giants, and with their towering form, casting the shade upon the rest, came the deep voice: "We fight." Zadael inclined his head; his eyes shone with respect. They would be his vanguard-breaking enemy lines with their might.

Next came the few but agile minks, sharp-eyed and quick on their feet, offering their services of recon and stealth. They would be the eyes and ears of the ship, sliding through the night to gather intelligence and deliver silent justice. Tessa, the young mink who had sparred earlier, stepped forward with a proud nod. The new respect for the captain showed in the tilt of her head; her tail swished behind her confidently.

The human pirates were many in number, though battered from the too many skirmishes against Zadael; they knew their places. Some found their worth on the battlefield, others knew their value lay elsewhere. It was at this junction that a suggestion came forth from one of the pirates-a man with a heart of gold: "I've got a knack for cookin' up a storm, Cap'n." Cookie's voice, though rough, held a tone of hope. "I can keep the crew fed and happy, even through the worst of storms."

Zadael looked upon Cookie with a thoughtful look, for morale was as important as a sword arm. "Very well." he rumbled, "You shall be our cook. You keep our bellies full and I'll keep us afloat."