Salt. That was the first thing Ryo tasted. Sharp, stinging, and far too real.
He coughed hard, rolling onto his side as the waves licked against his arm. A weak breeze brushed his face, carrying the smell of the sea and something burnt — wood, maybe. His eyes opened to sunlight that felt like a blade itself, slicing through the fog in his head.
He blinked. Sky. Clouds. A vast stretch of blue. And in the distance, a wrecked boat half-buried in the sand.
He sat up slowly, heartbeat thundering in his ears.
"…No way," he muttered, voice hoarse.
The beach looked like something out of a dream — or rather, out of an anime. The water gleamed too brightly, the seagulls seemed too loud, and the horizon stretched on like it had no end. But it wasn't the view that froze him. It was the Jolly Roger painted across the shattered wood on the shore — a crude skull wearing a bandana.
A pirate flag.
Ryo's throat went dry. He stood there for a long moment, watching the waves drag away pieces of the wreckage. The breeze tugged at his torn clothes — a faded white shirt, black trousers, and a sash around his waist. He touched his chest, his face, his legs. It was all solid. Alive.
Then the memories came crashing back.
A rainy night. Headlights. Screeching tires.Then nothing.
He'd died. That much he remembered. But this — the heat, the sound of the waves, the pirate flag — there was no mistaking it.
"This has to be… One Piece," he whispered, his voice trembling. "East Blue… maybe?"
He laughed — a shaky, disbelieving laugh that caught in his throat. "Of course. Out of all the worlds… I end up here."
He had watched every episode, read the manga twice. He knew this world — or at least, he thought he did. But now that he was standing in it, every detail felt too real, too heavy. The laughter, the freedom, the adventure that had always looked so bright from a screen — it also hid blood, fire, and death.
Ryo stared down at his reflection in the tide.Dark hair, messy and salt-soaked. Brown eyes, sharper than before. He looked older than his memories — maybe eighteen, nineteen.
That's when he noticed the sword.
It lay half-buried in the sand near the wreckage, the blade chipped and rusted. The handle was wrapped in worn cloth, probably once white but now dark with age. Ryo walked over, kneeling beside it.
He hesitated before touching it. Something about it felt… significant.
When he finally gripped the hilt, the weight surprised him — not just the physical heft, but the feeling that came with it.This wasn't a toy. This wasn't cosplay.It was cold, unbalanced, imperfect… but real.
He swung it once, awkwardly. The air whistled faintly."Damn," he muttered. "This thing's heavier than it looks."
He tried again — firmer grip, wider stance. The movement was slow, clumsy, but it stirred something in him.
He remembered watching Zoro training on the ship deck, Mihawk slicing ships apart with one strike. All the legendary duels. The pride, the willpower, the philosophy behind each blade.
And now… he had one too.
Not because he'd earned it. But because, somehow, fate had handed it to him.
He turned toward the jungle beyond the beach. Somewhere inland, smoke rose faintly — a village.
Ryo took a deep breath.If this really was the One Piece world, he had to be smart. No Devil Fruit, no crew, no connections. He was a nobody in a world full of monsters.
Still, his pulse quickened at the thought.He wasn't dreaming of becoming the Pirate King. He didn't want treasure or power.
He wanted freedom.And for that, he needed strength.
"Guess I'm walking the swordsman's path," he said quietly, resting the blade on his shoulder. "Ryo Tenshin… huh. That'll do."
He began walking toward the smoke.
The forest path was rough and uneven. Branches snapped under his boots, insects buzzed around his head, and the occasional scream of a bird echoed overhead. Ryo's grip on the sword tightened as he pushed through thick brush. His mind was a storm of thoughts — names, maps, timelines.
If this really was East Blue, where exactly was he? Shells Town? Orange Town? Maybe one of the countless unnamed islands.
Suddenly, he heard shouting — men's voices, angry and panicked. He crouched low, peering through the trees.
A small fishing village stretched ahead — wooden huts, drying nets, smoke rising from fires. A handful of men in ragged pirate clothing were yelling orders while others looted houses. Villagers were tied up, guarded by two armed bandits.
Ryo's stomach clenched.
So this was his first taste of the world's "freedom."
He could turn back. Pretend he never saw it.But something inside him refused.
He wasn't a fighter. Not yet. But he'd lived an ordinary life once — one filled with regrets about all the things he didn't do.Not this time.
He stepped out of the brush.
"Hey!" His voice cracked, but it was loud enough. The pirates turned toward him, confusion flickering across their faces.
"What the hell's this? Another villager?""Kid's got a sword!" one laughed. "A real samurai, huh?"
Ryo's palms were slick with sweat, his heart hammering. But his feet stayed still.
The first pirate lunged. Ryo barely moved in time — the attack grazed his arm, searing pain flashing through him. He reacted instinctively, swinging his sword upward. It clashed with the pirate's cutlass in a burst of sparks.
The impact nearly knocked the weapon out of his hands. His arms trembled, but he didn't drop it.
The pirate sneered. "You're dead, boy."
"Maybe," Ryo muttered, "but not before I hit you first."
He charged — sloppy, desperate, but fast enough to surprise the man. The rusted sword cut across the pirate's shoulder. The wound wasn't deep, but it drew blood.
The laughter around him stopped.
Ryo gasped for breath, every muscle screaming. His stance was terrible, his form worse. But that hit — that one hit — was enough.
The other pirates moved toward him. Then a gunshot rang out from behind them.
One of the villagers had grabbed a fallen pistol. Chaos erupted — screams, smoke, and running feet. Ryo stumbled backward, his sword dragging in the dirt.
He didn't remember much of what happened next — only flashes. Fire spreading. Pirates fleeing to the shore. A woman thanking him through tears. And the sound of his own ragged breathing.
When the smoke cleared, the village stood scarred but free.
Ryo sat down on the dirt, exhausted, blood dripping from his arm. His sword lay beside him, cracked at the edge.
He looked at it for a long time before whispering, "I can't even hold a proper stance… but I'm still standing."
The villagers offered him food, shelter, and thanks. But Ryo only nodded, staring out at the ocean beyond the ruined docks.
That night, he climbed a hill overlooking the village. The stars shimmered over the sea like a thousand dreams waiting to be born.
He drew his sword, still chipped and dull. The reflection of the moon glinted faintly along the edge.
"This world is merciless," he said quietly, "but it's free. And if I'm going to live here…"
He raised the blade high, feeling its weight settle into his grip.
"…then I'll live as a swordsman."
The wind carried his words out to sea.Somewhere far away, waves crashed against distant shores where legends were already sailing.
And on that quiet night, Ryo Tenshin took his first step toward becoming one.