Why does my head hurt so much? And then it hit me—a flood of memories crashed into my mind. My name was Jack. I was 30 years old and led a completely normal life as a programmer. I wasn't a warrior or a fighter, but I'd always considered myself to be relatively brave.
Now, you're probably wondering how I died. The truth is... I didn't. At least, I don't know if I did. All I know is that there's this deep, burning hatred within my soul—but I have no idea where it comes from.
And to top it all off, I somehow found myself in the world of One Piece. How did I figure that out? It was painfully obvious when I woke up on a beach and saw Captain Morgan—yeah, that Captain Morgan.
His soldiers almost dragged me off, thinking I was a pirate. But when they noticed my bizarrely younger self—now 16 years old—they wrote me off as a shipwreck survivor. And just like that, I narrowly avoided being arrested.
My 16-year-old body was thin, frail, and unsporty. Still, I was tall—180 cm—and, oddly enough, relatively good-looking. My most striking feature? My dark eyes. So dark they resembled an endless void. Back in my old world, those eyes scared people.
But there's something new. The ends of my mid-length, jet-black curls are now dyed a striking red. I have no idea what it means, but I'm sure I'll find out soon enough.
After escaping that initial encounter, my focus shifted. I had questions—questions I'd have to answer eventually—but for now, survival was my priority.
I made my way to the nearest town, hoping to gather my thoughts and maybe some supplies. The atmosphere was heavy, almost suffocating. The oppression of the Marines was impossible to ignore; their presence weighed down the people like a shackle. This world is harsh, I realized. The line between good and evil isn't always clear here. And in the end, it's the victors who decide who the villains are.
As I wandered aimlessly through the streets, trying to avoid unnecessary attention, someone noticed me—a kind soul, or perhaps it was fate. An elderly woman named May approached me. She told me that I reminded her of her grandson, who had recently passed away.
After I shared my story about being a shipwreck survivor, she offered me a place to stay until I could find my footing. I accepted her offer with gratitude but remained cautious. Trust is a dangerous luxury in this world.
For now, I have shelter, but I know this reprieve won't last forever. This world is cruel, and if I want to survive, I'll need to figure out my place in it—and what this deep hatred in my soul truly means.
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