Kyle held his breath, melting into the shadow at the cliff's edge. Only a pair of golden pupils gleamed faintly in the darkness as he silently observed the vessel approaching from the open sea. The wind carried the faint creak of wood and the slow slap of waves against the hull, a sound that had been absent from his life for far too long.
The ship itself wasn't large—no more than twenty crew members could comfortably fit aboard. Its hull bore the scars of age and neglect: weathered planks, chipped paint, and barnacles clinging stubbornly along the waterline. The sails, patched and mismatched, fluttered weakly in the salty breeze, speaking of a crew with shallow pockets and rough living.
At the bow stood a figurehead carved in the likeness of a ferocious skull with two crossed cutlasses beneath it. It was the kind of menacing symbol that screamed "pirates" from a distance—but it was a stock design, something a lazy craftsman might carve without imagination.
"Finally…" Kyle's lips moved in a whisper only he could hear.
Three years.
Three endless years of surviving like a wild animal on this forsaken island. Three years of fishing, foraging, dodging storms, and staring at the horizon until his eyes ached—always wondering when an opportunity would come. And now… finally, the ocean had delivered one to him.
His fingers tightened slightly against the rock he crouched upon. Despite the rush of excitement bubbling in his chest, he forced himself to remain still. He had no intention of leaping from the cliff to make a dramatic "Dragon King's Return" entrance.
Caution was the first and most important rule for a transmigrator trying to survive in a world this dangerous. Recklessness might make for a grand story… but it also got you killed.
The pirate ship dropped anchor a short distance from shore. A gangplank was thrown over the side, and one by one, several figures splashed down into the knee-deep surf.
Twelve of them.
Their appearance told a story of years spent in rough company—hair unkempt, clothes torn or stained, eyes carrying the restless energy of men who lived by the edge of a blade. Cutlasses swung at their hips; a few carried flintlock pistols tucked into sashes.
At their head strode a burly man whose thick black beard nearly hid his mouth. A crimson cloth was tied around his waist like a sash, and slung casually over his shoulder was a spiked club as thick as a man's thigh. His voice was rough and carried easily over the surf.
"All of you, hurry up! Find some fresh water and food, and see if there's anything worth taking on this godforsaken island!"
"Aye, Captain!" several pirates replied with raucous laughter before scattering like carrion crows.
From his perch, Kyle's expression sharpened. He let his breathing slow, his presence shrinking until it was nearly imperceptible. In the next instant, he called upon the ability granted by the Boba Fruit.
A faint hum seemed to stir the air as an invisible vibration spread out from him like ripples in a pond. It was his unique radar—subtle enough that the pirates below would never know they were being scanned.
Mediocre.
That was Kyle's assessment after a moment of focus. Compared to the monsters who roamed the Grand Line—those with bounties in the tens or even hundreds of millions—these men were little more than fodder. They lacked the suffocating aura that true fighters carried, and Kyle sensed no trace of Haki among them.
From the cliff, he had a perfect view of their movements. The pirates kicked through sand, poked at driftwood, and bickered amongst themselves.
"What could we possibly find on this rock?" grumbled a tall, thin pirate, giving a stone an irritated kick.
"Fresh water's here, at least," another replied, a scar running from his cheek to his jawline. His yellowed teeth flashed as he chuckled. "Remember that last place, Captain? That village—what was it called? We got some real good loot there!"
The bearded Captain laughed, a booming, prideful sound. "Hah! Those villagers thought they could resist? One swing of my spiked club and their brains painted the dirt! And those girls—tsk, tsk—they were nice and soft."
A monkey-faced pirate snorted, his tone dripping with lewdness. "Too bad you went too hard, Captain. Killed two after playing with them—the rest of us didn't even get a turn."
"What are you worried about? After we restock, we'll hit another island. Plenty of fun to go around. Any man who resists gets fed to the fish, and the women…" The Captain's laugh turned into a low, filthy chuckle, soon joined by the rest of his crew. Vulgar boasts filled the air as casually as one might discuss the weather.
Kyle's faint smile faded entirely, replaced by a cold, unreadable mask.
Originally, he had considered the possibility of negotiation—perhaps using his abilities to subtly persuade them into giving him passage. But now? That idea was dead.
These weren't just pirates—they were vermin.
The world of One Piece was often painted with the colors of adventure, friendship, and dreams… but beneath that, in the spaces between arcs, darkness lingered. Atrocities were often just hints in the background—cover stories, passing mentions. Here, however, there was no filter.
Violence. Evil. Blood.
He was no saint, but there were some lines he couldn't ignore. And these men had just handed him the perfect excuse to take their ship for himself.
"It seems my first real battle in this world will be against you," he whispered, his eyes narrowing with killing intent.
He didn't leap dramatically into the open. Instead, Kyle slipped from his perch and began to circle through the jungle's edge, approaching from where the pirates had spread out.
One man was hacking through vines, cursing under his breath. He never heard the soft crunch of leaves behind him.
Kyle appeared like a ghost, his right hand curling into an almost casual grip. A pulse of vibration—silent and invisible—condensed between his fingers.
The pirate stiffened. His mouth opened, but no sound emerged. The cutlass clattered from his hand, and his body went slack, crumpling into the sand. Blood seeped from his ears, nose, and eyes as faint popping sounds came from within his frame.
One strike. Quiet. Clean.
Kyle swallowed hard. He had expected killing to feel… different. But the reality was heavier—an unpleasant weight pressing against his chest. He forced down the churn in his stomach and moved toward another target.
"Who?!" A nearby pirate spun at the faintest rustle.
An almost invisible wave slammed into his chest. Bone caved in with a sickening crunch, and the man was flung backward, crashing through a sapling before collapsing in a heap.
"Enemy attack!!"
The alarm spread quickly. On the beach, the Captain's expression tightened. "Who is it?! Show yourself!" he roared.
Kyle stepped from the treeline. Sunlight framed his black hair and glinted in his golden eyes, his face a mask of icy calm.
"A… kid?" The Captain blinked, then sneered. "You've got guts, brat. Brothers—cut him down!"
Seven or eight pirates surged forward, weapons flashing.
Kyle didn't retreat. He stepped in, both palms pressing forward.
Buzz—Buzz—Buzz.
Shockwaves rippled outward in a wide arc. The front rank of pirates was lifted off their feet before they could even scream. Bodies twisted, bones shattered, and they hit the ground with lifeless thuds.
The survivors froze, eyes wide with terror.
"What… what are you?!" one stammered.
Kyle's form blurred. In the blink of an eye, he was before the man. A shiver ran up the pirate's arm—and the steel blade in his grip crumbled into a glittering shower of iron filings.
"M–my knife!"
Before panic could become action, Kyle's hand struck his neck. Vertebrae snapped under the vibrating force, and the man collapsed.
Now only the Captain remained.
The bravado had drained from his face, replaced by a pale sheen of sweat. His fingers trembled on the spiked club's handle. "You… who are you?" he demanded, his voice cracking despite his attempt at force.
Kyle advanced, slow and deliberate. "A righteous wild man passing by."
In the next heartbeat, he blurred into motion.
The Captain bellowed, swinging his club with enough force to split a man in half. But it passed through Kyle's body as though through mist.
Elementalization?! the Captain's eyes widened.
Kyle's form solidified, palm pressing against the man's chest. "Go to hell and repent. Shockwave—Disintegration."
The Captain's body convulsed. His chest seemed to collapse inward as if chewed from the inside by an invisible beast. Blood and fragments of organ spilled from his mouth before he toppled forward, lifeless.
The beach fell silent save for the crash of waves.
Kyle's stomach churned violently. The scent of blood hung heavy in the salt air. He turned aside and retched until his breakfast was gone.
It was his first time killing—and he had done it again and again in quick succession. Even knowing these men were monsters, the physical and mental shock was brutal.
After rinsing his mouth in the sea, he straightened slowly. "So this is the world of the Pirate King…" he murmured. No rousing music. No dramatic speeches. Only corpses and blood.
But he felt no regret.
The ship was his now. Weathered as it was, it would sail.
"The beginner's gift package has finally arrived," he said dryly, "though the delivery man's manners could use work."
He searched the vessel. A few barrels of fresh water. Modest stores of dried food. And in one cabin, a small wooden box filled with Berries and a few glittering trinkets.
"Better than nothing."
He carried the box to the deck and stepped to the bow. The horizon stretched endlessly before him, the sunlight glinting off distant waves.
"Grand Line… here I come."
Ãdvåñçé 60 çhàptêr àvàilàble óñ pàtreøn (Gk31)