The rhythmic sound of waves crashing against the hull of the warship was the first thing Victor heard when he awoke.
The scent of salt filled the air, and a dull throbbing pain crawled through every bone in his body. He blinked slowly, vision adjusting to the soft sunlight pouring through the porthole beside his bunk. Clean white sheets. Bandages wrapped tight around his chest and arms. His body felt foreign — stiff, sore, but alive.
Alive…
A memory surged — fire, screaming, Shimura's bloodied face, his own useless limbs trembling as pirates razed everything around him.
Victor shot up with a gasp, only for pain to lance through his side. He bit back a scream.
"You're awake," came a gruff voice.
Standing at the doorway, arms crossed, was Vice Admiral Monkey D. Garp.
Victor blinked. The memories returned, more clearly now — the colossal man with the white coat and the scarred knuckles who had pulled him from the ashes.
Garp stepped forward, grabbing a chair and sitting beside the bed with a heavy thud. "You've been out for three days. Tough little bastard, aren't ya?"
Victor tried to speak, but his throat was dry.
Garp tossed him a bottle of water. "Drink. You'll need your strength."
Victor obeyed, hands trembling slightly as he sipped. The water felt like heaven on his tongue.
"Your island…" Garp's voice turned serious. "We buried the dead. Gave them a proper send-off. We couldn't save anyone else."
Victor said nothing. He just stared at the floor, fists clenched.
Garp watched him in silence, then sighed. "What happened back there… it wasn't your fault, kid."
"I was weak," Victor rasped, voice hoarse. "I couldn't move… I couldn't save her…"
Garp's brows furrowed. "You are still a kid..You're still breathing. That's not weakness — that's survival."
Victor looked up at him, eyes shimmering with silent rage and grief. "Then I want to be strong. Strong enough that no innocent falls under my watch. Ever again."
The old man raised an eyebrow, then grinned. "Now that… is a dream worth chasing."
He stood, cracking his knuckles. "So, what's your name, boy?"
"…Victor," he muttered. "Leonhart D. Victor."
Garp's eyes widened slightly at the D. A quiet pause stretched between them before the Vice Admiral chuckled. "Well, well. Looks like destiny's not done stirring things up."
He turned toward the door. "Come. Once you can walk, you're training with me."
Victor blinked. "What?"
"You said you want to protect the weak, right?" Garp smirked. "Then get up. Real strength isn't just muscle — it's will. And from what I saw back on that island, you've got enough of it to shake the seas."
He paused at the doorway.
"One more thing. If you're gonna walk this path, know this — the world isn't kind to heroes. You'll bleed. You'll fall. But if you keep getting back up…"
"…you might just become the man this world desperately needs."
With that, Garp vanished down the hall, his booming laughter echoing behind him.
Victor sat alone for a moment, staring at his bandaged hands.
The pain was still there. So was the grief.
But something new burned beneath the surface now — not hatred.
Resolve.
He slid out of bed slowly, body screaming in protest. But he stood.
He stood.
One trembling foot forward.
Then another.
As he took his first step out of the infirmary and into the blazing sun of the main deck, one thought echoed in his mind:
I will become the symbol of peace. And no innocent, under my watch, shall fall.
The warship cut steadily through the waves, its massive sails billowing against the wind as seagulls cried overhead. For the crew, it was a routine return to Marineford. But for one boy aboard that ship, it was the beginning of a transformation.
Victor stood on the main deck, shirt soaked with sweat, face smeared with dirt, arms trembling as he pushed against the ground for the hundredth time that morning.
"Push-ups! Until you collapse! Then get back up and do them again!" Garp's voice bellowed like thunder. "You wanna be strong? Then earn it!"
Victor didn't answer. He didn't cry. He didn't whimper. He just gritted his teeth and kept going.
One push-up.
Then another.
Then ten.
Then fifty.
Even when his arms felt like lead and his vision blurred from exhaustion, he refused to stop.
The Marines onboard watched in disbelief. Most recruits began real training at fifteen — teenagers with basic physical aptitude and the stubbornness of youth. But this was an eight-year-old. A child.
"Is he insane?" one whispered.
"That kid hasn't said a word all morning," another murmured. "Just keeps training."
But Garp knew better. He didn't coddle Victor. Didn't give him special treatment. Not once did he say, "You're too young."
Because in Victor, he saw something rare — a quiet storm. A spirit unshaken by trauma, unbreakable even in the wake of tragedy.
"Strength isn't just about fists!" Garp yelled during hand-to-hand combat drills, smacking Victor to the deck with one of his legendary punches — pulled, of course, but still enough to make the boy taste blood.
"Strength is here!" Garp pointed to his chest. "Your heart — your will! That's what keeps you standing when your body's ready to give in!"
Victor wiped the blood from his mouth. "Again," he muttered.
Garp blinked, then grinned. "Heh… just like I thought."
Training on the warship became his world.
Morning: push-ups, sit-ups, squats.
Afternoon: combat drills.
Evening: running laps around the deck until the sun dipped below the horizon.
Night: meditation, recovery, and eating like a starving lion — Garp always made sure his plate was full.
No matter how hard it got, Victor never once complained. Not when he vomited from exhaustion. Not when he passed out mid-run and woke up only to continue again. Not even when Garp made him spar against full-grown recruits twice his size.
"What kind of monster is that kid?" a young Marine muttered after getting knocked back by a punch from the eight-year-old.
"He's not a monster," Garp said, arms crossed, watching from above. "He's what a hero looks like before he earns the title."
Victor wasn't strong yet. His punches were weak. His footwork clumsy. He lacked speed and finesse.
But what he did have — was heart.
And heart, Garp believed, was something that couldn't be taught.
One night, as they approached the Grand Line's edge, Victor sat alone near the bow of the ship, staring up at the stars. His hands were raw, wrapped in bandages. His knees bruised and aching.
Garp approached, arms behind his back.
"You don't talk much, do ya?"
Victor didn't answer.
Garp chuckled and sat beside him, his massive frame nearly eclipsing the boy's.
"You know, when I first joined the Marines, I wasn't the strongest either. Got my butt kicked a lot. But I had something they didn't."
Victor looked up. "What?"
"I refused to give up," Garp said simply. "That's all it takes, really. People think it's Devil Fruits, or crazy power, or bloodlines that make you great…"
He shook his head.
"…but the truth is, the ones who change the world are the ones who stand back up, no matter how many times they're knocked down."
Victor nodded slowly, the words burning into his soul.
Garp grinned. "You've already taken the first step, Victor. You're not a Marine yet… but you've got what most Marines spend years trying to find."
"What's that?" Victor asked.
Garp placed a hand over the boy's heart. "Purpose."
They sat in silence after that, watching the stars drift across the night sky.
And below the surface, something was changing in Victor — his pain no longer felt like a curse.
It felt like fuel.