Roger had been walking for three days.
His ankle had healed surprisingly fast—another gift from the universe, apparently—and he had managed to survive on berries, stream water, and sheer stubborn refusal to die. His captain's coat was torn in several places, his magnificent mustache was looking a bit scraggly, and he was fairly certain he smelled like something that had died and been resurrected poorly.
But he was alive. He was free. And he was still laughing.
"You know," Roger said to a bird that was watching him from a nearby branch, "most isekai protagonists get cheat powers. Infinite mana. Super strength. A harem of attractive companions. What do I get? A mustache and the ability to cause chaos."
The bird tilted its head.
"Not that I'm complaining!" Roger added quickly. "The mustache is magnificent. But a little help would be nice. A weapon, maybe. Some food. A map that doesn't require me to have ninja tracking skills to read."
The bird flew away.
"Rude," Roger muttered.
He kept walking.
The forest had been thinning for the past few hours, which Roger hoped meant he was approaching civilization. Or at least something that wasn't trees. He had seen enough trees to last several lifetimes.
As he pushed through another cluster of bushes, he suddenly found himself in a clearing.
And froze.
In the center of the clearing was a shrine.
It was old. REALLY old. The wooden structure was weathered and worn, covered in moss and climbing vines. Whatever paint had once decorated it had long since faded to nothing. It looked like something that had been forgotten by time itself.
But that wasn't what caught Roger's attention.
What caught his attention was the sword.
It was embedded in a stone pedestal in front of the shrine, gleaming in the dappled sunlight like it had been polished yesterday. The blade was long and elegant, with a distinctive curve. The handle was wrapped in what looked like ray skin, and the guard was decorated with intricate patterns.
Roger's jaw dropped.
"That's... that's..."
He walked forward in a daze, unable to believe what he was seeing.
The sword was identical to Ace.
Not similar. Not reminiscent. IDENTICAL. The same blade that Gol D. Roger—the REAL Gol D. Roger—had wielded in the manga. The same sword that had cut through countless enemies, that had helped conquer the Grand Line, that was one of the most legendary weapons in One Piece history.
"Okay," Roger said slowly, "the universe is DEFINITELY messing with me now."
He reached out and touched the handle.
Nothing happened.
He had half-expected some kind of dramatic moment—lightning, divine voices, maybe a tutorial screen. But the sword just sat there, waiting to be claimed.
"Well," Roger said, "don't mind if I do."
He gripped the handle and pulled.
The sword slid free with almost no resistance.
Roger held it up, examining the blade. It was perfectly balanced, lighter than he expected, and felt RIGHT in his hands in a way he couldn't explain. Like it had been waiting for him.
"Hello, Ace," he said softly. "Looks like we're partners now."
The sword didn't respond, because it was a sword. But Roger could have sworn it hummed slightly.
"Great. Now I'm imagining things." He shook his head. "Whatever. I have a sword. That's progress."
He was about to leave when he noticed something else.
At the base of the pedestal, half-buried in dirt and leaves, was a scroll.
Roger picked it up and unrolled it carefully. The paper was old but surprisingly intact, covered in dense writing and detailed diagrams.
His eyes widened.
"Sword techniques," he breathed. "This is a scroll full of sword techniques."
The scroll described various stances, strikes, and movements. Some were basic—blocks, parries, simple cuts. Others were more advanced—spinning techniques, combination attacks, something that looked like it involved jumping really high and coming down with enough force to split a boulder.
Roger had never held a sword in his life. In his previous world, the closest he had come to combat training was a brief and embarrassing attempt at fencing in college that had ended with him accidentally stabbing himself in the foot with a blunted practice sword.
But this scroll made it look... possible. Like he could actually learn this stuff.
"The universe really IS helping me," Roger said, staring at the scroll in wonder. "I asked for a weapon and it gave me a legendary sword. I didn't even ask for training, and it threw that in as a bonus."
He looked up at the sky.
"THANK YOU!" he shouted. "WHOEVER OR WHATEVER YOU ARE, THANK YOU! I TAKE BACK EVERYTHING BAD I SAID ABOUT THIS REINCARNATION!"
A bird flew overhead, and Roger could have sworn it was laughing.
Roger spent the next two days at the shrine, studying the scroll and practicing with Ace.
He was terrible at first. Absolutely, catastrophically terrible. He dropped the sword more times than he could count. He tripped over his own feet. He somehow managed to give himself a black eye with the flat of the blade, which should have been physically impossible.
But he kept at it.
And slowly, gradually, he started to improve.
The basic stances became natural. The simple cuts began to flow smoothly. He could block without losing his balance, parry without dropping the sword, and move without looking like a drunk ostrich.
"I'm still awful," Roger admitted, panting after a particularly intense practice session. "But I'm less awful than before. That's something."
He looked at the scroll again. There was so much more to learn—techniques that would take years to master, movements that required strength and speed he didn't have.
But he had time. And more importantly, he had motivation.
"One Piece isn't going to find itself," Roger said, sheathing Ace at his hip. "Time to find that ocean."
He rolled up the scroll, tucked it into his coat, and left the shrine behind.
As he walked away, he could have sworn he heard distant laughter on the wind.
Not mocking laughter. Not cruel.
Joyful. Delighted. Like the universe itself was having the time of its life.
Roger grinned and laughed along with it.
It took another week to find the coast.
Roger had been heading east, following the sun and his gut instincts. He had encountered a few small villages along the way, where he traded labor for food and carefully avoided mentioning his identity. The wanted posters hadn't reached this far yet, apparently, which was a small mercy.
But he kept moving, always moving, until finally—FINALLY—he crested a hill and saw it.
The ocean.
Roger stood there for a long moment, just staring.
It was beautiful. The water stretched to the horizon, vast and blue and full of promise. Waves crashed against a rocky shore far below. Seabirds wheeled overhead, their cries mixing with the roar of the surf.
"There it is," Roger whispered. "The sea."
He felt tears prickling at his eyes and didn't bother to wipe them away.
In his old life, he had never seen the ocean. He had lived in a landlocked city, worked in a convenience store, watched anime about pirates sailing to the ends of the world. The sea had been a dream, a fantasy, something he would never actually experience.
And now here it was.
Real. Tangible. Waiting for him.
"I'm going to sail you," Roger said to the ocean. "I'm going to cross you and find the Grand Line and discover One Piece and have the greatest adventure anyone has ever had."
The ocean didn't respond. But it seemed to sparkle a little brighter.
Roger started down the hill.
The coastal town was called Shiosai, and it was exactly what Roger needed.
It was a fishing village, small and unassuming, filled with weather-beaten sailors and crusty old fishermen who looked at Roger's captain's coat with mild curiosity but no recognition. News of the "Pirate King" apparently hadn't reached this far, or these people simply didn't care about inland politics.
Either way, Roger was grateful.
He walked through the town, taking in the sights and sounds. Fishing boats bobbed in the harbor. Nets hung from poles to dry. The smell of salt and fish was everywhere, mixing with the cries of gulls and the chatter of merchants.
It was perfect.
"Excuse me," Roger said, approaching an old man who was repairing a net. "I'm looking to acquire a boat. Something small, suitable for one person. Do you know where I might find one?"
The old man looked up, squinting at Roger with weathered eyes.
"Boat, eh? What for?"
"I'm going sailing."
"Sailing where?"
"Everywhere."
The old man snorted.
"Everyone wants to go everywhere these days. Ever since that speech..." He shook his head. "Kids talking about treasure and pirates. Never heard such nonsense."
Roger's ears perked up.
"You've heard about the speech?"
"Heard about it? My grandson won't shut up about it. Keeps saying he's going to find something called 'One Piece.' Ridiculous."
Roger tried very hard not to grin.
"Sounds like an ambitious young man."
"Sounds like a fool." The old man returned to his net, pulling a thread tight with practiced fingers. "There's a boat, though. Old thing, been sitting in dry dock for years. Owner died, no family to claim it. Town's been trying to sell it, but nobody wants a vessel that small."
"How small?"
"Ten feet, maybe. Single mast. Barely big enough for two people, let alone supplies."
Roger's grin widened.
"That sounds perfect. Where can I find it?"
The old man pointed toward the far end of the harbor.
"Talk to Hiroshi. He manages the dry dock. Tell him Genji sent you."
"Thank you, Genji-san. You've been very helpful."
Roger headed toward the dry dock, his heart pounding with excitement.
He was about to get a ship.
A SHIP.
This was really happening.
Hiroshi was a burly man with arms like tree trunks and a permanent scowl etched into his face. He looked at Roger like he was something unpleasant stuck to his shoe.
"You want THAT thing?" Hiroshi asked, gesturing at the boat in question.
Roger looked at it.
It was... well, "boat" was a generous term. It was more like a large rowboat with a mast attached. The wood was weathered but seemed solid enough. The sail was patched in several places. The whole thing looked like it had seen better days, possibly decades ago.
It was beautiful.
"Yes," Roger said firmly. "I want that thing."
"It's old. Might not even be seaworthy."
"Has it been tested recently?"
"Not for years."
"Then we don't know it ISN'T seaworthy."
Hiroshi stared at him.
"You're serious."
"Completely."
"It'll probably sink."
"Then I'll swim."
Hiroshi continued to stare. Then, slowly, a grin spread across his weathered face.
"You're crazy, stranger. I like that." He extended a massive hand. "Two thousand ryo and she's yours."
Roger's heart sank slightly. He had money—barely—earned from odd jobs during his journey. But two thousand ryo was most of what he had.
Then again, what else was he going to spend it on?
"Deal," Roger said, shaking Hiroshi's hand.
Money changed hands. Papers were signed. And just like that, Roger owned a boat.
HIS boat.
"Does she have a name?" Roger asked, running his hand along the worn wood.
"Previous owner called her 'Whisper.' Don't know why."
Roger considered it.
"Whisper," he said, testing the name. "I like it. But I think she needs something new. Something that fits her next chapter."
He thought for a moment.
"Oro Jackson Junior," he decided.
Hiroshi raised an eyebrow.
"That's a mouthful."
"She can earn a shorter name through her deeds."
"Whatever you say, crazy man."
Roger laughed and started preparing his new ship for departure.
It took three days to make Oro Jackson Junior seaworthy.
Roger repaired what he could, replaced what he couldn't, and begged supplies from sympathetic townspeople who seemed amused by the crazy foreigner who wanted to sail into the unknown. By the end, he had a functional vessel with enough food and water for maybe two weeks at sea.
It wasn't much.
But it was enough.
On the morning of the fourth day, Roger pushed his boat into the water and climbed aboard. The sail caught the wind, and slowly—so slowly—Oro Jackson Junior began to move.
"I'M SAILING!" Roger shouted to no one in particular. "I'M ACTUALLY SAILING!"
He laughed, the sound carrying across the water.
Behind him, a small crowd had gathered on the dock to watch. Word had spread about the strange man who had bought the old boat and was planning to sail "everywhere." Most thought he was insane. Some thought he was inspiring.
One young boy—Genji's grandson, as it turned out—was watching with shining eyes.
"GOOD LUCK!" the boy shouted. "FIND ONE PIECE!"
Roger turned and waved.
"I WILL!" he shouted back. "AND WHEN I DO, I'LL COME BACK AND TELL YOU ALL ABOUT IT!"
The boy cheered.
The crowd murmured.
And Roger sailed on, into the vast blue unknown.
Elsewhere in the world, things were changing.
In the Land of Water, a group of fishermen had banded together and declared themselves the "Mist Pirates." They had stolen three boats from a local lord and were currently sailing up and down the coast, causing chaos and shouting about freedom.
They had no idea what they were doing. They had no treasure, no map, no plan. But they had heard about the Pirate King's speech, and they had decided that if ONE man could stand up and declare his dreams to the world, then so could they.
Their captain was a woman named Mei—not the Mizukage, just a fisherman's daughter with a temper and a dream. She stood at the bow of her stolen ship, the wind in her hair, and laughed.
"THE AGE OF PIRATES IS HERE!" she shouted. "AND WE'RE GOING TO BE PART OF IT!"
Her crew cheered.
They had no idea where the Grand Line was. They had no idea what One Piece was. They just knew that they wanted more than the life they had been given.
And that was enough.
In the Land of Lightning, a former samurai named Kazuma was gathering followers.
He had been a ronin, a masterless warrior, wandering the countryside and selling his sword to whoever would pay. It was a meaningless existence, empty and cold.
Then he had heard about the Pirate King.
The speech had reached the Land of Lightning through traveling merchants, each retelling more exaggerated than the last. By the time Kazuma heard it, Roger had supposedly fought off a hundred ninja, escaped from an inescapable prison, and was currently building a fleet to conquer the world.
None of it was true. But the core message—chase your dreams, live free, find your own treasure—had resonated with something deep inside Kazuma's soul.
He didn't want to be a mercenary anymore. He didn't want to wander aimlessly. He wanted PURPOSE.
And so he had started recruiting.
"We're going to find the Grand Line," Kazuma told his growing band of followers. "We're going to find One Piece. And we're going to prove that warriors can be more than weapons for hire."
His crew—if you could call them that—was a motley collection of ronin, bandits, and dreamers. They had no ships yet. They weren't even near the ocean. But they were moving, slowly and surely, toward the coast.
"Captain," one of his followers asked, "what makes you think One Piece is real?"
Kazuma smiled.
"Because the Pirate King said it was. And a man who stands on an execution platform and laughs doesn't lie about treasure."
It was flawed logic. It was based on incomplete information and wishful thinking.
But it was enough.
In the Land of Earth, a young woman named Akane was building a ship.
She was an engineer—or at least, she had been, before the war had taken everything from her. Her village had been destroyed, her family killed, her future erased. She had wandered for years, surviving on scraps and anger, until she had heard the speech.
"One Piece," she had whispered to herself. "The greatest treasure in the world."
She didn't care about treasure. She didn't care about gold or jewels or any of the things people usually sought. But the idea of something out there—something worth searching for—had given her a reason to keep going.
And if she was going to search, she was going to do it properly.
Akane had spent months gathering materials, studying designs, learning everything she could about shipbuilding. Her vessel was still incomplete, but it was taking shape—a proper ship, not a stolen fishing boat, designed specifically for ocean travel.
"You're crazy," the locals told her. "No one from Earth Country becomes a sailor."
"Then I'll be the first," she replied.
And she kept building.
In Konoha, the Third Hokage was receiving reports.
"Seventeen separate incidents of 'piracy' in the past month," his aide said, reading from a scroll. "Stolen boats across three countries. At least four organized groups calling themselves 'pirate crews.' Civilian unrest in major population centers. And rising tensions between villages as trade routes are disrupted."
Hiruzen took a long drag from his pipe.
"All because of one man."
"Yes, Lord Hokage."
"One man with no powers. No resources. No apparent backing."
"Yes, Lord Hokage."
Hiruzen was silent for a long moment.
"Have we located him?"
"No, sir. He vanished after escaping the village. There have been rumors—sightings in various towns—but nothing confirmed. He seems to be heading toward the coast."
"Of course he is." Hiruzen shook his head slowly. "He's going to try to reach the Grand Line."
"Should we attempt to intercept him?"
Hiruzen considered it.
Every instinct told him to capture Roger, to silence the chaos he was creating. The shinobi system depended on order, on hierarchy, on people knowing their place. Roger was destroying all of that with nothing but words and sheer audacity.
But another part of him—an older, quieter part—was curious.
The Nika legends spoke of a liberator who would appear when the world needed change. The shinobi system had existed for centuries, but that didn't mean it was perfect. Child soldiers. Endless wars. Villages competing for power while ordinary people suffered.
Maybe... maybe a little chaos was exactly what the world needed.
"No," Hiruzen said finally. "Let him go. For now."
His aide looked surprised.
"Sir?"
"If Roger reaches the Grand Line, if he actually finds something there... we'll learn more by watching than by fighting. And if he fails, the problem solves itself."
"And if he succeeds?"
Hiruzen smiled grimly.
"Then we'll have much bigger problems than one man with a mustache."
On a small boat in the middle of the ocean, Roger was having the time of his life.
He had no idea where he was going. His navigation skills were nonexistent. The wind was pushing him in what he HOPED was the right direction, but honestly, he wasn't sure.
None of it mattered.
He was SAILING. Actually sailing. On an actual ocean. Toward an actual adventure.
"BINK'S SAKE!" Roger sang at the top of his lungs, the words carrying across the empty sea. "YO-HO-HO-HO, YO-HO-HO-HO! BINK'S SAKE!"
The ocean didn't seem to mind his terrible singing. If anything, the waves seemed to rock in rhythm.
Roger pulled out Ace and examined the blade in the sunlight. It still gleamed like new, untouched by the salt air or Roger's amateur handling.
"You know," Roger said to the sword, "I've been thinking. The original Roger had a crew. The Straw Hats had a crew. Every great pirate has a crew."
The sword didn't respond.
"But I'm alone. Just me and you and this tiny boat." Roger frowned. "That's not very pirate-like, is it?"
He thought about it.
"I need nakama. Friends. People who believe in the same dream." His frown deepened. "But where am I supposed to find people like that in the middle of the ocean?"
As if in answer, the wind shifted.
Roger looked up, startled. The sail was pulling in a new direction, tugging the boat toward something on the horizon.
He squinted.
Was that... another ship?
Roger scrambled to adjust the sail, steering toward the distant shape. As he got closer, his eyes widened.
It WAS a ship. Bigger than his, but not by much. Flying from its mast was a crude flag—black fabric with what looked like a badly drawn skull and crossbones.
A pirate flag.
"NO WAY," Roger breathed.
He pulled alongside the other vessel, waving frantically.
"AHOY!" he shouted. "AHOY THERE!"
Faces appeared at the railing. Young faces, mostly. A mix of men and women, all looking at Roger with expressions ranging from surprise to suspicion.
"Who the hell are you?" a young man called out.
Roger grinned his most Gol D. Roger grin.
"I'm Roger! The Pirate King!"
Silence.
Then chaos.
"THE PIRATE KING?!"
"NO WAY!"
"IT'S ACTUALLY HIM!"
"THE MUSTACHE! LOOK AT THE MUSTACHE!"
Roger was suddenly surrounded by a swarm of excited young pirates, all trying to shake his hand and talk at the same time.
"We heard your speech!"
"We became pirates because of you!"
"We've been sailing for two weeks trying to find the Grand Line!"
"You're REAL! I can't believe you're REAL!"
Roger laughed, the sound rolling across the water.
"Of course I'm real! And so is One Piece! And if you're really pirates, then I have a question for you!"
The chatter died down as everyone waited for the Pirate King to speak.
Roger looked at them—these young dreamers who had thrown away their old lives to chase something impossible—and felt his heart swell with pride.
"Do you have room for one more?"
The crew's captain was a young man named Hiro.
He was maybe twenty years old, with wild black hair and a scar on his cheek that he had probably gotten in some mundane accident but claimed was from a "fierce battle." He was enthusiastic, earnest, and absolutely terrible at being a captain.
But he had heart. And that counted for something.
"So, Roger-sama," Hiro said, sitting across from Roger in the ship's tiny cabin. "What brings the Pirate King to our humble vessel?"
"My boat is really small," Roger admitted. "And I was heading toward the Grand Line alone, which seemed increasingly stupid the longer I thought about it."
"The Grand Line!" Hiro's eyes shone. "We're heading there too! But we have no idea how to find it."
"Neither do I, honestly."
"But... but you're the Pirate King! You said you left your treasure there!"
Roger winced internally.
This was the problem with telling a dramatic lie to inspire people. Eventually, you had to deal with the consequences.
"The Grand Line is... complicated," Roger said carefully. "It's not just a place you can sail to directly. It's protected by dangerous waters called the Calm Belt, filled with massive creatures called Sea Kings. The only way to enter safely is through specific routes."
Hiro was hanging on every word.
"What routes?"
"I'm... still figuring that out."
Hiro's face fell slightly, then immediately brightened.
"That's fine! We can figure it out together! That's what a crew is for, right?"
Roger smiled despite himself.
"Right. That's what a crew is for."
He looked around at the ship—at the eager young pirates who had chosen this life because of words HE had spoken—and felt the weight of responsibility settle on his shoulders.
These people were counting on him. They believed in him. They had thrown away everything to chase a dream HE had created.
He couldn't let them down.
"Alright," Roger said, standing up. "First things first. We need supplies, we need information, and we need to find out how to reach the Grand Line. Is there a port nearby?"
"There's a town on an island about half a day's sail from here," one of the crew members—a young woman named Sora—reported. "We were planning to stop there anyway."
"Perfect. We'll restock, gather information, and plan our next move." Roger grinned. "And maybe recruit a few more dreamers while we're at it."
The crew cheered.
And just like that, Roger had nakama.
It wasn't quite the legendary crew of the Oro Jackson. It wasn't the Straw Hat Pirates. But it was a start.
And in the world of One Piece—or whatever bizarre version of it Roger had stumbled into—a start was all you needed.
As the sun set over the ocean, painting the sky in shades of orange and gold, Roger stood at the bow of his new ship and watched the horizon.
Somewhere out there was the Grand Line. Somewhere out there was One Piece—if it actually existed. Somewhere out there was an adventure beyond anything he had ever imagined.
"You know," Roger said quietly, "when I died, I thought it was over. I thought I had missed my chance to do anything meaningful."
He touched the handle of Ace, feeling the warmth of the metal.
"But maybe this is my chance. Maybe this whole insane situation—the reincarnation, the mustache, the chaos—is the universe giving me a second shot."
He laughed.
"Or maybe the universe is just having a really good joke at my expense. Either way, I'm going to make the most of it."
Behind him, the crew was singing. It wasn't Bink's Sake—they didn't know that song—but it was joyful and loud and full of hope.
Roger turned and joined them, adding his voice to the chorus.
Tomorrow, they would reach the island. Tomorrow, the real planning would begin. Tomorrow, they would take another step toward the impossible.
But tonight?
Tonight, they were pirates.
And that was enough.
END OF CHAPTER 4