Life has a way of twisting fate in the most unexpected ways.
I always assumed my end would be a roaring inferno—after all, as a soldier I've done things that still haunt me in the dead of night. I wasn't evil, but I wasn't exactly virtuous either. I convinced myself my orders were for king and country, though deep down I chased only the rush: the crack of gunfire, the thunder of explosions under my feet, the pulse of fear sharp in my veins. That terror made me feel more alive than any sunrise back home ever could.
Yet here I am, blinking under a blistering sun on a beach that smells of salt and sun-warmed coconut husks. The white sand burns my bare feet, and I realize—I died. I remember bone fragments and blood, the crackling of debris around my torn body. No field medic could have sewn me back together.
But I've been reborn as a child. My arms are thin sticks. My legs wobble beneath me. My voice cracks with every word. I glance at my reflection in a tide pool and catch the wide eyes of a six-year-old boy staring back. Part of me mourns the soldier I was—muscles I lost, scars that meant something—but another part thrills at the rawness of this second chance.
Hunger drives me inland, past palm fronds heavy with dew and the distant cry of tropical birds. My soldier's instincts kick in when I spot footprints in the mud, half-buried by undergrowth. I follow them through tangles of vines until a clearing opens onto a harbor that time forgot: wooden piers heaving under hulking pirate ships, black sails flapping like wounded birds. Weathered huts line the shore, smoke curling from clay chimneys. Men haggle over barrels, and the stench of gunpowder and rum hangs thick in the air.
Then I see him: a broad-shouldered pirate with a crooked grin, his bandana tied tight over greasy hair. He roars a challenge at a smaller man, who trembles before him. In an instant, that pirate's skin peels back like parchment, and claws tear through muscle and fur. He stands six feet taller as a bear, jagged teeth flashing, smashing the smaller man into the dirt. Red sprays across burlap trousers.
My heart hammers. There's something familiar in the symbol stitched on the beaten man's shirt— A familiar Seagull.
One Piece.
Shit.