The village dock was thick with the briny smell and bustle of midday. With an old tricorn pulled low over my face, I prowled around the edge of the pier with a loose, swaying gait. At my waist hung the cutlass I had put through hell in the forest, a flintlock pistol, and several stolen cigars.
Among the countless fishing boats and cargo ships moored along one side of the dock, the one that caught my eye was a tiny one-man sailboat creaking away in a corner. Its paint had peeled off in patches, and its sail was covered in stitch marks, but it was the perfect cozy size for slipping out to sea alone.
Crude lettering on the hull read: Old Man Benjamin’s Fishing Boat.
"Hmm, Old Man Benjamin, is it?"
I stroked my chin, wiggling my fingers.
"I’ve never met the old fellow, but he must be a generous philanthropist with a heart of gold. Lending a boat long-term and interest-free to such a promising young man, after all."
I wasn’t stealing it.
This was simply a pirate-style permanent rental.
I took an old scrap of cloth and some paint from my bag. Then, in the middle of the cloth, I quickly painted a skull with my brush. I did not forget the crucial detail of sticking a cigar between its teeth.
As I tied the completed Jolly Roger to the top of the mast, I snickered. I had been dropped into the world of One Piece, and I was supposed to live an ordinary life again?
What kind of lunatic would do that twice?
I had worked overtime until I dropped dead of a heart attack in my previous life. The last thing I wanted was to come to this sea and do the same sort of thing all over again.
"If you’ve been thrown into a sea this rough, you ought to give piracy a proper whirl. That’s the only way to make it worth your while."
Of course, I had no grand ambitions like Luffy’s, shouting, "I’m gonna be King of the Pirates!"
Let the Yonko and Pirate King candidates bash each other bloody over those troublesome matters. As for me, I would drink rum to my heart’s content, pull off a few dirty scores, and drift through life at my leisure. That would be enough.
"Set sail, gentlemen! Raise the anchor!"
With a quick cut of the rope, Old Man Benjamin’s fishing boat caught the favorable wind and glided out of the harbor.
From the far end of the dock, I heard some bald old man shouting, "Huh?! That crazy bastard’s taking my boat?!" as he came charging after me with a club. But by then, the sea breeze had already swept pleasantly past my ears.
Then, precisely three days after setting sail—
My glorious first flagship encountered an unexpected, minor technical defect.
Splash.
The seawater that had been tickling my ankles had risen past my knees and up to my thighs. A fist-sized hole had opened in the middle of the boat’s bottom, pouring seawater in with a rush.
"Inefficient."
I tossed the broken wooden scoop I had been using to bail out water overboard without a second thought. The boat had already completely lost its buoyancy and was slowly sinking straight down.
But rather than panic and jump into the sea, I firmly tucked my bottle of rum into my coat and climbed the creaking mast ropes, rung by rung.
If the boat sank, all I had to do was stand on something higher. As it happened, beyond the haze on the distant horizon, a massive wooden structure shaped like a fish’s head came into view.
The only huge floating restaurant in East Blue: Baratie.
"Oh, God. Your timing is remarkably good."
Ssssss...
The boat had now sunk completely beneath the surface, and only the tip of the final mast I stood on jutted out above the sea.
At the exact instant the mast tip, sliding toward the pier with perfect momentum, came level with Baratie’s wooden outdoor terrace—
I calmly stepped off, as though stepping onto the carpet of an upscale inn, and planted my dry boots on the dock.
Plop.
Behind me, the final piece of mast bubbled up white foam and sank perfectly into the sea.
"..."
The diners drinking wine at the outdoor tables and the waiters froze in unison, their knives and forks suspended in their hands.
A man had walked off the top of a sinking mast.
I brushed the dust from my clothes, then removed my old tricorn with exaggerated flair and held it over my chest as I faced a dumbfounded waiter.
"Good day, ladies and gentlemen."
With my characteristic swaying motions, I waved both hands through the air and flashed them a grin.
"Could you perhaps tell me where I might find a particularly kindhearted and generous manager? Climbing that mast has left my throat parched with salt. One bottle of cold rum and a plate of hot meat will do nicely. As for payment... would it suffice if I put up my stake in the vessel I just entrusted to the sea as collateral?"
The only answer I received was the silence of people standing there with their jaws hanging open.
The moment I entered the restaurant, the rich scent of butter and fine wine struck my nose. My stomach rumbled violently at an aroma that was in a completely different league from the soggy triangle kimbap I used to eat during overtime in my previous life.
But it was not the exquisite food that immediately seized my attention.
The most lavish table by the window.
A red-haired man wearing a Marine uniform coat draped over his shoulders and gleaming iron knuckles on both hands swirled a wineglass as he sent greasy looks toward a beautiful woman.
‘Who’s that?’
I narrowed my eyes, chewing thoughtfully on my unlit cigar.
My memory was hazy, but I definitely recognized that face.
A Marine Headquarters captain from the early part of the original story, who got beaten senseless by Sanji and thoroughly served as a benchmark for power levels.
Fullbody the Iron Fist.
‘A Marine Headquarters captain...’
This mysterious power I had gained by splitting logs in the forest and wrestling boars—the ‘sensor’ that detected danger in advance, and the ‘black energy’ at the edge of my blade that could slice rocks like tofu. I needed to find out whether it really worked, or whether it was just a delusion in my head, some pathetic skill that would fail the moment it saw real combat.
And there, as luck would have it, sat a walking punching bag with the fancy title of ‘officer directly under Marine Headquarters.’
‘Let’s see just how well my physical abilities hold up against a Headquarters captain.’
Once I made up my mind, I moved quickly.
With my usual loose, swaggering gait, I strode toward Fullbody’s table.
"Beautiful lady, just as this wine possesses such deep flavor, so too does my love—"
"Good grief, that line is so greasy, I’d think you dunked it in pork-belly fat."
Fullbody froze with his wineglass halfway to his lips.
Slide.
I nudged the chair opposite Fullbody’s with the tip of my boot, pulled it out, and shamelessly dropped into it. Then I snatched up the bottle of fine wine sitting in the middle of Fullbody’s table and drank straight from it.
Gulp, gulp.
"Pah! Splendid wine, my Marine friend. But your skill at charming women is worse than Manager Kim from the sales department in my previous life."
"...Wh-Who the hell are you?!"
A vein throbbed across Fullbody’s forehead.
A vagrant wearing a balding old hat and reeking of alcohol had crawled up to the table of a Marine officer who had been enjoying an elegant date, then stolen his wine and started drinking it. It was enough to make anyone see red.
"You filthy vagrant! Who the hell do you think you are, flapping your mouth in front of me?! I’m off duty today, so I didn’t want to spill blood, but...!"
"I don’t care whether you’re off duty or on it."
I set the wine bottle down on the table with a thud, propped my chin on one hand, and grinned.
"If you’re a Headquarters captain, shouldn’t you prove those iron-clad fists of yours earn their keep instead of just wearing them around for show? I’ll be your punching bag, so why don’t you take a swing, Sir Iron Fist?"
"You son of a bitch!"
The provocation worked perfectly.
Fullbody, his pride thoroughly cracked, kicked back his chair and shot to his feet.
Whoosh!
A heavy fist clad in gleaming iron knuckles tore through the air toward my face. It was a fairly weighty, sharp trajectory, befitting a Marine Headquarters officer. Against an ordinary grunt or some backwater punk, it would have been a strike that shattered a jaw before they could even react.
But—
‘...Slow.’
A sensation like cold ice water pouring through my mind flashed over me. That chill at the nape of my neck.
The path of his punch was three times easier to read than the wrist flick of the department head from my past life whenever he threw an approval folder.
Slide.
I twisted my upper body sideways by barely half a step.
Fullbody’s iron knuckles sliced through the air, passing uselessly within millimeters of my nose.
"Huh...?!"
Fullbody’s eyes shook at the realization that his punch had struck empty air, and his balance tipped forward.
That empty opening.
I did not even draw the cutlass at my waist. Instead, I raised my hand and lightly extended my index finger. As I squeezed every last ounce of willpower from deep in my chest, a thin layer of inky-black energy covered my fingertip for the briefest instant.
Flick.
Like cracking open a chestnut shell, I lightly flicked his temple.
That was all.
Thud!!
"Guhurk...?!"
Fullbody’s eyes rolled white before he could even let out a proper scream.
The weight carried by that casually flicked fingertip was like being struck on the crown of the head by an iron sledgehammer. The huge Marine captain toppled over, flipping the entire table as he crashed to the floor.
Not even a twitch. A perfect one-hit knockout.
"..."
The restaurant’s waiters and guests froze like statues, forks still in hand. A man of Fullbody’s stature—a captain directly under Marine Headquarters—had gone down helplessly from a single forehead flick by a man who looked like a vagrant.
As for me, the very man who had knocked Fullbody down, I looked at my index finger and inwardly breathed a sigh of relief.
‘...It really works.’
Relief washed over me at the realization that the mysterious power I had honed by hunting boars and splitting rocks in the forest was real. At least it meant I would not get foolishly shaken down or die a dog’s death at the hands of some lowlife pirates or street punks while making my way around East Blue.
With that confirmed, the next thing to do was obvious.
I casually reached into the inner pocket of the coat worn by Fullbody, sprawled on the floor, and slipped out a thick, satisfyingly stuffed leather wallet.
"A civil servant’s wallet, is it? Quite hefty. I’ll gratefully collect this as compensation for interrupting my meal."
I tucked the wallet into my pocket, grinned at the blond sous-chef frozen behind the counter—Sanji—and snapped my fingers.
"Now that I’ve swatted the bothersome fly, may I place an order, my chef friend? One bottle of cold rum and a plate of well-grilled steak will do nicely."
KRAAANG!!
At the very moment Sanji furrowed his brow and was about to respond—
With a deafening crash, the restaurant ceiling broke apart entirely, pouring a huge cloud of dust and wooden debris into the middle of the dining hall.
Crash!
From between the broken ceiling fragments, a little brat in a red vest and a battered straw hat came tumbling down spectacularly.
"Ow, ow... The cannonball I was trying to throw into the sea missed!"
The boy got to his feet, dusted off his straw hat, and looked around with a broad, vacant grin on his dirt-covered face.
The protagonist of One Piece.
Monkey D. Luffy.
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