Here it is! The long-awaited Rewrite! Hope you all enjoy it!

The first thing he felt was the quiet. Not the silence of a late night or the muffled peace of sleep, but a hollow, infinite emptiness, stretching around him in every direction. He couldn't see anything; his surroundings were as dark as the void he felt pressing on his senses. There was no up, no down—just a boundless, dizzying nothingness.

Where am I?

That was his first thought, the only coherent idea he could cling to as he floated there, bodiless, somewhere he had no words for. The more he concentrated, the more he became aware of something very specific, an idea that stuck out even in the strange place he was in. He'd died. Somehow, some way, he was certain of it. He didn't remember how; he didn't remember anything, really, except the knowledge of his death. It felt distant and hazy, but he knew it was true. His life, whoever he had been, was over.

"Ah," came a voice from somewhere in the void, calm and relaxed, "you're awake. Good."

Startled, he tried to turn toward the voice, though he still couldn't tell if he had a body or anything solid to anchor himself to. The voice seemed to surround him, echoing with a sort of humour, a lightness that hinted at infinite, casual power. As he focused, a figure slowly appeared before him, as if forming out of the stars themselves. They were tall, otherworldly, with a form that shifted and shimmered like they were made of swirling stardust and galaxies.

"Who... who are you?" he asked, his own voice feeling strange, like he was hearing it for the first time.

"Who am I?" The figure tilted its head, amused. "Let's just say I'm someone with a lot of power and an unusual sense of curiosity. You don't remember, do you?"

"Remember what?"

"Anything," the figure said with a faint smile. "You died. Quite unremarkably, actually. And now you're here, caught between worlds, without even a sense of yourself."

He tried to remember something—anything—from his life, but there was nothing. Only vague feelings and the dull weight of loss.

"So, what happens now?" he asked, unsure if he even wanted to know the answer.

"Now, I give you a choice," the figure replied, a gleam of interest in its endless, star-filled eyes. "I can send you on, let you drift away into whatever lies beyond this, or I can offer you something more... unique. How would you like to live again?"

"Live again?" The words ignited something in him, something almost like hope. "You mean, like a second chance?"

"Yes, precisely," the being replied, voice rich with anticipation. "A second life. A fresh start. And I wouldn't just throw you back into any old world, either. You'd be given certain advantages. Powers, if you will. But there's a twist."

"What kind of powers?" he asked, feeling his curiosity grow despite himself.

"Ever heard of 'One Piece'?" the being asked, smiling like it had just told a private joke.

"One Piece? Like the anime?" A few memories floated back to him, bits and pieces of stories he'd loved and characters he'd admired.

"Exactly," the being said, its voice dripping with satisfaction. "I thought I'd make it interesting. I'll give you the abilities characters can gain through sheer effort and training from that world. But instead of just granting you the powers outright, you'll receive them in the form of training manuals, boons if you will. You'll need to work for it. It wouldn't be any fun if I just handed everything over now, would it?"

He hesitated. "So, I'd be alive again, but with powers from a world I know?" It sounded like something out of a dream, yet the reality of his surroundings grounded him. He couldn't feel any connection to his past, any sense of who he had been, but the chance for a new life was irresistible.

The figure's grin widened. "Correct. All you have to do is agree."

He considered it for only a moment longer, the empty void around him seeming to close in as he did. "All right. I'm in."

"Wonderful," the figure said, sounding delighted. With a snap of its fingers, the dark space around him started to ripple, shimmering as if dissolving. "Now, let's place you somewhere... lively. Gotham City should do the trick."

The name sent a shiver through him. Gotham City. The dark underbelly of a world he knew from comics and TV shows, a place filled with crime and danger.

"Wait, Gotham? Isn't that—"

But the words barely left his lips before the world around him twisted and snapped, reality warping as he felt himself pulled into the unknown.

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He woke up face-down on cold, filthy concrete, the sharp smell of garbage and grime assaulting his senses. He gagged, scrambling to his knees and coughing as he took in his surroundings. Brick walls loomed on either side, darkened with years of neglect, graffiti scrawled across them in faded paint. The alleyway he found himself in was narrow and shadowed, the dim glow of a streetlight barely reaching him.

He tried to stand, his body stiff and unfamiliar. Everything felt wrong—too small, too light. As he looked down at himself, he noticed his arms and legs were thinner, his hands smaller. The reflection of his face in a broken shard of glass nearby showed the face of a boy, barely fourteen by his best guess, with wide eyes and a mixture of confusion and fear. He ran a hand through his hair, feeling the youthful, untouched skin beneath. Somehow, he had regressed in age, his body young and unfamiliar.

The sound of footsteps broke his concentration. He shrank back against the wall, half-hidden behind the shadows of a dumpster, as a figure stepped into view at the end of the alley.

The man wore a bright green suit decorated with question marks, a bowler hat perched on his head and a smirk on his lips. He was followed by a group of thugs, each one armed with bats, knives, and knuckles that gleamed in the dim light. He recognized the man immediately: the Riddler.

"Riddle me this!" the Riddler announced, his squeaky voice loud enough to echo down the alley. "The more you have of me, the less you see; yet thieves crave me when planning a spree. What am I?"

The thugs around him chuckled, though they seemed half-hearted, more dutiful than genuinely amused.

"Darkness?" one of them muttered, like he'd heard the riddle one too many times.

"Correct!" The Riddler cackled, spinning his cane. "But how about this one—The maker doesn't want it. The buyer doesn't use it. The user doesn't know it. What am I?"

The man barely had time to react before a dark shadow dropped from above, landing between the Riddler and his thugs with silent precision. The figure straightened, cloaked in black, red and yellow. A yellow "R" was in a black circle stitched onto his chest.

Robin.

For a moment, no one moved, and he watched, wide-eyed, as the Boy Wonder narrowed his gaze at the Riddler and his gang, hands at the ready.

"Guess that'll be your coffin tonight, Riddle's," Robin said, a smirk flashing across his face before he lunged forward.

In an instant, the alley exploded with noise and motion. Robin darted forward, fluid and controlled, his movements a blur of punches and kicks. He took down one thug with a well-aimed kick to the ribs, spinning to disarm another with a series of swift strikes. The Riddler's men stumbled backward, completely outmatched, swinging their weapons in wild, desperate arcs.

He watched, heart pounding, as Robin ducked and weaved, every strike landing with precision. One of the thugs tried to rush him from behind, swinging a bat with all his strength. Robin sidestepped, catching the thug's arm and twisting, the bat clattering to the ground. With a swift knee to the gut, Robin dropped him, spinning around just in time to catch another attacker by the collar and slam him against the wall.

The Riddler, who had been fumbling with a small, metallic device, tried to pull a gun, only to have it knocked from his hands with a well-aimed throw of Robin's birdarang. The weapon clattered to the ground, and Robin was on him in seconds, delivering a quick jab to the jaw that sent the Riddler sprawling onto the filthy ground, dazed and defeated.

The entire encounter lasted only moments, but it left the alley littered with the groaning forms of the Riddler's men. Robin straightened, wiping his gloved hands on his torso before pulling out a communicator.

"Yeah, it's me. Got Riddler and his goons. I'll send the location for pickup," he said, his voice businesslike, giving a nod toward the street as if expecting someone to appear any moment.

The boy held his breath, hoping Robin wouldn't notice him. As he waited, his eyes fell on a small stack of cash scattered near the fallen thugs—loose bills that had tumbled from their pockets in the scuffle. He stared at it for a moment, realizing with a pang of hunger and desperation that he had nothing. No ID, no home, no food. Just the clothes he wore.

Robin turned and used his grapple to ascend to the roof, leaving the bodies and stolen goods behind. He took his chance before either Robin or the police came back and snatched up a bunch of bills and valuables. Stuffing his pockets full he exited the alley quickly, making sure to keep to the shadows, his heart racing as he darted away, the distant sound of police sirens filling the night. He ran until the alley and those within it were far behind him, the twisting maze of Gotham's streets closing in around him as he slowed his pace. Darkened buildings loomed on either side, windows shattered, paint peeling. Every corner felt hostile, the city itself thick with danger and decay.

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After what felt like hours of wandering, he stumbled upon an old, run-down warehouse. The structure was barely standing, its roof half-collapsed and walls scarred with years of neglect. It was dark and uninviting, but at least it was shelter. He pushed open the creaking door, stepping into the dim interior. Dust motes drifted in the weak moonlight streaming through broken windows, casting eerie shadows on the empty floor.

Finding a patch of ground that seemed somewhat clean, he slumped against the wall, exhaustion settling over him. The reality of his situation hit him hard, the strange swirl of emotions and memories clouding his thoughts. He'd been given a second chance, but the world he was in was nothing like he had imagined. Gotham City was as dark and dangerous as the stories had made it, and now he was part of it.

As he leaned back, the events of the day began to catch up with him, and his eyes grew heavy. He had no plan, no allies, no direction. But at least, for now, he had a place to rest.

With the echoes of the Riddler's laughter and Robin's swift, practiced movements still fresh in his mind, he let his eyes drift shut, slipping into a restless sleep as Gotham City loomed over him, his new reality cold and unwelcoming.

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A slant of dim light leaked through a gap in the roof, casting faint shadows across the warehouse. He squinted, his eyes adjusting as he slowly blinked himself awake. Cold and sore, he hugged his arms around himself and sat up, taking in his surroundings.

"Still here," he mumbled, looking around the dark, dilapidated space. He felt the rough concrete beneath him, and smelled the musty air filled with dust and mildew. "Not a dream... Definitely not a dream."

With a sigh, he pushed himself up and brushed the dirt off his pants, feeling the rumble of hunger deep in his stomach. His heart beat faster as he looked around, taking in the dim warehouse. It was a shell of a building, neglected for years, but there was a hint of hope as he noticed some scattered items. Most of it was junk, but maybe he'd find something useful.

Taking a cautious step forward, he made his way through the broken remains of crates and rusted metal shelves. He picked through bits and pieces, setting anything remotely salvageable in a little pile. Some items were useful; others were dubious at best, but at least they would help make this place feel a little less bleak.

Found Items:

- A ripped and stained blanket: Worn thin and covered in dust, but surprisingly not completely torn. It smelled like it had been here for years, but he figured he could use it as padding.

- A metal pipe: Short and sturdy, it could be a weapon in a pinch, or maybe even a tool. He tested its weight, feeling comforted by its solid feel.

- A few stacks of old newspapers: Water-stained and brittle, but plenty of pages left intact. He could use it as kindling or bedding—anything to help warm him up at night.

- A broken radio: The casing was cracked, but a few wires and pieces looked intact. Maybe he could figure out a way to use it for parts. He didn't know much about electronics, but it seemed like something worth holding onto.

- A stray chair leg: Sturdy and made of wood, it might come in handy as a makeshift pillow or even as another weapon.

- An old toolbox missing most of its contents: He could make out a screwdriver, a dull pocket knife, and a roll of duct tape with just a little left on the spool. He pocketed the knife and tape; they were small but could be useful.

On top of collecting all the scattered items, he counted up the bills he took from the Riddler yesterday, the sum came to $724, and the gem he found too, a sapphire if thought correctly, it was blue after all, he figured he could sell one day for more cash when he needed it.

After collecting his findings, he wandered deeper into the warehouse, his footsteps echoing against the cold concrete. Toward the back of the building, he noticed a small, half-open door. Stepping through it, he found himself in what must have once been an office. It was bare except for a rusty, metal desk shoved into one corner and a torn-up couch sitting against the far wall. Its cushions were beaten and lumpy, and the fabric was torn in multiple places, but it still seemed more comfortable than the concrete floor.

"Could be worse," he muttered, arranging the items he'd gathered. Using the blanket and newspapers, he fashioned some makeshift padding to cover the rips in the couch and then folded the remaining fabric over it to create a more comfortable spot. He sank into the couch with a sigh, finally able to rest properly. Despite it being early in the day, it pressed down on him nonetheless, a strange exhaustion settling in as he closed his eyes.

In the stillness, he took a deep breath, the scent of dust filling his lungs. His mind drifted to the figure in the void—the being who'd given him this chance, a life in a world he knew from only fiction. He couldn't shake the surreal feeling that clung to him, even as he tried to focus on the reality of his situation.

He had nothing but a few broken items in a ruined warehouse. No food, a lump sum of money that would run out sooner rather than later, and no real way forward yet. His heart pounded with the realization that he was in Gotham City, a place he'd only known through comics and shows—a place of shadowy alleys and crime-ridden streets, a city barely held together by the Batman and his allies. And here he was, a kid with no plan, no friends, and only a vague understanding of how he'd even come to be here.

It felt like a cruel joke. Yet he knew this was real. The cold floor beneath his shoes, the smell of decay, the hunger gnawing at him—it was all too real.

A weight pressed onto his chest, heavier than the anxiety gnawing at him. Opening his eyes, he found himself staring down at two objects that definitely hadn't been there when he'd drifted off.

Two books.

He picked them up, both titles printed in big, blocky letters on the front covers. One was titled:

"Getting Fit! Six Powers Style!" Written by Koby

And the other:

"HAKI FOR DUMIEZ DUMMIES!" Written by Garp (or so it says...)

(Side note. When I wrote this the incorrect spelling was crossed out in word, but on here it can't do that. So just imagine it.)

Between the two books was a small note, written in looping, elegant script that he recognized instantly. It was from the being who'd brought him here.

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Congratulations on surviving your first night, young soul!

These books contain the basics of your new abilities, each one containing knowledge from some of the finest warriors in One Piece. The techniques within are powerful and dangerous, so I've given you a special gift: a body capable of enduring these skills and making use of them. The training manuals are tied to your soul; they won't be damaged or lost, and you can "store" them within yourself whenever you're not using them. Remember, the more you train, the stronger you'll become.

Enjoy this life. Make it interesting. I'm Watching…

- T.O.A.A

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He read the note twice, absorbing every word, and once finished it dissolved into white flecks of light. The being's casual tone lingered in his mind, reminding him of the otherworldly encounter that had brought him here. The part about his body being able to handle the intensity of these techniques made sense now; he was in a world where strength and skill mattered more than anything, and if he were to survive, he'd need every advantage he could get.

Looking down at the two books, he felt a strange surge of excitement. This wasn't just a second chance—it was a chance to become someone new, someone powerful. Six Powers and Haki are two abilities he knew from the anime world of One Piece, and now they were his. The methods were locked within these books, waiting for him to unlock them.

He opened "Getting Fit! Six Powers Style!", flipping through its first few pages. They were handwritten, as if Koby himself had personally scrawled his thoughts, notes on basic exercises and principles of each of the Six Powers. He could already see himself diving into these techniques, building strength he'd never dreamed of.

Setting the book aside, he flipped open "HAKI FOR DUMMIES!", his curiosity piqued. The book was surprisingly detailed, filled with descriptions of Observation, Armament, and even a bit about Conqueror's Haki. He noticed scribbled notes in the margins, sometimes clarifying techniques or blurbs of Garp's more… blunt commentary, like "Hit 'em hard enough, and they'll remember you."

A grin broke across his face, though it faded as he remembered his immediate reality. All the training in the world couldn't fix his current problem. His stomach rumbled, the sound loud and unmistakable in the quiet of the warehouse. He needed food, and he needed to get a better sense of where, and when, he was in Gotham City. He wasn't even sure if Batman or Robin would still be patrolling the streets.

Pushing himself up from the couch, he tucked the books into his jacket before they disappeared, he then felt something settle in his chest, his soul as the being had described. It was strange but comforting, like he could feel the knowledge lingering just beneath the surface, waiting for him to call upon it when he was ready.

Stepping out of the office, he took a last glance around the warehouse, marking the place in his memory. For now, it was a shelter, a home base, but he couldn't linger here forever. His footsteps echoed as he made his way to the main doors, the cold morning air washing over him as he pushed them open.

The streets of Gotham stretched before him, bleak and unforgiving. He steeled himself, tucking his hands into his pockets, and stepped out onto the sidewalk. He had a lot to figure out, and he'd need to do it fast if he wanted to survive here.

But first, he needed food.

Author Note: 

Rewrite is here! Hell yeah!

I think this is a much better start than what I wrote before. It feels much more connected and less hectic than the old version. 

Hope you liked it as well. Lemme know how you feel about it! Good or bad I can take it!

I swear...

Be kind, please. 

Nah, say what you will! I'm tough enough to take it!

Also, Updates every Wednesday! at some point in the day. Most likely in the evenings. 

Till Next Time!

-Daedalus19