Chapter 1: Awakening of a Tyrant
The last thing he remembered was the deafening screech of tires against asphalt, the painful crunch of metal folding in on itself, and the sharp sting of glass splintering through his skin. His head hit the steering wheel, the world spinning violently around him, and then everything went black. It was supposed to be the end. But as he opened his eyes once more, the world had changed.
Gone was the familiar, sterile white of a hospital room, the hum of machines, and the quiet murmur of voices. Gone were the memories of a life wasted, spent in an unforgiving world where ambition was nothing more than a distant dream. In their place was the scent of saltwater and the creaking of wood, the rocking of a ship.
He lay on a rough, wooden floor, his senses slowly returning to him. The cabin smelled of aged timber and old sea air, and the faint glow of oil lanterns flickered around him, casting long, eerie shadows. His head throbbed with a dull ache, but it was nothing compared to the burning sensation coursing through his veins, the raw, primal power of life itself pulsing inside of him. His fingers twitched, and he realized they were wrapped around the edge of a table—strong hands, thick with muscle, and marked by deep scars that spoke of a lifetime of violence and survival.
The world was unfamiliar, yet there was something about it that felt oddly right.
As his gaze shifted, his eyes caught sight of something that made his stomach twist with a violent surge of realization—a dusty, cracked mirror hanging on the far wall. It reflected a face that wasn't his own.
A face that couldn't possibly be his.
He stood, slowly, his body feeling foreign yet undeniably powerful. His reflection showed jet-black hair cascading like a lion's mane, wild and untamed, and eyes that blazed with an intense, almost feral fire—a fire he hadn't known he possessed. His features were sharp, an angular jawline that could cut through steel, lips set in a permanent sneer, as though the very world had been built to challenge him.
He looked unstoppable.
And then the memories hit him.
Not his memories—at least, not all of them. But the memories of a man who had lived before, a man whose name had been erased from the pages of history. Rocks D. Xebec. A name that made even the mightiest of pirates tremble in fear, a name that had struck terror into the hearts of the Marines. He had been a force of nature, a man who sought nothing less than to reshape the world in his image.
It was like waking up in the body of a legend.
The memories of his past life flooded him—memories of his cold, merciless ambition, his insatiable hunger for power, and his ruthless pursuit of a singular goal: to rule the world. He saw the chaotic clash at God's Valley, the explosion of sound as his crew had fought the forces of the Marines, the rocks of the island shaking beneath their fury. He remembered the betrayal—the disloyalty of his crew, their treacherous eyes turning on him as they aligned with the World Government. The bitter, stinging sense of abandonment that had crushed his spirit in his final moments.
But then, there were other memories. Fragments of another life. A life of ordinary mediocrity, where he had been a simple man—no Devil Fruits, no sea battles, no great destiny. He had been a man who had known failure, a man who had tried and failed to build something worthwhile in a world full of broken promises and dead-end paths.
He had died in that world—a failure. But now? Now, in the body of Xebec, he was something different. He was reborn. This world—One Piece—was his to command.
His heart raced with anticipation as he began to realize the depth of his new power. The potential. In his previous life, he had been weak, a mere mortal among men. But here, in this world of pirates, Devil Fruits, and a vast, endless ocean, he had the power to reshape everything. He could rewrite history, change the fates of kingdoms, and carve his name into the annals of time, as it had always been meant to be.
This time, he would not fail.
The incident at God's Valley, the battle against Roger and Garp, it would never happen again. He would forge a new path, one where he stood at the top, unchallenged and untouchable. The Marines, the Celestial Dragons, the World Government—all of them would bow before him.
And those who had betrayed him—they would pay.
He clenched his fists, feeling the power surge through him, the flames of vengeance licking at his soul. Kaido, Big Mom, Whitebeard—they were all fools. They had never understood his vision. They had only seen him as a tool, a means to an end, and when the time came, they had discarded him like trash.
But this time? This time, they would be the ones to burn.
A sharp knock on the door snapped him from his thoughts. He turned toward the sound, his instincts flaring. A man entered, tall and imposing, wearing the unmistakable uniform of a pirate—one of his own crew.
"Captain," the man said with a bow, his tone respectful, though laced with a hint of wariness. "We've charted a new course. The crew is waiting for your orders."
His orders. The crew. His power.
Jazz—no, Rocks D. Xebec—smirked. "Gather them all," he said, his voice deep and commanding, resonating with authority. "I will show them what it means to follow me. And when we're done, the world will belong to us."
The man nodded and quickly left, the door slamming shut behind him.
Jazz's fingers tightened around the edge of the table again. The flames of his ambition burned hotter, fiercer. His eyes narrowed with a cold, calculated gleam. He had a second chance, and this time, no one would stand in his way.
Not even his own crew.