Right after Sabaody, the world broke apart.
The crew did not fall together—they were ripped away, scattered like burning embers flung into different corners of the sea. One moment Sanji stood beside them, cigarette between his fingers, heart pounding with rage and disbelief. The next, the air itself turned hostile, and his body was hurled across the sky without dignity, without choice.
When he landed, there was no applause.No enemy to curse.No captain to shout his name.
Only silence.
Sanji lay there for a long time, staring at a foreign sky, the taste of blood and salt heavy on his tongue. His body ached, but it was nothing compared to the weight crushing his chest.
He had not landed a single hit.
Not one.
Kizaru's light had passed through him like mockery. Kuma's paw had erased him like an afterthought. For all his speed, all his fire, all his vows to protect—he had been irrelevant.
Useless.
The word echoed louder than any explosion.
His hands trembled as he pushed himself up. These legs—these legs he had trained, trusted, worshipped—had failed him when it mattered most. When his captain stood bleeding. When his crew needed him.
Sanji clenched his fists until his nails bit into his palms.
"What good is a cook," he whispered bitterly, "who can't protect the table?"
His vision blurred. He hated it—hated the weakness, hated the tears—but they came anyway, hot and relentless, falling onto the dirt like rain on a grave. He turned his face away, as if someone might see him, though he was utterly alone.
For the first time since Zeff's kitchen, since the starving days that taught him never to waste food or tears, Sanji cried not from hunger—
—but from worthlessness.
If he could not fight,if he could not shield them,if his fire could not even touch the enemy—
then what was he still standing for?
The cigarette slipped from his fingers and burned out in the dust.
The fire, for once, did not answer him.
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Sanji woke to the sound of waves and a sky he did not recognize.
For a moment, he thought he was dead.
His body felt like it had been thrown through hell and back—every nerve screaming, every breath a punishment. He tried to move and failed. Sand pressed against his cheek. The air smelled of salt, flowers, and something unfamiliar—spice, maybe.
He laughed weakly.
"So this is the afterlife, huh…"
But the pain stayed.
Memory came crashing back.
Light.A giant paw.A captain bleeding.A world that moved too fast for him to matter.
His eyes widened.
"Sabaody…"
He sat up too fast and nearly vomited.
Not one hit.
The thought came uninvited.
Not one.
Kizaru's body had been light. Kuma's presence had been inevitability. Sanji had kicked, moved, burned—and achieved nothing.
Useless.
He slammed his fist into the sand.
"Damn it…"
He had sworn—on Zeff's legs, on his own hunger, on his life—that no one at that table would ever fall while he still stood.
And yet—
They were gone.
Scattered.
And he had been too weak to stop it.
A shadow fell over him.
"Ah. You're awake."
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The voice was calm. Almost gentle.
Sanji squinted against the light and saw a tall figure standing between him and the sun—flamboyant clothes, towering posture, a face that carried both amusement and sharp intelligence.
Behind him stretched a strange land.
Green hills. Colorful buildings. Windmills turning lazily in the distance. And people—lots of people—moving about, laughing, shouting, living.
This was not hell.
Which somehow made everything worse.
"Where… am I…?" Sanji muttered, pushing himself up on one elbow.
["Welcome to Momoiro Island! The Kamabakka Kingdom! A paradise of passion, freedom, and—most importantly—transformation!"]
Sanji stared.
Processed.
Then his soul attempted to leave his body.
"…Send me back to hell."
The man laughed loudly.
"Ah, dramatic! You are the Straw Hat cook, yes? Bartholomew Kuma dropped you here himself. Very rude. No introduction, no warning—poof!"
Sanji's expression darkened at that name.
"Kuma…"
The laughter faded when the man saw his face.
"…You look like someone who lost a war."
Sanji didn't answer.
He slowly stood, brushing sand from his coat. His body screamed, but that pain was familiar. The one in his chest was worse.
"Where are the others?" he asked quietly.
"No one else came with you."
So it was true.
They were really scattered.
Sanji looked down at his legs.
"…Tch."
"I don't care where this is," he said. "I don't care who you are. I need a ship."
The man studied him.
"You smell like despair."
Sanji froze.
"Not sweat. Not blood. Not smoke. Despair. That scent belongs to men who discovered their fists were not enough."
Sanji laughed bitterly.
"Yeah. Something like that."
He turned away.
"If you leave this island like you are now," the man continued, "you will die the next time you face the same enemy."
Sanji stopped.
"…You think I don't know that?"
His fists clenched.
"I was there. I saw it. Light faster than my kicks. Power I couldn't even touch. My captain was bleeding and I—"
His voice cracked.
"I was useless."
The word fell heavy between them.
The wind turned the mills.
The island kept living.
Finally, the man said softly:
"Then stay."
Sanji turned sharply. "What?"
"Stay. Train. Break. Rebuild." The man smiled. "This island exists for those who want to become something else."
Sanji's eyes burned.
"…I don't want to become something else."
He looked down at his legs again.
"I want these to be enough."
The man's smile widened.
"Then you came to the right hell after all."