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Laughing at the Grand Line
Chapter 0: The Man Who Knew Too Much
The office AC was colder than the Arctic.
Yet Sam was sweating.
Not because of work.
Because his manager had just said, "Let's circle back and leverage synergy."
Sam blinked slowly.
Ah yes. The forbidden corporate jutsu.
Around him, keyboards clicked like machine gun fire. Excel sheets glowed like cursed relics. Coffee cups stacked like Marine battleships preparing for war.
He looked at his screen.
Instead of finishing his report…
He was watching One Piece.
Again.
"Priorities," he muttered.
Luffy's laugh echoed through his earphones.
Free.
Fearless.
Ridiculous.
Powerful.
Sam leaned back in his chair.
"Imagine living in a world where punching your problems is a valid career path."
A coworker peeked over the cubicle wall.
"You finished the deck?"
Sam didn't look away.
"Bro, if Zoro can get lost in a straight line, I can get lost in this PowerPoint."
"…You need help."
"Correct."
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Lunch Break — The Real Strategy Meeting
The cafeteria buzzed with chaos.
Four overworked anime fans gathered like secret conspirators.
"If you were in One Piece, what Devil Fruit would you take?" someone asked.
Sam didn't hesitate.
"None."
They froze.
"None?"
"Information is the strongest ability," he said calmly. "Devil Fruits are risky. You lose the ability to swim. That's a huge nerf in a pirate world."
He tapped the table lightly.
"Haki supremacy. Train smart. Study the timeline. Manipulate events. Invest early. Befriend future Yonko before they're cool."
His friend pointed at him dramatically.
"Bro thinks he's Law."
Sam smirked.
"No. Law reacts."
He leaned forward slightly.
"I would pre-plan."
They groaned.
"You think too much."
"In a world of monsters?" Sam shrugged. "Thinking is survival."
But beneath the sarcasm, beneath the humor—
There was longing.
Adventure.
Freedom.
The sea.
Not deadlines.
Not KPIs.
Not performance reviews.
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Evening — When Tropes Strike
Rain poured from the sky.
City lights blurred against wet asphalt.
Sam walked home alone, headphones on, opening theme blasting.
"If I ever got transmigrated…" he whispered.
A grin slowly formed.
"I wouldn't follow the plot."
"I'd break it."
Lightning flashed.
Thunder roared.
Headlights appeared.
Too bright.
Too sudden.
Too cliché.
A truck.
Of course.
There was no dramatic scream.
No heroic speech.
Just—
White.
---
The Space Between Stories
Sam opened his eyes.
He wasn't on the road.
He wasn't in a hospital.
He wasn't anywhere.
He was floating.
Above him — nothing.
Below him — nothing.
Around him — endless white stretching into infinity.
He raised his hand.
It moved.
"…Okay."
Not dead-dead.
Good.
He slowly rotated midair, gravity apparently on vacation.
The white space felt unfinished.
Like a world waiting to load.
"Character creation room?" he muttered.
Silence.
Then—
The void rippled.
Faint colors bled into existence.
Blue.
Gold.
Crimson.
Shapes flickered.
Ships.
Storms.
A throne standing in darkness.
And a straw hat drifting toward him.
A laugh echoed.
Wild.
Free.
Familiar.
Sam's expression sharpened.
"That laugh…"
The white cracked like glass.
A voice spoke.
Not loud.
Not soft.
But absolute.
"You claim you would break the story."
Sam didn't panic.
He smiled.
"Depends."
The silence pressed closer.
Then the voice returned.
"Prove it."
The white space collapsed inward.
Darkness swallowed everything.
And Sam fell.
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