Chapter 4: To Sea!
The ship was a piece of junk.
Kyle discovered this within the first hour. The sails had more patches than original cloth, the rudder stuck at random intervals, and the whole vessel groaned like a dying animal with every wave.
But it was his junk.
He'd found a set of black trousers and a loose shirt in the captain's locker—stained, too large, but infinitely better than the animal skins he'd worn for three years. He'd even found a cracked hand mirror. The face staring back was thin, tanned, with sharp cheekbones and eyes that gleamed gold in the dim light.
Not bad, he thought. If I survive long enough to grow up, I might actually clean up.
Then he tried to sail.
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He'd watched enough movies to know the basics: catch the wind, adjust the sails, hold the tiller steady. In practice, the wind ignored him, the sails tangled themselves into knots, and the tiller seemed to have a personal vendetta.
For two hours, the ship wandered in aimless circles. At one point, he tried using a shockwave to push it forward. The result was a geyser of seawater that drenched him from head to toe and left him gasping on the deck while the ship rocked violently and made… no progress.
By sunset, he'd drifted maybe a mile from the island. Maybe less.
"This is fine," he told the empty horizon. "I'll just… drift. Currents exist. People drift all the time."
He sounded like he was trying to convince himself. He was.
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Days passed. Three? Four? He lost count.
The freshwater barrel was half empty. The food—stale bread and salted meat that tasted like leather—was running low. Kyle spent most of his time lying on the deck, conserving energy, and watching the sky for birds that might signal land.
He practiced his fruit ability in short bursts. A shockwave here, a resonance pulse there. Nothing that would drain him. Just enough to stay sharp.
By the fifth day, he was seriously considering whether he'd be the first person in history to starve to death on a ship full of food because he couldn't find land.
Then, on the sixth morning, he saw it.
A smudge on the horizon. Low, green, with a wisp of smoke rising from one end.
Land.
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He didn't dare use his powers to speed up. Every bit of energy mattered. Instead, he coaxed the sails, adjusted the tiller, and let the current do most of the work.
By afternoon, the smudge had resolved into an island—a proper one, with docks and buildings and the kind of bustle that meant people. A lot of people.
The problem was the docks. They weren't designed for a drunk six‑year‑old steering a pirate ship. Kyle aimed for an empty stretch of quay, miscalculated completely, and scraped along the side of a fishing boat before slamming bow‑first into a thick mooring post.
The impact threw him to the deck. The fishing boat he'd hit listed dangerously, spilling crates into the water. Workers on the dock shouted, cursed, scattered.
Kyle climbed to his feet, grabbed a rope, and swung onto the dock. Solid ground. Solid ground.
He wanted to kiss it. He settled for not collapsing.
A man in a stained apron—the fishing boat's owner, by the look of him—stormed over. "You! What in the seas do you think you're—"
Kyle pressed a handful of Berries into the man's palm. The same Berries he'd taken from the dead pirates. "For the damage. I'm sorry. I don't know how to sail."
The man stared at the money, then at the child in front of him. Barefoot. Too thin. Eyes that didn't look like they belonged to a six‑year‑old.
"…Where's your crew?"
"Don't have one."
The man's expression shifted from anger to something more complicated. He pocketed the Berries and jerked his thumb toward the town. "Dogg Town. There's a tavern up the main street. Maybe someone there can point you to a ship that'll take you."
Kyle nodded and started walking.
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Dogg Town was a port town like any other: narrow streets, salt‑caked buildings, the smell of fish and cheap ale. Merchants hawked goods, children ran between legs, and here and there, a Marine uniform stood out among the crowd.
Marines, Kyle thought. So the World Government exists. Good to know.
He was scanning for a tavern when a newspaper caught his eye. It was tacked to a bulletin board outside a general store, the headline in bold block letters:
"REVERIE CONCLUDES: WORLD GOVERNOR DISCUSSES STABILITY OF THE SEAS"
No mention of Roger. No mention of Gold. No "Pirate King."
Kyle's stomach tightened. He approached the storekeeper—a weathered woman arranging fruit—and pointed to the paper. "Excuse me. What year is it?"
She looked at him like he'd asked the color of the sky. "Sea Calendar 1498. You hit your head on the way in, boy?"
1498.
He did the math in his head. Roger's execution was 1500. Luffy's birth, 1502. The current year…
He was two years before the Pirate King's death. Eight years before Luffy was even born.
I'm in the middle of Roger's era.
The revelation hit him like a shockwave. Gol D. Roger was still alive. The Rocks Pirates were recent history. The Marines had a young Garp, a young Sengoku, a young Tsuru.
And somewhere out there, the man who would become the Pirate King was sailing toward his final adventure.
"Thanks," Kyle said, his voice steadier than he felt.
He turned away from the bulletin board, his mind racing. Two years until Roger's death. That gave him time—time to get stronger, time to find his footing, time to decide what he wanted in this world.
First, though, he needed food. And information. And a way off this island.
He spotted a tavern at the end of the street—a two‑story building with a painted sign of a tankard and the name "The Salty Dog." Perfect.
He was halfway there when the explosion came.
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Boom.
The blast knocked him off his feet. Debris rained down. Screams erupted from the crowd. A plume of black smoke rose from the port—the same direction he'd come from.
Kyle scrambled up, heart hammering. Through the smoke, he could see the masts of a ship—not his stolen junk. A larger vessel, flying a black flag with a shark's skull.
Cannons thundered again. A building near the docks collapsed in a shower of stone and dust.
"The Black Shark Pirates!" someone screamed. "They're back!"
People ran. Marines shouted orders, forming a ragged line. But there were only four of them, and the pirates were already swarming ashore—a dozen armed men, led by a tall brute with a scarred jaw and two cutlasses.
Kyle pressed himself against the wall of a shop, watching. His body was exhausted. He hadn't eaten properly in days. His powers would last maybe two or three minutes if he pushed.
Not my fight, he told himself. I'm a kid. I'm starving. I can't—
A woman's scream cut through the chaos. A pirate had grabbed a young mother by the arm, yanking her away from her child. The man was laughing.
Kyle's hands curled into fists.
He thought about the pirates on the island. The way they'd talked about killing villagers. The blood that wouldn't wash off his hands. The faces he still saw when he closed his eyes.
I didn't choose that fight, he thought. But I could have walked away.
He'd chosen not to.
He looked at the pirate dragging the woman, then at the other pirates fanning out through the street. They were focused on the Marines, on the panicked crowd. No one was watching the alleyways.
Kyle moved.
He slipped into the smoke, low and quiet, three years of jungle hunting guiding his steps. His first target was a pirate looting a stall, back turned. Kyle pressed his palm to the man's kidney. A focused pulse of vibration, barely a whisper.
The pirate crumpled without a sound.
Kyle caught him before he hit the ground, eased him behind the stall. Two more pirates nearby—one with a rifle, one with a cutlass.
He picked up a loose cobblestone, tossed it to the left. Both heads turned. Kyle rushed the rifleman, a shockwave to the knee that dropped him screaming. The cutlass pirate spun, blade raised, but Kyle was already inside his guard—palm to the chest, resonance pulse.
The man flew backward into a crate, unconscious.
Three down. Nine to go.
Kyle's vision blurred. He leaned against a wall, breathing hard. Too fast. I'm burning through what I have left.
The woman he'd saved was staring at him, her child clutched to her chest. "Go," Kyle rasped. "Find cover."
She ran.
Kyle pushed off the wall and forced his legs to move. The main square was chaos—Marines fighting pirates, civilians scattering. The scarred captain was cutting down a Marine with a lazy swing of his cutlass, laughing.
"Is this the best this town can offer? Pathetic!"
Kyle stepped out of the smoke.
The captain saw him. A child. Barefoot, dirty, with blood on his shirt that wasn't his own.
"What's this?" The captain grinned. "You lost, little—"
Kyle didn't let him finish. He launched a shockwave—not at the captain, but at the ground between them. Dust and debris exploded upward, blinding everyone nearby.
The captain stumbled back, slashing wildly. Kyle dropped low, swept his legs, and as the man fell, pressed a palm to his chest.
Resonance.
He didn't push hard. Just enough to crack ribs, to knock the wind out. The captain hit the ground, gasping, his cutlasses clattering away.
Kyle stood over him, swaying. His arms trembled. His head pounded. The remaining pirates, seeing their captain down, began to retreat toward their ship.
The Marines rushed past him, securing the captain, pursuing the stragglers. Kyle didn't watch. He walked to the edge of the square, found a wall, and slid down it.
His hands were shaking.
He sat there for a long time, watching the smoke clear, listening to the distant shouts grow quieter. He was hungry. He was exhausted. And somewhere beneath the adrenaline, he was afraid.
But when a Marine approached—a young woman with a kind face—and asked if he was all right, Kyle looked up and managed a thin smile.
"I could use a meal," he said.
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End of Chapter 4
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