Five years. That's how long I've been in this world. One Piece. When I first realized where I was, the sheer terror was almost overwhelming, but I got lucky. I'd been reborn in the East Blue, famously the weakest of the seas. It was a small mercy, but I clung to it.
By four, I'd taught myself to read this world's language. My mother, Carla, started calling me her little prodigy, though she thought my constant scouring of newspapers was just a funny game, my "playing house." Through those papers, I tried to piece together my place in everything.
Carla had a gentle, motherly appearance defined by her warm brown eyes and straight, dark brown hair that was neatly parted and typically fell just past her chin, often covered by a simple white kerchief. Her soft, kind features and modest clothing—usually a light dress with a practical apron—reflected her role as a caring homemaker, creating a stark and tragic contrast to her brutal fate.
While my father, Josuke had a tall and lanky build, often appearing slouched or hunched. He had short, neatly styled dark brown hair, strong eyebrows, and large, deep-set brown eyes. His facial features were soft and somewhat manly, with a narrow face and a reserved, often hesitant expression.
I learned we lived in a small village called Gosa, part of the Conomi Islands. The name rang a faint bell, but I was never one of those super-fans who memorized every speck on the map. It was just… home.
Then, one day, everything clicked. I'd been pestering my father, Josuke, a low-ranking Marine who was rarely home, for stories of the outside world. He finally mentioned a neighboring village I'd never paid much mind to: Cocoyasi.
Cocoyasi Village.
The name hit me like a physical blow. Nami. Nojiko.
A stupid, giddy smile spread across my face at the thought. I could actually meet them! But the joy was cold and fleeting, quickly crushed by a chilling realization. If we were neighbors to Cocoyasi, then we were also neighbors to them.
The Arlong Pirates.
A fresh wave of panic set in. I was just an ordinary kid. There was no magical Devil Fruit waiting in our backyard, no mysterious voice in my head bestowing a "system." No grand destiny. I was just… me, thrown into this world with nothing but the memories of a life before. And I remembered clearly now that Arlong's tyranny didn't stop at Cocoyasi's border; it bled into all the surrounding villages, including my own quiet little Gosa.
My only real stroke of luck, it seems, was winning the mom lottery. Carla is wonderful, kind, and normal—a rock in this chaotic world. My father, Josuke, does his best, but the Marines keep him busy, even here in the weakest sea.
They named me Raziel. My mother told me it's from a local myth, the name of an archangel of mysteries. She said when I was born, I didn't cry. I just looked around with wide, curious eyes, as if I was trying to uncover all the mysteries of the world from my first breath. I have to admit, the story moved me. It's a far cry from my old name, which was just "June," for the month I was born.
But that's a thought for another time.
I recently checked the date on a discarded newspaper: 1522 ASC. (After the Sea Circle.)
The main character of this world, the future King of the Pirates, would be born this year.
So, I'm five years older than him. The thought is… daunting, to say the least.
Anyway, I don't have much time. My plan is simple: train like a maniac and eat everything in sight. It's no secret that the people in this world have insane physical potential, all thanks to the food here. I mean, even Usopp could survive a hit from a four-ton bat. If I could tap into even a fraction of that, I'd have a chance.
That evening, I marched up to my mother with my most determined face. "Mom," I announced, "I'm going to become a bounty hunter!"
Carla paused, a confused smile on her face. "Huh? Where is this coming from all of a sudden?"
"Double my portions from now on," I declared, my voice firm. "And wake me up at five tomorrow morning." It was that classic late-night motivation, but for me, it was different. This wasn't a fleeting impulse; it was the beginning of a discipline I had to maintain for a lifetime. The alternative was a grim fate under Arlong's thumb. Even if I could scrape together the 100,000 Belly "protection" fee, living like that—cowed and submissive—wasn't why I was here. I still remembered my dying vow: 'I will live freer than everyone!'
---
The next morning, a firm hand shook me awake. "Raziel... it's five."
I swatted at the air, groaning into my pillow. "Ughh, what is it, Mom? Leave me alone."
A soft, amused laugh filled the room. "Fufu~ Weren't you the one who told me to wake you up early?" Her words hit me like a splash of cold water. Instantly, the fog of sleep cleared, and I bolted upright. I stumbled to the table and devoured the breakfast she'd prepared—a plate already twice the size I was used to.
Then, I went for a run.
My plan to get strong was brutally simple, borrowed from a fictional hero I vaguely remembered: 100 Push-ups. 100 Sit-ups. 100 Squats. And a 10-kilometer run. Every single day, until Arlong and his crew showed up.
I wasn't delusional. I didn't expect my hair to fall out or to be able to one-punch a Sea King. But for a five-year-old with no other options, it was a start.
---
Time flew by. A year and a half passed, and the calendar now read 1523 ASC.
The mountain air was cool and sharp, a stark contrast to the heat building in the six-year-old's muscles. He stood alone on the trail, a small but determined figure against the vast wilderness. Though young, his frame showed the early signs of rigorous training—a lean, toned build that hinted at a discipline far beyond his years. His most striking features were a mop of spiky, sunshine-yellow hair, messy from exertion, and a pair of bright, intelligent green eyes that scanned his surroundings with focused intensity. Dressed simply in a baggy pair of pants and a worn t-shirt, he looked every bit a child, yet carried himself with a purpose that was anything but.
I'd kept up the relentless routine every day, even when my muscles screamed and my spirit felt like breaking. I still remembered that first, miserable attempt at a 10k run at age five; I barely made it a kilometer before collapsing. But I didn't give up. Each day, the distance grew a little longer, fueled by double portions and sheer stubbornness. Within a month, I was finally hitting the full 10 kilometers.
A lot of that progress, I knew, was thanks to the wonders of this world's food. Eating even common fish here felt like a super-soldier serum compared to my old world. When we could afford Sea King meat, the effect was staggering.
After three months, my body had fully adapted. The daily workout was no longer a struggle; it was as routine as breathing.
And after a year and a half of unwavering repetition… My hair, thankfully, was still firmly on my head. I hadn't become a man who could punch his way through any problem.
But I had achieved something else. Something real. As I focused, staring at my own clenched fist, I watched as it turned pitch black, gleaming with a hardened will.