---
"I've gone to sea. Please give me more guidance."
Kyle muttered the phrase with a mock-serious tone, then froze mid-thought.
Wait… why did that sound so wrong? Like something you'd write in a job application for a seafood restaurant. He shook his head violently, as though trying to shake the weird phrasing right out of his brain.
"Forget it. Doesn't matter. New chapter in life—don't start it with dumb thoughts," he told himself, straightening his back as he strode into the ship's cabin.
The interior was dim and smelled… unpleasant. And by unpleasant, Kyle meant like sweat, damp wood, and the faint metallic tang of dried blood. Typical pirate décor.
He began rummaging through wooden chests and crates, kicking aside bundles of rope and half-empty bottles of rum. Most of the clothing he found looked like it belonged in a crime scene. Stiff fabrics crusted with unidentifiable stains, shirts with holes big enough to fit a fist through, trousers that reeked of sea rot.
Finally—mercifully—his hands landed on a folded set of black shirt and trousers in a relatively clean crate. The fabric was rough, clearly not high quality, and the size looked more "pot-bellied pirate" than "slim young man," but compared to the 'savage suit' he'd been wearing—crudely sewn from leaves and animal skins—it was practically luxury fashion.
Changing quickly, Kyle found a polished copper plate nailed to a wall. Not quite a mirror, but reflective enough.
A young man stared back at him. Black hair, messy but with a certain effortless charm. Golden eyes, bright and piercing even in the cabin's gloom. Skin bronzed from months under the sun, sharp facial lines that hinted at maturity—but still with traces of boyishness.
And those eyes—those golden pupils—held an unnatural glimmer, like molten metal catching firelight.
"Tsk," Kyle clicked his tongue, leaning closer. "Didn't think I'd be able to coast through life on looks alone in this world, but damn… maybe I could."
He ran his fingers through his bangs, pushing them aside with exaggerated narcissism.
"In my previous life, I'd at least have been campus heartthrob material, right? Maybe even an influencer. #GoldenEyes #NoFilter."
Shaking off his little self-love session, Kyle returned to the deck.
The wind tugged at his shirt. The sky stretched endlessly overhead. And there—at the ship's wheel—he planted himself with all the confidence of a man who had watched exactly three YouTube tutorials and thought himself a master.
"Alright! Let's go!" he shouted dramatically, gripping the helm like he was about to conquer not just the sea, but the entire known world.
…
One hour later, the pirate ship was still slowly spinning in a perfect, mocking circle.
Two hours later, Kyle was drenched in sweat, the sails flapping without purpose, and—somehow—the ship was closer to the deserted island than when he started.
"What the—how do you even drive this thing?!" he groaned, running both hands through his hair until it stuck up in frustrated tufts.
In his previous life, he'd been an ordinary guy. He'd taken a ferry a few times. His swimming was… okay. But steering a full-blown pirate vessel? Yeah, no. His entire sailing knowledge came from movies, TV shows, and anime. And apparently, Hollywood had lied to him.
He thought he knew: let the wind fill the sails, zig-zag against the breeze if you need to, keep the helm steady… But in practice? The ropes were a tangled nightmare, the wind changed direction whenever it pleased, and the ocean was far less cooperative than a calm driving simulator.
"Luffy didn't make it look this hard! Before Nami joined, how did they even manage to—" He cut himself off, feeling personally betrayed by shounen logic.
Desperate, Kyle decided to cheat. He placed his palm against the railing and activated his Boba Fruit ability, unleashing a small shockwave to push the ship forward.
"BOOM!"
The blast thundered across the waves, sending up a wall of water… half of which came right back down on him. The ship rocked violently from the recoil—so violently that instead of going forward, it drifted backward.
Kyle stood dripping wet, staring at nothing. "…I hate boats."
In the end, he gave up.
"Fine. You win, ocean. I'll just… float. See where life takes me." He released the sails and let the current take over, like a leaf surrendered to the river.
Days passed. His emotional state cycled from frustration, to helplessness, to numb resignation. The fresh water and dried rations dwindled alarmingly.
He spent his days alternating between staring at the horizon, practicing his shockwave ability on the open sea, and muttering sarcastic prayers for a miracle.
"If this keeps up, I'm gonna be the first transmigrator to starve to death at sea. Great. I'll be remembered as 'That Guy' in the Multiverse Chat Group."
By the fifth day, even the strange-tasting grilled fish from the deserted island started sounding like gourmet cuisine. His stomach gurgled in open rebellion.
Then, one afternoon, as he lay sprawled on the deck staring at passing clouds, a black speck appeared on the horizon.
Kyle sat up so fast he nearly cracked his forehead on the railing.
"Land! Oh, sweet merciful land!"
He considered using his shockwave for a speed boost, but one glance at the dwindling food barrel reminded him to conserve energy. Fortunately, the ocean currents seemed merciful this time.
Half a day later, the island's details became visible: a proper dock, multiple ships, clusters of buildings, and the faint hum of bustling life.
Kyle's throat tightened with relief. Tears prickled at the corners of his eyes. He didn't care if the island was dangerous—at this point, even a Marine base would be a welcome sight.
Unfortunately, steering was still not his strong suit.
"Hyaaah!" He spun the helm wildly, trying to aim for the dock. His frantic approach caused chaos on shore—dockworkers abandoned crates mid-lift, fishermen dove off small boats, and shouts rang out across the port.
CRUNCH!
The pirate ship slammed into a sturdy wooden piling with enough force to wedge its bow firmly in place. The entire hull shuddered.
Kyle exhaled in pure, unfiltered relief. "Finally here."
Ignoring the glares and whispered curses around him, he jumped onto the dock. The solid ground under his boots felt so good he considered kneeling to kiss it.
Spotting a middle-aged man walking past, Kyle quickly stepped in front of him with his friendliest smile.
"Excuse me, sir, could you tell me where we are? And what time it is?"
The man blinked at him, clearly taken aback by Kyle's starved, weather-beaten appearance. "This is the port outside Dogg Town. It's… afternoon."
"Dogg Town?" Kyle repeated blankly. Never heard of it.
Pressing on, he asked, "Right… so how's the Pirate King doing these days? And the Marine Hero? Oh, and has a Straw Hat been making any headlines?"
The man frowned. "What are you talking about? Never heard of them. You hit your head or something, kid?"
Without waiting for a reply, he waved Kyle off like shooing a stray cat.
"Wait! I meant—what year of the Sea Calendar is it?!" Kyle called after him, but the man was already gone.
Confusion swirled in Kyle's mind. How could nobody know Roger? Or Garp? Even if Straw Hat Luffy wasn't famous yet, it made no sense for zero news to exist.
Maybe he'd been sent too far back in time. Or maybe Dogg Town was so remote it didn't even get pirate gossip. Either way, answers would have to wait.
For now… his stomach demanded tribute.
The streets were lively, filled with hawkers shouting over one another, the smell of grilled meat and fried dough drifting in the air. Kyle's few salvaged Berries in his pocket felt pitifully light, but maybe enough for a meal.
BOOM!
The ground trembled. Screams erupted.
"Pirates! It's the Black Shark Pirates! They're raiding again!"
Kyle's head snapped toward the port. Smoke billowed into the sky, orange flames licking the edges of buildings. A black-flagged ship anchored offshore fired its cannons indiscriminately, the shark-skull emblem on its sail grinning like a challenge.
Kyle's lips curved into a faint smirk. "Great. Haven't even had lunch and trouble's already knocking. Guess I'll vent my frustration on you guys… and maybe 'borrow' some meal money while I'm at it."
Ãdvåñçé 60 çhàptêr àvàilàble óñ pàtreøn (Gk31)