Muichiro Tokito opened his eyes, and the first thing he felt was pain. It was sharp, all-pervading, as if every fiber of his body had been torn apart. He tried to breathe in, and wheezed: such a flash of agony pierced his chest that black dots danced in front of his eyes.
He was lying on something soft—not on the cold ground, not on the fragments of stone, but on... a bed? The smell was unfamiliar: salt, wood, smoke, but not the acrid smell of burning demons, but a warm, homely one. Dim light filtered through his half—closed eyelids-not the crimson of sunset, not moonlight, but the yellowish glow of an oil lamp.
"Am I... alive?"
The memory returned in fragments.
Kokushibo. The first high moon. A sword, a strange Kokushibo technique. Blood. Dark.
It die. He's definitely dead. He remembered the cold of death, the silence, the last sigh.…
And yet—he's breathing.
Muichiro turned his head with difficulty. The room was modest but cozy: wooden walls, a low table, a cup with herbal tea on it, bandages, and a bowl of water next to it. An ember in a small stove was dimly flickering in the corner.
He tried to get up, and groaned again. My body wouldn't listen. His arms were bandaged, and his chest was tightly wrapped in a cloth. There was a throbbing pain under the bandages, but... it was a living pain. Not the agony of death, but the pain of a wounded man who survives.
The door creaked.
A figure appeared in the doorway, short, with long hair pulled back in a careless ponytail. The man stepped inside, and Muichiro tensed, trying to remember who it was.
"He's awake, then, the stranger said with a slight accent. I thought you decided to sleep through the whole epoch."
The voice was calm, slightly mocking. The stranger came over and put a tray of food on the table.
"Where... am I?" Muichiro managed to say. My throat was dry, and my words came out hoarsely.
—"In one of the settlements in East Blue," the stranger replied, sitting down next to him. "You were... in a bad way when they found you. He hardly breathed."
"East Blue?"
That name meant nothing to Muichiro. He tried to collect his thoughts, but his memories were confused. The nichirin blade. Fog. The brother who told him to come back. Kokushibo.
"Who are you?" "What is it?" he asked, focusing his eyes with difficulty.
The stranger smiled.
— My name is Usopp. I'm... let's just say I'm a gunslinger and an inventor. And you?
Muichiro wanted to reply, "Muichiro Tokito, pillar of fog," but instead he just said in a hollow voice:
" I don't remember".
Usopp nodded as if he had expected this.
"That's okay. After such wounds, memory often plays a cruel joke. But you're alive. And this is a victory."
Muichiro closed his eyes. Alive. But how?
He remembered death. He remembered how his body was torn apart. He remembered the darkness.
And now this room, this man, this perception.. Everything was different....
"This... is not my home.... not Japan. Not the Taisho era."
He looked at Usopp again.
"What happened to me?"
Usopp sighed and adjusted his glasses.
"You were found on the beach. Almost no signs of life. Someone tried very hard to keep you awake. But..." he chuckled, "you turned out to be more stubborn than death."
Muichiro tried to sit up. This time it worked, albeit with great difficulty. He looked down at himself: bandages, plain clothes, not his uniform. Nothing that connects him to the past.
Only pain. And the memory that came back piece by piece.
"I have to..."he stammered, trying to formulate a thought. "I have to go back."
Usopp shook his head.
"You have to survive first. And then it's up to you to decide where to go."
Muichiro looked down at his hands. They were shaking. But in his chest, through the pain, a familiar flame flared up — the same one that led him through the battles.
A few days after waking up, Muichiro was still weak. Every movement caused a dull pain in his chest, and the memories returned in fragments, like fragments of a broken mirror.
One night he lay awake, looking at the stars twinkling in the window. My thoughts were confused: "Who am I? Where is my sword? Why is this world so alien?"
And suddenly — a flash.
Not pain, not a memory, but a vision.
He saw something special....
the smallest air flows around the fingers, microscopic fluctuations of light on the surface of the cup, subtle changes in Usopp's face when he spoke, the pulsation of blood under the skin of the interlocutor, thin threads of energy permeating everything around.
It was as clear as if a veil had been lifted from my eyes.
Muichiro abruptly sat up in bed, gasping for breath.
"What... was that?" "What is it?" he whispered.
Usopp, who was sitting at the table, turned around:
"Are you okay?"
Muichiro just nodded, unable to find the words. He was afraid that if he spoke, he would lose this incredible clarity of perception.
"Really, it's okay... It's just that things have become a little different..." Muichiro answered a few seconds later and couldn't believe his eyes.
"You mean it's different?" Usopp asked.
Muichiro lay back down.
"It's hard to explain, it's easier to show..." Muichiro replied.
"Well, now is not the time to move.... You'd better lie down for a while longer, so try not to make any sudden movements."
Muichiro struggled up on his elbow, looking at Usopp with a serious, piercing gaze. His voice still sounded hoarse, but there was firmness in it.:
"thanks. For not leaving me."
He paused, choosing his words, then continued:
"I don't remember much, but I understand that I would not have survived without your help. It... means a lot."
Muichiro tried to bow his head, but the pain immediately returned. Instead, he balled his hand into a fist and pressed it to his chest, a restrained but sincere gesture of gratitude.
Usopp just smiled and waved his hand.:
"It's empty. Anyone would do that. The main thing is that you're okay."
But Muichiro knew it wasn't just "anyone." In this strange world where he woke up after death, this stranger became his only support. And this gratitude, quiet but deep, remained in his heart.