While there was still time before departure to sea, I focused on preparations—checking the equipment, sorting through my tools, mentally running through possible scenarios.
What if the ship changes course?
What if someone dives down to inspect the hull?
What if the mounting doesn't hold against the waves?
I analyzed each possibility like a chess player, calculating moves in advance.
More than three hours passed. Inside the capsule, silence reigned, disturbed only by the soft, muffled swaying on the waves. There wasn't much to do—everything was working perfectly. I started to doze off, drifting between light sleep and tense anticipation. But suddenly, the capsule jerked sharply.
"There we go," I muttered and immediately darted to the periscope.
The image outside shimmered in the water, but it was clear: the merchant ship had started to move. I saw the pier slowly retreating. Everything looked normal—no signs of alarm above, no indication that anyone had noticed an uninvited "passenger."
About half an hour after departure, the shore finally disappeared over the horizon. The island's outline dissolved into a bluish haze, leaving everything familiar behind. I watched a little longer as the ship's trembling silhouette drifted lazily forward, and eventually, I got bored. The endless stretch of water was lulling.
I decided to rest a bit. The sleeping compartment was literally a step away—a small but cozy nook, lined with soft padding and securing straps. I nestled inside, stretched out on the improvised bed, and closed my eyes. At that moment, I felt something strange—as if I wasn't sailing, but flying, suspended somewhere between shadow and water.
The day passed in a semi-sleep. I dozed, sometimes falling into deep slumber, sometimes waking at every creak of the hull. I checked the sub a few times—propellers, ventilation, tension of the fastenings. Everything worked as it should. The rope connecting the capsule to the ship's keel remained in place, and that brought a sense of calm.
Waking closer to evening, the first thing I did was look through the periscope, then at the ropes. All normal. The rope was taut, the structure held. I found a dry piece of bread I had left in the morning and tossed it into my mouth, washing it down with water from my flask.
Silence fell, and in that silence, I drifted into thought.
I'd been working toward this for four years. All that time—training, experiments, mistakes.
But physical conditioning was the first goal: I knew that without a strong body—without muscles, reflexes, endurance—even the most powerful fruit becomes useless. But alongside that, I dedicated myself to understanding the nature of my Fruit—the Bane Bane no Mi.
I tested its limits, searched for logic in how it worked, tried to grasp the mechanics.
Where does the line lie between body and spring?
What affects the recoil force?
How fast can I compress and uncoil?
I approached my abilities not as magic, but as a system—a mechanism that could be mastered, refined, and turned into the perfect weapon.
Over time, I conducted small experiments. For instance, I was curious about how seawater affects Fruit users, so I drank seawater—carefully, in microdoses, under controlled conditions. The result was predictable: even a drop caused a sharp loss of strength, as if all energy was instantly drained from me. My body went limp, fingers stopped responding—but I kept my consciousness. That was the point of the test—to understand how quickly and strongly sea energy suppresses Fruit powers.
I made notes. The effect is nearly instantaneous, but if the amount of water is tiny—it's short-lived. After a couple of minutes, control returned. That meant my body had, however weak, a degree of adaptation. Maybe, over time, I could increase it. Or at least learn to recover faster.
Then I ran another test. I dipped only my fingers—transformed into springs—into seawater. The moment they touched the salty liquid, I immediately felt the strength leave those parts— the springs wavered, dissolved back into flesh, then drooped as if the muscles refused to respond. But the rest of my body remained functional—I could move, think, breathe.
This observation was key: seawater's effect only hit the parts of the body actively using the Fruit's power. The rest, untouched by transformation, kept normal mobility and sensitivity. That meant one thing—with partial use of abilities, I could minimize the sea's harm, carefully controlling activation.
But it was then I noticed something strange.
The hand dipped in water had already returned to its normal form—flesh and bone, nothing unusual. But, driven by impulse, I tried to stretch the fingers of my other hand forward, as I would in spring mode... and they responded. Not with the same ease, not as swiftly as before, but something had changed in their movement: as if the spring impulse was still lingering inside, like the tissue structure was trying, for a moment, to behave like a compressed coil. The extension was shallow, inefficient, but it was there.
I immediately pulled my hand from the water and froze.
It seemed the body had begun to absorb the Fruit's nature even outside active use. I had sensed it before—a light bounce, a subtle flexibility when I moved quickly—but now it was confirmed. Useless in battle for now, maybe just a slight boost to elasticity or resistance to blunt impacts, but... in the future, who knows. Maybe I could train my body to behave like a living spring on its own.
But there was another training path.
I secretly studied the fighting styles of known fighters, especially Luffy—his insane, stretching battle manner resembled my Fruit. I started adapting his techniques into a spring format, shaping them to match my mechanics. Who would know it's a copy if I do it first?
That's how my first simple techniques were born:
• Bane Bane no Mi – Spring Pistol — a standard, sharp punch launched via compression.
• Bane Bane no Mi – Spring Whip — a long, whipping arc strike, like a steel chain.
• Bane Bane no Mi – Spring Shot — a linear, accelerating strike with a foot or fist.
But all that was just the foundation. Over four years, I began developing a technique that could become my signature. A technique requiring perfect Fruit control, instant reaction, split-second timing. Its execution was still far from ideal. But if I mastered it—it would change the course of any fight.
Such a technique is not possessed by any other person; it is unique to this fruit.