Grand Line – 1505
The Grand Line was no ordinary sea. Sailors called it the pirate's graveyard—a place where countless ships had vanished without a trace, leaving only broken wood to drift in their wake. Its waters were fierce, tossing ships like toys. One moment the skies could be bright and calm, and the next, a storm could explode out of nowhere, bringing waves taller than masts and winds that could tear sails to ribbons. Beneath the surface lurked monstrous creatures—some so massive their shadows could swallow a ship whole.
Unlike the calmer Blue Seas—East, West, North, and South—the Grand Line was a world of extremes. Every island along its winding path had its own unique climate, completely different from the ones before or after it. On one island, snow could fall year-round, while just a day's sail away, the air might be as hot and humid as a tropical jungle.
This chaotic sea was sealed off by two massive barriers. The first was the Red Line—a colossal wall of land that circled the world like a fortress, impossible to cross without special routes. The second was the Calm Belt, a stretch of ocean with no wind and no currents, where ships without their own power would sit trapped for days… if the giant Sea Kings that lived there didn't find them first.
Yet, despite the danger, the Grand Line was a place that drew dreamers, pirates, and explorers from every corner of the world. For somewhere within its treacherous waters lay riches, secrets, and powers found nowhere else on the seas. But those who entered had to be ready to pay the price, because on the Grand Line, survival itself was a treasure few could claim.
It was on this sea, amid the endless waves and the howl of a rising storm, that a boy was swept away, lost to the mercy of the waters. He drifted for hours—or perhaps days—until a large ship emerged from the haze and pulled him aboard. Without a word, it sailed toward an unseen destination, vanishing into the fog as suddenly as it had appeared. Behind it, the water remained wild and unforgiving—unchanged from the moment his journey began.
--
Inside the belly of a massive ship, where the air was thick with salt and sweat, dozens of crew moved with practiced efficiency. Below deck, behind iron bars and damp walls, hundreds of prisoners were crammed into cells— faces emptied of hope, waiting for an end they would never choose.
And today, they welcomed a new face.
A boy, no older than thirteen or fourteen, was hauled aboard like a sack of cargo, his clothes clinging to him, heavy and dripping from the storm. He barely stirred. His head lolled to one side, eyes shut, skin pale beneath the dripping strands of his hair as the crewman dragged him down the narrow, dimly lit corridor. Without ceremony, he was shoved into a cell. The heavy door slammed shut behind him. Inside, several other children looked up from their corners, silent and wary. No one spoke. The sea groaned outside, and the ship pressed on through the fog.
--
An unfamiliar ceiling.
My eyes blinked open to the sight of aged wooden planks above me, a wave of nausea rolled through me, and I couldn't shake the sensation that my body was constantly swaying, like the ground beneath me refused to stay still.
"Ugh… god, my head."
It felt like I'd downed ten bottles of soju and passed out in the middle of the street—just like that one night I swore I'd never repeat.
Where the hell am I?
With a groan, I pushed against the cold, unyielding floor, my arms trembling as if they were lifting something far heavier than my own body. Every muscle burned, my joints stiff and unresponsive, like they'd been left unused for weeks, and my neck feels really heavy because there's a big stone collar weighing around five to ten kilos around my neck. I managed to raise my shoulders off the ground before the strength drained out of me completely. My arms buckled, and I collapsed back onto the damp boards, breathless.
The air was thick with a stale, sour scent, each inhale heavy, each exhale shaky. My head throbbed in time with my heartbeat, and the constant swaying beneath me only worsened the nausea. My eyelids felt heavier than lead, my thoughts sluggish, slipping away before I could hold onto them.
I became aware of sound first: the faint groan of wooden beams, the occasional distant thud, and somewhere, muffled breathing that wasn't mine. Then came the texture beneath my palms—rough wood, uneven and splintered, cold where moisture had seeped in.
Only after what felt like an eternity did my mind begin to stitch things together, dragging me toward the simple, unsettling truth. My gaze drifted past my hands, over the warped wooden floor, until it caught on the shape of cold, rusted bars set into the wall before me.
A cell. I was lying inside a cell.
What kind of prison is this?
Wood. Wood, and—surprise—more wood. Floor, walls, ceiling, all made from the same tired planks, like someone built this place with a single shopping list and zero imagination. The only thing that didn't match was the row of iron bars—thick, ugly things, sitting there like they were the main security feature. Which is hilarious, really. Why bother with iron when the walls are just wood? One good pry, and you're halfway to freedom.
When I looked around, my eyes landing on the cell across from mine. Inside, a handful of people sat slumped in silence, their bodies barely moving. Some were old—bones sharp beneath pale, sagging skin, their white hair tangled and slick with sweat, and a big, heavy collar around everyone's neck. Dirt clung to them like a second skin, baked into every wrinkle, every hollow of their faces. They looked less like prisoners and more like corpses.
In my own cell, a handful of children and teenagers huddled in the corners, heads bowed and shoulders slumped again with the big stone collar around their necks. One curled up, sobbing into their knees. Another just stared, eyes raw and empty. The rest didn't cry—because they had no tears left to give. The silence between them was heavy, the kind that settled in deep and refused to leave.
My arrival drew a few glances—tired eyes lifting just long enough to register someone new—then drifting away again. No one moved. Whatever curiosity they had wasn't enough to bring them closer.
The whole thing didn't add up. I was stuck in a prison cell full of kids—faces far too young for this kind of cruelty. Why were they here? These weren't criminals. These were just children, for god's sake. What crime could they possibly have committed to end up like this? Hell, most of them probably still slept beside their mothers a week ago. And yet here they were, caged like dangerous animals, crammed into a filthy box deep inside some creaking, stinking hole that reeked of rust, sweat, and rot.
And then there was me. Why the hell was I here? My mind scrambled, clawing for any memory that could explain this—some fight I'd picked, some stupid stunt I'd pulled—but there was nothing. No blanks in my memory, no shady deals gone wrong, no "oops, I accidentally joined a cult" moments. Just… nothing. I'd never done anything that could land me in a place like this. Well—unless you count that one time I got caught speeding. But come on, you don't get thrown into a grimy, rotting prison for breaking the speed limit… unless traffic laws got really intense while I wasn't looking.
Anyway, sitting here and arguing with myself wasn't going to solve anything. I need answers.
With that, I tried to plant my hands against the floor and pushed again, determined to get to my feet and aiming to make my way to the children huddled in the corner.
My knees wobbled, my back felt like it was moving through water, but I had it—almost.
What…?
The world lurched. My legs buckled, and I went down hard, my shoulder smacking the floor with a dull, wooden thud.
I stayed there for a second, breathing through the ache. This wasn't just dizziness. It wasn't the sway of the floor or the throbbing in my head that brought me down. it was something deeper, stranger.
My body felt… wrong. Off. The weight, the balance, even the way my limbs moved—it was all unfamiliar, like wearing clothes that didn't fit.
I flexed my fingers slowly. They were lighter. Shorter. And smoother
My stomach sank.
No. No, that's insane. There's no way.
I shifted onto my knees, and even that felt strange—my legs too short, my center of gravity not where it should be. Every movement was clumsy, wrong, alien.
And then, finally, the thought I'd been trying to shove aside forced its way to the front of my mind.
I had shrunk.
Not just shorter—shrunken. Different. This wasn't the body I remembered.
As terrifying as it sounded, there was no denying it. It wasn't the body I remembered.
I looked down at my hands again.
Yep. These aren't my hands—or at least, not the ones I remember.
They were too small. The skin was far smoother, the fingers were far shorter and thinner. I turned them over slowly, as if the answer might be written on my palms. But there was no denying it.
These were a child's hands.
I sat back, trying to steady my breathing as the rest of it settled in. My arms were too short. My legs felt light. When I cursed under my breath, my voice came out higher.
And then it hit me.
Everything clicked into place in the worst way possible.
No wonder they'd thrown me in a cell full of kids.
I was one of them now. Somehow—impossibly—I'd become a child.
What a shocker. I'm a fucking kid too.
Fantastic. Just fantastic.
A grown man in his twenties trapped in a kid's body? Check.
Dumped into some mystery prison with zero explanation? Double Check.
Surrounded by scenes straight out of a grim history book? Triple check.
What is this, some anime isekai cliché?
A dream? Hallucination? Nope—dreams don't make your butt hurt from falling on a hard floor, and hallucinations don't usually come with the smell of unwashed socks and despair.
So… what's the verdict here? Reincarnation? Time travel? Secret government experiment? Or maybe I'm just the punchline to the universe's favorite joke.
Whatever the case, one thing's certain—sitting here feeling sorry for myself isn't going to help. I need answers. And I need them fast.
I tried to stand again, this time more carefully—slow movements, steady breaths. My legs still wobbled, but at least they didn't fold under me like wet paper. It felt sturdier now. At least solid enough to keep me upright.
One step. Another. The floor tilted with each creak. I made my way toward the children huddled in the corner. Most of them didn't react, lost in their own silence. But one caught my eye—a girl, who couldn't have been more than eleven or twelve, who still had a faint spark in her gaze.
While the others looked broken, this one still seemed… awake. Present. Like she hadn't given up yet.
And right now, that was more hope than all the other combined I'd seen, since waking up in this nightmare.
She sat with two younger girls pressed close against her sides, her arms wrapped around them in a quiet, protective hold. She didn't speak. She didn't need to. Her steady presence alone seemed to anchor them.
I hovered a few steps away, unsure if I should speak. The silence in this place felt thick—like anything louder than a whisper might shatter it. She didn't so much as glance up, but I knew she'd noticed me.
I hesitated, then took a quiet breath.
"Hey…" I said, softly—barely louder than the creak of this place.
Nothing. Not a flinch. Not even a twitch. And honestly? I didn't blame her.
"I'm… not trying to bother you," I added, my voice faltering a little. "I just… wanted to ask if you know where we are."
This time, she moved. Not much—just lifting her head enough to look at me. like someone weighing whether I was a threat.
She looked at me in silence, her eyes sharp beneath a curtain of tangled hair. The two girls beside her buried their faces deeper into her sides, their faces buried in her sides. I didn't speak. I didn't move. I just waited, letting the silence stretch between us like a thin thread, afraid that pushing too hard might snap it.
Finally, her lips parted, and she whispered—so soft I almost missed it.
"This is a slave trader's ship."
The words didn't just reach me—they slammed into me.
Heavy. Bitter. Final.
For a heartbeat, I thought maybe I'd misheard her. That my brain, desperate to make sense of the nightmare, had conjured something that awful all on its own.
But no.
The look in her eyes told me everything. She meant it. Every single word.
Slave trader's ship.
The phrase echoed in my head, each repetition heavier than the last, like someone ringing a dull bell in the dark.
My mouth went dry. My thoughts scattered.
A slave ship. That's where I'd ended up.
This wasn't a prison. This was worse—much worse.
This wasn't just some prison. This was something far worse. Suddenly —it all made sense in the worst possible way.
The swaying floor beneath my feet—of course. I was on a ship. That explained it. At first, I thought my dizzy head made the ground feel swaying until now.
Now, the pieces fit together in the ugliest way possible. The swaying under my feet. The floor, the walls, the ceiling—all wood. Every groan and creak underfoot. It all makes sense now—it's a ship.
And of course they'd build it out of wood—it's easy to shape, cheap to repair, and even if someone somehow clawed their way out, where would they go?
There was no escape. Just endless water in every direction. It makes escape impossible.
I swallowed hard, forcing words past the dryness in my throat.
"Wh–where is this ship going?"
My voice cracked, more from dread than weakness.
She didn't answer right away. Her eyes dropped to the floor, then drifted to the two girls still clinging to her side, as if weighing whether the truth was worth saying out loud.
Finally, she spoke—quiet, bitter, certain.
"To the place where the ones who bought us are waiting."
My knees gave out before I realized. I hit the floor hard, but the sting barely registered. My thoughts were already spiraling. A thousand ugly possibilities flashed through my head
Why am I here? Why is my body like this?
The questions looped endlessly, but none stuck long enough to make sense. Not the ship. Not the prison. Not this body that clearly wasn't mine.
The only explanation that even remotely fit was something straight out of an anime—reincarnation, a second life, a cruel twist of fate that dropped me into someone else's skin.
But if this was some kind of new life… why did it already feel like the beginning of the end?
Before I could drown in my own thoughts, her voice cut through the fog.
"Who are you?" she asked, steady but low. "The guard threw you in earlier."
I hesitated. Not because I didn't want to answer, but because I honestly didn't know. The name, the face, the body—all this is not mine. And the truth? The real truth? That was something I had no intention of saying out loud.
How I, as a modern man in his twenties, ended up in a child's body, locked on a slave ship, somewhere in the middle of God-knows-where…
That's a secret I'll probably carry to the grave.
Six feet under—or thousands of meters below the waves.
Whichever comes first.
"I don't know," I said quietly. "I don't remember anything before waking up here."
She studied me for a moment, eyes narrowed just slightly, like she was trying to see past the words to whatever truth I wasn't saying.
"Amnesia, huh?" she muttered. "Convenient."
The way she said it wasn't cruel—just tired. Like she'd heard too many lies to bother getting upset over one more. She didn't press. Just turned her gaze away, back to the two girls resting against her, as if that answer, real or not, was enough for now.
I leaned back against the wooden wall, the creak of the ship and the distant crash of waves filling the silence between us. The air was damp, heavy with salt, fear, and the quiet sound of breathing—some calm, some broken. I didn't know where we were headed, who these people were, or what had happened to me. But one thing was clear: whatever life I had before was gone, at least until I find a way home.
All I had now was this cage, this storm-tossed ship, and a secret I couldn't afford to tell.
Somewhere out there, answers might be waiting.
But first, I had to survive.