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Walter sat alone in the quiet luxury of a top-floor hotel suite, the golden glow of the chandelier reflecting off polished marble walls. A crystal glass of chilled water stood beside his plate, catching the light like a diamond. Before him, an artfully arranged dish of grilled beef, seared just enough to trap the juices, filled the air with an intoxicating aroma. Every bite was tender, each chew releasing flavors that seemed to wash away the memory of years spent chewing stale bread and boiled vegetables.
He was addicted now. This world's food — its variety, its craftsmanship, its flavors — had hooked him like a drug. In his first life here, when he'd been broke and desperate, dinner had been nothing more than survival: bread so hard you could break teeth on it, watery stew that tasted of nothing, and once in a while, vegetables that had clearly been thrown away by someone else. But now… now he could taste what the wealthy tasted every day.
The city's underworld had once laughed at him, but he'd swept it clean. Every gang, every syndicate, every petty thug who dared raise their head — crushed, burned, or buried under layers of suffocating wax. His enemies were gone. His bank account was swollen with millions. Majin was dead in the eyes of the world; Walter had taken his place.
Walter leaned back, savoring the meal's last bite, his mind drifting. He could afford to live well now. Silk sheets. Designer suits. A penthouse apartment that overlooked the city skyline, far away from the stench of the alleys he used to call home. His wax wax fruit had grown with him — over forty percent mastery now. Enough that he could make structures as tall as buildings, creatures that looked alive, and death traps so precise they were art.
The most feared was the Death Wax Swamp — a twenty-five meter radius of pale, viscous ground that hardened in an instant into a killing field. Every intruder who stepped into it would find spikes erupting beneath them, sharp as steel, punching through flesh and bone. Few had seen it and lived to tell the tale.
Leaving the hotel, the night air wrapped around him like cool silk. Walter walked the streets calmly, coat swaying behind him, unaware that his fate was about to shift again.
The voice came without warning.
> "Ding. System items refreshed."
His steps slowed. It had been thirteen months since the last refresh. His pulse quickened as the list appeared before his mind's eye.
First item: Nen Awakening Scroll — Awakens host's Nen, with instant mastery of basics. Cost: 200 yuan.
Second item: Sanji Cooking Experience Card — Decades of sea-born culinary mastery, knife skills, and recipes. Cost: 1,000 yuan.
Third item: Sasori's Puppet Mastery Card — A lifetime of puppet creation, mechanisms, and artistry. Cost: 1,200 yuan.
Walter stopped in the middle of the street, eyes wide. Passersby looked at him strangely, but he barely noticed. This was too perfect.
By the time he returned to his apartment — high ceilings, floor-to-ceiling windows, black leather furniture — he was already pulling the items from the system menu. He didn't even blink before buying all three.
The Puppet Mastery Card came first. A shiver ran through him as the knowledge slammed into his mind: the grinding of gears, the snap of threads, the perfect balance of joints, the delicate art of hiding weapons inside beauty. He could see every puppet Sasori had ever built. He knew how to make them breathe, speak, and kill.
Next, the Cooking Experience Card. His mind exploded into color — smells, textures, flavors — the way to slice onions so thin they'd melt in soup, the precision to flip a fish at exactly the right second, the knowledge of spices and marinades that could seduce a starving man or silence a king mid-sentence. His fingers itched for a knife.
He didn't resist. Within minutes, Walter was in his kitchen. Stainless steel counters gleamed under the lights. He moved like a man possessed, every motion elegant and sharp. A pan sizzled as he laid a fish over the oil, the skin curling as it seared. The fragrance burst through the room, crawling out the apartment door, down the hall, and into the noses of curious neighbors.
People stepped into the hallway, sniffing like predators catching prey.
> "Who's cooking that?"
"God, that smell— I can't take it."
But no one knocked. No one dared. They all went back to their rooms, frustrated and hungry.
Walter sat at the table alone, slicing a piece of the golden-brown fish. The flavor hit him like a wave — crisp skin, tender flesh, the subtle dance of salt, lemon, and herbs. He closed his eyes, and for a moment, life was perfect.
Then his gaze fell on the last item. The Nen Awakening Scroll.
He didn't hesitate. The moment he activated it, it was like something inside him broke — and then roared to life. Energy surged out of him in a tidal wave, raw and untamed. The table in front of him cracked down the middle. His heart pounded, muscles tensed, and his senses sharpened until he could hear the ticking of the clock in the next room.
Information flowed into his mind as if burned there: Ten, Zetsu, Ren. The foundation of power. He understood them instantly, as if he'd trained for years. He could feel the aura moving around his body, controlling it, suppressing it, strengthening it.
His eyes opened. Calm again. Controlled. For now.
But the basics weren't enough. He knew he would have to master Gyo, En, Shu, Ko, Ryu — the advanced techniques — if he wanted to reach the peak.
Training began immediately. He balanced his days between honing his wax wax fruit to frightening levels and pushing his Nen beyond what most could imagine.
Another year passed. A year not of quiet kills, but of massacres. Gangs disappeared in a night. Syndicates were gutted from within. His wax creatures hunted through the shadows, and his Nen-enhanced strikes left no survivors.
But his victims were chosen. Only those who dealt in suffering — traffickers, extortionists, killers-for-hire. To the average citizen, Walter was invisible. To the underworld, he was the Devil's shadow.
Each corpse was left with a note in wax:
> "Those who bring evil will face me. The demon from hell."
In a matter of months, Meteor City changed. A place that had been a den of crime for generations fell silent. Murders stopped. The streets were safe. Children walked to school without fear. Even whispers of organized crime faded.
The citizens never knew his name. The gangs knew — and never spoke it.
Walter stood one night on the roof of his apartment, the wind tugging at his coat, looking out over the quiet city. Once, it had been chaos. Now, it was his.
And somewhere in the darkness, he knew his story here was only beginning.
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