Blake woke up with a sharp, gasping start. One moment he was staring at a grinning pirate in a blank void, the next, the scent of damp earth and pine needles filled his nose. He was lying on a bed of soft moss in a dense, dark forest.
He sat up quickly, his heart hammering against his ribs, still reeling from the whirlwind of his last conversation. Fairy Tail.
He looked around. Towering trees formed a natural canopy that filtered the sunlight into dappled, moving patterns. The air was cool and fresh. Nearby, he could hear the soothing, rhythmic sound of moving water—a river was close.
Beside him lay a worn, durable backpack, the kind a seasoned traveler might carry. It looked brand-new. He also spotted something that immediately drew his eye: a long, slender katana resting inside a deep, matte-black sheathe. It was simple, elegant, and instantly recognizable.
He reached out, his small hand closing around the hilt of the blade. The leather-wrapped handle felt perfectly weighted, balanced, and strangely familiar, as if it were an extension of his own arm. This was Tensa Zangetsu.
With a breath held tight in his chest, Blake slowly unsheathed the sword. The blade slid free with a low, whisper-soft shing. It was not the wide, cleaver-like blade of the Shikai, but the narrow, black-as-midnight katana of the Bankai. The edge was lethally sharp, but what truly caught his attention was the metal itself. It was a dense, fathomless black. He tilted the blade slightly, and where a normal sword would reflect the sunlight in a blinding flash, this one seemed to do the opposite. It looked like it was actively absorbing the light, drawing it into its depths, a void made solid.
"Wow," Blake whispered, utterly mesmerized. He gave a few tentative test swings, feeling the almost unnatural lightness of the weapon. Despite its length, it felt feather-light, yet it carried an immense sense of potential power—like a whisper that could become a shout. It felt right.
Satisfied with his initial inspection of his greatest weapon, Blake finally looked down at himself. His clothes were simple: a White T-shirt and brown 3/4 shorts, perfectly sized, but something was terribly wrong with the proportions. He brought his hands up—small, childlike hands. He looked down his torso, observing his significantly shorter legs.
"Oh, you've got to be kidding me," he muttered, the voice that came out a high, squeaky tenor.
He scrambled to his feet and realized he was not simply shorter; he was, by every indication, a six-year-old child.
"Jack Spaaaarrooowwww!" he shouted at the empty forest, throwing his hands up in frustration. "You couldn't leave my age alone? Six? Six years old?! You seriously downgraded me!"
He huffed, adjusting the strap of the bag over his now diminutive shoulder. He needed a mirror. He needed to assess the full extent of this transformation.
He quickly made his way toward the sound of the running water. The river was clear and fast, and as he crouched by the bank, he saw his reflection.
His hair was thick and black, falling slightly into his eyes, which were a striking, intense grey. His face was angular and handsome, even in miniature. There were no scars or distinguishing marks.
"Huh," Blake said, studying the reflection critically. "Not bad at all. I look like Ace without the freckles. Could be worse. Could be Usopp." He grinned at his reflection. The familiar face was gone, replaced by the potential of a legendary appearance.
He quickly rummaged through the backpack. Inside, he found a neatly folded tent, rope, a simple cooking pot, a water bottle filled with fresh water, and a pouch containing a few strips of dried meat and a pair of white t-shirts and brown 3/4 cargo pants same as he was wearing now.
His stomach rumbled fiercely. He quickly pulled out a few strips of the bland, jerky-like meat. It lacked seasoning, but the protein was welcome. He ate the strips quickly, washing them down with a long sip of cold, clean water from the bottle.
With his immediate hunger satisfied, Blake sat back against a tree stump and began to think.
Fairy Tail. He knew the world was dangerous, full of powerful mages, dark guilds, and monsters. A six-year-old on his own wouldn't last a day. He had the potential of a Yonko and a legendary sword, but potential meant nothing without training.
"First, I need to get stronger. This body has to learn how to fight, how to survive, and how to use the abilities I have. This is the only logical place for a kid to train in secret is where no one will find me and try to 'rescue' me."
He looked around at the towering, isolated trees. "I will continue to stay in the forest and train for as long as it takes until I'm at least strong enough to reach a town and not get robbed immediately."
"Before that, I need a safe base. Before I start training, I need to find a good spot to pitch the tent, preferably near the river for water access."
His mind made up, Blake shouldered his bag, secured his sword in its sheath, and began to scout the area. He moved with a cautious, silent tread, his focus instantly heightened. This was not a park; this was a wilderness.
He hadn't gone far when a low, snorting sound reached his ears. Hidden behind a thicket, he peered out and saw a large boar, rooting in the dirt, its tusks long and wickedly sharp. It was massive, easily three times his small weight.
A thrill, sharp and immediate, ran through Blake. This was a gift. This was his first opportunity to test his skills.
He remembered what Jack had said: you will inherit some of his mindset and qualities... a part of your personality, an instinctual guide.
As he looked at the boar, a strange sense of calm settled over him. It wasn't Blake Corvus's panic, but the calculated, confident assessment of a battle-tested pirate. He could almost feel a phantom presence—Shanks' influence—guiding his thoughts.
It's a beast, strong but predictable. It charges straight. Use the speed of the blade, not the raw strength. Focus on a vital point. Don't hesitate.
Blake drew Tensa Zangetsu. He didn't sneak away; he stepped out and made a sound to draw the animal's attention.
The boar saw the small figure and instantly charged, a terrifying, guttural squeal escaping its snout. It was a blur of muscle, fur, and rage.
Blake felt his instincts take over. He barely had time to move. He ducked under the initial sweep of the tusks, the wind of the charge ruffling his hair. He was struggling, his six-year-old muscles screaming with the effort of holding the sword steady, but the blade itself felt like an eager extension of his will.
He wasn't thinking; he was reacting. He twisted and brought the black blade up in a fierce, upward slash. It wasn't the fluid, effortless attack of a master, but a desperate, clumsy maneuver born of instinct and fear. The cut wasn't clean, but it was enough. The boar cried out, its charge broken, blood blooming darkly on its side.
The boar whirled, disoriented, and charged again, slower this time. Blake, breathing heavily, tightened his grip on the hilt. He sidestepped the attack, rolling clear, and as the boar lumbered past, he used his size to his advantage. He leaped onto the boar's back, a ridiculously small rider on a colossal beast. He drove the point of Tensa Zangetsu down with all the strength his small frame could muster, aiming for the neck behind the skull.
The blade, living up to its legendary nature, pierced the tough hide far easier than it should have. The boar convulsed violently and then collapsed, dead, before it hit the forest floor.
Blake stumbled off the massive carcass, gasping, shaking from the adrenaline. It was ugly, clumsy, and terrifying, but the outcome was undeniable. He had killed the boar.
"Holy cow," he panted, sheathing the sword. "That was... a warm-up. A very humbling warm-up." He was exhausted, but a fierce pride swelled in his chest.
He quickly tied a rope from his pack around the boar's legs and, using the last of his adrenaline, began to drag the heavy carcass behind him. It was slow, agonizing work, but he wouldn't leave his first successful kill behind. He now had food.
He dragged the boar back toward the river area, finally finding a flat, sheltered spot near the water, surrounded by natural rock formations that offered protection and concealment.
"Perfect," he wheezed, collapsing by the riverbank for a moment to drink.
He then started on the tedious but necessary work of setting up his tent. The backpack contents were indeed of good quality. The tent was easy to manage, a simple pop-up design that he managed to secure with stakes after a ten-minute struggle with the stubborn earth.
Next, he had to prepare the boar. He dropped the massive carcass near his tent and then went on another foray into the forest, searching for firewood. He gathered dry branches, twigs, and larger pieces of fallen wood, stacking them neatly by his camp.
Starting the fire was another challenge. He found a small flint and steel in his bag—no modern lighters here. It took him nearly twenty minutes of tedious striking and blowing on the tinder, but eventually, a small, grateful fire sputtered to life.
With the fire burning steadily, Blake began the gruesome process of skinning and butchering the boar. It was messy, disgusting work, and he had to fight back the occasional wave of nausea, but the thought of starvation kept his small hands working. He cut the meat into manageable strips, discarding the unusable parts far from the camp.
He didn't have any salt or spice, so the meal would be completely bland. He didn't care. He found a sturdy stick, skewered the meat, and set it over the roaring fire to roast. The aroma of cooking meat was intoxicating.
By the time the meat was cooked through and he had devoured a massive portion, it was completely nighttime. The forest was alive with the sounds of the night—insects chirping, the distant hoot of an owl, and the gentle rush of the river.
He banked the fire carefully, ensuring it wouldn't spread, and then crawled into his new, small tent. He was physically drained, his muscles aching from the strain of the hunt and the labor of setting up camp.
He lay on the soft ground cover, staring up at the fabric of his tent.
"Today, I survived," he murmured to the darkness. "I got a world, I got my sword, and I got my first meal. It was rough, but I didn't die."
He took a deep, resolving breath. "Starting tomorrow onwards, I train."
With that final thought, the immense exhaustion of the day claimed him, and Blake Corvus fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.