James was currently on burpee number two hundred and thirty-two, bouncing up from the floor of their wooden cabin with the kind of exaggerated effort only a determined toddler could muster. His breath came out in soft little huffs, his cheeks flushed from the effort. Each drop and jump ended with a wobbly stand, arms flailing slightly for balance, but he kept going. His goal was exhaustion.
He was "playing Marine"—or at least, that's what he'd told his parents with a bright, toothy grin earlier that morning. To them, it was adorable pretend play. To James, it was a serious workout regimen. After all, real Marines didn't slack, and if he was going to wear that coat of justice one day, he had to start early.
At almost two years old, soon to be three- next week in fact. James was definitely something else. well ahead of the curve vs others his age. A bit of a freak, sure, but in a world where pink hair, giants, and sword-wielding cooks existed, standing out wasn't the worst thing. It's not like anyone went around hunting toddlers for being unusually sharp. Right?
So, what if he could talk a little better or had a little more focus.
He had his father's deep red hair—dark and vivid, almost like blood when the light hit it right. But everything else was pure Mom. The emerald green eyes, that fair skin that barely blushed even in the cold, and a tiny but focused scowl that creased his brow whenever he missed a rep. He wore fur clothes his mother had lovingly stitched together from caribou his father hunted across the snowy ridges.
The Whiteland Kingdom was their home—perched high in the far reaches of the North Blue. It was a winterbound land, locked under ice for much of the year. Towering mountains and icy peaks formed its spine, and long stretches of frozen coast framed the kingdom like a jagged crown. Outsiders didn't talk about it much, and the people here didn't mind. Life moved to its own rhythm—slow, cold, but steady.
And James? He had already found his rhythm. Burpee by burpee. Day by day. Preparing for a future that, even at this age, he was determined to meet head-on.
He was constantly playing Marine—or at least, that's what he told people. In truth, "playing" was his cover. Where other kids might chase each other or stack blocks, James dropped down and did pushups. Or, well, something close—knee pushups mostly, since he was still two at the time. But he pushed hard. It was never about pretending. It was training, plain and simple.
Earlier that year, in the spring thaw when the harbor had opened, he'd been brought to town. He'd been barely two, still small in his mother's arms, when he saw it—a real Marine ship docking at the pier. He remembered the moment clear as day.
"Who are they?" he had asked, pointing with a mittened hand as uniformed figures marched off the deck.
"Marines," his mother had said, watching them fondly.
The group had been standard—blue uniforms, rifles slung over shoulders—but the captain stood out. Pale. Skinny. So tall he looked like he belonged in a different species. And he wore a stark white eyepatch that made James stare. He looked serious. Sharp. Like he'd been through things.
James had asked more questions: "What do they do? How can I be one?"
His parents hadn't laughed. They respected the Marines. His father, a hunter, simply ruffled his hair. His mother had said something that stuck.
"You'd have to be very strong to join."
That was all the permission James needed.
From then on, every day became a mission. He turned training into a game. Burpees on the fur rug. Crawls across the cold floor. Marches through the snow banks behind the cabin. When asked, he grinned and said he was just playing Marine.
But deep down, he wasn't playing.
He was preparing.
James collapsed onto the cabin floor, his breath coming in steady pulls. His arms and legs felt heavy, the kind of tired that settled deep. The wood beneath him was cool against his flushed skin. His little chest rose and fell as he laid there, staring up at the rafters above.
By the stove, his mother stirred a pot, the smell of seal stew drifting through the room like a promise. She glanced over her shoulder, a flicker of warmth in her eyes.
"How's my little Marine doing?"
"Good," James said, voice thin but proud. He didn't rise just yet. His legs still hummed from the effort, a burning reminder of the work he'd put in. He had thrown himself into the training again today—knee pushups, squat hops, anything that got him stronger. He'd long since stopped calling it play.
As he caught his breath, his thoughts began to wander.
Still no sign of the system. Nothing strange in his dreams. No strange doors or messages. But he believed it would come. He could feel it somewhere just beyond reach. The kind of belief you carried in your bones.
And if it meant seeing that strange man again, he could live with that. The one with the grin and the way of speaking like the world was his game board. James couldn't remember his name—if he ever gave it—but the image remained clear. If meeting him again opened the way, then so be it. The chance to grow stronger was worth it.
Outside, the dogs began to bark. Not their bored, restless sound—this was sharper, full of movement. The kind they made when someone familiar came close.
James pushed himself up and hurried to the door.
He threw it open and caught a breeze of fresh spring air. There, across the clearing, was his father climbing down from the wagon. The man's heavy boots met the ground with practiced ease. He moved quickly, shoulders squared and eyes set.
James broke into a run, his small legs pumping through the doorway.
His father saw him coming, grinned, and scooped him up into a spinning hug.
"How's my little Marine?" he rumbled, thick red hair catching the light.
James giggled, wrapping his arms around his father's neck. "Getting strong!"
But the usual playfulness didn't linger. His father stepped toward the house right away, his eyes unreadable. The wagon remained in the yard, dogs still yapping as the air settled.
James tilted his head, watching closely. His father carried something in his stride today. Something serious.
James's father pushed through the cabin door, a gust of cool air trailing in behind him. Strangely, he didn't go out back to unhitch the wagon or check on the dogs—tasks he never skipped. James caught the difference right away. His father always said, "Do what you need to do so you can do what you want to do."
His mother noticed too. She turned from the stove, steam rising in soft curls from the pot behind her, brows lifting in concern as Tomas gently set James down.
There was something urgent in the way his father moved—his steps quick, his hands gripping a folded newspaper. His strong, smooth jaw looked tense, like he was barely containing something important.
"Tomas… what is it?" his mother asked, drying her hands on a dishcloth.
He stepped forward, lifting the paper in one hand and unfolding it toward her. "They've got him," he said, voice thick with meaning. "The Pirate King. The Marines caught him. They've announced his execution."
James's eyes widened. That name stirred something in his chest. He glanced toward the newspaper, but it was angled toward his mother—he couldn't see the front page from where he stood.
His mother's hand hovered near her chest. "Gold D. Roger?" she asked, her tone shifting with surprise.
"Yes," Tomas said with a nod. "The Hero of the Marines—Garp—faced him in single combat and brought him in. It's in the paper. Just announced."
He offered the page fully to her, and James, still too far to read it clearly, tilted his head. The image was just a blur of print and shape from his angle, but the weight of the moment still sank in. He couldn't read it yet—not from that distance—but he knew this was something the world wouldn't forget- he would try and "play" with it later.
At least, he thought with some relief, the language was English. A small blessing in a world already overflowing with surprises.
His father continued, voice steady but laced with energy. "They're going to stream it across the world—every kingdom, every island. King Iwatobi already declared the square in town will carry it live next week. I spoke with your father—we'll stay with your family while we're there."
His mother let out a long breath, the kind that came from processing something big. She set the dishcloth aside and leaned against the counter, green eyes flicking toward the firelight.
James blinked, taking it all in. So that was it. He would be witnessing the spark, the moment it all began. The birth of the Great Pirate Era.
He rubbed his nose, grinning to himself.
Exciting times indeed.