James blinked.
Beneath him stretched a long, translucent walkway. Smooth, faintly glowing along the edges, it appeared solid and polished like crystal, with subtle reflections where the light met his boots. The space below extended into open depth—clean, expansive, endless.
Above him, the sky arched in rich black, scattered with countless stars. Each one held steady in place, precise and evenly spaced like points on a map.
He narrowed his eyes and focused. The woman. The car. The screech. The last few moments replayed in exact order. The place around him didn't resemble anything familiar.
He looked at his hands—wide palms, thick knuckles, and the faint, old lines that marked a life of work. The texture was smoother now, the color more even, and a faint, steady glow shimmered beneath the surface of his skin. He turned his arm, flexed each finger. Every motion was clean and controlled.
His body held a steady calm. His breath came even. His posture remained balanced. The space around him carried a clear silence.
Then came the voice.
"You have been chosen…"
"Choose your reincarnation…"
"One Piece. Naruto. Bleach."
The sound moved through him, firm and resonant. It filled the space, surrounding him fully. His chest expanded slightly. His back straightened. His body acknowledged the weight of the moment without needing instruction.
His eyes opened wide again. He reset his footing, shifting smoothly, grounded.
He turned.
A figure stood ahead, towering far above the walkway. It had a clearly human shape—two arms, two legs, squared shoulders, and a head positioned with symmetry and balance. Its frame burned with movement. The body was composed of shifting fire, the color deep and dark, blending seamlessly with the void around it. The flames followed the structure of a person, rising smoothly across the chest, shoulders, and limbs with uniform motion.
The fire held to its form without flicker or collapse. Each contour of the body—neck, arms, torso—remained sharply defined within the constant motion. The figure's stance was upright and still, with both feet level beneath it, anchored on the invisible floor.
Its eyes were blue and bright, shaped like perfect spheres of fire. The color was vivid and concentrated, steady at the center and pulsing subtly at the edges. They faced forward, fully aligned on James, unwavering.
The space around the figure remained stable. The dark continued in every direction, and the stars above stayed fixed. Light pooled faintly at the figure's feet, forming a soft circle around its base.
The walkway beneath James stayed even and reflective. His own posture mirrored in the surface—feet planted, arms loose at his sides, eyes fixed upward.
He didn't speak. His throat felt full, not from pressure, but from presence. The moment was complete, and he stood inside it, still and aware.
The voice repeated once more.
"One Piece. Naruto. Bleach."
His body responded before thought could catch up. A sharp pull tightened in his core. His knees drew tension, ankles stiffening like his legs expected something ancient and absolute. Every part of him felt it—an invisible pressure rolling down from above, steady and centered. His mind offered one clear command: kneel.
His jaw set. His mouth felt dry. His tongue sat heavy behind his teeth. The air in his lungs paused, waiting. His eyes stayed on the figure, and the figure's burning blue gaze remained locked on him.
The pulse in his neck grew heavier, counting time in full, even beats. His arms hung at his sides. His fingers curled slightly, not from fear, but from the weight pressing into his skin, his bones, the quiet depth of the moment.
The command to kneel didn't fade—it lingered. It was written into the space, into whatever this place was. But James stood still.
He had stood for his country. For his family. For himself. He hadn't bowed to power before, and he wouldn't start now—not here, not in death.
His stance remained grounded. His posture didn't shift.
A thought passed through him, clear and random: Wasn't that the anime he and Shawn watched?
He couldn't speak yet. His throat stayed tight, chest firm, breath slow and deliberate. But the words found their way up.
He exhaled.
"What the fuck."
His mouth was hanging open. He really didn't know what to do—he was in shock.
What was this?
Then, all of a sudden, he heard an old man's voice.
"Oh yeah, forgot you mortals get a little overwhelmed over the small things…"
Now James was confused. He turned slowly.
The shadow figure began to collapse inward. Its edges curled like smoke, drawing toward the center. The form shrank steadily until it became a single orb of pale blue light, floating in the dark.
A figure descended from it.
He wore a full-length robe, thick at the shoulders and heavy at the hem. Faint stitched patterns ran along the trim, some geometric, others curved like old script. The cloth moved in long, slow folds as he drifted down.
His posture was upright. His arms were tucked into his sleeves.
He had a long white beard, parted neatly in the middle. His hair matched—straight and shoulder-length, pulled back behind his ears.
His face was long and lined. Deep creases ran across his forehead and down beside his nose and mouth. His skin was pale, with a dry, weathered texture.
His nose was wide. His chin was square. His lips were closed and still.
His eyes were a vivid, saturated blue. The color was uniform from edge to edge. They were wide open, directed straight ahead, focused on James.
He hovered several inches above the surface, his feet hidden by the folds of his robe. Behind him, the blue light dimmed slowly but remained steady.
James stayed where he was, eyes locked forward.
The man let his feet touch the ground as he walked—unhurried, smooth, each step placed with the ease of someone who had done this more times than he could count. His robe shifted with a low, layered rustle, heavy fabric brushing and folding over itself with each movement. He stopped about five yards from James and smiled—an easy, practiced curve of the mouth, not too wide, not forced. His shoulders were loose. His stance casual.
"Sorry," the man said, his voice clear and measured, "bit rusty. Been a long time since someone qualified for reincarnation into another world… kinda rare. Hope I didn't scare you."
James blinked once, then again, slower the second time. He remained upright, his boots planted, arms at his sides. His breath held in the center of his chest, not stuck, just paused. His thoughts ran fast and heavy, overlapping before they could finish. The moment pressed against his body like too many voices in a small room.
He couldn't speak.
The light. The stillness. The sheer size of the space. Every detail settled over him without warning or rhythm. His mind tried to catch something steady and found nothing yet.
The man studied him, waiting. The smile faded gradually. His head tilted. His posture changed—no longer casual, but attentive.
"They didn't tell me if you were retarded…" he said, voice even, but edged at the corners. His sapphire-blue eyes narrowed slightly, the color saturated and unblinking as they held on James, clear and exact.
Retarded? James thought. Fuck you.
The man blinked. "How rude…" he said with a dry sniff, and snapped his fingers.
The change was immediate. The world expanded in an instant. James's body felt smaller, pulled in on itself, compressed without resistance. The walkway became a smooth, stretching plane. The folds of the man's robe towered above like rising stone.
"I could crush you like an ant," the voice said, same tone, same pacing. "How about some civility? Think better thoughts, hmm?"
A beat passed through James's mind—sharp, quiet, direct. Can he read my mind?
The man snapped his fingers again.
James stood full-sized once more. The space had not shifted. The ground remained smooth and reflective beneath his feet. But his sense of place had changed.
"Yes, I can read your mind," the man said, eyes on his fingernails, voice steady. "And I'm quite good at it."
James exhaled slowly, pushing the air from deep in his chest. It came out steady, not forced, a full release like letting go of pressure he'd carried across lifetimes. The thought settled in behind his breath: be nice. He held onto it.
Good thoughts, he reminded himself. Clean. Simple. Something he could manage.
"Yes, good thoughts," the man echoed, still studying his fingernails with a light touch of amusement. The edges of his mouth lifted as if he were entertained by his own calm. His eyes stayed low, attention drifting casually across the curve of his hand, too relaxed to bother pretending this conversation required effort.
James sighed again, the weight not quite lifting. Mind reading's going to get annoying, he thought, letting it land in his mind like a stone dropped into still water.
No reply came.
James adjusted his footing, his stance squaring with slow purpose. He brought his gaze up and kept it steady on the figure in front of him. "What is going on?" he asked, voice low but even, a question spoken from the center of everything he couldn't yet explain.
The man smiled wider, eyes lifting slightly. "What is going on," he repeated, testing the words with a tone that felt oddly rehearsed. "You've qualified to be reborn into another world. Isn't that exciting?"
A frown worked into James's brow, shallow but firm. His eyes didn't move. "Why not Earth?"
The man responded with a single word: "Because." The syllable dropped like punctuation, clean and immediate.
James kept the pause deliberate, refusing to let it end there. "Because why?"
This time, the man raised his head fully. His expression shifted, a flicker of something more deliberate behind his gaze. One eye narrowed slightly, not in suspicion, but in careful consideration. "It's like explaining water to a fish," he said. "The concept isn't graspable from your position."
James didn't push. He let the answer hang, unmoving, letting the edges settle while his mind shifted gears. Thoughts moved like steady tide—one after the other, cold and clean.
"Is Ann in one of those worlds?" he asked.
The man's shoulders drew back ever so slightly, as though realigned by the question. His sapphire-blue eyes met James's directly. The tone dropped from his voice, not gentler, but more deliberate. "Ann," he said, "your wife exists in one of the three. Her soul has returned to the cycle. But she won't remember you."
James kept his focus, shoulders still, lips closed. His voice followed a beat later. "Which one?"
The man drew in a slow breath, then let it out through his nose. "That information is locked," he said. "Bound by laws I don't control. And before you reach for a reason—it follows the same rule. You're standing in water. I cannot explain water to you."
James's jaw set. The tension didn't rise, but it held. His arms stayed relaxed at his sides, but the breath he took next came with weight. After a long moment, he asked, "Will I keep my memories?"
The man gave a small nod, the motion minimal. "For a cost," he said, voice calm. "Yes, you may."
James's brow lifted slightly, more curious than cautious. "What cost?"
Far as I know, he thought, I don't have any money.
James was utterly exasperated. His shoulders tensed, his thoughts started to scatter, and every word the old man said seemed heavier than the last. It was too much—all of it.
"Yes, it is too much for you, isn't it?" the man said, wiggling his eyebrows again with that same irritating grin.
Is he calling me dumb again? James thought, glaring now.
The man didn't respond this time, but his smirk stayed in place, wide and smug.
Then, without waiting for James to recover, the man clapped his hands once, sharp and loud. "Anyway—enough stalling. Choose your new world."
James blinked. His train of thought derailed completely, scattered in every direction.
"Umm…" he mumbled, eyes drifting upward.
The glowing words appeared again in the air above the man's head. Bright and clear:
One Piece
Naruto
Bleach
He stared at them, each one floating with a subtle glow, holding just enough space between to suggest weight. He didn't move, but his thoughts started turning again—slower now, more focused. One choice. Three names. A decision that would decide everything.
Bleach was his first no-go.
It just never clicked. He'd tried—twice, even—because Shawn swore it got better "after Soul Society." Whatever that meant. But something about it always rubbed him the wrong way. All the yelling, the endless power-ups, the spiritual sword stuff—it felt like everyone had trauma and zero communication skills. Shawn had loved it. Called it poetic. James just called it exhausting.
His eyes shifted to the second name.
Naruto.
Also a no. A strong one. The first series had its moments—the underdog kid trying to earn respect, the bonds with teammates, the whole ninja village thing. He could appreciate that. But then it kept going. And going. And then Boruto dropped. Even Shawn couldn't defend that one. Too much legacy drama, too many recycled plots. It didn't sit right. James liked clean stakes, not generational trauma with ninja tech.
That left One Piece.
Now that one… he actually liked.
It was ridiculous—stretchy pirates, snail phones, talking reindeer—but it had soul. Real soul. He remembered Shawn showing it to him during one of those long weekends where neither of them wanted to talk about Ann being sick. They'd just sit and watch Luffy smile like an idiot and somehow still punch through the sky when it counted.
Zoro had been James's favorite early on. That swordsman with the green hair and bad sense of direction. Stoic, loyal, silent when it mattered, and always itching for a fight. The way he stood behind his captain—never in front—always ready to carry the weight without needing to say why… that hit something deep.
Then there was the Marine.
Aokiji.
James almost didn't remember the name. Just the presence. Laid-back. Slouched. The kind of guy who didn't say much, but when he did, you paid attention. Ice powers, yeah, but it wasn't the flashiness that stuck—it was the restraint. He was justice, but not the kind that barked orders or bowed to politicians. He left the Marines because the world tilted the wrong way. He believed in doing what was right, even if it meant walking alone.
James remembered thinking, If I ever had to wear one of those coats… I'd want to wear it like him.
He looked up at the floating names.
Bleach.
Naruto.
One Piece.
His fingers twitched at his sides.
There really wasn't a choice to make.
"I choose One Piece," James said, his voice measured, the words carrying the full weight of his intent.
The man's eyebrows rose with quiet interest, and a familiar grin followed, spreading like a well-worn habit. "Wow. You chose the world that happens to hold your wife's soul. Talk about fate…"
A warmth stirred behind James's sternum. Subtle. It wasn't release, exactly—just less burden. Like something that had been locked down was beginning to lift. The thought of seeing Ann again moved through him like sunlight through water: slow, reaching into places that had gone cold.
But beyond that warmth came the questions. How would he find her in a world as wide and wild as the seas of One Piece? Would she know him? Would she be happy? Would he?
He focused, letting those questions settle for now. His mind turned toward possibility. Toward the one thing he might be able to do—trade.
"You said I have karma?" he asked.
The man nodded once, with slow conviction. "Plenty."
"I want a Vivre Card that leads to her. One that'll restore her memories when I find her. And I want to keep my own. Also…" James took a breath. "I want to meet her before she marries someone else."
The old man's expression shifted—less playful, more still. He tilted his head, as if appraising a request that was rarer than most. "Are you sure?" he asked. "You could be born with haki strong enough to bend the will of others before you even learn to walk. That kind of strength is rare, especially with your karma banked. You could dominate oceans. Stand alongside the greats. And there are… other paths. Other partners."
James's reply came without hesitation. "I want my wife."
The man rubbed his chin, his fingers tracing lines that had been worn deep by time. His voice slowed, but held clarity. "I can give you a Vivre Card," he said, "but there's no guarantee she'll be who you remember. Souls grow. They change with each turn of the wheel."
James held his gaze, firm and quiet. "Then it wasn't fated."
The man broke into laughter—clean, unforced, like something old had just been dusted off. It rolled from his chest and echoed lightly through the star-strewn space.
"I like you," he said, letting the last chuckle fade. "You've still got karma to spend. How about a system?"
James straightened slightly. "A system?"
The man stepped back and clasped his hands behind him. His robe settled neatly across his shoulders as he spoke. "Yes. All the reincarnated seem to want one these days. A framework to guide your growth. Track things. Offer aid. Each one shaped differently."
James didn't speak, but the space in front of him responded anyway. Letters formed midair—sharp, legible, held together by a faint pulse that suggested they were waiting for his attention.
System Options:
Harem
Check-in
Training
Quest
Experience
"You may choose one," the man said, his tone light again—like they were back to the beginning of a game.
James stared at the floating choices, arms crossed, jaw set. The glow from the five hovering words cast a soft, almost artificial light across his chest and face. They shimmered faintly like they were daring him to choose one and step off a cliff.
He narrowed his eyes. "Why do I even need a system?"
The old man didn't miss a beat. He gave a short, amused breath, the kind that sounded like someone holding back a laugh they didn't care to explain. "Because your wife's a somebody now," he said, like it should've been obvious. "And if you show up in that world as a nobody… well, she won't even see you coming. Might not see you at all."
He smiled thinly, lifting a single finger. "And that's assuming you survive long enough to stand near her. Which you won't, by the way. Not without power."
James didn't move, but the set of his jaw shifted slightly.
"And let's not forget the Vivre Card you asked for," the man went on, circling slightly around James now. "It'll track her. It's soul-bound. Custom-forged. But it doesn't mean a damn thing unless you're strong enough to use it."
He stopped pacing and tapped the air near his own chest. "It starts with a one-foot range. That's it. One foot. You'd have to be nearly touching her before you feel anything."
James gave him a slow, sidelong look. "One foot?"
"Yup." The man didn't blink. "But that range? It grows. Tied directly to your strength—especially your haki. The stronger your will, the further the pull. Think of it like stretching a thread made of soul. You want to feel her presence from across the Grand Line? Then you better learn to shake the sea with your spirit."
"And if I don't have haki?" James asked.
"Then you better find a devil fruit," the man replied with a shrug. "Awaken it. That'll work too."
He walked a few paces forward, then looked back over his shoulder. "No shortcuts, James. No free wins. You want her back, you've got to earn the range to reach her. Simple as that."
James stood in the stillness, eyes locked on the glowing words ahead of him. Each one hovered in the air with quiet pressure, as if the world itself was waiting.
His thoughts moved with focus now. The Marines had power—he'd seen that even through the screen when watching with Shawn. They trained harder than most, developed techniques that pushed the limits of human will. Their headquarters—Marineford—stood as a fortress of order and force. A place where strength was refined.
And maybe, just maybe, that's where he belonged.
Maybe he could carry the idea of justice a little further this time. Not just follow it—define it. Show the kind of justice that protected the weak and held power accountable. The kind that didn't flinch.
If this world had room for that kind of Marine… he could fill it.
He glanced up at the list again.
Harem.
Check-in.
Training.
Quest.
Experience.
One of these would help him get there. He just had to choose.