"WHAT? This is how it ends?! NOOOOOOOO! That can't be. Fuck this shit!"
The neighbors probably thought someone had died.
In a way, someone had.
A loud crash followed the outburst, then the heavy thump-thump of clenched fists slamming against a wooden table. In Apartment 3B of a faded concrete block in Hamburg, the very fabric of one man's world had just unraveled.
"Why?! Why did they end it like this?! This makes no sense!"
Mario Richter, age forty-five, balding but still clinging to his graying ponytail like it was the last vestige of his youth, stood frozen in the center of his living room. His tablet lay face-down on the floor, the screen now likely cracked—just like his heart.
He had waited twenty-five years for this.
Twenty-five years of volume releases, fan theories, late-night forum debates, and drunken arguments at conventions. He had read One Piece religiously since his teens, through heartbreaks, layoffs, and one very embarrassing divorce. It was the constant in his life, the north star in a sky full of drifting clouds.
And now it was over.
And not just over—ruined.
"Luffy dies?! The crew just… breaks apart?! He doesn't even find the damn One Piece?! Are you kidding me?!"
His voice cracked on the last word, rage giving way to disbelief.
He slumped into his IKEA armchair, the one that squeaked if he leaned too far left. It matched the rest of the apartment—functional, slightly worn, and filled with small homages to a life of fandom: a replica of Zoro's sword above the kitchen counter, an autographed print of Oda-sensei next to the bathroom door, stacks of manga so high they doubled as furniture.
Mario stared at the ceiling, eyes burning.
The Pirate King dies a martyr. The age of piracy ends. The world government wins—but also collapses. Luffy's last words spark a revolution. The treasure is never found. The Straw Hats disappear into legend, unfulfilled, scattered.
It was poetic. It was bold.
It was bullshit.
"They turned my hero into a fucking metaphor," he muttered. The fan forums were already melting down. Mario's phone buzzed non-stop on the couch beside him—notifications from old friends, online pals, his brother in Berlin. He couldn't look. Not yet. He didn't want validation or comfort.
He didn't think it would be this bad after Eiichiro Oda died two years ago.
The world had mourned. Mario remembered the news vividly—he was working a night shift at the distribution center when his phone lit up with the headline. "Legendary Manga Creator Eiichiro Oda Passes Away at 68." He had gone numb, stood in the loading bay, staring at the screen like a kid hearing about Santa for the first time. Something inside him had collapsed that night.
But when the announcement came that Oda's apprentice, Kazuki Tanabe, would finish the final arc using Oda's notes and outlines, Mario had held on to hope. Hell, he even defended the guy online for months. "Give him a chance," he'd posted. "Oda wouldn't have passed it on if he didn't believe in him."
But this? This wasn't Oda's ending.
This was vandalism.
"Fuck this shit."
His voice was low now, gravel scraping between clenched teeth. No more shouting. No more disbelief. The grief had settled into something colder, harder.
Mario stood and walked to the small balcony of his apartment, swinging the door open with more force than necessary. The evening air slapped him in the face. September in Hamburg wasn't exactly warm, but he needed the chill. He needed to feel something besides betrayal.
His trembling hands fished a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his hoodie pocket. He hadn't smoked in months. The last pack had been meant for emergencies.
Apparently, this counted.
A small tear rolled down his cheek, unnoticed.
He wasn't crying over a manga. Not exactly.
He was crying over the loss of something bigger. A part of his identity. A belief that no matter how shitty the world got, somewhere out there, a rubber boy with a straw hat was laughing in the face of tyranny. A story that had taught him about loyalty, freedom, friendship. A compass that had helped him navigate the wreckage of his own life.
And now it was gone.
The flame from his lighter wavered as the wind caught it, but he cupped it with both hands like it was the last spark of life left in him. He inhaled deeply, let the smoke fill his lungs, and exhaled through his nose like a dragon ready to burn the world down.
He leaned on the balcony rail.
"Man, if I could write such a story…" he thought to himself, taking a long drag from his cigarette. "There'd be no chance of a shitty ending like that."
The smoke swirled into the night, caught by the wind like a signal flare no one would ever see.
The city below was quiet. Just the occasional car humming down the wet asphalt. Most windows were dark. The world felt suspended—like time had hit pause so Mario could stew in his disillusionment.
Then, suddenly, the balcony seemed to shift beneath him.
The rails wobbled. The horizon tilted. The buildings swayed like they were part of a slow, underwater current.
He blinked. What the hell—?
His stomach turned. His knees buckled. The world spun around him like a carousel going too fast. He grabbed the rail, but it felt soft, distant, like he was dreaming.
"Shit… this cigarette…" he muttered, feeling the dizziness roll over him in a second wave.
He hadn't slept properly in three nights. Barely eaten. The rage, the forums, the leaks, the countdown to the final chapter—it had all built to this breaking point. His body was finally cashing in on the debt.
"Better get insid—"
He turned—and the world turned faster.
The balcony disappeared from under his feet.
There was no scream. No flailing. Just a quiet, detached awareness:
"Crap…"
That was the last thought Mario had before gravity claimed him.
He hit the pavement with a sickening crack.
And then—nothing.
***
It was quiet.
Not the kind of quiet Mario expected after falling five stories off his apartment balcony. There was no pain. No bright hospital lights. No sirens. Just… waves.
Soft, rhythmic, endless.
He opened his eyes.
Above him stretched a vast sky so blue it almost hurt to look at. The sun beamed overhead, warm and bright—not cold and harsh like the one in Hamburg. His back felt wet. His body bobbed gently up and down, cradled by the sea.
The sea.
"What the…?" he croaked.
Salt filled his mouth. He coughed and gagged, suddenly aware he was floating on his back in the middle of open water. No buildings. No cars. No city. Just ocean in every direction.
Panic gripped him.
He flailed for a moment, but something felt off—his body. His arms were leaner. Stronger. The extra weight around his stomach was gone. He could feel muscle in places that had long been forgotten.
"What the hell is happening to me?!"
He looked down.
His clothes were different—rough canvas pants, a half-buttoned shirt, and a tattered sash around his waist. His feet were bare. No phone. No wallet. No ID. Just… this strange, younger, stronger body in the middle of nowhere.
He turned in the water, trying to spot land.
Nothing.
But then—on the horizon—a dot. No, a boat. Small. Moving fast. A single sail, a round sheep-shaped figurehead—
His heart skipped a beat.
No way…
He rubbed his eyes.
It was a tiny ship with a bright white sail. And on its bow stood a young man in a red vest, grinning wildly, a straw hat on his head.
"Oi!" the figure shouted. "You dead or just takin' a nap?!"
Mario's mouth went dry.
"Luffy?!"
The little boat sailed closer with impossible speed, gliding over the waves like it was flying. A moment later, Luffy was crouched at the edge of the ship, looking down at Mario like he'd just found a weird fish.
"You're lucky I spotted you, man. You'd have turned into Sea King bait in a couple more hours."
Mario floated there, stunned.
This wasn't cosplay. This wasn't VR. This wasn't a dream.
It was him.
Monkey D. Luffy.
Alive. Real.
Laughing.
Luffy tossed him a rope and pulled him aboard with inhuman strength, practically launching him up on the boat.
Mario collapsed onto the warm wood, coughing and soaked but alive.
"You okay?" Luffy asked, crouching beside him.
Mario nodded weakly, still panting. "I… I think so. Where… am I?"
Luffy blinked. "The ocean, duh."
He laughed again, bright and carefree. Mario just stared, wide-eyed.
This was impossible.
Yet here he was.
"I'm Luffy," the captain said with a wide grin. "I'm gonna be King of the Pirates!"
Mario laughed—part disbelief, part hysteria.
"I know," he said under his breath. "I've known for half my life."
Luffy scratched his head. "Huh?"
Mario sat up slowly, heart pounding, the realization settling like an anchor.
He was in the world of One Piece.
But he wasn't Luffy. He wasn't any character from the story. He was new. A nobody.
Just some middle-aged German manga fan who fell off a balcony—and woke up in his favorite fictional world.
A second chance? A hallucination? A punishment?
He didn't know.
But one thing was clear:
His story was just beginning.