The first thing I registered that morning was silence. Not the suffocating kind that follows disaster, but a clean, pristine quiet — the sort of peace that comes wrapped in the rare luxury of a school holiday. A twenty-four-hour truce from the droning lectures and juvenile ambitions of my classmates.
A day gifted to me — time, the most valuable resource in existence. And I knew exactly how to spend it.
My encounter with that muscle-bound oaf, Muscular, still lingered in my mind like a bad taste. The man was an avalanche of brute strength, all brawn and no brain — but his power had exposed something I could not ignore. My strings, though capable of surgical precision, lacked raw destructive output. I could manipulate, restrain, even dissect with elegance. But against overwhelming force, elegance was a liability.
And that — that was unacceptable.
The lab welcomed me like a cathedral of ambition. Steel walls hummed with faint energy, the scent of ozone and heated metal sharp in the air. Blue holographic displays shimmered to life as I entered, illuminating rows of projects — some completed, others abandoned, all of them beautiful failures in their own right.
The compact railgun prototype still needed a heat sink redesign. The acoustic disruptor lacked the rare earth magnets I'd ordered. And my experimental drone network — an idea ahead of its time — sat quietly in standby, waiting for my attention. But today, there was only one objective: refine my quirk's lethality.
A simple goal on paper. A complex one in practice.
I summoned a blank drafting screen. The challenge was clear: increase the tensile strength and vibrational frequency of my filaments without losing precision or stealth. My quirk was both blade and thread — invisible, subtle — but I wanted it to cut the world itself.
A gauntlet came to mind first. Sleek, form-fitting. A design that would augment my control without interfering with my movements. The core principle revolved around vibrational amplification — pushing the strings to oscillate at frequencies high enough to slice through any material, from titanium to muscle fiber.
My stylus glided across the drafting pad, lines of blue light forming into equations and schematics. Resonant frequency algorithms, harmonic stabilizer models, energy flow blueprints for compact emitters. Every stroke, every number, was an act of creation.
Hours passed in a blur of focus. The world beyond these walls ceased to exist. I wasn't a child. I wasn't a reincarnate. I was a god at his forge.
By noon, the blueprint was finished — a symphony of efficiency and violence. Elegant. Deadly. Mine.
But a weapon is only as good as the hand that wields it. And my body, for all its potential, was still the frame of an eight-year-old. The One Piece physiology I'd inherited remained largely dormant — superhuman in its promise, human in its current performance.
And Haki… Haki remained a whisper on the edge of consciousness. I could feel it, somewhere deep within me — a coiled storm, waiting for ignition. But wanting wasn't enough. Power demanded proof.
The training chamber below the lab awaited, all cold chrome and sterile light. I stepped inside and activated the hydraulic resistance bands. The hum of the machinery filled the air as I started my regimen.
This wasn't a child's workout. Every movement was deliberate. Pain was my ally — the language through which the body learns obedience. I strained until my muscles trembled, pushed until the bands creaked in protest. Sweat slicked my skin, every drop a declaration of intent.
When I wasn't lifting, I struck. My fists collided with a reinforced punching bag, each blow a rhythm of violence. Bang. Bang. Bang. I imagined Muscular's face, his arrogant grin — then Marcus Chen's betrayal, the moment that killed my first life. Rage was an old friend. It sharpened the edges.
"This isn't exercise," I muttered between breaths. "This is evolution."
Two hours later, I stood before the mirror, chest heaving, body slick with exertion. The reflection that stared back wasn't the image of a child — it was a work in progress. A prototype of a god.
I showered, changed, and returned to the lab.
Now came the true test: from concept to creation.
The first prototype failed immediately. The micro-emitters underperformed; the power cell — repurposed from a flashlight — was laughably weak. When I activated the gauntlet, the string vibrated like a tired mosquito.
"Pathetic," I hissed, ripping it off and tossing it onto the Failures table. The pile was growing. A proper scientist would be discouraged. I found it motivating.
The second prototype was an overcorrection. More power, less stability. The moment I activated it, the emitters overloaded and exploded — a violent burst that shattered the casing. Shards of composite alloy scattered across the floor.
"Clumsy. Crude. Amateurish," I muttered, glaring at the smoking remains. "I build scalpels, not sledgehammers."
The third and fourth versions failed in subtler ways — a misaligned harmonic stabilizer here, an overheated conduit there. Each iteration refined my understanding. I was teaching this world's science to bow before my design principles.
By the fifth attempt, the sun had long set, and my stomach was an empty, hollow complaint I ignored. Progress demanded sacrifice.
This time, I distributed the power flow across several micro-cells linked in a stable series. It allowed for consistent high-amperage output without bulk. The emitters were recalibrated to a sustainable frequency — less maximum sharpness, more endurance. The casing was a sleek carbon-fiber polymer I'd been saving for "something worthy."
When I slid it onto my hand, it fit perfectly — a matte black second skin. No bulky design, no wasted weight. Just potential.
I extended a single string toward a titanium-grade block reserved for stress tests.
One command. One thought.
Slice.
A faint hum reverberated up my arm — not the pathetic buzz of earlier attempts, but a deep, thrumming vibration that resonated with power. The string remained invisible to the eye, but I could feel it — sharp, alive, eager.
Then came the sound. A brief, high-pitched SCREEE— followed by the soft clunk of metal sliding against metal.
The block was cleanly severed. A perfect, smooth cut.
A slow grin crept across my face. Not the forced, polite smiles of social niceties — but the genuine, predatory kind that came only with triumph.
It wasn't flawless — ten minutes of continuous operation, moderate feedback along the arm, slight energy drain. But it worked. I'd taken something conceptual — an invisible quirk — and elevated it into a precision weapon worthy of fear.
It wasn't Haki. Not yet. But it was the next best thing.
By the time I realized how late it was, the house had gone quiet. I cleaned up, stored the prototype securely, and headed upstairs.
Dinner was waiting — cold, but reheated at my approach. My parents sat at the dining table, a faint mixture of exasperation and concern on their faces.
"There he is," Father — Homing — said, setting aside his datapad. "We were beginning to think you'd vaporized yourself again."
"Merely refining the family assets," I replied smoothly, slipping into my seat. "Progress never respects mealtime."
Mother sighed. "You should eat properly, Doffy. A sharp mind is useless in a starved body."
"A valid observation," I said, spearing a piece of chicken. "Though a dull mind with a full stomach is far worse. Just look at most of U.A.'s future heroes."
Homing chuckled quietly, shaking his head. "Your mother and I were discussing the upcoming Hero Commission gala. Tedious, but necessary. You'll attend."
"Networking," I mused aloud, sipping water. "A polite euphemism for information extraction. I assume you'll be cataloging who's bankrupt, who's cheating, and who can't hold their liquor?"
Seraphina frowned. "It's a charity event, Doffy, not corporate espionage."
I smiled faintly. "Mother, every gathering of influential people is espionage. The only variable is whether they realize it."
That earned me a long, tired look — the kind only parents of a Doflamingo could manage.
Homing cleared his throat. "The Yaoyorozus will be there, by the way."
"Excellent," I said, leaning back. "I've been meaning to assess whether young Momo has shared details of our… extracurricular collaboration. Her sense of morality could become inconvenient."
They exchanged a glance. That look — equal parts pride and fear. They didn't yet know whether to be impressed or alarmed. I preferred it that way.
After dinner, I returned to my room. The city stretched beyond my window, glittering under the neon lights — a machine that never slept, filled with ambition, greed, and noise. My kind of place.
I lay back, hands folded behind my head. The hum of the gauntlet still echoed faintly in my bones. It wasn't just a tool — it was a statement. Proof that intellect and will could circumvent natural limitation.
Haki would come. My body would evolve. But until then, my mind was enough to keep me at the top of the food chain.
The world outside believed in heroes and villains — neat, digestible categories to make their morality easier to swallow. I believed in winners and losers. And soon, I intended to remind everyone which side I belonged on.
As sleep finally crept in, I smiled into the dark.
The game hadn't changed.But I had just sharpened my strings — and when the time came, I wouldn't merely play it.
I'd rewrite the entire symphony.