After he'd gained power from his other self—the version living in the One Piece world—Elric made a decision.
He left the city.
Left the crumbling buildings, the constant gunfire, the streets that smelled like death. He packed what little he had and walked into the forest, deep enough that the sounds of war became distant echoes, far enough that he could breathe without tasting smoke.
There, surrounded by ancient trees and birdsong, he built a home with his own two hands. No help, no instructions—just trial and error. Wood, stone, rope, fire. It took weeks, but eventually a small cabin stood in a clearing. His cabin. His sanctuary.
From that point on, his life changed completely.
He hunted for food, foraged for herbs and edible plants. When he had extra—meat, pelts, medicinal roots—he'd make the journey to nearby towns and trade with merchants for coins. He lived like someone from centuries ago, a hunter and woodsman.
Compared to his old life in the slums? This was paradise. Lazy mornings, quiet afternoons. No explosions, no stray bullets. Just peace.
But that didn't mean he was satisfied.
He wanted to leave. Desperately. He'd spent sixteen years in this place—born into war, raised in violence, nearly killed more times than he could count. His parents were dead, killed early in the conflict. His friends? Some had died right in front of him. Others had fled, disappeared into the chaos. Were they still alive somewhere? He had no idea.
And Sokovia itself? It was the graveyard of everything he'd ever known.
"I hate this place," he muttered, adjusting his grip on the hunting bow. "I hate it so much... I can't leave it behind."
That hatred wasn't just rage—it was motivation, a driving force. He didn't want to run away. He wanted to change it, tear it down and rebuild it into something better. Revenge for everything this place had stolen from him.
But right now, he was still too weak. Painfully, frustratingly weak.
The power he'd received from his One Piece self was incredible, a genuine blessing. But it was also a harsh reminder. That version of him had been born in the West Blue—not exactly peaceful either. He remembered it clearly now, that other life. His counterpart had lived quietly, never trained seriously. No Devil Fruit, no Haki, no sword techniques. Not even basic martial arts. Just a hunter who survived by tracking animals and living off the land.
Even so, that body had grown strong. Six years of eating nutritious meat, moving through forests, climbing, running, surviving—it had built muscle and endurance. Physically, that version of him was comparable to a well-trained adult.
In this world, that translated to roughly the level of Captain America. Well, Captain America without the shield, the combat training, or the tactical experience. In other words—he was strong, stronger than most people. But a bullet from the right angle could still kill him.
He had no special abilities, nothing that would let him dodge gunfire or survive explosions. And this was the Marvel Universe.
Even though it was only 2007, and nothing world-changing had happened yet—no Iron Man announcement, no alien invasions, no infinity stones making headlines—that didn't mean the world was safe. In fact, it made things more dangerous. The superhuman underworld was still hidden, operating in the shadows. Organizations like SHIELD and HYDRA controlled things behind the scenes with their weapons, technology, and resources.
He couldn't just walk into one of their facilities and steal some ancient artifact or experimental serum.
"What do I look like, Deadpool?" he muttered bitterly.
He wasn't that reckless, and he wasn't impatient either. His current life was good—food, shelter, warmth, safety. And more importantly, he wasn't alone. Not really.
There were others, other versions of himself scattered across countless worlds. Every time they made contact, they shared everything—power, knowledge, memories, skills. Eventually, they would merge completely. That white space, the endless void where he'd met his One Piece self, was their meeting point. Their convergence.
Once he connected with enough of them, once all their strength combined, he would be unstoppable.
Even if no one else ever appeared again, even if every other fragment died in some distant universe, he was confident. With just the power from his One Piece self, there were still countless ways to grow stronger in the Marvel Universe. He just needed a little capital first, a foundation, resources. Then he could act.
"I can wait... I have time..." he told himself.
But lately, it was getting harder.
Six months. Six full months had passed since his last visit to that white space. No echoes, no calls, no signs of anyone. Just silence.
"Tch."
He clicked his tongue in annoyance and grabbed his bow from where it leaned against the wall, running his fingers along the smooth wood. He'd crafted it himself—layered yew, carefully shaped and polished with oil pressed from pine nuts. From the workbench nearby, he picked up a small quiver of arrows, each one handmade with stone tips carved sharp and bound tight with sinew from wild boars he'd hunted.
They weren't perfect. But they worked.
"Let's get this over with."
He slung the bow across his back and stepped outside. The forest greeted him immediately—cool air and golden sunlight breaking through the canopy in scattered beams. A fox darted across his path, pausing briefly to look at him before vanishing into the underbrush. Birds fluttered between branches overhead, singing their morning songs.
Somewhere in the distance, far beyond the trees, he heard it. A low rumble. An explosion from the city's edge.
Elric didn't flinch. He didn't even look in that direction. This was normal, just another day. The war was still happening—it always was. But out here, he could pretend otherwise.
He tightened the strap on his quiver and started walking, moving quietly through the forest. His footsteps barely made a sound, his breathing controlled, every movement deliberate. Hunting wasn't just about finding prey—it was about patience and awareness. Reading the forest, listening to it.
He'd gotten good at this over the past six months, better than he ever thought he would be. Another gift from his other self, probably—instincts honed by years of survival.
As he moved deeper into the trees, his thoughts wandered again. Six months. Why hadn't anyone else appeared? Were the other fragments too far away, too disconnected? Or had they already died?
That thought made his chest tighten. If his soul fragments kept dying before they could connect, he'd never reach his full potential.
He shook his head, pushing the thought away. No point worrying about it now. All he could do was survive, get stronger, be ready. When the time came—when another fragment finally reached out—he'd be prepared.
And until then, he'd keep hunting, keep training, keep waiting. Because eventually, his time would come.
The forest stretched out before him, endless and green. Somewhere in the distance, hidden among the trees, his prey was waiting.
The hunt had begun.