I DO NOT OWN ONE PIECE - IT BELONG TO EIICHIRO ODA
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The sky over the West Blue was bruised purple, smeared with ash-colored clouds that hung low over the sea like tired eyelids.
The waves had been quiet on the approach, almost reverent, as if warning him what waited on land wasn't worth the racket.
Maple Village greeted him with the same warmth as a drunkard's spit.
The dock was little more than splintered wood and rusted nails, with one crooked lamp swaying from a bent iron pole.
A single crate of half-rotted oranges sat abandoned beside a rope-chewed mooring post.
The air stank salt, rot, and something fouler fermenting just beneath the surface, like hope gone sour.
He adjusted the strap of his long coat, boots thudding against the warped planks as he stepped off the dinghy.
No one met him. No dockworker no town guards, not even a stray dog. Just the creak of wood and the distant, off key moan of some wind strangled flute.
Past the docks, the village revealed itself in narrow alleys and leaning houses, each structure stitched together from mismatched boards like a drunk carpenter's puzzle. Lanterns flickered with a dying orange glow. Shutters banged listlessly. The air felt heavy. Tired.
He walked.
His boots kicked up gray dust that clung to his coat. A sign hung above the first building on his left [Cobbler & Sons] but the windows were black and the door bolted shut.
Next a general store with a sun bleached awning and shelves stripped clean. Then a crumbling building with a swinging sign that read "Dorya's" the 'y' scratched out and rewritten backward in chalk.
The bar.
But before he could reach it, movement stirred to his right.
A hunched man sat with his back against a wall, draped in rags that might once have been a navy coat.
His beard was more dirt than hair, and both eyes were glassy with something that had nothing to do with blindness.
"Spare somethin', brother?" the man croaked, holding up a rusted tin cup. A few coins rattled inside Berries, maybe. "Even a crust'a bread'll do…"
The stranger stopped, looked at him, then at the cup. The man's fingers trembled as if the cup weighed more than it should.
"Sorry," the stranger said flatly, not slowing. "I don't pay taxes."
He walked past. The beggar's mouth opened, but no words came. Only a sigh, hollow as a winded lung.
Another ten paces and a boy emerged from the alley like a rat sensing scraps. Barely fifteen, if that. Clothes too clean for a place like this. His grin flashed gold teeth cheap-plated and his eyes danced like dice.
"Hey, mister," the boy said, stepping in front of him with practiced ease. "You new? Lookin' for a little something to kick your night off?"
He opened his coat.
Small glass vials glinted inside, blue and green, one glowing faintly red.
"Got Tailor's Dust. Dreamwhale Crumbs. Even some Haze if you're real tired'a seein' straight. All clean. No sewer cuts. Promise"
The stranger eyed the vials, then the boy.
The stranger keeps walking.
Then, laughter.
Soft. Feminine. Sultry as a knife's whisper.
"Big man," came a voice from the left. "Heavy coat, heavier hands. Got all the makings of a customer who needs something warm after all that righteous business."
She leaned against a lamppost where the light did her no favors. Makeup caked like war paint, smile rehearsed until it was practically muscle memory.
Her dress hung in folds, clinging where it shouldn't. She was older than she pretended to be. Not old just... used.
"Good price," she added, trailing a finger along the metal post. "Better if you're quiet."
He didn't stop walking.
"Not interested," he muttered.
"You don't look interested in much," she said behind him. "That's the dangerous kind."
He said nothing.
The bar was just ahead. Its sign swung drunkenly in the wind "Dorya's" or maybe "Dorya" is, depending on how you read it. A man lay passed out beside the steps, cradling a bottle like a baby bird. A small dog gnawed on his boot.
The stranger stepped over both, reached for the rust-stained door handle, and paused.
The wind behind him carried a dozen different smells—cheap perfume, rotting wood, old blood. But underneath it all, there was something else. Something sour. Not just poverty. Not just failure.
Desperation.
He pushed open the door.
And walked in.
The door creaked shut behind him like a coffin lid settling.
Inside, the bar was... pristine.
The contrast hit like a sucker punch. Out there, the village looked like it was three months into dying. In here, it smelled faintly of lemon oil and scrubbed wood.
Floorboards had been swept until the grain showed clean. Every table gleamed under the gentle flicker of candlelight and the stools were aligned with surgical precision none missing a leg, none marred by graffiti or the desperate carvings of drunks.
The candles, dozens of them, sat tucked into sconces along the walls, stubby towers of wax casting long shadows that danced slowly with every draft.
There was no electricity, no hum of overhead lights or buzz of neon signs. Just the flickering hush of flame and the faint clink of glass being wiped behind the counter.
She stood there, middle aged, shoulders square, the kind of presence that didn't need noise to be noticed. Her auburn hair was pinned up, but a few strands had broken loose, curling around her face like tired commas.
Wrinkles clung to the corners of her eyes and mouth not deep, but enough to write a story. She was wiping a cloudy glass with a faded cloth, turning it in slow circles like she had all the time in the world.
He stepped further in, boots thudding against the floor with slow, deliberate rhythm.
She looked up.
He studied her face, assessing with the same quiet efficiency he applied to weapons and strangers in alleys. She was beautiful, once.
Still was, maybe if you could look past the fatigue in her eyes, the weight around her mouth. Not worn down. Just... weathered. Like she'd seen a lot. Lost a bit more. But kept standing anyway.
And she was watching him right back.
Blue hair not dark, but a pale, icy shade that caught the candlelight in sharp angles. It stood out against his skin, white as moonlight.
His eyes golden blond, looked like they'd been cut from the same metal as high ranking Navy buttons, but had none of the shine left.
His clothes were clean, but not formal. Black, layered, stitched for movement and intimidation straps, buckles, hard lines.
He looked like a man who didn't ask for fights, but was prepared to end them. The kind of figure who turned heads not because he wanted to but because silence always followed him in.
"Not what I expected," Sranger said finally, eyes sweeping the polished shelves behind her.
She didn't smile, but she didn't flinch either. Just finished cleaning the glass and set it upside-down on the bar.
"Then you're one of the few who walks through that door expecting anything at all," she said. Her voice was low, smooth not sultry, but solid. "Sit, stranger. If you're here for something, say so. If not, you can enjoy the clean floor and the expensive candles."
He pulled a stool out and sat. It didn't creak.
They studied each other for another quiet second.
"Jethro," he said.
No surname. No need.
Her lips curled, just barely.
"Cora."
She poured something dark into the glass she'd just wiped, slid it toward him with a practiced flick of the wrist.
"On the house" she said. "Until I figure out if I should've locked the door."
Jethro took the drink.
Didn't sip.
Just looked at it.
Then looked back at her.
"Fair."
The drink sat untouched between them. The candle nearest the bar leaned, wax dripping like slow tears down its side.
Jethro broke the silence first.
"I'm not here for a drink." His voice was calm, but carried an edge sharp enough to slice the still air. "I'm here because of this."
He reached inside his coat and laid a crumpled sheet on the counter.
The corners were worn, the ink smudged from travel, but the face on the poster still leered back like an open wound.
A man with a jaw too wide for his head, grinning as if the artist had caught him mid laugh.
His teeth were crooked, blackened in spots. One eye was lazy, drifting toward the scar that carved his cheek like a canyon. A rope necklace hung around his throat, threaded with teeth that weren't his.
Above the sneer:
[Iron Fang] Varo
Wanted Dead: 10,000,000 Berries
Leader of the Blood Fangs
Beneath his image, rough sketches of the crew: half a dozen men, one woman, each meaner than the next. Names scrawled like curses: Gnawer Tim, Red Jaw, Pig-Eye Brann.
Cora stared at the poster.
Her fingers froze on the cloth. Then they started to tremble.
"You…" Her voice cracked, just barely. "…you came for that?"
Jethro nodded once. "You posted it. Said kill only. Ten million."
The glass slipped from her hand and clinked against the counter before rolling to a stop. She didn't notice.
Her knuckles were white on the edge of the bar, shoulders shaking in a way that didn't match her steady, strong voice from before.
"Finally…" she whispered, breath shuddering out of her like steam. "Finally, someone—"
She stopped. Pressed a hand to her mouth. Eyes shut, shoulders still quivering.
Jethro blinked, faintly startled, but said nothing. Just watched as she fought whatever storm had cracked open inside her. Not his business. Not his world. He wasn't here for that.
When she finally spoke again, her voice was rough, scraped raw.
"How long…" Her eyes opened slowly, bloodshot, glistening. "How long have I been waiting for someone to walk through that door with that paper in their hand?"
Jethro didn't answer.
She sucked in a breath. Straightened. Pushed the glass aside and leaned forward on the counter like she could anchor herself there.
"You want details" she said, forcing steel back into her voice.
"That's why I'm here."
She nodded, sharp and fast, like if she slowed she'd break again.
"They call themselves the Blood Fangs. Wild dogs with ships. They take what they want, leave nothing behind but bones and smoke." Her jaw tightened until her teeth clicked.
"I've been tracking them. Watching every move. Every drunk word that leaks from some sailor they bribe. For months. I know how they breathe."
"And now?" Jethro asked. "Where are they?"
Her fists curled, nails digging into the polished wood.
"Gone. Two nights ago, they set sail. I don't know why. Didn't hear where." Her voice dripped venom.
"But they'll be back. They always come back to feed"
Jethro studied her for a moment, eyes narrowing.
"You've got a personal stake" he said flatly.
Cora's laugh was hollow, jagged like broken glass.
"A personal stake?" Her voice went low, dangerous, trembling. "You think I'd scrape together ten million berries in a place like this for fun?"
Jethro didn't answer.
She leaned closer, shadows clutching the hard lines of her face. Her hands shook not with fear, but fury, strangled tight for too long.
"They came here" she said, voice like ash. "Said we needed to pay for protection. My husband—" Her breath hitched. "My husband told them no. Told them to take their filth and choke on it."
Her eyes dropped. Her next words crawled out slow. Each one a wound.
"They made me watch"
Jethro didn't move.
"Made me watch while that bastard—" Her voice cracked into a snarl. "—while Varo laid his hands on me. Right there. In front of my husband. My boy."
The candle nearest her guttered. The room felt colder.
"When they got bored…" Her nails raked the counter, slow and deliberate, like she was carving his face there. "They butchered him. Both of them. My husband. My son."
Her lip curled, teeth clenched so hard her jaw trembled.
"And then they left me breathing" she whispered. "Said it was a gift. Said they wanted me to remember. Said next time I'd pay with a smile."
The silence that followed was a void. The only sound was the faint hiss of wax melting down the candle stubs.
Jethro stood, the stool legs scraping the polished floor with a faint sigh. The air between them still held the echo of what Cora had confessed, but he didn't linger in it. That wasn't the kind of thing you wade through just the kind you carry.
"I better find a place to sleep" he muttered, adjusting his coat. "Something with a roof that doesn't leak."
Before he could step away from the counter, Cora raised a hand.
"Wait." Her voice was steady now. "There's a room upstairs. It used to be my son's." She hesitated just a flicker but forced herself through the words. "You can stay there. No charge. I'll handle your food while you're here."
Jethro's brow lifted, but there was no hesitation in his nod.
"Fair deal."
He turned to head for the stairs-
But before his heel could leave the floor, a small voice rose behind him.
"Are you my dad?"
Jethro stopped mid step.
The words hung there in the candlelit quiet, surreal and fragile. He didn't turn immediately his hand instinctively reach for his weapon but then froze. No threat. No bloodlust. Just… a child's voice. Soft. Curious.
Tiny fingers tugged gently at the back of his coat.
"Are you?"
Jethro spun around in one smooth movemen quick but not aggressive his body poised with instinct, senses reaching out in every direction.
But he'd felt nothing.
Not a sound. Not a breath.
The boy stood barely at his waist, maybe six or seven. Pale skin, messy golden-blond hair that framed his face in uneven tufts.
Big eye a pale icy blue that caught the candlelight like cracked glass. Dressed in simple earth toned clothes, a little too big for him, with scuffed boots and a cloth belt that dangled from one loop.
Jethro froze not because of the voice.
Because of the face.
The boy wasn't just familiar. He was impossible.
Golden blond hair. Blue eyes the color of glacier light. Simple tunic-style shirt. A look carved out of memory, sharper than any blade he carried.
Not imagination.
Not coincidence.
Link.
The name pulsed through his skull like a heartbeat.
He remembered the moment it all began back on Earth.
The first trailer for Breath of the Wild. That sweeping landscape. That music. Link standing on a cliff, cape fluttering. It had pulled him in and never let go.
Since then he bought every Zelda games release on Switch
And now—
Now, that boy was standing in front of him. (Young Link from smash ultimate)
In this world.
This world.
He wasn't even an anime guy, not really. But One Piece? Of course he knew One Piece. It was everywhere, episodes stacked into the thousands, fan theories, merch, the success of live action series. He never read the manga, but he'd seen enough to know the world when he woke up in it.
And he had woken up in it.
Lying in grass that smelled too real, beneath a sky that pulsed with impossible color. By his side, a letter. Neatly folded, sealed with no emblem. Ink that shimmered faintly gold.
He could still remember the first line:
"Congrats, kid. You died. Boring, I know but I like your taste in games."
The letter was short, half sarcasm, half divine shrug. The kind of thing a god with too much time and not enough reverence would write. It didn't explain much.
Just that he was here now. In One Piece. Alive again.
No signature. Just a doodle of a grinning sun.
He was still staring and speechless, when the child tilted his head again and said softly, "Daddy?"
The word snapped him out of it.
Jethro blinked, exhaled, and chuckled.
It slipped out dry and low, but real. A crack in the silence, like wind through leaves.
He knelt slightly, enough to look the boy in the eye.
"No, kid," he said. "I'm not your father."
Link looked up at him, not sad.
Just thoughtful. He took a small step back, eyes still locked on Jethro's face like he was solving a puzzle too big for his age.
Cora moved quickly, stepping in with a mixture of embarrassment and alarm.
"I'm so sorry," she said, kneeling beside the boy, her arm around his shoulders. "H-he doesn't know any better, I swear. I don't know why he-"
Jethro raised a hand, palm open.
"It's not a problem."
Cora blinked. He gave a faint nod, eyes still on Link, who was now watching them both with a quiet, unreadable expression.
Cora exhaled slowly, hand still on Link's shoulder.
Jethro gave him a final glance before turning slightly, angling back toward the bar. But before he could take a step...
"He came from the sea."
Cora's voice stopped him.
She sounded surprised at herself, like the words had come uninvited. Still, she didn't stop. Her eyes were on the floor, unfocused. Speaking not to him, but maybe to the memory.
"Ten years ago," she murmured."It was a year after they… after they took everything from me. I wasn't well. Barely spoke. Slept too much. Or not at all. But I still needed to eat. So I went out with a line and a broken net, like I used to."
Her voice turned thinner.
"I didn't catch a fish."
Jethro turned fully, listening now, expression unreadable.
"I caught a baby."
She looked up. Her lips twisted like she wasn't sure if she should laugh or cry.
"Just… floating there. In a drift cradle made from an oiled basket. No sails. No papers. No clues. Just the sea. And him. Not even crying. Just staring at the sky like he'd been born for it."
Jethro raised an eyebrow.
"He had a necklace," she said, brushing Link's hair back absently. "A little wooden tag around his neck. Carved with the name Link."
That made Jethro still. Slight twitch in his brow.
Link.
From the sea.
In a world not his own.
His thoughts prickled, maybe it wasn't coincidence. Maybe it was Him. The same bastard god with the smug handwriting and zero explanation.
"...Huh," he muttered, just loud enough for her to hear.
Cora nodded. "Yeah. Exactly."
She looked down at the boy again. Her tone softened, warm and pained at once.
"He saved me" she said simply. "I know how that sounds. But it's true. I didn't want to keep going. Not really. But once I held him fed him, cleaned him, watched him start to smile, I remembered what it was like to live without bleeding every second."
Link looked up at her, then at Jethro, confused but quiet.
"I raised him like he was my own" Cora said. "Because he is. And I cherished him."
Jethro leaned against the bar again, arms crossed, listening. He didn't interrupt.
"But this village…" Her face darkened. "It doesn't cherish much."
She stood up, slowly, sighing hard through her nose.
"Five years ago" she continued, "we had a famine. Worst in living memory. Crops failed. Fish vanished. Trees died like they'd given up. People went hungry. Real hunger. The kind that makes you hate your neighbors for breathing."
Jethro said nothing.
"One day I was out scavenging near the cliffs" she said. "Thought I spotted mushrooms or something. But instead… I found a fruit."
She moved behind the counter, rummaged briefly under a wrapped cloth and returned with a hand drawn sketch faded, charcoal and chalk on cheap paper. She laid it flat.
A wide, plum-sized fruit. The skin was silver-white, with jagged gold zigzags running across its curves like forked lightning. It had a small green stem that curled once, then twice like it had somewhere to be.
"It looked poisonous" she said. "Too shiny. Too unnatural. I didn't want to throw it away some fool might eat it. So I hid it in a lockbox. Just until the famine passed."
Jethro's eyes narrowed.
"And?"
Cora clenched her jaw. "Link found it. Starving. Bellies empty. I hadn't locked it up like I should've. He didn't ask. Just ate it."
Jethro glanced at Link, who now looked sheepish, eyes downcast.
"He started to change" she said. "The next day, he tripped and flew across the yard. Literally vanished from one spot and landed in another, five meters away."
Jethro exhaled through his nose.
"A Devil Fruit" he muttered.
Cora blinked. "You know what it is?"
"No" He glanced at Link.
She blinked slowly, then sighed. "Whatever it is, the village didn't like it. Said he was cursed. Said he was unnatural. They already hated that he wasn't one of theirs."
Her voice tightened.
"But after that? They started blaming him for everything. Crops still bad? Link's fault. Goat dies in the night? Must be the boy with magic feet. Some of the brats try to beat him but he evade them expertly."
Jethro stared at the drawing. Then at the boy.
Then at the woman.
"So," he said quietly, "he survived the sea. Ate a devil fruit. And ended up here with a name I recognize from another life."
Cora looked puzzled. "What?"
"Nothing." He pushed off the bar. "I'll take the room."
Jethro pushed off the bar, shoulders squared, boots angling toward the staircase.
Finally. After all the stories, stares, and surprises, he could put some distance between himself and this chaos—
BANG.
The bar door slammed open so hard it rattled the candle sconces.
Jethro stopped mid step, one eye twitching. A thick mark started to pulse slowly on his forehead.
He turned his head, golden-blond eyes already narrowing.
A rough-looking man in his early thirties stumbled through the doorway, face twisted in drunken fury. His nose looked like it had been broken more than once and never properly reset. His jaw was wide and square, coated in a patchy beard. One eye was swollen, either from a past fight or just years of poor decisions. He wore a dirty sleeveless coat with a rust-colored sash, the kind that stank of old ale and dried sweat.
The man's eyes locked on Link.
"You little sh*t!" he bellowed, spittle flying. "Thought you could hide in here?!"
Link stiffened instantly. His fingers twitched, then balled into small fists.
The man stomped forward, arm cocked back ready to throw a punch at a ten year old.
"DON'T YOU RUN-"
"Garron!" Cora screamed, voice sharp with panic. "Stop it"
Garron didn't.
His punch sailed forward
but Link vanished. A flicker. A blur.
Whoosh.
He reappeared behind the bar, crouched low, blinking fast.
Garron blinked stupidly. Whirled. Charged again.
Link vanished left this time then right then behind the staircase railing.
Garron skidded to a stop and spun in circles, swinging blindly.
"Thief!" he roared. "You stole my blade! And my rum! And my damn boots, you rat-legged little freak!"
"I didn't steal anything!" Link called from atop a table, already gone again the second Garron lunged for him.
"You broke into my shed! I saw the door open! You're the only pest in this whole village fast enough to sneak out with my things!"
"I've never even been to your shed!"
"I oughta break those mutant legs of yours!"
Cora gripped the counter with white knuckles, trembling. Her lips moved, silently pleading for it to stop.
Jethro didn't move.
He watched. Quietly. Eyes tracking every blur, every zip, every instant shift in Link's placement.
The boy wasn't just fast. He was smart. His movements weren't random they were measured, keeping space between himself and Garron, never letting the man pin down a pattern.
'Paramecia, probably,' Jethro thought. Short-burst acceleration. 'Doesn't look like friction is a factor. Movement isn't just fast it's skipping steps. Spatial? Or just raw motion?'
His gaze sharpened.
Link flashed again this time to the bar's rafters and dropped down behind Garron without a sound.
"I'm not a thief," Link said, steady now, breathing fast but even. "And you're drunk. Again."
Garron whirled, red-faced and panting.
"You think this is a game? Huh?! You think I'm some dumb mutt chasin' fireflies?!"
He reached into his filthy coat with a grunt-
and came out with a rusted knife, jagged and chipped at the edge.
Cora gasped.
Link's eyes went wide.
Garron didn't hesitate. He turned away from Link, spotted Cora and smiled. A broken evil thing.
"Maybe I take your pretty mama's other boy too," he slurred. "Might teach you a lesson."
He lunged-
CRACK.
A boot connected with Garron's jaw.
He didn't see it coming.
One moment he was charging. The next, he was flying backward through the bar door, crashing into the street like a sack of grain. He didn't get up.
The few villagers outside looked over at the sudden noise. One of them muttered something, another shook their head but after a few moments, they all turned back to their business like nothing had happened.
Inside, silence returned.
Jethro lowered his leg slowly. His coat drifted down behind him in a soft ripple. Not a hair out of place.
Cora let out a breath she'd been holding for too long and slumped forward against the counter, bracing herself.
"Thank you," she whispered.
Jethro just gave a slight nod and turned toward the stairs again like nothing had happened.
Behind him, Link stood frozen, eyes wide, mouth slightly open.
He stared at Jethro like he'd just watched a god flick away a monster.
"Whoa" the boy whispered.
And then, softly, reverently-
"…Cool."