Conrad was extraordinary from a young age.
While the other children at the orphanage busied themselves with poetry and arithmetic, he quickly realized the depth of his own intellect. Every day after school, he'd sneak off to the old bookstore—poring over martial arts manuals, practicing stances in the alley behind it, and devouring Hong Kong comics until dusk.
He'd long understood a bitter truth: those with nothing are destined to wander.
The more he read, the more he saw himself reflected in every hero's journey. In their struggles, their triumphs, their lonely defiance—he recognized his own shadow.
If only I'd been born in those times… he thought, I, too, could have become the greatest in the world.
Conrad came to understand then that he was born with a domineering spirit and a proud soul—forged for greatness.
Unfortunately… he was born in the wrong era.
In a time that stifled free will and crushed bold dreams, he repeatedly tried to flee the orphanage, yearning to test himself in the wild mountains and rivers. Each time, he was caught and dragged back under strict supervision—"for his own good," they claimed.
He'd only chuckle at that. How could ordinary people ever understand a young hero?
Years passed. His grand ambitions were shelved—but never abandoned. His heart never wavered; his fire never dimmed.
He knew, with absolute certainty, that a prodigy like himself was only biding time before destiny called.
And so he waited.
Twenty years.
When he finally returned, the old bookstore—once overflowing with martial arts novels and dog-eared comics—now bore faded "For Rent" signs on its doors and windows.
"You've come," the owner murmured, not looking up as he packed away the last of his books.
"I've come," Conrad replied.
He stepped inside and began stuffing a large cardboard box with the very volumes he'd once only dreamed of owning.
"Wanting to buy osmanthus blossoms and share wine…" the old man sighed, tossing him the latest volume of One Piece. "But it's not like the carefree days of youth. Do you still have the heart to read it?"
"Of course," Conrad said—and, as always, dropped into a solid horse stance.
He flipped open the manga. But when he reached the scene of the God Valley battle—where the prize was Shakky, and the great pirates' hearts leapt into their eyes—he scoffed.
This world… so tame. So small.
Cursing the suffocating age he lived in, he hurled the manga into the box with the rest of the series.
The next second—everything went black.
---
Sea Calendar 1511
North Blue, Minion Island
Heavy snow blanketed the island in white.
In the derelict buildings of Ghost Town, perched atop the mountain, the newly arrived Barre Pirates celebrated their impending deal with the Marines.
"Fifty billion! Fifty billion Berries! Hahahaha!"
Captain Barreus, flushed with triumph, pointed to a heart-shaped Devil Fruit resting on the table. "After this job, we'll never need to plunder again! We'll be richer than kings!"
"That's right!" roared his crew, coats thrown open over steaming plates of meat and ale.
"Drink! Drink till we drown in joy tonight!" Barreus locked the fruit in his treasure chest, then tipped back a flagon of beer.
Spotting the nearly empty crate, he kicked his son under the table. "Drake! Go fetch more beer!"
"Coming…" Drake mumbled.
Bruised and weary, the young man bore two jagged scars crossing his chin in an X. He pressed a hand to the fresh bandage on his face, ducked beneath raucous laughter, and shoved aside an empty wine barrel to reach the door.
But before he could open it—the door burst inward.
Snow and wind howled through the hall. The brazier sputtered. Half the pirates shivered as if touched by death itself and shouted for the door to be shut.
When they turned, they saw him.
A boy—thin as a reed, yet standing ramrod straight on the threshold. His wild black hair whipped in the gale; his swollen, frostbitten fingers clutched a harpoon taller than he was, as though it were his only tether to life. His black eyes, sharp and silent, fixed on the roasted meat at the center of the table.
Without a word, he strode in, vaulted onto the table, seized a massive meat bone, and began devouring it ravenously.
"Hey! Brat! Where'd you come from?!" bellowed a bearded pirate, slashing his knife through the air.
The boy didn't react—just kept eating.
Only when the blade came whistling toward his neck did he move.
In one fluid motion, he raised his harpoon. The forked tip caught the blade mid-swing, stopping it cold.
The pirates froze.
This kid—barely over six feet, half-starved, clad in rags—had just blocked a full-force strike from a grown pirate with nothing but a fishing spear.
Captain Barreus set down his glass. His long face darkened. He stood slowly, voice low and dangerous:
"…Did Doflamingo send you?"
He had reached this agreement with the World Government through the dark intermediary—Doflamingo of the Donquixote Family—as part of a clandestine operation to secure a Devil Fruit rumored to be on this island.
And indeed, Doflamingo had several unusual children under his command—test subjects, spies, or worse.
The boy didn't chew. His throat worked around a mouthful of meat, the firelight flickering across his frostbitten cheeks as he grinned brightly.
"Conrad," the boy said, glancing around at the pirates with their mismatched hair and wild eyes. He patted his chest. "Money!"
Conrad had been stranded on this desolate island for a week, wearing only a threadbare autumn coat that hung loosely on his slight frame—eleven or twelve years old, at most. It offered little warmth.
Fortunately, he'd grown up in mountainous highlands where snow was constant. He'd trained his body since childhood to endure the cold, channeling his breath and focus to keep his blood moving. That resilience had kept him from freezing—but not from starving.
An inlander through and through, his swimming was poor. In the past week, he'd managed to spear only three fish—two already dead, washed ashore by the tide.
Half-starved, he'd returned to the ruined village and spotted firelight atop the hill. Hopeful, he climbed toward it.
The men around the fire didn't look friendly—but they were human, and where there were pirates, there was usually a ship.
"Berry?" one of them muttered.
At the sound of Conrad's rough voice, Captain Barrerus paused, then scoffed. "I'll send your cut once the deal's done. No need to remind me. Go on—eat your fill."
"Thank you!" Conrad burped, snatched half a roasted chicken, and plopped down by the hearth.
The pirates exchanged confused glances but said nothing—waiting for their captain's cue.
"Never mind him!" Barrerus growled, slamming his cup onto the table. "Drink up! That idiot Drake—why isn't he back yet?!"
The party resumed, laughter and curses filling the stone hut.
Facing the flames, Conrad devoured his food like a starving wolf. Firelight danced in his pupils—sharp, intense, almost feverish.
"I want to eat my fill," he muttered through a full mouth. "I want to live well. My future is bright!"
The pirate beside him shivered under that gaze and quietly dragged his chair away.
Then—the brazier hanging from the ceiling crashed down.
Embers scattered. Silence fell like a curtain.
A blond man in a black feathered coat appeared beside Conrad in an instant, dousing the fire with a bucket of snow. Darkness swallowed the room.
His face—painted like a clown's—triggered a distant memory in Conrad. Five years ago… watching One Piece on a cracked screen back home… that name…
Donquixote Rosinante.
Doflamingo's younger brother.
User of the Suki Suki no Mi—the Silence-Silence Fruit.
The pirates leapt up, drawing swords, shouting—but no sound came out. Their mouths moved in frantic silence, like actors in a ghostly pantomime.
Conrad understood immediately. He grabbed his harpoon and bolted for the door.
Everyone here is already dead.
Only one man would survive this night—X Drake, who'd gone into town for supplies.
Because Doflamingo—future Warlord of the Sea—was already en route. Not to honor a deal, but to steal the Ope Ope no Mi for himself.
Barrerus's "agreement" was a fantasy. A death sentence wrapped in hope.
Outside, the warehouse exploded. Orange light flared through the windows of the stone house. Conrad saw Rosinante kick Barrerus in the face before sprinting toward the flames.
Conrad burst out into the snowstorm just as thick smoke coiled into the sky. Pirates rushed down the slope, muskets raised—not at the fire, but at him.
For the first time in his life, Conrad froze. The black mouths of gun barrels stared him down.
The world was silent—yet his chest burned. Something ancient and wild stirred inside him, as if a soul long dormant were tearing its way free.
Thump.
His heart pounded like war drums.
Bang!
A window shattered. Shouts and crackling fire returned.
"Rosinante! It worked! You can finally be cured! Wait for me—I'm coming!" a voice cried from the hill.
Rosinante burst through the broken window, clutching the glowing Ope Ope no Mi to his chest, tears streaking his makeup.
But his foot slipped on the icy slope—and he tumbled headlong toward the pirates below.
"Catch that feather-coated bastard! He stole the fruit!" came the cry.
A musket clicked. The barrel swung from Conrad to the falling Rosinante—
—and fired.
Just as the bullet was about to tear into Rosinante's back…
Whizz!
An iron harpoon shot through the air like a bolt of black lightning—embedding itself deep into the snow slope, halting Rosinante's fall just in time.
The bullet struck the ground two meters below his boots.
All eyes turned to Conrad.
But he wasn't watching them. He stared at his own fists, trembling—not from cold, but from something surging beneath his skin.
"Oga once told me," he whispered, voice cracking with power, "the Whale-Slaying Fist is the strongest martial art in the world! Today… I awaken Haki through it! And one day—I will rule the seas!"
Black steam rose from his body as the warehouse fire roared behind him. His oversized coat billowed in the storm.
With a roar, Conrad launched himself down the slope—crashing into the reloading pirates—and unleashed a punch wreathed in black-and-red Armament Haki.
"The sea!" he bellowed. "Welcome your future king!"