Inside the tent, it was like springtime in the 21st century.
A gentle, artificial breeze flowed from the central AC vent, carrying the scent of ionized air.
It formed an invisible barrier, separating Putin from the humid, salty maritime reality and the lingering metallic stench of blood outside.
Here, there was only dryness, comfort, and civilization.
Putin lay splayed in a starfish position on the soft, cloud-like Simmons mattress.
His left hand clutched a can of ice-cold "Fat Happy Soda," condensation dripping onto his thumb.
His right hand gripped a PS69 controller with the intensity of a surgeon.
Before him, projected onto the tent's nanotech wall, was a 4K display of intense, high-octane combat.
"Die, noobs!"
Bang!
He precisely pulled the trigger.
On the screen, a pixelated enemy soldier took a digital round to the cranium and crumpled.
"Awesome!"
Putin pumped his fist, then took a massive gulp of cola.
The carbonation exploded in his mouth, the spicy bubbles rushing from his throat straight to the crown of his head.
He let out a burp that vibrated in his chest and squinted his eyes contentedly.
"This," he whispered. "This is living."
There was a time, in his previous life, when his ultimate goal was to own a tiny, pigeon-hole apartment in a cutthroat first-tier city.
He dreamed of a space just big enough for a computer, a wall-mounted AC unit, and a single bed.
For that humble dream, he had sacrificed his liver to alcohol-fueled business dinners and his youth to the 996 grind—9 AM to 9 PM, 6 days a week.
He was a corporate slave, a cog in the machine.
But now?
He looked around his domain.
Ocean-view luxury apartment: Okay, it was actually the deck of a pirate ship, but the view was unbeatable.
Mobile smart mansion: Technically a tent, but it had better insulation than most condos.
Amenities: Central air conditioning, full-bar "God-tier" WiFi, a bidet that played classical music, and the complete gaming collection of the multiverse.
This lifestyle was so good even deities would offer him a cigarette in envy.
"Why did I ever struggle in the job market?" Putin mused, scratching his stomach. "I should have just become a pirate sooner. No KPIs, no HR department, just looting and chill."
He was immersed in a beautiful cocktail of disdain for modern capitalism and love for his new leisurely life.
He was ready to start a new game of Elden Ring.
But then, reality knocked.
Or rather, it rumbled.
"Gurararara..."
A booming laughter echoed outside the tent.
The laughter was so powerful it penetrated the tent's absolute soundproofing material—which was rated to block cannon fire—making the expensive mattress beneath him vibrate faintly.
Putin froze mid-action.
The game character on the screen stood idle, getting shot by a sniper, but Putin didn't care.
He slowly set down the controller.
He scrambled to the tent entrance and carefully cracked the zipper open a sliver.
Through the gap, he saw them.
Bathing in the morning sunlight was the man who should have exhausted his final breath in the Summit War.
The man who should have stood tall, died standing, and shouted "THE ONE PIECE IS REAL!" to ignite an even crazier era.
Edward Newgate. Whitebeard.
Now shirtless, covered in bandages, leaning against his massive throne.
Though his complexion remained somewhat pale, and IV drips were hooked into his massive arms, his aura felt more concentrated and substantial than ever.
He was alive. Very alive.
He watched Ace—who was also supposed to be a donut right now—and several commanders arm-wrestling.
"Gurarara! Put your back into it, Vista!"
Putin's mind buzzed. The static in his brain grew louder.
A terrifying thought, massive and dark like a Sea King emerging from the deep, slowly surfaced in his consciousness.
Since transmigrating, his strategy had been simple: Survival.
He focused on setting up stalls amid artillery fire, dodging magma fists, and scrambling between system tasks like a headless chicken.
He'd always thought of himself as a mere shrimp skimming a few waves at the edge of history's tidal forces.
A spectator with a VIP pass.
But now... looking at the living legend... it seemed he had done more than just watch.
"I might have accidentally kicked a hole in the dam," Putin whispered, his face paling.
Cold sweat poured down his back, instantly chilled by the AC.
He rapidly retraced the events in his mind, analyzing the "Butterfly Effect" like a forensic accountant looking at a bankrupt ledger.
Fact 1: Whitebeard didn't die. Ace didn't die. The Whitebeard Pirates' core combat strength remained 90% intact.
Fact 2: Since Whitebeard survived, his era-defining final words—"The One Piece is Real!"—were never uttered. The spark for the "Great Pirate Era 2.0" was never lit.
The world didn't get that chaotic push.
Fact 3: Blackbeard Teach. That ultimate schemer. That ambitious traitor.
He appeared, yes. But he failed to seize the Tremor-Tremor Fruit.
He didn't get to demonstrate that world-shaking power before Marine Headquarters.
He was just a former Warlord slinking away with a bunch of prisoners... still only possessing the Dark-Dark Fruit.
The original storyline? Gone. Shattered.
The clear path to the final outcome had been destroyed by his instant noodles, a cute band-aid, and some drone advertisements.
His greatest cheat—Foreknowledge—had mostly become corrupted data. It was now as useful as a chocolate teapot.
"I'm screwed..."
Putin plopped back onto the mattress, staring at the neon lights of the tent ceiling.
Suddenly, his air-conditioned room felt less like a paradise and more like a bunker.
A predictable future was the breeding ground for a slacker like him to survive.
He knew who to avoid, where to go, and when to run.
But a world full of unknowns?
A world where the Marines might reorganize instead of falling into chaos?
A world where Akainu is pissed off and alive?
For someone with minimal combat ability like him, that was more dangerous than the Summit War itself.
"Who knows what happens now?" Putin muttered, biting his fingernail. "Without the chaos of the new era, the World Government might catch their breath. They might turn their guns to eliminate pirates systematically. And who is Target Number One?"
He looked outside.
"The Whitebeard Pirates."
His small, worn-out ship—his life—was currently tied to the Moby Dick.
If this whale sank, his high-tech tent would follow and end up as fish food.
Knock, knock.
The tent fabric was tapped twice from the outside.
"Um... Putin?"
It was Ace's voice.
It was tinged with uncertainty, politeness, and a hint of burning curiosity.
"You... are you still alive in there? Marco asked me to bring you some food."
Putin took a deep breath. He slapped his cheeks to wake himself up.
Showtime.
He unzipped the tent and poked his head out like a turtle emerging from its shell.
Ace was standing there, holding a plate larger than a manhole cover.
Piled high on the plate was a massive, roasted Sea Beast Leg, sizzling with rendered fat and smelling of spices.
The rich, primal aroma of meat instantly cut through the sterile, stale "hermit air" inside the tent.
Grrrrrrr.
Putin's stomach betrayed him with an audible growl.
He hadn't eaten since the noodles.
"Is the... uh... post-sale observation going smoothly?" Ace asked, handing over the plate.
Ace tried to be polite, but his eyes couldn't help wandering past Putin's head, peering into the depths of the tent.
The dazzling RGB lights.
The hum of the AC. The 4K screen displaying a "Game Over" menu.
It left the pirate utterly bewildered.
"Data collection is very successful," Putin said, taking the heavy plate without changing his expression.
He took a bite of the meat. "It's complex stuff. The patient's emotions remain stable."
"What's that noise?" Ace pointed to the game music.
"I was just conducting 'Emotional Resonance Therapy'," Putin mumbled through a mouthful of dinosaur meat.
"I use High-Frequency Audio-Visual Signals to stimulate the subject's latent potential. It keeps the... uh... quantum vibes aligned. The results are remarkable."
Ace blinked. He nodded slowly, feigning understanding.
"Right. Quantum vibes."
He felt like he recognized every word Putin said, but when put together, they were harder to comprehend than the ancient text on a Poneglyph.
"Oh, right," Ace said, shaking his head to clear the confusion. "Pops wants to ask you something."
Putin froze mid-chew.
"Ask me what?"
"What are your plans next?"
'Here it comes.'
The probe. The HR interview.
They were checking his background. They wanted to know if he was a spy, a leech, or a potential ally.
What plans could he possibly have?
Ideally? Find an uninhabited island with eternal spring, set up the tent, plug in the solar panels, enjoy the air conditioning, play Zelda, and laze around waiting to die of old age.
Just drift.
But he definitely couldn't say that to Fire Fist Ace.
"I just want to be a vegetable," was not a valid career path in the New World.
His mind, sharpened by years of corporate drudgery and office politics, raced.
Before him stood the "Son of the Pirate King."
In the distance sat the "World's Strongest Man."
Before today, Putin had been struggling to survive amidst the tides of history.
Now, with the direction of those tides thrown into chaos... perhaps he shouldn't just drift.
Perhaps he needed an anchor. A very big, very strong anchor.
'If I want to keep my AC, I need protection,' Putin calculated. 'And the best protection is the strongest CEO in the world.'
He swallowed the meat. He wiped his greasy lips with a napkin from his pocket.
Slowly, the fear in his eyes vanished, replaced by a glint of gold.
It was a smile blending professionalism, confidence, and the cunning of a Wall Street shark.
"Plans?"
He looked at Ace, but his gaze seemed to pass right through him, extending to the ship, the sea, and this strange new era.
"I personally have no plans," Putin said smoothly. "I'm just a humble service industry worker."
He stepped out of the tent, standing up straighter.
"However... my company, 'Multiverse Groceries,' is currently in its Angel Investment Round."
"Angel... what?" Ace frowned.
"We are actively seeking strategic partners," Putin continued, ignoring Ace's confusion. "Partners with strength, vision, and solid market credibility."
He walked past Ace, moving toward the center of the deck where Whitebeard sat.
He lowered his voice, adopting a mysterious tone as if disclosing insider trading information.
"I see great brand value and future potential in the Whitebeard Pirates. You have legacy. You have market share. But you lack... modernization."
He stopped and looked back at Ace, grinning.
"So, Mr. Ace, would you be interested in arranging a meeting with your Chairman? I'd like to discuss your company's Ten-Year Development Plan and the possibility of going public."
Ace scratched his head, completely lost.
"Going... public? Like... to a bar?"
"Something like that," Putin said, cracking his knuckles. "Come on. Let's go pitch to the Boss."