Chapter 25 – The Chosen Path (1511)

POV: Bastian de Vill

The small island of Ovelia lay far in the southwest corner of West Blue, hidden behind eternal mist and towering cliffs. There was no port, no town—only wild terrain, silence, and the whisper of the wind that endlessly sang through the pine trees. It was here that Bastian, Arthur, and Lazhar had settled—for now—to breathe, to tend to their wounds, and to weave a new direction for their lives.

They had arrived with broken bodies—and even more broken souls. Mad Hat had burned, and within its ashes, a part of Bastian had died with it. He was no longer the boy who had been mugged on his first day, nor the workshop child who enjoyed assembling weapons under Lazhar's watchful eye. Now, he was someone who had seen the world aflame—and felt a responsibility to change it.

"From today on, I'll train you like true crewmates," said Lazhar, his voice rough, but smoldering with fire. "We won't sit idle anymore. You want your own path, Bastian? Then you have to be strong. Strong enough that this world can never crush you again."

Training began before dawn. They rose while the sky was still cloaked in darkness, running through forests, scaling cliffs, holding their breath in ice-cold water. Lazhar trained them with the discipline of a veteran pirate—no compromises, no complaints. And once their bodies began to adapt, the next phase began: Haki.

"Pay attention to everything around you," Lazhar said on the seventh day, his eyes sharp as they watched Bastian. "Close your eyes. Feel it."

Bastian tried. At first, he could only sense the wind, the scent of the earth, the rustling leaves. But slowly, something faint began to emerge—a pressure, a pulse, a tremor of spirit.

"Arthur… five steps behind me?" Bastian guessed hesitantly.

Lazhar nodded. "That's just the beginning. But it's not just about where they are. Feel their intent. Sense the danger."

The training was mentally exhausting. Time and time again, Bastian found himself overwhelmed by frustration—especially when Arthur, ever impulsive, seemed to grasp the subtle shifts in presence faster than he did. But Bastian wasn't one to give up easily. He had once lived in a comfortable world—and he knew this one had no place for the weak. If he wanted to survive—and win—he had to master everything: from haki to ideals.

Between training sessions, Bastian began sketching out the framework of the crew he wished to build one day. Not just powerful people—but those who had reasons to sail. People like him—those who had been stepped on, who had lost. He took notes, shaped ideas, considered directions—like assembling a new kind of weapon. The crew had no names yet, but their philosophy had already begun to carve itself into his mind.

He even created his own symbol: a bird flying free from its cage, wings spread wide. A symbol of freedom. A symbol of resistance against a broken world. Arthur loved the design and started drawing it on the cave walls where they rested.

On the fourteenth night, sitting at the edge of a cliff beneath the stars, Bastian asked his teacher:

"Lazhar… why did you save me back then, in Mad Hat?"

Lazhar looked at him for a long while, as if searching for a truth deeper than words. "Because you reminded me of someone... Roger. Not his strength. But his way of seeing the world. That look in your eyes that wants to change everything."

Bastian lowered his gaze, gripping the handle of the new revolver he had built himself. Inside that weapon was a piece of Lazhar's old gun—a legacy. A vow.

"One day I'll form my own crew," Bastian whispered. "People who've lost their place in the world. I want to create a world where people like me and Arthur don't have to steal just to live."

"And are you ready for everything that will follow?" Lazhar asked quietly.

Bastian took a deep breath and nodded firmly. "I've already seen hell. I won't back down."

A few nights later, as Arthur slept, Bastian studied a worn map spread before him. He began noting down island names, plotting routes—places to recruit crewmates, find clues, gather information. Every point on that map was hope. And every hope was a reason to move.

One morning, Lazhar handed him an old journal. "Roger's travel notes. Incomplete—but enough to give you direction. Don't treat this like a treasure map. Treat it like a whip. Use it to carve your own path."

Bastian opened the first page, eyes scanning the passionate handwriting and small notes about places not marked on any official map. His blood stirred.

"This will be mine," he murmured. "My path will be different. But the footprints will be just as deep."

Far from there, on the deck of a Marine ship, Elyndra Morgrave stood tall in her new uniform. Her eyes pierced the horizon, her hair swaying with the ocean wind. In her heart, a single sentence was etched deep—a principle that had become her soul:

"To dwell in mistakes is evil."

And one day, their paths would cross.