The system text flickered faintly in my vision as the barracks bell rang at 0500 hours sharp, its harsh clang cutting through the pre-dawn darkness like a rusty blade.
First Training Session: Recommended Now
Daily Goal:
• 1km run (Continuous)
• 30 push-ups, 50 sit-ups, 20 pull-ups
• 20 minutes stretching
• 45 minutes combat forms
• Caloric surplus: +500
I groaned, the sound swallowed by the collective misery of forty Marines being dragged from their beds. My ribs felt like someone had stuffed a cactus under my skin, each breath a reminder of yesterday's "lesson" in humility. Still, I rolled off the lumpy mattress and forced myself upright. My legs wobbled like a baby deer's first steps, and I had to grip the rusted bunkpost to stay standing.
The barracks lights flickered on with their usual electrical wheeze. Grumbling filled the room as the other Marine grunts woke and prepared for another day of military monotony. I was invisible to them—a ghost haunting the corners of their peripheral vision. Not that I blamed them. In this world, weakness was contagious, and associating with Windhelm Kael was social suicide.
But as I laced up my worn combat boots, fragments of memories that weren't quite mine surfaced. Kael had tried to make friends once. Three months ago, a transfer named Davies had shown him basic kindness—shared his rations, offered tips during drill. Within a week, Davies was getting the same treatment as Kael. The beatings, the isolation, the constant mockery. Davies learned quickly and cut ties, leaving Kael more alone than ever.
This world operates on pack mentalities, I realized. Show weakness, get devoured. Show strength, earn respect. There's no middle ground.
I slipped out of the barracks before the morning roll call. The courtyard was shrouded in pre-dawn mist, and the salty ocean breeze carried the distant cry of seagulls. Island 17 was aptly named—it was the seventeenth minor Marine outpost in East Blue, a forgotten rock where the Navy dumped failures and misfits. The kind of place that wouldn't make it into any history books.
One kilometer. That was today's goal.
I started running.
"Running" was a generous term for what I was doing. It was more like an extended stumble punctuated by wheezing. The gravel crunched under my feet as I made it past the armory, around the communications tower, toward the perimeter fence. My lungs burned like I was breathing acid.
200 meters in, and I was already questioning my life choices.
400 meters, and I was on my hands and knees, dry-heaving onto the rough stones.
Progress: 0.41km
Form: Severely inefficient
Heart Rate: Dangerously elevated
Suggestion: Focus on controlled breathing. Reduce pace by 40%
Shut up, I thought venomously. I know I'm pathetic.
But I got up. I kept going.
The system wasn't lying about my inefficiency. I was running like someone had never explained the concept to me. My arms flailed uselessly, my breathing was erratic, and my footwork was a disaster. But knowledge and application were two different beasts.
In my previous life, I'd watched enough anime and read enough manga to understand proper running form. Hell, I'd analyzed every aspect of superhuman movement in One Piece. But translating that knowledge into a body that had never exercised properly was like trying to perform surgery with oven mitts.
By the time I staggered past the makeshift 1km marker—a dented signpost near the island's edge—I felt like I'd been fed through a meat grinder. I collapsed by the perimeter fence, legs giving out completely. The world spun violently, and I dry-heaved until my stomach muscles cramped.
Daily Goal: Running ✓
That small green checkmark was the only victory I had to my name. It felt pathetic and monumental at the same time.
The morning drills began at 0630 sharp, announced by Lieutenant Bragga's voice carrying across the courtyard like the roar of an angry sea king. Bragga was built like a brick shithouse—six feet of scarred muscle with a face that looked like it had been used to test cannonballs. He'd served on the Grand Line before being demoted and transferred here for "excessive disciplinary measures." Whatever that meant.
"Form up, you worthless sea slugs! Today we're working on basic combat formations! And I swear by Sengoku's beard, if I see any of you slack off, you'll be scrubbing barnacles off the ship's hull with your tongues!"
Forty Marines fell into formation with practiced efficiency. I stumbled into my usual spot at the back, trying to blend into the crowd. It didn't work.
"Windhelm! Front and center! Let's see if you've learned anything since yesterday's performance!"
My blood turned to ice water. Every eye in the formation turned to me, most filled with pity or amusement. I shuffled to the front, acutely aware of how my uniform hung loose on my malnourished frame.
"Combat Stance One! Move!"
I tried to mirror the stance Bragga demonstrated—feet shoulder-width apart, left foot forward, hands raised in a basic guard. What I achieved was closer to a scarecrow having a seizure.
"No, no, NO!" Bragga stormed over, his massive frame casting a shadow over me. "Your balance is garbage! Your guard is full of holes! You're standing like you're waiting for the executioner's axe!"
He grabbed my arms, roughly adjusting my position. His grip was like steel vises.
"Feet planted! Core engaged! Hands up, not out! You want to block a punch, not hug your opponent!"
I tried to hold the corrected stance, but my muscles weren't used to the positioning. Within seconds, I was wobbling again.
"Pathetic. Roko! Get over here and show this waste of rations what a proper stance looks like!"
Roko stepped forward with a predatory grin. He was everything I wasn't—broad-shouldered, confident, with the kind of easy physicality that came from a lifetime of being naturally gifted. His combat stance was textbook perfect.
"Now, Windhelm, I want you to attack Roko. Use everything you've got."
My stomach dropped. This wasn't training—this was public humiliation disguised as instruction.
"Sir, I don't think—"
"That wasn't a suggestion, grunt! Attack!"
I had no choice. I threw what could generously be called a punch in Roko's direction. My form was atrocious—arm extended too early, no hip rotation, no follow-through. Roko didn't even bother to block. He sidestepped casually and swept my legs out from under me.
I hit the ground hard, gravel biting into my palms. Laughter rippled through the formation.
"Again!" Bragga barked.
This continued for twenty minutes. Twenty minutes of me being systematically dismantled by someone who was barely trying. By the end, I was covered in scrapes and bruises, and Roko looked like he'd just finished a light warm-up.
Combat Instinct: +0.3
Pain Tolerance: +0.1
The system tracked everything, even my growing ability to function while being publicly shamed.
After the morning's torture session, I limped to the mess hall with the rest of the unit. The food situation on Island 17 was, to put it charitably, dire. The Navy allocated minimal resources to minor outposts, and it showed in every watery spoonful of what they optimistically called soup.
My tray contained: one ladle of gray broth with mysterious floating chunks, a scoop of rice that had been cooked to the consistency of paste, and a single piece of dried fish that looked like jerky someone had forgotten in the sun for a month.
I stared at the pitiful meal while my system helpfully calculated the nutritional content:
Estimated Calories: 320
Protein: 12g
Nutritional Deficiency: Severe
Daily Surplus Goal: +500 calories
Current Deficit: -180 calories
At this rate, I'd be weaker in a month, not stronger.
I scanned the mess hall, looking for opportunities. Most Marines ate their full portions—this wasn't exactly a place where people left food behind. But there were always a few exceptions. Hendricks, a nervous guy with a perpetually upset stomach, usually left half his rice. Morrison had mentioned being on a "cutting diet" and often threw away his fish.
When Hendricks abandoned his tray to rush to the bathroom, I casually slid over and scraped his leftovers onto my plate. When Morrison dumped his fish into the waste bin, I waited for him to leave before fishing it out.
Yes, I was eating garbage. Yes, it was humiliating. But survival trumped pride every time.
Caloric Intake Adjusted: +95 calories
Nutritional Status: Still deficient, but improving
That evening, I found myself staring out at the ocean from the island's eastern cliff. The sun was setting, painting the water in shades of gold and crimson. Somewhere out there, Monkey D. Luffy was beginning the adventure that would reshape the world. And I was... what? A background character in his story?
The question that had been gnawing at me finally crystallized: What was I going to do with this second chance?
I could try to join the Straw Hats. But that presented massive problems. First, I'd have to desert from the Marines—making me a wanted criminal before I even reached them. Second, even if I somehow convinced them I wasn't a threat, what could I offer? Luffy's crew wasn't a charity—each member brought unique skills and unwavering dedication to their dreams. Zoro had his swords and unbreakable will. Nami had her navigation genius. Usopp had his marksmanship and inventiveness. What did I have? Secret knowledge that I couldn't explain without sounding insane?
More importantly, traveling with them would mean living constantly on the run, facing the strongest enemies in the world with no time to properly train. I'd be dead weight in every major battle, a liability that could get them killed. That wasn't the kind of "help" anyone needed.
I could try joining the Revolutionary Army. Dragon's organization would eventually play a crucial role in the world's transformation. But again, the same problems applied—they needed skilled operatives, not weak Marines who claimed to know the future. And even if they believed me, I'd be condemning myself to a life as a fugitive, hunted by every Marine in the world before I'd even learned to throw a proper punch.
Or I could strike out as a pirate myself. But the East Blue was about to become a hunting ground for marines trying to make names for themselves by catching the "Straw Hat crew's associates." Every small-time pirate would be scrutinized, and I had neither the strength nor charisma to survive that attention.
No, there was really only one viable path: stay a Marine, but become strong enough to make a difference from within.
The Marines weren't entirely corrupt—there were genuinely good people within the organization. Garp, who valued freedom over blind obedience. Smoker, who pursued his own sense of justice. Tashigi, who sought to protect the innocent. Coby and Helmeppo, who would grow into their roles as principled officers. Even some of the higher-ups had noble intentions, even if their methods were sometimes questionable.
More practically, the Marines offered something I couldn't get anywhere else: time. Time to train properly, access to structured learning, and most importantly, time to grow strong enough to survive this world's dangers. They had libraries full of combat techniques, training facilities, experienced instructors, and eventually—if I proved myself worthy—access to advanced techniques like Rokushiki.
But there was another consideration, one that made my chest tight with a mixture of excitement and terror: positioning. I knew when and where major events would occur. If I could engineer transfers to the right locations at the right times, I could influence outcomes without directly opposing the main characters. I could save lives, prevent tragedies, maybe even help tip the balance in crucial battles.
And beneath all these practical considerations lay a deeper truth—one I barely wanted to admit to myself.
I wanted to be the strongest.
In my previous life, I'd spent countless hours fantasizing about possessing the raw power of this world's top fighters. Whitebeard splitting the sky with a single punch. Mihawk cutting through mountains like paper. Kaido tanking attacks that could level cities and laughing it off. That kind of overwhelming, absolute strength that made the impossible routine.
It wasn't about fame or recognition—it was about the freedom that came with being untouchable. The ability to walk into any situation and know that you could handle whatever came next. To never again feel helpless, never again watch from the sidelines while others shaped the world.
The strongest man in the seas. That's what I wanted to become.
It was an impossible dream for someone starting from where I was. But this world had taught me that impossible dreams had a funny way of coming true for those willing to chase them with everything they had.
But first, I needed to survive long enough to matter.
That night, after lights-out, I snuck back out to the training yard. The moon was full, casting everything in silver light. The air was crisp and cold, carrying the scent of salt and seaweed.
I started with the flexibility routine. My body felt like it was made of rusted metal—every stretch was an exercise in controlled agony. The system provided guidance:
Flexibility Training: Active
Current Range of Motion: 34% of optimal
Focus areas: Hip flexors, hamstrings, shoulders
Recommended duration: 25 minutes
I pushed through each stretch, holding positions until my muscles screamed. Slowly, gradually, I felt some of the tension release. It wasn't much, but it was progress.
Next came strength training. Push-ups first.
I managed three before my arms gave out. Three pathetic, shaking push-ups that barely qualified as half-reps.
Push-up Analysis:
Form: Poor - insufficient depth, improper alignment
Strength deficit: Severe
Recommendation: Modified progression
The system suggested starting with wall push-ups, then incline push-ups against a bench, gradually working toward full push-ups. It was humbling, but logical.
I moved to a nearby wall and began the modified routine. Wall push-ups were easier, allowing me to focus on form rather than just surviving the movement. After twenty wall push-ups, I moved to the bench for inclines.
The incline push-ups were harder, but manageable. I managed fifteen before my form broke down completely.
Endurance: +0.1 points
Sit-ups were next. These were slightly easier—at least I could do them lying down. I managed thirty-eight before my abdominal muscles refused to contract anymore.
Pull-ups were a disaster. The pull-up bar was mounted between two posts near the obstacle course. I jumped up, grabbed the bar, and... hung there like a wet towel. My arms had no strength left after the push-ups, and I couldn't even attempt a single rep.
Pull-up Analysis:
Current capacity: 0 repetitions
Strength deficit: Critical
Recommendation: Assisted progression using resistance bands or partner assistance
I didn't have resistance bands or a partner, but I improvised. Using the bench as a platform, I could reduce the amount of body weight I was lifting. It was still brutally difficult, but I managed five assisted pull-ups before complete failure.
Finally, I moved to combat forms. This was the part I was most nervous about. In theory, I knew dozens of fighting techniques from years of analyzing One Piece battles. In practice, I moved like a scarecrow in a hurricane.
I started with basic punches, throwing combinations at the air. My form was atrocious—wild swings with no technique, no power, no control. But I persevered, trying to remember the fundamentals I'd seen demonstrated.
Combat Form Analysis:
Technique: Abysmal
Power Generation: Minimal
Balance: Unstable
Timing: Non-existent
Overall Rating: 3/100
Harsh but fair. I continued practicing, focusing on one element at a time. First, footwork—small steps, maintaining balance, not overextending. Then arm position—keeping my guard up, elbows in, fists properly formed.
After forty-five minutes of solo combat practice, I was drenched in sweat despite the cool night air. My movements were still terrible, but they were marginally less terrible than when I'd started.
Combat Instinct: +0.2
I collapsed onto the training yard bench, utterly exhausted. My entire body ached, and I could already feel the stiffness that would plague me tomorrow. But there was something else—a tiny spark of satisfaction. I'd completed my first full training session.
As I sat there recovering, I thought about the future. Somewhere out there, Luffy was probably sleeping under the stars, dreaming of becoming Pirate King. Zoro was likely practicing his sword forms, pursuing his goal of becoming the world's greatest swordsman. Every major player in this world was working toward their dreams with unwavering determination.
I had a dream too, now. It was grand—perhaps impossibly so—but it was mine. I wanted to stand at the summit of this world's power structure. I wanted to become so strong that when history looked back on this era, my name would be written alongside the legends.
The strongest man in the seas.
It would take everything I had and more. It would require sacrifices I couldn't yet imagine. But for the first time since waking up in this body, I felt something other than despair.
I felt purpose.
Daily Training Goals: Complete
Overall Performance: Below expectations but showing commitment
Recommendation: Maintain current routine. Improvements will be gradual but measurable
The system's assessment was clinical but not unkind. Progress would be slow, but it would come.
I made my way back to the barracks, moving carefully to avoid waking anyone. As I settled onto my bunk, I caught sight of the newspaper clipping I'd torn from the bulletin board.
Monkey D. Luffy, grinning at the camera with that infectious optimism that would eventually inspire thousands to follow him. He'd started his journey with nothing but a dream and unshakeable determination.
Maybe that was enough for me too.
Tomorrow, I would run again. I would train again. I would push this weak body until it had no choice but to become stronger.
The weakest grunt on Marine Island 17 was going to become the strongest man in the seas.
Even if it killed me in the process.