The New World was not a place that believed in permanence. Storms formed without omen, sea kings devoured fleets that had ruled for decades, and kingdoms that flourished for generations could vanish between two tides. Yet in the midst of that violent ocean, there existed a landmass so vast and so stable that even the chaos of the Grand Line seemed to bend around it. Astria was not merely an island—it was a continent rising from the sea, mountains piercing the clouds like the ribs of some ancient titan, rivers carving fertile plains where millions lived beneath one banner. Its harbors were layered with iron-reinforced docks, its shipyards rang day and night with the rhythm of hammer and steel, and its fleets patrolled the surrounding waters with discipline rarely seen even among Marines. In the New World, where pirates carved territories with blood and ambition, Astria endured through structure, through inheritance, through an unbroken royal line that had stood since the founding of the World Government eight centuries prior.
Aurelian stood alone on the western terrace of the royal palace, the wind of the high cliffs pulling at his dark hair as he looked over the endless sea. He was ten years old by this world's count, the sole heir of King Darius Astria, born into the most powerful sovereign kingdom under the World Government's banner. He should have been thinking of sword drills, of court etiquette, of how to one day command fleets and armies. Instead, his gaze lingered on the horizon with a depth that did not belong to a child.
Three months ago, something had awakened within him.
It had not been gradual. There had been no fever, no illness, no prophetic dream. One night, while studying in his chambers, memories that did not belong to Astria flooded his consciousness with violent clarity. A different sky. A different ocean. Cities of steel and glass. Knowledge of physics, engineering, astronomy—concepts this world treated as scattered curiosities rather than unified disciplines. He remembered reading a long-running story about pirates, Devil Fruits, ancient secrets buried beneath history. He remembered knowing the names of figures who had not yet been born in this era. Gol D. Roger. Rocks D. Xebec. Whitebeard. Even names whispered in shadow, rulers hidden above the World Government itself.
At first, he had tested his sanity. He reviewed Astrian history. He examined global timelines. He cross-referenced known political structures with the narrative memory lingering in his mind. The conclusion had not shaken him. It had clarified him.
He was living in that world.
But he had arrived a century too early.
That realization had not filled him with fear. It had given him something far more dangerous: perspective. He was born into the strongest kingdom in existence, a kingdom that had signed the founding charter of the World Government yet refused to kneel as Celestial Dragons. Astria had remained on its land while nineteen royal families relocated to the Holy Land, claiming divine status. Astria had stayed sovereign. It had not been forced. No one could force it. Even now, eight hundred years later, Astria's fleets rivaled the central Marine command in scale and discipline, and its royal lineage carried Conqueror's Haki as naturally as breathing.
Yet despite all that strength, the world had not progressed.
Ships were still wooden hulls reinforced with iron bands. Cannons still relied on crude propulsion. Devil Fruits remained treated as divine anomalies rather than biological phenomena. Navigation across the Grand Line was governed by fragile instruments and superstition. Eight centuries of rule, and the structure of civilization remained largely unchanged.
The stagnation irritated him more than the pirates ever could.
That night, the sky over Astria was unnaturally clear. The magnetic turbulence that often distorted compasses and star charts seemed subdued, the heavens almost tranquil. Aurelian dismissed his attendants under the pretense of wanting solitude and walked beyond the manicured palace gardens into the restricted woodland bordering the western cliffs. He often came here to think. Isolation sharpened clarity.
He was studying the constellations when the sky fractured.
A streak of white brilliance tore across the heavens, not arcing like a meteor but descending with terrifying precision. It did not flicker or break apart. It cut through cloud layers like a blade through silk and plunged toward the coastal forest beyond the cliffs. A second later, the ground trembled faintly beneath his feet.
His pupils contracted.
Guards stationed along the outer perimeter began shouting in the distance, but Aurelian had already moved. He ran not with childish recklessness but with deliberate efficiency, navigating narrow paths between trees that he knew from years of exploration. By the time the palace response teams organized, he had reached the impact site.
The crater was shallow but wide, earth displaced in a circular shockwave. At its center, resting atop fractured stone as though it had been gently placed rather than hurled from the sky, lay a fruit.
It was unlike any Devil Fruit he had seen illustrated in Astrian archives. There were no swirling patterns typical of terrestrial varieties. Its surface shimmered faintly, veins running across it in precise geometric lines that seemed almost artificial, as though carved by intention rather than grown by nature. It emitted no heat, no visible aura, yet the air around it felt subtly distorted.
He stepped forward.
The moment his fingers touched it, understanding flooded him.
It was not language. It was not instruction. It was recognition.
This fruit did not belong to the sea.
It did not belong to the planet.
It belonged to something beyond.
He did not hesitate.
He bit into it.
The taste was neither pleasant nor foul. It was neutral, almost devoid of flavor, like consuming condensed starlight. As he swallowed, something vast unfolded within his body. Not pain. Not mutation. Alignment.
Knowledge settled into his mind with cold precision.
He would not age beyond his prime.
His cellular structure would regenerate from nearly any form of damage.
Disease would not claim him.
The sea would not reject him.
Seastone would not weaken him.
Unless annihilated completely—reduced to nothing—he would persist.
He exhaled slowly.
Immortality.
Not symbolic. Literal.
Without hesitation, he drew the dagger he carried for training and sliced his palm. Blood welled instantly. The cut deepened to muscle. For a fraction of a second, the wound existed.
Then flesh knitted together before his eyes. Tendons reconnected. Skin sealed flawlessly, leaving no scar.
He cut deeper, nearly to bone. The regeneration accelerated in response, threads of tissue weaving with impossible speed. Within seconds, his hand was whole.
His expression did not change.
This was not a fruit of conquest.
It was a fruit of time.
He looked at the remaining fragment in his hand. It dissolved into fine particles that scattered into the night air as though returning to the sky.
Star Fruit, he named it silently.
The term came naturally. Devil Fruits were said to be born from the desires of the world, shaped by the sea's curse. This was not bound by those laws. He felt no weakness toward the ocean. No subtle heaviness in his limbs.
If Devil Fruits were children of the planet, this was a child of the cosmos.
Footsteps approached through the trees. Palace guards.
He composed himself before they broke through the foliage.
"A meteor fell," he said calmly.
Engineers would investigate. They would find only fractured stone.
Back within the palace, his father awaited him in the grand hall. King Darius Astria's presence filled the chamber like pressure before a storm. Even seasoned generals straightened unconsciously when he entered a room.
"Where were you?" the king asked.
"Observing the sky," Aurelian replied evenly.
Darius studied his son longer than usual. Something had shifted. Not externally. Internally. But Astrian kings valued restraint over interrogation.
"Rest," the king said at last.
Aurelian bowed and withdrew.
In his private study, he opened a blank ledger used for strategic exercises. Instead of military formations, he wrote a single sentence.
Time is no longer a limitation.
He leaned back in silence.
He was born a century before the era of pirates that would destabilize the world. He knew the trajectory of history—how ambition would ignite seas into chaos, how the World Government would respond with increasing rigidity, how knowledge of the Void Century would remain suppressed.
But trajectory was not destiny.
He possessed the strongest kingdom on the planet.
He possessed knowledge of future upheavals.
And now he possessed endless time.
Forceful conquest would create resistance. Direct rebellion against existing structures would unify opposition. The world did not need destruction. It needed evolution.
Education.
Standardized Haki training.
Scientific institutions.
Systematic Devil Fruit research.
Maritime engineering.
Astronomical observation.
If Astria advanced first, others would imitate. If the World Government reformed from within, stagnation would dissolve gradually rather than violently.
He would not reveal his immortality. That knowledge would destabilize political equilibrium instantly. No ruler would tolerate an undying sovereign rising unchecked. His advantage lay in secrecy and patience.
Outside his window, the ocean roared against Astria's cliffs, waves breaking in endless repetition. Empires rose and fell because men were constrained by time. Urgency bred mistakes. Fear of death bred recklessness.
He felt neither.
For the first time since his memories had awakened, something akin to clarity settled over him.
He did not need to rush.
He did not need to gamble.
He would outlive resistance.
He would outlast corruption.
He would shape systems slowly, deliberately, layer by layer.
And one day, when the world looked back across centuries, it would not remember the night a star fell over Astria.
It would only remember that from a certain era onward, civilization began to move.
The immortal prince closed the ledger.
Beyond the palace walls, nothing had visibly changed. Pirates still roamed distant seas. The World Government still operated under traditions eight centuries old.
But somewhere in the New World, in a kingdom that had never bowed, time itself had chosen a sovereign.
And this time, it would not decay.