"I still can't believe they call this treacherous sea 'Paradise'... What kind of bastard named it that?" one of the Cook Pirates grumbled, arms crossed as he leaned against the railing. His tone was bitter—though they had once triumphantly entered the Grand Line via Reverse Mountain, barely a year had passed before they were now being forced back to their home waters in the East Blue.
"You do know it's called 'Paradise' in comparison to the second half of the Grand Line, right?" another pirate muttered, slumped over the railing, staring listlessly at the eerily still waters ahead. The Calm Belt stretched before them, an expanse of deceptive tranquility known to be one of the most perilous seas in the world.
They were exhausted—physically, mentally, and emotionally. The Grand Line had drained them, and now, desperation had driven them to make a reckless choice. They had chosen to cross the Calm Belt, fully aware of its reputation but too weary to care.
This had been the Cook Pirates' first expedition into the Grand Line, but their journey had been cut short before they even made it through a third of its vast, perilous waters. The cruel sea had shattered their illusions of grandeur, of conquering the world through strength and skill.
If not for their captain, Zeff, and the sacrifices of their fallen comrades, none of them would still be alive. Now, Zeff had made the call—to retreat, preserve what remained of the crew, and return to the Grand Line only when they were truly ready.
The first pirate exhaled sharply, gripping the railing. "I mean… if the first half of the Grand Line is already this dangerous, then what kind of monsters are lurking in the second half?" He shuddered. "What was it called again? New World?" He hesitated before adding, "And… do you think what the newspapers said about Sabaody being completely destroyed is true? Can someone really wipe out an entire island?"
The World Times had been flooded with terrifying stories—pirates powerful enough to reshape continents, weapons that could end civilizations, and, most absurdly, someone bold enough to openly attack the World Government.
"Does it even matter to us anymore?" the second pirate sighed, his voice hollow. "We couldn't even make it in the first half of the Grand Line. Do you really think we'd stand a chance in the so-called New World? I fear those monsters would sneeze and we'd all drop dead on the spot."
He let out a bitter laugh. They had set sail dreaming of ruling the seas, only for the ocean itself to mock them. Their ambitions weren't impossible—but right now, they were laughable.
Then—
"What the hell…?"
The pirate on lookout froze, his face paling as he gripped his spyglass with trembling hands. He quickly wiped the eyepiece with the rag at his hip, blinking rapidly, as if hoping he had seen wrong.
The other pirates tensed. "What? What is it?"
Far off in the horizon, a wooden barrel drifted effortlessly along the glassy surface of the Calm Belt. That, in itself, wasn't unusual. Many ships were destroyed in storms or battles, their wreckage scattering across the vast seas.
It wasn't rare to see cargo floating aimlessly—sometimes food, water, and, if the gods were kind, rum could be found in these barrels. To desperate sailors, such drifting supplies could mean the difference between life and death.
But that wasn't what had made the pirate curse. It was the man sitting atop the barrel. Cross-legged. Leisurely fishing. In the middle of the Calm Belt.
The lookout's breath hitched. "N-no way… Who the hell…?"
I had sensed them long before they saw me. The ship was using oars, struggling across the Calm Belt. Their luck was already miraculous—they hadn't been devoured by a Sea King yet.
Even pirates from the New World wouldn't take this route unless absolutely necessary. And yet, here they were, rowing across death's doorstep.
But what truly caught my attention was their ship. I narrowed my eyes, a vague sense of familiarity stirring in my mind. I recognized it from the canon.
The Cooking George.
The flagship of the Cook Pirates—Zeff's ship, it was a large vessel with four massive brown sails, two on the upper masts and two on the lower. Atop each crow's nest sat a chef's hat, a quirky yet fitting tribute to its crew's culinary expertise. Small horns adorned the sides of each sail, adding a touch of flair.
The figurehead was a duck, proudly wearing a neckerchief and a chef's hat, exuding both charm and character. A large knife and fork crossed over its chest, symbolizing the ship's dual nature as both a floating restaurant and a battle-ready vessel. Along its sides, bright yellow rings stood out against the wood, completing its distinctive look.
It was exactly as I remembered—an unmistakable match to the ship from my faded memories.
Interesting. I turned my gaze toward the lookout, who was still peering at me through his spyglass. Smirking slightly, I raised a hand—
And waved.
The pirate's entire body went stiff. His face drained of color as cold sweat poured from his forehead.
"H-he just waved at me…!"
The others looked at him, confused. "What?"
"That guy! The one on the barrel!" His voice cracked. "He just waved at me! There's no way—NO WAY—he could have seen me from this far, right?! Right?!"
Before anyone could respond, a voice—a lazy, amused voice—spoke from directly behind them.
"Hey, guys."
The pirates' blood turned to ice. The lookout turned his head ever so slowly— And there he was. The exact same man who had been sitting on the barrel, miles away, now stood on the deck of their ship with the fishing rod still in his arms.
Silence. Then—
"Ghooooooost!"
The lookout let out a bloodcurdling scream, his arms flailing wildly as he threw himself to the deck.
"MOMMY, SAVE ME! CAPTAIN! WE HAVE A GHOST ON BOARD!"
Absolute pandemonium erupted. One pirate fainted on the spot. Another tried to swing his cutlass, only to drop it from his shaking hands. A third pirate was on his knees, praying to whatever gods were listening. I sighed, rubbing my temples.
"What did I even expect…"
I had already scanned the ship with my Observation Haki. These guys were nowhere near ready for the Grand Line. And yet, somehow, by sheer miracle, they had almost made it safely across the Calm Belt. Almost. Fate, it seemed, had a twisted sense of humor.
Just then, a man somersaulted through the air, his body spinning like a top, his leg arcing like a scythe aimed straight for my head. My eyes gleamed with mischief as I immediately recognized him—a younger Zeff, still yet to be fully tempered by the Grand Line.
To his crew, his attack was a scythe of death, a blur of motion carrying all the strength of their formidable captain. They cheered, confident that this devastating kick would end the intruder in an instant. But to me? It was slow. Painfully slow.
I took a single, lazy step back, letting his foot whizz past before it slammed down onto the deck with enough force to crack the wood beneath. Before he could react, I casually placed my foot over his leg, pressing it down effortlessly.
In that moment, Zeff's world shifted. With just one simple act, it became painfully clear—he was no match for the young man who had so casually stepped aboard his ship. Yet, my attention wasn't on his strength but on the man himself.
Zeff, at this stage in his life, was a well built figure of raw power and resilience. His golden-blond hair, still long and untamed, cascaded down his back, a few loose strands falling over his sharp, weathered face. His beard, a fiery, golden mane, had grown fuller but had yet to reach the imposing length it would in later years.
His piercing blue eyes, once full of nothing but ambition and grit, now held something else—sheer terror. He wore a dark, high-collared pirate's coat, lined with red, signifying the moniker he had recently earned—"Red Leg" Zeff.
His powerful legs, clad in reinforced boots, were legendary weapons, capable of shattering bones with a single kick. His stance was disciplined yet desperate, as if his instincts screamed at him that he had kicked something utterly beyond his understanding.
Zeff struggled to pull his leg free, his muscles tensing, veins bulging as he poured his strength into escaping. But it was useless. No matter how hard he tried, his leg remained pinned beneath my foot as if it were nailed to the deck.
He wasn't weak—far from it. He had earned his reputation through blood and battle, and just recently, his devastating kicks had painted the seas red, earning him his feared title. Yet here, before me, all of that seemed meaningless.
His crew, once roaring in excitement, now stood frozen, their cheers dying in their throats as they watched their captain struggle against a foe who had yet to even lift a finger in retaliation.
"Who… the hell are you?" Zeff gritted out, his voice carrying both frustration and a sharp edge of wariness.
I, of course, already knew what he was planning. My future sight had laid it all out before me—decisive and reckless, a true pirate. Zeff had already made up his mind. If he couldn't break free, he would sacrifice his leg to escape.
I liked that. Just as he braced himself for the painful choice, I voluntarily lifted my foot. For a split second, confusion flickered across his face, but he wasted no time. He leaped back instantly, creating a safe distance between us, his stance now fully defensive, shielding his crew behind him.
His men, though clearly terrified, gritted their teeth and drew their weapons. No matter how fearsome the intruder, no matter how overwhelming the difference in power, they would stand beside their captain.
It was a commendable sight. And then—
GRUUUUUMMMBBBLLLEEEE.
A deep, guttural growl echoed through the tense silence. It took Zeff and his men a second to realize it wasn't a battle cry—it was my stomach. I awkwardly scratched my head, a sheepish grin forming on my lips.
"Ah… I'm really hungry."
The tension shattered instantly. Zeff's crew, still holding their weapons, looked at one another, bewildered. The sheer absurdity of the moment left them momentarily stunned. Zeff, still standing protectively in front of them, stared at me with an expression that flickered between incredulity and exasperation.
I sighed. "What? You guys have never seen a hungry man before?"
A heavy silence followed. Then, one of the crew members muttered, "…We really almost died for this?"
*****
"RIP…!"
Another massive chunk of Sea King meat vanished as the young man before them devoured bite after bite, his appetite seemingly insatiable. The Cook Pirates sat in stunned silence, watching the spectacle unfold. Until today, many of them had never even laid eyes on a Sea King of such monstrous size, let alone imagined that one could be hunted, cooked, and eaten like a mere fish. And yet, here they were—feasting on a creature that once ruled the depths.
Despite being pirates, most of them were also cooks, and it was their duty to feed the stranger who had boarded their ship. But as they scrambled to prepare dish after dish, they soon came to a terrifying realization—no matter how much they served, it was never enough.
The ship's rations? Gone in minutes. The supplies they had hoped would last until East Blue? Devoured without hesitation. And just as panic began to set in, the young man had grinned and casually offered a solution.
"Don't worry, I'll just go get more."
Before they could even process what he meant, he vanished. Minutes later, he returned—dragging an entire Sea King carcass behind him. The moment they saw it, the entire crew froze in disbelief. The beast was so massive that its lifeless body still trailed behind the ship, its sheer size making it seem as though it had been dragged from the depths of a nightmare itself.
Their eyes flickered between the young man and the fallen titan, their minds struggling to grasp what they had just witnessed. How could a single man hunt down something that could sink ships in an instant? And yet… here they were, feasting.
At first, they had dismissed the tall tales of the Calm Belt, brushing off the stories of colossal sea monsters as exaggerated myths. After all, hadn't they crossed it safely? Hadn't they made it through without encountering a single beast?
But now, as they sat before the smoking remains of a creature larger than their own ship, as they saw its partially butchered carcass still being dragged through the waves behind them, the truth hit them like a crashing tide.
They hadn't survived the Calm Belt because the stories were false. They had survived because they had been lucky. And now, for the first time in their journey, they truly understood just how small they were in the grand scheme of this vast, merciless sea.
The rest of the crew had somewhat let their guard down—after all, how could a man who ate so heartily and was willing to share such a grand feast be a bad person?
Laughter echoed across the deck as the pirates indulged in the unexpected banquet, exchanging stories over the crackling fire. The tension that had gripped them moments ago slowly faded, and for a while, it felt as if they were simply celebrating a successful hunt, not sitting in the presence of a man who had just effortlessly slain a creature that could have sunk their ship in an instant.
But Zeff was different. Unlike the others, he didn't allow himself to relax. He watched the young man closely, his sharp eyes tracking every movement, every subtle action. No matter how friendly their unexpected guest seemed, Zeff had seen enough of the world to know that true monsters rarely bared their fangs unless they needed to.
And this man? This man had yet to show his true fangs. Zeff clenched his jaw, his instincts screaming at him that this young man—who had boarded their ship like a ghost, waved away his strongest attack like a breeze, and casually tore through a beast of the Calm Belt like it was a common tuna—was something far beyond anything they had ever encountered.
Finally, he voiced the question that had been burning in his mind.
"Are you from the New World?"
The young man paused mid-bite, chewing slowly. Then, without much thought, he swallowed and gave a simple, almost dismissive reply.
"Yes."
The answer sent a chill down the spine of every pirate present. A hiss of unease spread through the crew. The New World. The name alone carried weight—a place of legend and horror, of monstrous pirates who could reshape the very seas, of islands where reality itself seemed to twist under the weight of power.
And here, sitting before them, was a man who had come from that very place. Zeff's expression darkened. For the past year, he had clung to a dream, one that had given him and his crew the strength to endure the horrors of the Grand Line. He had thought that if they returned to East Blue, trained, grew stronger, and hardened themselves, they could one day return to these waters with renewed strength.
Maybe they could even venture beyond—into the New World. After all, if All Blue was real, then it had to be there. But now…
As Zeff studied the young man before him, that dream began to crack. The sheer disparity in strength between what he had imagined and what he had just witnessed was overwhelming. This young man, barely in his twenties, exuded a presence that made even the fiercest warriors Zeff had encountered seem like mere children playing at battle.
And Zeff? Zeff was already in his forties. At best, he had a decade—two, if he was lucky—before his body would start to decline. Would he ever reach such terrifying heights? Would he ever be strong enough to survive the seas where this man came from?
His fists clenched.
No. He wasn't ready to give up—not yet. Taking a deep breath, he decided to ask the question outright.
"Do you think we would've stood a chance in the New World?"
He already knew the answer. Deep down, he had known it the moment he saw that Sea King's carcass still trailing behind their ship. The young man simply raised his hand and formed a zero with his fingers.
"If, by some sheer dumb luck, you managed to make it to the New World, you wouldn't even know how you died."
Zeff's stomach turned to ice. A thick silence settled over the deck, the once lively atmosphere snuffed out like a candle in a storm. One of the cooks hesitantly broke the silence, his voice tinged with both awe and fear.
"Is… Is the New World really that terrifying?"
The young man set his plate down, licking the grease from his fingers before leaning back slightly, his gaze sharp and unwavering.
"If you enter the New World as you are now," he said, his voice slow, deliberate, "even your worst nightmares would seem like a blessing compared to what you'd experience there."
His words carried weight—an undeniable truth that none of them could refute.
"You would have zero chance."
He looked at each of them, his expression unreadable.
"Unless every single one of you abandons your ambitions, finds a quiet island, and settles down as civilians, even then…"
He smirked.
"Even then, there are plenty of regular folk in the New World who could wipe out this entire crew without breaking a sweat."
The Cook Pirates shuddered. For the first time, the dream of All Blue—the dream that had carried them through storms, battles, and hardships—felt so impossibly far away.
Finally, after minutes of silent contemplation, Zeff made his decision. He exhaled deeply, his pride taking a backseat to something far more important—his crew.
"Can you tell us about the New World?" he asked, his voice steady, but humble.
A slow grin spread across my face as I set down my plate and leaned back slightly.
"Sure, why not?" I said, before tilting my head in amusement. "But on one condition."
Zeff raised a brow. "You personally cook the dishes until I'm full. Then, you can ask me whatever you want about the New World."
Murmurs spread among the crew. Until now, Zeff hadn't touched a single pot—the cooking had been handled by his subordinates. But the moment I made my request, the famed pirate chef didn't hesitate. With a sharp exhale, he tossed his coat aside, rolled up his sleeves, and made his way toward the ship's kitchen.
For hours, I continued to eat. The banquet carried on as dish after dish emerged from the galley, each crafted with precision and skill that far surpassed even the finest chefs I had encountered. Zeff's cooking was on another level entirely. Every bite was a masterpiece.
And I? I devoured it all.
With my mastery over Life Return (Seimei Kikan), my body processed the food far more efficiently than a normal human's. Ever since awakening my Devil Fruit, my appetite had only grown, becoming almost monstrous. And so, as the Cook Pirates gathered around, watching in both awe and horror, I continued to consume—until the colossal Sea King they had once feared was reduced to mere scraps.
Only then, when I finally leaned back and sighed in satisfaction, did the true conversation begin. True to my word, I answered every question Zeff and his crew had about the Grand Line and the New World.
Every detail was new, fascinating, and utterly terrifying to them. Zeff, in particular, made sure to record everything meticulously in his personal journal, as if etching the knowledge into history itself. The navigator of the Cook Pirates eventually spoke up, furrowing his brows in thought.
"So you're saying… the Log Pose we use in the first half of the Grand Line becomes obsolete in the New World?"
I nodded, smirking slightly at his growing unease.
"Not entirely useless—but close. If you rely only on the regular Log Pose from Paradise, your chances of getting lost are…" I raised a hand and gave them a thumbs-down. "Pretty damn high."
The navigator exchanged worried glances with his crewmates. Seeing his concern, I reached into my bag and pulled out a New World Log Pose. I placed it on the wodden crate, letting them observe it closely. Unlike the simple single-needle Log Pose from the first half of the Grand Line, this one had three needles pointing in different directions.
"This is a Log Pose from the New World," I explained. "It doesn't just lock onto one island—it gives you three options at any given time. The stronger the magnetic field of an island, the more stable the needle pointing toward it. But that doesn't mean it's the safest option."
The navigator swallowed hard. Zeff, however, was interested in something else entirely. He set his journal down and looked me in the eye.
"And this… Haki," he said, "is that what makes people from the New World so strong?"
I smiled.
"Yes." The crew leaned in, anticipation thick in the air. "If you want to survive in the New World, Haki isn't just useful—it's a necessity. Unlike what most people in the Four Blues and Paradise believe, Devil Fruit users are far more common in the New World. Haki is the ultimate countermeasure against them."
The crew exchanged glances, realization dawning upon them. Zeff, however, didn't react with shock—he reacted with determination. He clenched his fists, his gaze burning with resolve. There was a brief hesitation—a flicker of doubt—but then, he took a deep breath and met my gaze head-on.
"I have a request." I raised an eyebrow, intrigued. He exhaled sharply before speaking again. "Can you teach me how to use Haki?" The deck fell into complete silence. The Cook Pirates froze, eyes wide with shock. For a moment, I simply studied Zeff—the man who would one day become Red-Leg Zeff, the mentor of Sanji, the founder of Baratie.
Right now, he was a man on the edge of a dream. A man who had barely survived the first half of the Grand Line, who had witnessed firsthand the sheer gap in power between himself and a warrior of the New World. And yet—he still dared to ask.
A slow grin formed on my lips. "Heh." I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees.
"Alright, old man. Maybe this is fate…!" I locked eyes with him, letting my presence slowly weigh down upon the ship.
The weaker crew members shuddered as the air around them thickened—as if something invisible, something vast, had suddenly filled the space between us. Zeff's jaw clenched, but to his credit, he didn't back down.
"Let's see if you have what it takes."