It had been a week since the day Gol D. Roger was executed.
The crowds still buzzed, but the energy had shifted. The moment Roger spoke his final words, something deep was awakened—not just in Toma, but in nearly everyone who heard him.
Toma still remembered himself standing there, long after most of the crowd had dispersed. The sound of Roger's voice echoed endlessly in his mind:
"You want my treasure? You can have it. I left everything I gathered in one place. Go and find it…"
Toma whispered to himself, "He created a storm that is impossible to stop."
In the days since, the execution platform and the area around it were placed under strict Marine control. Uniformed officers patrolled constantly. Tourists came to see the spot where the Pirate King died. But more than that—more than fear or curiosity—what began to grow in the streets of Loguetown was ambition.
Civilians began whispering the words Grand Line with a hunger never seen before. The once-quiet town had transformed into a chaotic dream-market—people shouting about becoming pirates, setting sail, chasing the fabled treasure of the Pirate King: One Piece.
Somewhere in that chaos, Toma finally felt it—this world was truly One Piece now.
He finally realized why he hadn't heard anything about pirates for the past three years. He cursed his past self again—not for dying, not for forgetting faces—but for not remembering the timing. The execution marked the beginning. Roger's death was page one of the age of pirates.
"That's why the newspapers were quiet," he muttered, walking through the crowd. "Because the storm hadn't started yet."
That night, the sea howled across the docks. Lanterns swayed in the wind. Toma sat beneath one such lantern, just outside a noisy tavern filled with drunkards, fishermen, and wide-eyed dreamers. Inside were people of all kinds—tough-faced men who'd fought sea kings, boys who'd never even touched a real ship, and girls with swords strapped to their backs, all chasing something impossible.
Toma opened his journal—the same one where he kept Kaia's letter. He flipped to a fresh page and wrote:
Day Zero – The Great Pirate Era Begins
I watched it happen. I felt the world tilt.
I don't have a crew or a ship yet.
But I have a promise, and a dream.
And now, I know what direction to chase it in.
He paused, letting the ink dry, then beneath the entry he wrote his name—not just a name, but a declaration:
Arman D. Toma
Toma – For the promise he made to the real Toma: to complete the dream of sailing the world.
D – For the fire of respect he carried for Luffy. Because of Luffy, he had survived his past life.
Arman – For his own soul. His own dream. To live and explore this world as more than a visitor.
He closed the book gently and looked at the moon above. Half-covered in drifting clouds, it seemed to be thinking along with him.
"Arman D. Toma," he said aloud. "Time to move."
The next morning, he rose before the sky turned gold. At the harbor, the world was already in motion. Dozens of ships—big and small—were preparing to leave. Young pirates argued over sails. Marines marched in tight lines, inspecting vessels, checking for wanted criminals.
The air was full of purpose and tension.
Toma didn't go to the ships—not yet. Instead, he walked through the misty back alleys to the forge district.
The old forge he entered was dim, its fire glowing like an ember in a dying dragon's throat. Inside, an old man with a long scar across his cheek and burn marks on both arms worked beside molten steel, shaping metal with a quiet fury.
Toma stepped in and placed a small pouch of saved coins on the table. He also laid down a folded paper: a rough design.
Not a sword. Not a katana or saber.
A short, straight staff with iron grip bands, and two small, sharp hand-axes. Simple. Balanced. Dangerous.
"I need this," Toma said. "Light. Durable. Balanced for both hands. Don't make it fancy—just make it real."
The blacksmith looked up, his eyes weathered and deep.
"Pirate?" he asked.
Toma gave a tired smile. "No. Just a lad with big dreams... and a few promises to keep."
The old man didn't speak again. He only gave a small grunt and returned to his forge. Toma took that as a yes and turned to leave.
He spent the rest of the day buying supplies. Rope. A flint box. A compass. A Log Pose from a traveling merchant who clearly didn't understand its true worth. Dried food, and a spare coat for stormy days.
But when he returned to the docks—coin pouch almost empty—he realized a new problem.
He couldn't afford a ship.
Not even the smallest, oldest, rusted dinghy.
Still, he didn't stop. He asked around in the smaller, older docks near the fishing lanes. The kind where no official ships went. Where deals were made with handshakes, not paperwork.