"The difference between a god and a mortal isn't power—it's perspective. A mortal sees a mountain and asks 'how do I climb it?' A god sees the mountain and remembers when it didn't exist." - Fragment from the Void
The morning sun filtered through the paper screens of my workshop—a converted warehouse on the edge of our estate that I'd claimed as my personal domain. Sachiko thought I used it for "study and contemplation." She wasn't wrong, exactly.
She just had no idea what I was actually studying.
"Raphael, display the schematic."
<
Holographic projections materialized in the air before me—courtesy of a skill I'd created called Thought Projection, letting me externalize Raphael's data into visible three-dimensional models. The blueprint of the Model T rotated slowly, each component color-coded by function.
Internal combustion engine. Planetary transmission. Tubular chassis. Leaf spring suspension.
All concepts that wouldn't exist in this world for decades, maybe centuries.
I walked around the projection, examining it from every angle. The design was elegant in its simplicity—exactly what Henry Ford had proven could be mass-produced efficiently. But this wasn't Earth. This was One Piece, where a tree could grow to the size of a mountain and a man could punch through steel with his bare hands.
I could do better.
"Raphael, incorporate the durability enchantments we developed last week. And add the magicule circulation system for the power train."
<
The blueprint shimmered, new glowing lines appearing throughout the structure like veins of light. This wasn't just a car anymore. This was automotive engineering married to magic, science kissed by the supernatural.
It was beautiful.
"Material requirements?" I asked, already knowing the answer but wanting to hear it confirmed.
<
I allowed myself a small smile. The assembly line—Ford's greatest innovation—would work even better here. I had something Henry Ford never had: perfect knowledge of every step, every optimization, every efficiency improvement that would take his company decades to discover.
And I had magic.
"Begin simulation of the assembly process. I want to see potential bottlenecks."
The workshop dissolved.
Akashic Records was my favorite skill for a reason.- Raphael sensei will be mad if she heard that
One moment I was standing in my warehouse. The next, I stood in an infinite white void, and before me materialized a fully functional automobile factory. Not a blueprint. Not a model. A complete, operational production facility with assembly lines, workers (simulated constructs with the intelligence to perform tasks but no true consciousness), and every tool necessary to build cars.
Time dilation: 1000:1. I could spend weeks in here, and only minutes would pass outside.
<
The factory came to life.
Constructs moved with mechanical precision, each performing their designated task. A chassis frame moved down the line. Wheels attached. Engine lowered into place. Body panels secured. Each step flowed into the next with the rhythm of a heartbeat.
I watched the first car take shape, Raphael's analysis streaming through my consciousness.
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Each observation was instantly implemented. The simulation updated in real-time, the assembly line evolving before my eyes. What started as a recreation of Ford's historical process transformed into something beyond anything Earth's 20th century could have imagined.
Magically reinforced steel. Enchanted glass that could withstand cannon fire. Tires that repaired themselves through gradual magicule or Lifeforce energy absorption. An engine that could run on gasoline, alcohol, or even raw magicule if necessary.
And the speed. God, the speed.
<
I walked alongside the assembly line, examining each station with the critical eye of a scientist and the appreciation of an engineer. This wasn't just about building cars. This was about transforming Wano's entire industrial capacity.
Cars meant roads. Roads meant infrastructure. Infrastructure meant jobs, trade, economic growth. In a world where most people still traveled by foot or animal, motorized transportation would be revolutionary.
And I would control it all.
"Raphael, calculate economic impact of introducing automotive industry to Wano. Factor in current GDP, population, existing trade networks, and technological readiness."
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Three hundred and forty percent.
I let that sink in. My family was already wealthy from the COVID-75 pandemic response. Adding automotive manufacturing to our portfolio would make us not just rich, but economically indispensable.
The Shogun would have to listen to us. The Daimyo would seek our favor. At the end of the day nobody could ignore that kind of economic power.
And all of it would be mine to direct.
"Run the simulation for 100 units," I said. "I want to see the full production cycle stabilize."
<
The factory blurred into motion.
Seventeen hours later—one minute in the real world—I stood before a parking lot filled with one hundred identical Model T automobiles.
Each one painted in glossy black (easier to manufacture than multiple colors, just like the historical Ford). Each one enhanced far beyond its Earth counterpart. Each one a masterpiece of engineering that blended two worlds' worth of knowledge.
I walked to the nearest car and ran my hand along its hood. The metal was cool and smooth, and I could feel the faint thrum of magicule circulation even in its dormant state.
<
"Perfect." I opened the door and slid into the driver's seat.
The interior was sparse but functional. Leather seats (synthetic, created through transmutation of plant fibers). A simple dashboard with a speedometer, fuel gauge, and what looked like a standard ignition switch.
That ignition switch, however, was anything but standard.
I pressed my hand against it, and the engine roared to life.
Not with the coughing, sputtering start of early internal combustion engines, but with a smooth, powerful rumble that spoke of perfect engineering. The entire car vibrated with barely contained energy.
<
I gripped the steering wheel and pressed the accelerator.
The car leaped forward.
The simulation provided a test track—a long, straight road stretching into the white infinity. I pushed the pedal down, feeling the acceleration press me back into the seat as the speedometer climbed.
40 mph.
60 mph.
80 mph.
100 mph.
The Model T had never been built for speed. Ford designed it for reliability, affordability, durability. But with magical reinforcement and optimized engineering, this version could do what the original never dreamed of.
127 mph, according to Raphael's calculations.
I eased off the accelerator at 110, not because I couldn't go faster, but because I'd proven the point.
This would work.
<
"Agreed. Draft a material requisition list for Sachiko. Make it look like I'm requesting supplies for 'mechanical research.' She doesn't need to know the details yet."
<
"Yes. And Raphael?"
<
"Calculate how many constructs I would need to fully automate the assembly line. I don't want to rely on human workers for the initial production run. Too many questions."
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I nodded slowly. My magicule reserves had grown absurd since my evolution to Saint. Ten million and climbing, with a regeneration rate that made extended manufacturing operations trivial.
I could run an entire factory by myself.
The thought should have been exciting. Instead, it made me feel...
Lonely.
Not physically alone—I had Sachiko, and the estate staff, and eventually there would be workers in the factory. But intellectually alone. Existentially alone.
I was operating on a level that no one in this world could comprehend. Building technologies that wouldn't exist for a century. Creating systems that required magical abilities most people couldn't even perceive.
Who could I share this with? Who would understand?
<
I blinked. Raphael was right, of course. Raphael was always right.
"End simulation. Return to workshop."
The factory dissolved, and I was back in my warehouse, the morning sun barely shifted from where it had been when I left.
One minute. I'd spent seventeen hours designing the future of Wano's economy in one minute.
And I still had the whole day ahead of me.
"Alright," I said to the empty room. "Time for the fun part."
Akashic Records was more than a training domain.
It was a universe of infinite potential, limited only by my imagination and my ability to conceptualize what I wanted. I could create anything here. Simulate anyone. Experience scenarios that were impossible in the real world.
And after seventeen hours of intense engineering work, I deserved some entertainment.
"Raphael, new simulation. WWE WrestleMania, Madison Square Garden, 1998. I want the full experience—arena, crowd, commentary team, everything."
<
"Hell yeah."
The white void transformed.
Suddenly I was sitting in the front row of Madison Square Garden, surrounded by thousands of screaming fans. The roar was deafening—a wall of sound that physically pressed against me. Signs waved everywhere: "Austin 3:16," "HBK," "DX Rules!"
The ring stood in the center, illuminated by massive overhead lights. Announce tables set up at ringside, Jim Ross and Jerry Lawler in position, though I couldn't hear them over the crowd.
And then the glass shattered.
Stone Cold Steve Austin's entrance music hit, and the crowd lost their collective minds. The rattlesnake himself strode down the ramp, middle fingers raised, attitude radiating from every movement.
I was enjoying myself.
This wasn't real. I knew it wasn't real. These were constructs, simulations, NPCs with sophisticated behavioral programming but no true consciousness. They were echoes of echoes, recordings of a moment in Earth's history that I was recreating through magical computation.
But God, it felt real.
Austin entered the ring, climbed the turnbuckle, played to the crowd. The energy was intoxicating.
Then Shawn Michaels' music hit—"Sexy Boy"—and the Heartbreak Kid made his entrance with all the cocky swagger that made him a legend.
The match began.
I watched, transfixed, as two of wrestling's greatest performers told a story in the ring. Every move had meaning. Every near-fall built tension. The crowd rode every moment, booing the heel, cheering the face, gasping at the big spots.
Stone Cold hit the Stunner.
1... 2... 3!
New champion!
The crowd erupted. Beer cans flew. Austin celebrated with all four middle fingers raised while the commentary team sold it like the Second Coming.
And I sat there, a five-year-old god in a simulated wrestling arena, feeling genuinely happy for the first time in weeks.
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"Oh, I'm just getting started."
I stood up, walked to the ringside barrier, and vaulted over it.
The crowd noise didn't change—the simulation recognized me as part of the environment now, an audience member getting involved. Austin and Michaels had already left, the ring empty.
But I wasn't here to watch anymore.
"Raphael, I want to compete. Load the full WWE roster from 1998 to 2020. Randomize opponents. And make them actually competitive—scale their abilities to match mine."
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"I don't care. I want a challenge. Make them strong enough to actually put up a fight."
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"Perfect. Ring the bell."
A new entrance theme hit—"Here Comes the Pain" by Jim Johnston.
Brock Lesnar stormed down the ramp.
But this wasn't the Brock Lesnar who was (merely) a genetic freak and former UFC heavyweight champion. This was Brock Lesnar scaled to fight a Saint—enhanced to supernatural levels while maintaining his core characteristics.
He looked the same. Moved the same. But when he stepped into the ring, the canvas cracked under his weight.
The referee (also a construct) called for the bell.
Brock charged.
I met him in the center of the ring, and we locked up collar-and-elbow. The impact of our collision sent out a shockwave that made the ropes vibrate. The crowd went insane.
He tried to power me into the corner. I twisted, reversed, whipped him into the turnbuckle instead. He hit hard enough to dent the steel post.
Didn't slow him down.
Brock exploded out of the corner with a clothesline that could have decapitated a normal human. I ducked under it, bounced off the ropes, came back with a flying forearm that caught him square in the jaw.
He stumbled.
The crowd roared.
This was ridiculous. This was absurd. This was a five-year-old body performing professional wrestling moves against a simulation of one of the most dominant WWE superstars ever, and none of it should have worked.
But it did.
Because this was my domain. My rules. My fantasy made manifest.
Brock recovered and hit an F-5—his signature finishing move—spinning me around and slamming me into the mat with enough force to crater it.
The referee counted.
1... 2... Kick out!
I powered out of the pin, and the crowd lost their minds. This was the drama, the near-fall, the moment of tension that made wrestling addictive.
We went back and forth, trading moves, building to a crescendo. Suplex. Clothesline. Spinebuster. Each impact echoing through the arena.
Finally, I saw my opening.
Brock went for another F-5. I slipped out mid-rotation, landed behind him, and hit a move I'd seen Roman Reigns use—the Superman Punch—putting every ounce of my Saint-level strength behind it.
Brock dropped like a puppet with cut strings.
I went for the pin.
1... 2... 3!
The bell rang. My music hit (some generic rock theme Raphael generated). The referee raised my hand.
And the crowd went absolutely nuclear.
Confetti fell from the ceiling. Pyrotechnics exploded. The commentary team sold it like I'd just won the Super Bowl, the World Series, and the Olympics all at once.
I stood in the center of the ring, hand raised, looking out at fifty thousand simulated fans who were losing their minds for a match that never happened.
And I laughed.
Pure, genuine, unreserved laughter.
This was stupid. This was childish. This was a complete waste of my abilities.
And it was exactly what I needed.
<
"Noted. Who's next?"
<
The arena transformed. A massive steel cage descended around the ring. The lights dimmed. A gong sounded.
Oh, this was going to be fun.
Three hours later (subjective time), I'd fought my way through a gauntlet of wrestling legends.
The Undertaker. The Rock. Triple H. Shawn Michaels. CM Punk. John Cena. Kenny Omega.
Each match told a story. Each opponent brought their signature style. Each victory felt earned, even though I knew it was all simulation.
But that was the beauty of it. In Akashic Records, I could experience things that were impossible in reality. I could have a technical wrestling classic with Bret Hart. I could have a hardcore brawl with Mick Foley. I could have a high-flying spectacle with Rey Mysterio.
And through it all, the crowd never stopped cheering.
Finally, exhausted in the best possible way, I called for something different.
"Raphael, new scenario. I want a concert. Give me... Queen. Live Aid, 1985. Full stadium. Full experience."
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The wrestling arena dissolved.
I stood in the middle of Wembley Stadium, surrounded by 72,000 people. The stage was set. The equipment ready.
And then Freddie Mercury walked out.
The crowd's roar could have shaken the heavens.
He wore his iconic white tank top and jeans. Strode to the microphone with the confidence of a man who owned the world. Made eye contact with every single person in that stadium somehow.
And then he sang.
"Bohemian Rhapsody."
"Radio Ga Ga."
"Hammer to Fall."
Every song was perfect. Every note pristine. The band—Brian May, Roger Taylor, John Deacon—performed flawlessly.
But it was Freddie who commanded the stage. Who turned a concert into a religious experience. Who made you believe that this moment, right now, was the most important thing that had ever happened.
I stood in the crowd, singing along with thousands of others, feeling the music vibrate through my chest.
And for those precious minutes, I wasn't a reincarnated scientist. I wasn't an overpowered protagonist. I wasn't a being with enough magical power to reshape reality.
I was just someone enjoying a perfect performance.
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When the final notes of "We Are the Champions" faded, and Freddie took his bow and left backstage
"Thank you, Raphael," I whispered. "I think I needed this."
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Right. Back to reality.
"One more thing before I go," I said. "Create a betting platform. I want to set up underground fight tournaments—use historical fighters, anime characters, anyone interesting. Create an economy within Akashic Records. Give spectators currency to bet with."
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"It's not about purpose. It's about immersion. I want this place to feel alive. I want the crowd to have stakes in what they're watching, even if it's all pretend."
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"Perfect. I'll review it tonight."
I took one last look at the empty stadium, the stage where Freddie Mercury had just performed a miracle.
Then I ended the simulation and returned to my workshop.
The sun had moved. Forty-seven minutes had passed.
I stretched, feeling the pleasant ache of simulated physical exertion fade as my Saint-level body reasserted itself. No real fatigue. No lasting damage.
Just memories of an impossible afternoon.
I was about to head inside when I felt it.
A headache.
Not the usual kind. Not even the kind I got when I pushed my abilities too hard.
This was the other kind.
The kind that came when I tried to remember too much about my life before Arlo. When I pushed too deep into the fog that surrounded my original existence.
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But I wasn't trying to remember anything. I was just...
Just thinking about what I'd built today. The factory. The cars. The entertainment complex within Akashic Records.
Creating something from nothing.
Making reality bend to my will through sheer force of imagination and power.
Almost like...
The pain intensified.
Images flashed through my mind. Not memories. Impressions. Feelings.
A throne of impossible geometry.
A void that wasn't empty, but pregnant with potential.
A voice—my voice, but not my voice—speaking words I couldn't hear.
"Let there be..."
"Agh!" I grabbed my head, and the workshop spun around me.
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The pain vanished.
I stood there, breathing hard, hands still pressed to my temples.
What the hell was that?
<
"Creative abilities," I repeated slowly. "Raphael... what exactly are those barriers protecting me from?"
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"But you can detect them."
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I lowered my hands, staring at them. These small, five-year-old hands that could reshape reality. That could create factories from thought. That could simulate universes within a domain of pure conceptual space.
Who was I, really?
Not Arlo, the nuclear scientist. That was just one life, one iteration, one mask I was wearing.
Not even Arlo Takeshi, the noble child of Wano. That was just the current stage.
Then who?
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"You're right." I shook my head, forcing the questions down. "Sorry. Got lost in my own head for a moment."
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"Good. Now let's—"
"Arlo-kun!"
Sachiko's voice, calling from the main house.
I took a deep breath, centered myself, and became the five-year-old boy she expected to see.
"Coming, Sachiko-nee!"
I ran toward the house, leaving the workshop—and the questions it raised—behind me.
Dinner was a quiet affair.
Sachiko had prepared my favorites: grilled fish, rice, miso soup, pickled vegetables. She watched me eat with that fond expression she always wore, like I was the most precious thing in her world.
And maybe I was.
"You've been spending a lot of time in that workshop," she said, her tone carefully neutral.
"I'm working on a project," I said, which was technically true.
"What kind of project?"
I hesitated. How much should I tell her?
"A... vehicle," I finally said. "Like a cart, but it doesn't need horses or people to pull it. It moves on its own."
Her eyebrows rose. "On its own? How?"
"There's an engine inside. It burns fuel to create power that turns the wheels. I've been studying the principles."
Sachiko set down her chopsticks and looked at me with an expression I couldn't quite read.
"Arlo-kun, you're five years old."
"I know."
"Five-year-olds don't usually design self-propelled vehicles."
"I know."
She reached across the table and took my hand. Her touch was warm, gentle, grounding.
"I'm not angry," she said softly. "I'm just... concerned. You're brilliant, obviously. You've always been special. But sometimes I worry that you're pushing yourself too hard. That you're trying to grow up too fast."
Guilt twisted in my chest.
She was right, of course. I was pushing. Racing toward some undefined goal, building and creating and growing my power like I was running out of time.
But why?
What was I rushing toward?
"I just want to help," I said quietly. "Our family. Wano. I want to build things that make people's lives better."
Sachiko's expression softened. "That's very noble. And I believe you. But Arlo-kun..." She squeezed my hand. "You're allowed to be a child too. You're allowed to play, to have fun, to not carry the weight of the world on your shoulders."
If only she knew.
"I do have fun," I said, thinking of my afternoon in Akashic Records. Wrestling. Music. Entertainment that no one else would ever see.
"Do you?" She studied my face. "When was the last time you did something just for yourself? Not training, not studying, not working on projects. Just... being happy?"
Today, actually. But I couldn't tell her that.
"I'm happy now," I said. "Having dinner with you."
Her smile was sad. "You're very good at saying what I want to hear."
Was I?
Or was it true?
Did I know the difference anymore?
"Sachiko-nee," I said carefully. "If I told you I could do impossible things... would you believe me?"
She tilted her head. "What kind of impossible things?"
"I don't know. Hypothetically. If I said I could... create things that shouldn't exist. Change the world in ways that seem like magic. Would you trust me?"
For a long moment, she just looked at me.
Then she said, "I trust you, Arlo-kun. Whatever you can do, whatever you become, you're still my little brother. Nothing changes that."
Something in my chest unclenched.
"Thank you," I whispered.
"But," she added, her tone turning mock-stern, "if you're going to change the world, at least finish your vegetables first."
I laughed—genuine, surprised laughter—and went back to eating.
That night, lying in bed, I stared at the ceiling and thought about the day.
The factory. The cars. The wrestling matches. The concert.
The headache. The fragments of impossible memory.
The questions I couldn't answer.
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"Raphael?"
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"Do you ever wonder what we're building toward? All this power, all these preparations... for what?"
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"That's a cop-out answer."
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What did I want?
Safety for Sachiko. That was easy.
Economic prosperity for our family. Simple enough.
Knowledge. Power. Growth. The satisfaction of creating something from nothing.
But beyond that?
I didn't know.
And that scared me more than any enemy I might face.
"Goodnight, Raphael."
<
Despite everything, I smiled.
"Perfect. Looking forward to it."
<
Nine days until I could build the first car.
Nine days until Wano's industrial revolution began.
Nine days until House Takeshi became an unstoppable economic force.
I closed my eyes and let sleep take me.
Tomorrow, I would train.
Tomorrow, I would play.
Tomorrow, I would continue building an empire.
But tonight, I was going to sleep.
And maybe that was enough.
End of Chapter 13
Next Time: The prototype takes shape, Sachiko discovers more than she bargained for, and Arlo faces his first real opponent—someone from his past who should be impossible.