The cold sea wind cut through the narrow streets of the coastal town like a sharpened blade, carrying with it the tang of salt and smoke. Flickering lanterns cast long shadows that danced against the worn wooden walls of the docks. It was a place where hope clung to the air as tightly as the fog rolling in from the North Blue — thin, fragile, and often snuffed out before morning.
Twelve-year-old Soren Dalca moved quietly along the edge of the pier, his bare feet slipping silently over the weathered planks. His dark eyes scanned the horizon where the sun had long since vanished, leaving only the faint glow of a dying fire and the distant sound of shouting. Somewhere out there, a Marine ship was chasing down pirates, tearing the night apart with cannon fire and clashing steel.
Soren had seen scenes like this before. The endless battles between the Marines and pirates had become the backdrop of his life, a harsh rhythm that shaped every moment. Yet tonight felt different — more urgent, more dangerous.
His gaze flickered back to the cramped alley where his family's small home stood, a fragile refuge amid the chaos. His mother hummed softly, trying to soothe the youngest siblings as the distant gunfire cracked. His father had been gone for years, swallowed by the sea like so many others who dreamed of freedom.
Soren clenched his fists, the rough wood biting into his palms. Pride burned inside him — a fierce flame that refused to be quenched by poverty or fear. He was clever, he was cunning, and he would rise above this broken world. Somehow.
A sudden crash echoed from the harbor. Soren's heart pounded as he darted toward the source — a smuggler's ship caught in the crossfire, its sails torn and its crew desperate. Flames licked the sides of the vessel, casting a hellish glow across the water.
Voices shouted orders. "Search the ship! Nothing escapes the Marines tonight!"
A ragged man stumbled onto the dock, clutching a small, chained chest. The locks gleamed faintly, strange symbols carved into the metal catching the firelight.
Soren's breath caught. Something about that chest called to him — like a secret waiting to be claimed.
He melted into the shadows, eyes fixed on the glowing box. The fight raged on, but to Soren, everything else faded away.
The chaos of the raid swallowed the night like a roaring beast, but Soren moved through the shadows with practiced ease. Every step was deliberate, every breath measured. His heartbeat thundered in his ears as he slipped between crates and barrels, drawing closer to the man clutching the mysterious chest.
The old man stumbled onto the dock, blood seeping through his torn clothes. His breath came in ragged gasps, eyes glazed but still fierce. He gripped the chained chest tightly, as if it were his last anchor to this world.
Behind him, the sounds of Marines and pirates collided—a symphony of chaos and destruction. The old man faltered, his knees buckling beneath him. With a shuddering breath, he dropped to his knees, clutching the chest to his chest one last time.
His fingers loosened, and the chest slipped from his grasp, landing with a dull thud atop a nearby crate.
Soren's breath caught. The chest, now unguarded, seemed to pulse faintly in the flickering torchlight. The air around it felt colder, heavier, as if the very darkness gathered there.
With trembling hands, Soren approached. His fingers pulled a small, rusty lockpick from his pocket—a gift from an old friend who taught him the art of silent entry. His nimble hands worked quickly, the tumblers inside the locks clicking one by one.
A sudden shout nearby made him freeze. A Marine passed too close, their heavy boots scraping against the wood. Soren pressed himself against the wall, barely daring to breathe until the footsteps faded away.
Minutes passed like hours.
Finally, with a soft click, the last lock surrendered.
He lifted the lid cautiously, revealing a single fruit nestled in velvet—wrinkled, black as the void, and pulsing faintly with an otherworldly energy. It was unlike any fruit he had ever seen, and yet, it called to something deep inside him.
Soren hesitated. The warnings whispered in his mind—"Devil Fruits curse those who eat them. They grant power, but steal your ability to swim… and often bring destruction."
But desperation gnawed at his resolve. The Marines were ruthless, the Celestial Dragons above even more so. Not to mention the pirates roaming the seas and raiding islands. He wasn't safe and that fruit was his only option of survival.
So He bit into the fruit.
The taste was unbearable—bitter, sour, like choking on ash mixed with metal. His throat burned, and he gagged, nearly dropping the cursed fruit. But he swallowed hard, steeling himself against the overwhelming bitterness.
At first, nothing happened.
Then, slowly, he felt it—a shift inside his body. A strange lightness, as if he was slipping through the edges of reality. His skin seemed to ripple, fading in and out like smoke caught in a breeze.
Soren's breath hitched as the shadows around him thickened, seeming to pull at his skin and bones. His body trembled, caught somewhere between solid and insubstantial. For a moment, he thought he might be fading away entirely.
He blinked rapidly, trying to focus, but the world wavered like a bad dream. The streetlamps cast pale, flickering light, and every sound—the creak of wood, the distant shout of a Marine—felt unnervingly sharp, as if amplified.
His hands hovered uncertainly in front of him. Slowly, he raised one finger—and to his shock, the tip seemed to dissolve into black smoke.
Panic surged. He jerked his hand back, but it only half-formed again, like a flickering candle struggling to stay lit. The sensation was alien, frightening. He felt detached, a part of him slipping into something unknown and uncontrollable.
He was no child in spirit. At eighteen, he had faced hardships—a lost family, the grind of survival, the dull ache of stolen dreams. But this… this was something else entirely. It terrified him.
Soren crouched behind a crate, clutching his head as his heart hammered in his chest. "Calm down… breathe," he muttered, trying to steady his shaking hands. The shadows clung to him, thick and restless.
He forced himself to reach out again. This time, he willed the darkness to part—a small pool of shadow near his feet rippled under his touch. He tried to slip forward, hoping to vanish completely, but only part of him flickered away.
His vision blurred. The edges of his body wavered, but he remained tethered to the world.
From nearby, footsteps echoed—loud and fast. Marines were closing in.
Soren's breath caught. He tried to disappear fully into the shadows, to teleport away like some ghost, but his body trembled violently. The darkness surged unpredictably and he stumbled forward.
The footsteps stopped abruptly. Voices shouted, but faintly—as if someone was shouting from a distance.
Soren blinked. He was still visible, half-faded but not gone. The Marines were looking around, confused.
Desperation pushed him forward. He forced the shadows to engulf him fully, willing himself to teleport. His vision tunneled. Then, suddenly, he was somewhere else—a narrow alley drenched in darkness.
He collapsed against the wall, sweat slick on his brow.
His body still felt strange—half real, half not. His heart thundered, and his breath came fast. The power he now carried was volatile, dangerous.
He thought about his parents—their faces blurred with years and pain. He thought about the life he'd lost before this one, the years spent fighting just to survive. This power could change everything. But it could also destroy him.
Soren closed his eyes, steadying himself. He was trapped in a child's body, in a world that wouldn't forgive weakness, that much he knew. He knew One piece as he was a regular fan who watched the anime. But he wasn't a die hard fan so He had to learn how to survive in this world. Slowly. Carefully.
Because if he failed… there would be no second chance.