...
After wiping the remains of the stupid mosquito on the bark of the tree
I looked down at my hand. My hand looked the same; it wasn't glowing or anything like that. Just my palm, a few scratches from climbing the tree. And that clink sound, it was exactly like the wheel, and no, it wasn't hovering over my head or anything, as cool as that might be.
I turned back to the smear on the tree bark and snorted.
"So I was right," I said, half to myself, half to the dead insect. "That stupid coloured pear actually was something."
Which, to be fair, felt amazing to say after the amount of suffering I'd put myself through over the years.
I had eaten so many suspicious fruits since I was old enough to walk unsupervised that, in hindsight, it was a miracle my parents hadn't just started tying me to furniture. Weird spotted bananas. A lumpy orange thing I found floating near the rocks. Three separate melons that looked "mystical" and turned out to be normal, deeply disappointing melons. One ugly purple fruit that had me throwing up so hard I genuinely thought I was awakening something.
Turns out I was just dying.
Food poisoning and I had a history.
A relationship built on false hope, stomach pain, and my refusal to learn any lessons from the experience. Still, this time felt different. It had to be different. Mosquitoes did not just stop piercing skin because I believed in myself hard enough.
I slid down from the branch, landing with a soft thud, and immediately tried to calm my face into something normal. Not the expression of a boy who had potentially just confirmed he'd eaten a Devil Fruit and was one step closer to his life goal.
My mouth kept trying to grin anyway.
"Act normal," I muttered.
Then I glanced around the orchard to make sure nobody had seen me talking to myself.
I cleared my throat and nodded once, like I was a serious person doing serious orchard business, then started walking back toward the village.
The clink stayed with me the whole way.
Every few steps, I'd hear it again in my memory. Not the sound itself, exactly. More of the sensation of it.
I tried not to get ahead of myself.
Tried.
It didn't work.
Goat Island came into view as the path curved around the hill. The village wasn't large. It was one of those places that probably didn't matter in the grand scheme of the world. No marine base, no famous port, no legendary name that made people sit up and take notice. Just a cluster of homes near the coast, a few dirt roads, fenced patches of farmland, and some ancient boats.
Goat Island.
Even now, the name annoyed me a little.
I didn't remember it from the series at all. Maybe it had appeared in some SBS buried under five hundred unrelated jokes. Maybe Oda had named it once and moved on with his life. Maybe it genuinely was just that irrelevant.
Which, honestly, tracked.
If you were going to be born into the One Piece world and not get dumped somewhere famous, this was exactly the kind of place you'd end up. The kind of island people left from, not headed toward, you know?
But it was small; it was… ordinary.
I loved it.
That thought hit me more often these days. At first, when I'd realised where I was, everything had felt temporary. Like I was just waiting for the real story to start when I got strong enough, old enough and useful enough, and then I'd leave.
Don't get me wrong, I still wanted that. Badly.
The sea was right there. The world was right there. Somewhere beyond the horizon were adventures and the kind of chaos I'd been dreaming about since before I died.
But this place had gotten under my skin anyway.
It was hard not to care when the people here knew your name. When old ladies pinched your cheek for getting taller. When neighbours handed over food because they'd "made too much," which was island code for "I like you, and this is my business now." When your parents waited for you to come home every day, it mattered.
A few people called out greetings. I answered them automatically, trying to sound normal and not like my entire brain was vibrating.
"Oi, Kai!"
I looked up to see Mina, one of the women who lived three houses down, balancing a basket on her hip.
"You're late," she said. "Your mother's been outside twice already."
I sighed. "That's never a good sign."
"She looked worried the first time," Mina said.
I nodded.
"She looked offended the second time."
I winced. "Yeah, that sounds more dangerous."
Mina laughed, shook her head, and kept walking.
I picked up the pace.
I barely made it through the front gate before the front door flew open.
"Kai!"
My mother came at me like she hadn't seen me in years instead of a few hours.
I got pulled into a hug so sudden and forceful that my feet nearly left the ground.
"There you are," she said, squeezing me. "You were gone longer than usual. I told your father you were fine, but did he listen? No. He started pacing, and when he started pacing, I started pacing, and then the whole house starts feeling tense."
"I was picking apples," I said into her shoulder.
"For this long?"
"There were a lot of apples, I guess"
"That doesn't sound true."
"It wasn't fully true."
"I knew it."
She leaned back just enough to look at my face, then narrowed her eyes in that unfairly accurate way mothers had.
"You're smiling."
"No I'm not."
"You are."
"I'm literally not."
"You look pleased with yourself."
"That's just my face."
From inside the house, my father's voice called out, "Is he alive?"
"I'm alive," I shouted back.
A second later, he appeared in the doorway, took one look at me, and visibly relaxed; then, because my family believed in overcorrecting emotionally at all times, he opened his arms too.
"No," I said immediately.
"Yes," he said.
"Dad."
"You made your mother worry."
"You also made me worry," my mother added.
"That sounds like a you problem."
I got hugged anyway.
For a brief, horrible moment, I was trapped between them both like the filling in the world's most embarrassing sandwich.
This was what I meant. They were good people. Kind, hardworking, the sort of parents plenty of kids would kill to have.
But they loved loudly. Aggressively.
Sometimes the house felt less like a home and more like I was being held hostage by affection.
"Okay," I said, trying to wriggle free. "Alright. That's enough. This is becoming a lot."
My mother laughed and finally let go. "Wash up before dinner."
My father ruffled my hair as he passed. "You're getting bigger."
"I know."
"You'll be taller than me soon."
"I plan on being taller than everyone."
"That's the spirit."
I stepped inside, shaking my head, trying very hard not to smile too much.
The inside of the house smelled like cooked vegetables, sea salt, and whatever herb my mother had decided improved all meals, including ones that did not ask for improving. The table was already set. The candle on the far side had been lit early because the room always got a little dim before sunset. My room was down the short hall to the left, small and plain and mine.
I made it through dinner mostly intact, which was impressive considering how difficult it was to act normal while the most important thing to ever happen to me so far in this lifetime was sitting in the back of my mind.
My mother talked about a neighbour's fence. My father complained about one of the fishing lines needing repair. I answered when spoken to, ate what was on my plate, and tried not to blurt out something stupid.
When dinner was over and the sky had darkened properly, I finally escaped to my room under the excuse of being tired.
That part, at least, wasn't a lie.
Once the door shut behind me, I stood there in silence for a moment. Then I turned and looked at the candle on the table. Its little flame flickered lazily. I stared at it.
The candle stared back in the way only candles can, which is to say not at all, but in a manner that still felt vaguely insulting.
My hand twitched.
This was stupid.
This was also the only way I was going to sleep tonight.
I walked over, pulled the chair back, and sat down. For a second, I just watched the flame and listened to my own breathing. My heart was beating too fast. I knew what I was trying to test, and I knew how insane it sounded.
Maybe the mosquito had been a fluke, and its mouthpart broke, and I was losing my mind.
Or I'd finally eaten one too many suspicious fruits, and this was the beginning of the end.
Only one way to find out.
I held my palm over the candle, its heat licked at my skin.
I lowered it further, then further. The pain hit sharply, and I hissed through my teeth before yanking my hand back.
"Right," I muttered, flexing my fingers. "Still burns, cool"
The skin reddened almost immediately.
I waited.
Nothing happened.
No click. No shift. No miracle.
I stared at my hand, then at the candle.
"Again?"
The candle had no opinion.
I went again.
I held it there longer this time, my jaw tightening as it really started to sting. The instinct to pull away kicked in hard, but I forced myself to wait a second more before jerking back.
Now the burn looked worse.
I swore under my breath.
This was ridiculous. Completely ridiculous. If anyone saw me doing this, I would never recover. I'd die from shame before the burns got me.
Still, I kept going.
Each time, I grew a little more frustrated. My room stayed quiet except for my breathing, the tiny crackle of the flame, and the occasional sharp inhale when I pushed too far. My palm was red now, angry and tender, and I could feel doubt creeping in around the edges.
I hovered my hand over the flame once more and almost laughed.
"I'm really doing this," I whispered.
Then I lowered my palm again.
A pulse pain this time, deep enough that my eyes squeezed shut.
And then it happened.
CLINK!
I froze.
There it was, that same internal shift.
Slowly, I pulled my hand away and stared at it.
The burn marks were fading.
The angry red softened. The swelling receded. The skin settled as if the last several minutes had been undone in reverse right in front of me.
My breath caught.
"No way," I said, voice barely there.
I looked back at the candle so fast I nearly knocked the chair over.
My heart was hammering now.
I swallowed, then pushed my palm over the flame again.
I braced for the pain.
It never came.
There was heat, yes. Pressure, maybe. Awareness. My body understood what should have been happening. It just… wasn't. The fire touched my skin and did nothing. No new burn. No sting. No damage.
I stared.
Then I did it again, a little lower, a little longer.
Nothing.
A laugh burst out of me before I could stop it.
Not a cool laugh, either. Not the composed chuckle of a future legend. It came out half-hysterical, half-disbelieving, as I'd finally cracked after years of bad decisions and one good one.
"It works," I said.
I looked at my hand.
Then at the candle.
Then back in my hand.
"It actually works."
I stood up so fast the chair scraped the floor. I started pacing the tiny room, then had to stop because there wasn't enough room to pace dramatically in a space this small. So I settled for standing there, grinning like an idiot, one hand pressed to my forehead.
This was it, this was how it starts.
All those awful fruits have led me here
I looked down at my palm one last time.
It looked completely untouched, and for the first time since waking up in this world, my goal stopped feeling like the desperate fantasy of a boy born too far from the story.
It felt possible.
I stared at the candle flame dancing in front of me, and this time when I smiled, I didn't bother trying to hide it.
My goal was starting to be realised.
...
End of Chapter!
Word Count - 2124