Grand Line – 1505
The Grand Line isn't an ordinary sea. Sailors called it the pirate's graveyard—a place where countless ships had vanished and destroyed without a trace, leaving only broken wood to drift in their wake. The ferocious waters were tossing even mighty vessels like toys. What's worst is the climate, one moment, the skies could shine clear and calm, and the next, storms would erupt from nowhere, hurling waves taller than mountains and islands, with winds sharp enough to tear sails to millions of pieces. Beneath the surface, monstrous creatures stirred—some so big their shadows could swallow an entire ship whole.
Unlike the more calm sea of the Blues. The Grand Line was a world of extremes. Each island along the way possessed a climate of its own, unlike the ones before or after it. On one, snow fell year-round, and with just day's sail away, the air pressed hot and humid like a tropical jungle.
The sea itself was sealed away by two great barriers. The Red Line —a colossal wall of 'land' encircling the world like a fortress, impossible to cross without special routes. And the Calm Belt, a windless stretch of water where ships lay dead adrift, prey for the colossal Sea Kings that prowled its depths.
And yet, for all its peril, the Grand Line drew dreamers, pirates, and explorers from every corner of the world. For somewhere amidst its treacherous waters lay riches, secrets, and powers found nowhere else. But survival itself was the treasure, for few who entered ever tell the tale.
It was on this sea, beneath the roar of a rising storm, that a boy was cast adrift—alone, powerless, at the mercy of the waves. He drifted for hours—or perhaps days—until at last a large ship emerged from the haze and pulled him aboard, and without a word the vessel kept going, vanishing into the fog as suddenly as it had appeared. Behind it, the waters raged on—wild, merciless, unchanged.
--
Inside the belly of a massive ship, where the air was thick with salt and sweat, dozens of crew members moved with practiced efficiency. Below the deck, behind iron bars and damp wood walls, hundreds of prisoners were crammed into many cells— faces emptied of hope, waiting for an end they would never choose.
And today, they welcomed a new face.
A boy, no older than thirteen or fourteen, was hauled aboard like a sack of cargo, his clothes clinging to him, heavy and dripping from the storm. He barely stirred. His head lolled to one side, eyes shut, skin pale beneath the dripping strands of his hair as the crewman dragged him down the narrow, dimly lit corridor. Without ceremony, he was shoved into a cell. The heavy door slammed shut behind him. Inside, several other children looked up from their corners, silent and wary. No one spoke. The sea groaned outside, and the ship pressed on through the fog like nothing happened.
--
An unfamiliar ceiling.
My eyes blinked open to the sight of the aged wooden ceiling above me, a wave of nausea rolled through me, and my headache was killing me, I couldn't shake the sensation that I was constantly swaying, like the ground beneath me refused to stay still.
"Ugh… god, my head."
It felt like I'd downed ten bottles of soju and passed out in the middle of the street—just like that one night I swore I'd never repeat.
Where the hell am I?
With a groan, I pushed against the cold, damp floor, my arms trembling as if they were pasta and trying to lift something far too heavy. Every muscle burned, my joints stiff and unresponsive, like they'd been left unused for weeks, and my neck feels really heavy because there's something big weighing around my neck. I managed to raise my shoulders off the ground before the strength drained out of me completely. My arms buckled, and I collapsed back onto the damp woods, breathless.
The air was thick with a stale, sour scent. Each time I inhale, it feels heavy, and each exhale feels shaky. My head throbbed in time with my heartbeat like some big stone is part of my head, heavy and hard, with the constant swaying beneath me only worsened my nausea. My eyelids felt heavier than lead, my thoughts sluggish, slipping away before I could hold onto them.
I became aware of some sound first: the faint groan of wooden beams, the occasional distant thud, and somewhere, muffled breathing that wasn't mine. Then came the texture beneath my palms—rough wood, uneven and splintered, cold and damp where moisture had seeped in.
Only after what felt like an eternity did my mind begin to stitch things together, dragging me toward the simple, unsettling truth. My gaze drifted past my hands, over the warped wooden floor, until it caught on the shape of cold, rusted bars set into the wall before me.
A cell. I was lying inside a cell. And not just cell, but the type that makes me confused.
What kind of cell is this?
Wood. Wood, and—surprise—more wood. Floor, walls, ceiling, all made from the same materials, like someone built this place with a single shopping list. And the only thing that didn't match that was the row of iron bars—thick, ugly, and rusty things, sitting there like they were the security feature. Which is hilarious, really. Why bother with iron when all the walls are just wood? One good pry, and you're halfway to freedom.
When I looked around, my eyes landed on the cell across from mine. Inside, a handful of people sat slumped in silence, cramped inside the tiny cells, their bodies barely moving. Almost all of them had their heads to the floor. Most were old bones, and no one looked young, with sagging skin, and their white hair tangled and slick with sweat, and a big, heavy collar around everyone's neck. Dirt clung to them like a second skin, baked into every wrinkle, every hollow of their eyes. They looked less like prisoners and more like zombies.
And in my own cell, there are a lot of children and teenagers huddled in the corners, their numbers go to a dozen or more, heads bowed and shoulders slumped again with the big stone collar around their necks. One curled up, sobbing into their knees. Another just stared, eyes raw and empty. The rest didn't cry—because they had no tears left to shed. The silence between them was heavy.
My arrival drew a few glances—eyes lifting just long enough to register someone new—then drifting away again. No one moved from their position. Whatever curiosity they had wasn't enough to bring them closer.
The whole thing didn't add up. I was stuck in a prison cell full of kids—faces far too young for this kind of cruelty. Why were they here in the first place? These weren't criminals, I don't think so. They are just children, for god's sake. What crime could they possibly have committed to end up like that? Hell, most of them probably still slept with their mothers weeks ago. And yet they are here, caged like dangerous criminals, crammed into a filthy cell deep inside some creaking, stinking hole that reeked of rust, sweat, and rot.
Then there was me. Why the hell was I here? My mind scrambled, clawing for any memory that could explain this—some fight I'd picked, some stupid stunt I'd pulled—but there was nothing. Not a thing I can remember in my memory that can make me end up here, no shady deals, no "oops, I accidentally joined a cult" moments. Just… nothing. I'd never done anything that could land me in a place like this. Well—unless you count that one time I got caught hitting someone's car. But come on, you don't get thrown into this grimy, rotting cell for hitting someone's car… unless traffic laws got really intense while I wasn't looking, or the person who owns it is the crazy and powerful people like some Illuminati.
As if that's true, and even if it's true, it's been months since the accident, why now? Forget it, sitting here and talking to myself wasn't going give me anything. I need answers right now.
With that in mind, I tried to plant my hands against the cold floor and pushed again, determined to get to my feet and aiming to make my way to the children huddled in the corner.
My knees wobbled, my back felt like it was moving through a swamp, but I had it—almost.
What…?
The world lurched. My legs buckled, and I went down hard, my shoulder smacking the floor with a dull thud against the wooden floor.
I stayed there for a second, lying on all four, breathing through the ache. This wasn't just dizziness, no it's something else. It wasn't the sway of the floor or the throbbing in my head that brought me down. it was something deeper, something stranger.
My body felt… wrong. Off. The weight, the balance, even the way my limbs moved—it was all unfamiliar, like using the Gundam for the first time, even though I don't know how it felt.
I flexed my fingers slowly. They were different, lighter. Shorter. And smoother.
My stomach sank. I never noticed it before.
No. No, that's insane. There's no way.
I shifted onto my knees, and even that felt strange—my legs too short, my center of gravity not where it should be. Every movement was clumsy, wrong, alien.
And then, finally, the thought I'd been trying to shove aside forced its way to the front of my mind.
I had changed, in a literal way.
Not just shorter—shrunken? Different? This wasn't the body I remembered.
As terrifying as it sounded, there was no denying it. I wasn't in the body I remembered.
I looked down at my hands again.
Yep. Not mine—or at least, not the ones I remember.
The skin was far smoother, with shorter and thinner finger too. I turned them over slowly, as if the answer might be written on my palms. But there was no denying it.
These were a child's hands.
I lay back, trying to steady my breathing as my breathing became more ragged after the rest of it settled in. My arms were too small. My legs felt too short. And even when I cursed under my breath, my voice came out higher.
And then it hit me, something so absurd, impossible, and yet it happened.
Every puzzle piece clicked into place in the worst way possible.
Somehow—impossibly—I'd become a child.
No wonder they'd thrown me in a cell full of kids.
What a shocker. I'm a fucking kid too.
Fantastic. Just fantastic.
A grown man in his twenties trapped in a kid's body? Check.
Dumped into some mystery prison with zero explanation? Double Check.
Surrounded by scenes straight out of a grim history book? Triple check.
What is this, some anime isekai cliché?
A dream? Hallucination? Nope—dreams don't make your butt hurt from falling on a hard floor, and hallucinations don't usually come with the smell of unwashed socks and dead rat.
So… what's the verdict here? Reincarnation? Time travel? Secret government experiment? Or maybe I'm just some universe's favorite punchline joke.
Whatever the case, one thing's certain—I need answers. And I need them fast.
I tried to stand again, this time more carefully—slow movements, steady breaths. My legs still wobbled, and I almost fell a few times, but hey at least they didn't fold like wet pasta. It felt sturdier now. Enough to keep me upright.
One step at a time, then another one. The floor tilted with each creak. I made my way toward the children huddled in the corner. Most of them didn't react, lost in their own thought and silence. But one person caught my eye—a girl, who couldn't have been more than eleven or twelve, but still had a faint spark in her gaze.
While the others looked broken, this one still seemed… alive. Like she hadn't given up yet.
And for now, that was more hope than all the other people combined I saw since waking up in this nightmare.
She sat with two younger girls pressed close against her sides; all three of them had distinctive hair color. The one in the middle had black hair, while the other two had green and orange hair. her arms wrapped around them in a quiet, protective hold. She didn't speak. She didn't need to. Her steady presence alone seemed to anchor them.
I hovered a few steps away, unsure if I should speak. The silence in this place felt maddening—like anything can shatter it. Even though I know she noticed me, she didn't so much as glance up.
I hesitated, then took a long breath.
"Hey…" I said, softly—barely louder than the creak of this place.
Nothing. Not a flinch. Not even a twitch. Just her pupils in her eyes were moving to look at me. And honestly? I didn't blame her.
"I'm… not trying to bother you," I added, my voice faltering a little. "I just… wanted to ask if you know where we are." Damn, I can't control my voice, why the fuck do I sound funny? Like I inhale a full balloon worth of helium, it's so much higher than my normal voice, I don't know if I ever get used to this voice.
but she moved this time, thank god if she didn't I don't know what should I do, the other children doesn't look like someone you can talk with. Even though she didn't move much—just lifting her head enough to look at me but it's enough she acknowledge my existence, I can work from there.
In silence, her sharp eyes, beneath a curtain of tangled hair, were scanning me. The two girls beside her buried their faces deeper into her sides. I didn't speak. I didn't move. I just waited, letting the silence stretch between us like a thin thread, afraid that pushing too hard might snap it.
Finally, her lips parted, and she whispered—so soft I almost missed it.
"This is a slave trader's ship."
The words didn't just reach me—they slammed into me.
W-what? Slave? Ship?
For a heartbeat, I thought maybe I'd misheard her. Maybe my brain, desperate enough to make sense of this situation, had conjured something awful all on its own.
But no.
The look in her eyes told me everything. She meant it. Every. Single. Fu*king. Word.
Slave trader's ship. Like the same one in 17th or what?
The phrase echoed in my head, each repetition ringing harder than the last, like someone ringing a dull bell in the dark corridors.
My mouth went dry. My thoughts scattered.
A slave ship. That's where I'd end up to?
This wasn't a prison. No. This was something worse—much-much worse.
But now, it all made sense.
At first, I thought my dizzy head made the ground feel swaying until now. But no, it's because I'm inside a ship, a slave merchant one too.
Then the floor, the walls, the ceiling—all wood. Every groan and creak underfoot.
And of course, all the walls, the ceiling, and the floor were made of wood. Why wouldn't they? it's easy to shape, cheap to repair, can float well enough and even if someone somehow clawed their way out, where would they go?
There was no escape. Just endless water in every direction. It makes escape impossible unless you are prepared to swim for days to the nearest island. Am I in the past? Inside some dark history book? If so then how the fuck am I in this timeline.
I swallowed hard, forcing words past the dryness in my throat.
"Is-is this really a slave ship?"
My voice cracked, can't hold the dread in it.
She didn't answer. Her eyes dropped to the floor.
Welp that's answer it.
"Where's the ship going to?" maybe I can do something if its America, then maybe some of the history book I learned in class finally became useful.
She sighed, then looking up at the ceiling as if answering my question became a weigh on it's own.
"To the place where the ones who bought us are waiting 'Mary Geoise'."