The air in the chamber of Pangea Castle, the heart of the world and the throne of the Empty Throne, was thick with the scent of ancient stone and something else. Something primal and cloying. It was the scent of power, of secrets, and of a devotion so absolute it had warped into a perversion all its own. In the center of the grand, circular room, upon a bed of velvet that was blacker than the abyss, a woman writhed. Her name was Jenna, and she had been the constant companion of the world's true sovereign for eight centuries. Her silver hair, usually immaculate, was plastered to her forehead with sweat, and her breath came in ragged, powerful gasps. Her body, preserved by a vitality that defied time, was a canvas of lean muscle and flawless skin, glistening under the ethereal light of the room.
Standing over her, not with concern but with an almost fanatical, analytical pride, was Imu. He was a figure of impossible presence, tall and slender, dressed in simple, immaculate white robes that did little to hide the wiry strength beneath. His face was androgynous and serene, but his eyes, the color of molten gold, burned with a feverish light. He was not watching his wife give birth in the manner of a typical father. He was observing a grand experiment, the culmination of a millennia-long project. He was a fanatic, a cuckold of the highest order, who derived his greatest pleasure not from his own conquests, but from witnessing the virility of others, particularly when they were bestowed upon his eternal companion. And today, the object of his fascination was the child she was birthing. His heir.
"Push, my love," Imu's voice was a silken caress, yet it held the weight of continents. "Show me the strength our line possesses. Let him enter the world with the same vigor that conceived him."
Jenna gritted her teeth, a guttural scream tearing from her throat as she bore down with all her might. The freeuse nature of their world meant there was no modesty to preserve, no decorum to maintain. Her legs were spread wide, her body an open vessel for the miracle of creation, as spectacle for her husband and the few Celestial Dragons who were permitted to attend, their eyes gleaming with avarice and curiosity. They, too, were naked, as was custom for those of power within the castle walls. Clothes were a shackle for the weak, a cumbersome barrier between the strong and the world they ruled. Here, flesh was the ultimate truth.
With a final, shuddering cry, the pressure released. A new sound filled the chamber—the sharp, indignant wail of a newborn. Jenna collapsed back onto the velvet, her chest heaving, a triumphant, exhausted smile on her face. Imu stepped forward, his golden eyes fixed on the small, writhing form the attendants were now cleaning.
"He is… magnificent," Imu breathed, reaching out to take the child. The baby, a boy with a shock of dark hair already visible, stopped crying the moment he was in Imu's hands. He stared up at the ruler of the world with eyes that were not the blue of a newborn, but a startling, intelligent grey. The eyes of Jack.
In the recesses of the infant's mind, a consciousness older than his tiny body reeled. Fuck. It worked. I'm actually here. Jack, the perverted, power-hungry soul from another reality, remembered everything. The truck, the impact, the darkness, and then the blinding light of a cosmic marketplace where he'd spent his last accumulated bit of metaphysical currency on a single, absurd artifact: the Star Gate. A device that could punch holes between fictional worlds. He'd woken up in the womb, a passenger in this new, incredible form, and now he was out. He was the heir to the World Government. The son of Imu.
Imu held him up, presenting him to the room. "Behold! The future! The continuation of our unbroken rule!" His voice echoed with triumph. He turned to Jenna, who was already sitting up, her fatigue momentarily forgotten. Her gaze, sharp and possessive, swept over her son. It lingered on his groin, and a slow, satisfied smirk touched her lips. "He is well-formed," she purred, her voice a husky whisper. "A fine thatch of pubic hair for one so young. It will be a delight to watch it grow."
Jenna's obsession was a peculiar one, a fixation she had indulged for centuries. She inspected the pubic hair of everyone she encountered, from the highest-ranking Celestial Dragon to the lowliest servant. It was her metric of vitality, her measure of a person's essence. To have her son born with even the faintest shadow of hair was a sign of great promise.
Imu chuckled, a low, resonant sound. "Indeed, my love. He is a worthy successor." He then did something that sent a ripple of murmurs through the observing Celestial Dragons. He handed the newborn Jack to a young girl who stood silently at the edge of the room.
She couldn't have been more than ten, with sharp, intelligent eyes and a shock of pink hair pulled back into a neat top knot. She was Tsuru. An orphan of a noble line Imu had personally taken a liking to. She was being raised alongside Jack, groomed to be his greatest confidant, his most loyal companion, and eventually, his wife. In this world, such arrangements were not just common; they were the bedrock of power.
Tsuru took the infant with a practiced care that belied her age. She held him securely, her expression unreadable. But as Jack looked up at her, he felt a connection, a pre-ordained bond that transcended their current forms. He knew her. Not from his past life, but from the destiny that had been woven for them in this one. He squirmed in her arms, and a strange, instinctual urge took him. He wanted her to know him. To taste him.
As if reading his mind, Tsuru glanced around to ensure Imu and Jenna were distracted, cooing over the newborn's potential. With a swift, fluid motion, she brought the infant Jack to her lips. Her tongue, small and pink, darted out and delicately lapped at the tip of his tiny, flaccid penis. It wasn't a sexual act in the way an adult would understand it, but a ritual. Her unique perversion. Tsuru could taste the truth in a man's seed. She could detect lies, gauge health, and measure potential with a single taste. And as she tasted the heir to the world, her eyes widened slightly. A flicker of something profound crossed her features.
The flavor was unlike anything she had ever encountered. It was rich, complex, and impossibly potent. It tasted of ambition, of ancient knowledge, and of a boundless, ravenous hunger. This was no ordinary child. This was a king in the cradle. She pulled back, a faint blush on her cheeks, and held him closer. He was hers. She would be his shadow, his blade, his cupbearer. And she would never thirst.
The years that followed were a blur of accelerated growth and relentless tutelage. Jack's development was frighteningly fast. He was walking and speaking in complete sentences by the time he was six months old. His mind, a fusion of adult cunning and childlike plasticity, absorbed knowledge at an impossible rate. He learned the history of the World Government not as a student, but as its future master. He learned of the Twenty Kings, the Void Century, and the true purpose of the Celestial Dragons. He learned that his father, Imu, was not just a ruler but a living god, and his mother, Jenna, was his immortal high priestess.
The freeuse dynamics of his new reality were both a constant source of amusement and a tool. By the age of five, Jack was already aware of his effect on women. The nurses, the tutors, even the high-ranking officials who visited the castle, all found reasons to be near him. It was expected. It was natural. He was the heir. His body was a temple, and it was their honor to worship at its altar. He learned to navigate this world with an ease that felt like second nature, his perverted past life giving him a framework to understand and exploit the shameless libido that fueled the upper echelons of power.
His relationship with Tsuru deepened into a symbiotic partnership. She was his constant shadow, his only true peer. They studied together, trained together, and explored the forbidden archives of Pangea Castle together. She taught him the subtleties of the court, the unspoken rules of power, and he, in turn, taught her of the wider world that existed beyond their gilded cage. Her peculiar habit never ceased. Every day, without fail, she would perform her ritual. As he grew, so did the complexity of what she tasted. She could tell when he was lying, when he was hiding something, and when he was truly enraged. She became his most accurate lie detector, her palate more sensitive than any polygraph. And she always declared his flavor to be her favorite.
On his eighth birthday, a gift arrived. It was not a weapon or a book, but a person. A massive, broad-shouldered man with a chinstrap beard and a dog-eared marine cap, standing at attention. He was Monkey D. Garp, the future "Hero of the Marines," currently a raw, powerful young man of the same age as Jack