While waiting for my mother to return, I continued experimenting with the Devil Fruit ability.
The mastery card didn't just grant me perfect control over the power—it forced the fruit to reveal its full potential. In other words, I had already awakened my Devil Fruit.
The Float-Float Fruit.
At first glance, it sounded simple—flight, levitation, gravity-defiance. But the more I played with it, the clearer it became that this ability wasn't merely some glorified form of telekinesis. No, it operated like a rule etched into reality itself.
Anything I touched could be made to float.
A chair, a book, a table, even the entire house if I wished. And once I willed something to float, it stayed that way—without draining stamina, without demanding constant focus. It was as though the universe itself had rewritten the rules for that object: "You belong in the air now."
I flicked my fingers, sending a cluster of pencils spiraling upward. They hovered near the ceiling in a lazy orbit, glinting under the light. A tap of my foot and the entire couch rose an inch off the ground, gliding without resistance. A small push, and the lamp joined the slow dance of floating objects in my living room.
The realization was intoxicating.
This wasn't simple power. This was dominion.
With enough time and control, I could make entire islands float, the way Shiki had done in One Piece. If my palm brushed a mountain, it could hang in the sky like a captive moon. The only limitation was that I couldn't use it directly on living beings. That rule was absolute, but it hardly mattered—indirect methods existed.
And that was just the base ability.
The awakened version pushed things to absurdity. I no longer needed direct contact to impose flight. A gesture, a glance, a thought—and objects would obey. Even air itself could be influenced. Invisible currents bent under my will, swirling around me in faint eddies that made the room hum with subtle vibrations.
My body had also changed. The "premium" version of the mastery card hadn't just refined my control—it had reforged my physique. Strength coursed through me in ways that defied explanation. My five-year-old frame masked it, but I was confident I could rip steel apart with my bare hands or crush concrete like wet clay. If the Hulk appeared in front of me, I could likely toss him aside like a ragdoll.
And then there was the potion of life.
Unlike the Fruit, its gifts weren't flashy or dramatic. They were passive. My body was now virtually indestructible. Burn me, crush me, tear me apart cell by cell, and I would regenerate in an instant. My lifespan was infinite. My existence, unshackled from time.
On paper, I was untouchable.
And yet, the more I considered it, the more hollow it felt.
I leaned back in my chair, letting the suspended furniture and objects orbit lazily around me. A silent constellation of my own making. The sight should have been triumphant, but instead, it left me uneasy.
What was I supposed to do now?
I was probably one of the strongest beings on this planet. At five years old. Was I meant to spend the rest of eternity lazing around, toying with my powers, untouchable and unkillable? Immortality without direction would rot into something unbearable. An eternal curse disguised as a gift.
I clenched my hand, lowering all the floating objects back into place. The room felt heavier once gravity reclaimed its rightful hold.
If I was to live forever, I couldn't simply endure. I needed something that would outlast centuries. A passion eternal enough to withstand the crushing weight of infinity.
Science.
Art.
Those were the two things that had always stirred something inside me, even in the past life.
Science appealed to my curiosity. The pursuit of the unknown, the endless unraveling of mysteries, the chance to grasp truths hidden within the fabric of existence. Whether it was the atom, the galaxy, or the multiverse itself—science offered infinite frontiers to chase.
And art… art had always been my fragile tether to emotion. Music, film, literature, painting—each one a reminder that even if my feelings were muted, they still existed. Art had the rare ability to stir me, to awaken flickers of joy, sorrow, or awe when nothing else could.
In my past life, I had neither the drive nor the talent to pursue either path seriously. I wasn't a genius. I wasn't a prodigy. Just a spectator.
But now?
Now I had eternity. Intelligence sharpened by supernatural intervention. Creativity sculpted into me by this strange, warped second chance.
I could dissect the mysteries of the universe, step by step, century by century.
I could compose symphonies, craft novels, paint masterpieces, not for recognition but for the sheer act of creation.
And maybe, just maybe, those two pursuits—science and art—would keep me sane across the endless horizon of years.
The sound of the front door unlocking broke my train of thought.
I straightened in my chair, setting the book on the table. The air around me stilled as I dismissed the lingering swirls of levitating dust.
The door creaked open.
My mother entered, carrying a white cake box in her hands as though it were something sacred. Her beauty was the sort that unsettled—the kind you admired in the moment before realizing something was deeply wrong. Pale skin, sharp eyes, lips curved into a smile that never quite reached warmth.
She set the box on the table and then crossed the room in a rush, arms wrapping around me.
"Missed you so much," she whispered, squeezing me against her chest.
Her embrace was suffocating, but not from lack of air. Her touch lingered too long, too tight, as if she feared I might dissolve if she let go. Her perfume clung to me, sweet and intoxicating, but carrying an undertone of obsession.
I remained still, letting her hold me, her heartbeat quick and uneven.
Finally, she pulled back just enough to look into my eyes, her smile sharp as glass. "You don't know how empty this house feels without you in it."
"I was only waiting," I said. My tone was calm, even.
Her fingers traced the line of my jaw, slow and deliberate. "Waiting feels like eternity when it comes to you."
She finally let me go, only to pick up the cake box and carry it toward the kitchen. Her movements were fluid, elegant, every step performed as though she were being watched on stage.
I exhaled softly, adjusting my collar where her grip had lingered.
Dangerous. Beautiful. Unnerving. That was my mother.
And she loved me far too much.
I leaned back again, staring at the ceiling.
Immortal. Strong. Armed with powers that defied reality.
And tethered, for now, to a woman whose love bordered on possession.
My eternal journey had barely begun, and already the weight of it pressed down on me.
But for the first time, I felt the faint stirrings of anticipation.
Eternity was long.
I would need something equally infinite to fill it.