Sea Calander 1343, New World, Seikatsu Country, Miharu Academy.
Room 2A
The classroom hummed with chatter, clusters of children leaning toward one another, exchanging whispers, debating trivial matters, and sharing hushed laughter. Pens tapped against wooden desks in rhythmic beats, chairs scraped against the floor, and the occasional burst of amusement rang through the air.
Sunlight streamed through the tall, rectangular windows, casting golden patterns on the wooden floors. The room was spacious yet structured, designed to accommodate students of all sizes. Rows of wooden desks stretched across the space, five rows of six for the students to sit comfortably.
At the front, a large whiteboard dominated the wall, pristine except for a few stray chalk marks left from earlier lessons. Beside it stood the teacher's desk, neatly arranged with stacks of lesson plans, topped by a long wooden stick.
A tall, young woman stood beside the desk, her modest dress flowing beneath a light cardigan. Her sharp gaze swept over the lively classroom, but the students remained oblivious to her silent demand for order. Taking a deep breath, she raised her voice.
"Silence, class."
The room fell into a hush. Heads turned toward her, attention reluctantly drawn.
The class was a diverse mix of students, a blend of different races from across the New World.
Half were human, yet their heights ranged abnormally between one and two meters despite being only ten years old. Among the remaining students, three hailed from the Longarm Tribe, another three from the Longleg Tribe, four from underwater origins two fish-men and two merfolk. A pair of twins from the Mink Tribe, a feline boy and a canine girl, sat together.
The last three were rare beings: a Wotan, towering and broad-shouldered, the result of a giant and fish-man union; an Oni, with faintly curved horns peeking from his unruly hair; and a Buccaneer, his build already hinting at the immense strength his bloodline promised.
The teacher's eyes scanned the students before she spoke again.
"Who can tell me about the Devil Fruits?"
A simple question.
The students glanced at one another, some whispering while others confidently raised their hands. The teacher's gaze flicked across them before settling on a particular student.
"You with the red eye."
A boy with striking crimson eyes blinked at the call, pushing back his chair as he stood. His face twisted in annoyance.
"Ma'am, my name is Akira. How many times do I have to tell you?"
She didn't react to his correction, only nodding for him to proceed.
Akira exhaled before speaking.
"Devil Fruits—"
Before he could finish, two figures appeared in the doorway. Two girls, both carrying bags over their shoulders. The older of the two, noticeably taller, turned her head, her crimson eye locking onto the teacher. The younger girl, however, kept her gaze fixed on Akira, studying him intently.
Akira's words trailed off, his focus shifting entirely to them. Without hesitation, he pushed his chair back further and ran towards the door. But before he could reach them, a firm grip caught his arm.
"Where do you think you're going?"
The teacher's voice was sharp.
Akira turned back, meeting her gaze without flinching.
"Ma'am, my sisters have come."
The teacher frowned, her grip tightening.
"And? What does that have to do with anything?"
He pulled slightly against her hold.
"Ma'am, they're here for me. I need to go."
She barely spared the girls a glance, her attention wholly fixed on him.
"Show me your hand."
Akira hesitated, his posture stiffening. "Ma'am, it's my father's birthday today."
Her expression didn't change. "I said, show me your hand."
Lowering his head, he slowly raised his hand.
The teacher picked up the bamboo stick from her desk.
The first strike landed with a sharp crack.
His sisters flinched at the sound, their eyes widening.
Akira clenched his jaw, his crimson eye squeezing shut as he swallowed the pain. Not a sound escaped his lips.
"Hand up."
His fingers trembled, but he lifted his hand again.
Another strike.
The teacher set the bamboo stick back on the desk, her expression unmoved. With a sharp gesture, she pointed to the far corner of the room.
"Go kneel over there until the class is over."
A hush settled over the classroom as Akira, his palm still stinging, walked toward the designated corner. He turned slowly and knelt, arms raised, his crimson eye locked onto the teacher. His expression remained stoic, though his fingers trembled ever so slightly.
"Now, where were we?"
The teacher said, her voice cool and dismissive.
"Ah, yes. The World Government's attempt..."
She resumed the lesson, the murmur of students quickly returning to normal. The minutes stretched, punctuated only by the rhythmic scratch of quills against parchment and the occasional cough.
Then, the sharp chime of the bell cut through the room.
Akira's gaze snapped to the source of the sound, and without hesitation, he rose to his feet. His arms ached from holding them up, but he ignored the discomfort. As the teacher concluded the lesson, her voice rang across the room.
"Understood?"
A chorus of voices responded in unison.
"Yes, Ma'am!"
Akira didn't wait. The moment the words left their mouths, he dashed past his teacher, his movements quick and fluid. His sisters barely had time to step aside as he surged past them, disappearing into the corridor beyond.
The teacher's eyes followed him briefly before drifting to his desk. His bag remained there, untouched. She frowned but said nothing.
The hallway echoed with the rapid thudding of his footsteps. His breath came in short bursts, but he didn't slow down. Past students, past open doorways, past the startled glances of teachers who barely had time to react to the blur of motion.
Stairs loomed ahead. He leaped over them, landing hard before sprinting onward. The school gates stood open, and just beyond them, a black-and-gold carriage waited.
Its frame gleamed in the afternoon sun, intricate engravings of sea serpents twisting along the polished surface. Heavy, reinforced wheels pressed deep tracks into the dirt road. Velvet curtains concealed the interior, though a faint glow from within hinted at luxury.
Two massive black bears, their fur dark as midnight, stood harnessed at the front. Their claws long, curved, and sharp enough to rend steel dug into the ground. They sniffed the air, intelligent eyes scanning the crowd that had gathered to admire the lavish transport.
One of them turned its massive head just in time to see Akira burst through the gate. With barely a pause, he flung open the carriage door and climbed inside, settling onto the cushioned seat. Moments later, his sisters followed.
The driver, a lean man with a weathered face, let out a sharp whistle. The bears responded immediately, their muscles rippling as they began to move. The carriage lurched forward, rolling steadily down the road toward home.
…
Hawthrone Mansion
The moment the carriage came to a halt, Akira bolted out before the driver could properly stop. His legs burned, but he didn't slow, barely registering the grandeur of the estate as he rushed forward.
Towering columns framed the entrance, their fluted designs carved with painstaking detail. The smooth white walls gleamed in the sunlight, the dark slate roof a stark contrast. A single balcony on the second floor overlooked the grounds, its wrought-iron railing elegant yet unyielding.
Two guards flanked the front doors, their armor polished, their gazes sharp. They acknowledged Akira with brief nods as he raced past them.
"Dad!" his voice rang through the vast halls.
The sound of his own footsteps bounced back at him. He dashed into the dining hall empty. The long table stretched endlessly, untouched, as though waiting for a meal to come.
"Dad?"
He turned sharply, running down another corridor, past towering paintings of his ancestors. He threw open the study door nothing. His breath quickened, a sense of unease creeping in.
The library. Maybe there.
He ran faster, his urgency mounting.
"Dad!"
Silence.
A quiet sigh came from behind him.
"Akira."
He stopped abruptly, turned, and ran straight into the warm embrace of his mother.
Yuri Hawthorne stood with effortless grace, her gown flowing like liquid silk. Embroidery of golden thread wove intricate patterns along the fabric. Her dark eyes, deep and knowing, softened as she cradled her son in her arms.
He clung to her for a moment before pulling back slightly, his expression pleading.
"Where's Dad?"
She smoothed his tousled hair with a gentle touch.
"You know he's a busy man, sweetheart. He had to rush to the factory."
Akira's face fell, disappointment settling in his chest.
Yuri offered a small smile, trying to lift his spirits.
"Why don't we make a clone of your father? That way, one can stay at home while the other works."
He let out a frustrated sigh.
"Cloning takes too long, Mom."
"We'll have to find a body double… But no matter how many lookalikes we find, no one can compare to Dad."
…
Hawthrone Factory.
The rhythmic clang of machinery and the hiss of steam filled the air as Akira's carriage rolled to a stop in front of the factory gates. The towering smokestacks belched plumes of white into the dusky sky, casting shifting shadows over the industrial sprawl. Without waiting for the driver to announce their arrival, Akira flung open the carriage door and leaped onto the cobbled pavement.
He didn't hesitate. His legs burned as he sprinted toward the massive double doors, his school uniform slightly wrinkled, his breath coming in short, urgent gasps.
"Dad!"
His voice cut through the steady hum of the factory, bouncing off the steel beams and concrete floors. Workers, clad in oil-stained overalls, paused their tasks, some turning toward the sound of the young boy's cry. The noise of the machines seemed to dull, as if the factory itself were listening.
"Dad!"
Only silence answered him.
His heart pounded in his chest. His eyes darted across the expanse of the factory floor rows of towering machines, conveyor belts, the glint of molten metal cooling in molds but no sign of the man he sought. His father was supposed to be here. He had to be here.
But he wasn't.
…
Hawthrone Mansion
Moonlight spilled through the three massive windows of the grand dining hall, casting elongated shadows that flickered with every shift of the velvet curtains. The scent of smoldering tobacco clung to the air, mixing with the faint aroma of candle wax and aged wood.
Zenjiro Hawthorne sat at the head of the long mahogany table, a cigarette smoldering between his fingers. The crimson in his eyes gleamed under the dim chandelier as he skimmed through a stack of documents, his brow furrowed in concentration.
Soft footsteps approached.
Yuri Hawthorne entered the room, her silk gown whispering against the polished floor. She paused at the table, watching her husband's unwavering focus on his papers. Her lips pressed into a thin line before she spoke.
"…The kids made a cake for you."
Zenjiro exhaled a slow stream of smoke.
"They waited for you,"
Yuri continued.
"They got tired making it and went to bed."
His fingers stilled, hovering over the papers, but his eyes never lifted.
She sighed.
"You didn't even meet them after calling them back from the Academy."
"I'll make it up to them."
His tone was firm, dismissive.
Yuri shook her head.
"They notice everything, Zenjiro. And it bothers them."
She reached forward, plucked the cigarette from his fingers, and pressed it into the ashtray with a soft hiss.
"You know what Akira said yesterday?"
she asked.
Zenjiro finally looked up.
"He wants to change his name…"
Her voice was quiet.
"To Zenjiro II."
"I tried to talk him out of it,"
Yuri continued.
"But do you know what he said?"
She folded her arms.
"If there can be so many kings and dragons with names like Kento II and Hiroki V, then why not Zenjiro II?"
A ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of her lips, though it quickly faded. Her voice softened.
"You're his superhero. Can't you spare just ten minutes of your day for your son?"
…
Some times later…
Zenjiro pushed open the door to Akira's room, stepping inside with measured steps. The faint glow of moonlight illuminated the space, casting a soft silver hue over everything.
The room was a world of its own walls covered in posters of navy ships, pirate crews, and legendary kings. Scattered books lay across the wooden floor, some open, others stacked haphazardly.
A wooden sword hung on the wall, its handle wrapped in worn leather, a testament to the boy's admiration for warriors.
Zenjiro's gaze drifted to the small figure on the bed. Akira lay curled beneath the sheets, his chest rising and falling in steady rhythm. In his hand, loosely held, was a crumpled piece of parchment.
With careful fingers, Zenjiro eased the letter from his son's grasp. His eyes flickered toward the faint red mark on the boy's palm a remnant of the punishment at school.
Unfolding the letter, he read.
'Dad, in my next life, I want you to be my son.
I want you to see how much I love you.
You can learn from it.
Because in the life after that,
I will once again be your son, and you will be my dad.
Then you can express your love In your unique way.
Instead of how I do it.
I hope you understand, Dad.
If you do, that would be more than enough for me."'
…
Miharu Academy
The next day Akira stood before his classmates, The air carried the faint aroma of sakura mochi, its sweetness mingling with the scent of old parchment and ink. Akira stood before his classmates, as he handed out the delicate pink treats soft mochi cakes filled with sweet red bean paste, each wrapped in a pickled cherry blossom leaf. His classmates eagerly reached out, their faces alight with curiosity.
A Fishman with round glasses adjusted them with a flick of his webbed fingers before taking a bite. His sharp teeth sank into the soft mochi, and he grinned.
"Happy birthday to your father."
Akira gave a small nod.
"Thank you."
A chubby buccaneer followed suit, plucking a mochi from the tray.
"Happy birthday to your father."
"Thank You."
"Thank you."
One by one, the class repeated the phrase like a ritual, each receiving their share of the sweets. A girl with dark curls chimed in last.
"Happy birthday to your father."
Akira handed her the final piece and turned back toward his desk when the Fishman spoke up again, adjusting his glasses with a knowing smirk.
"By the way, how could you forget your bag at school yesterday?"
A lanky student leaned in, his voice low.
"Yeah, the teacher took your bag with her, but after finding out about your dad, she put it back on your desk."
Akira paused for a moment, then met the Fishman's gaze.
"I was in a hurry. My father just returned from his trip to Wano I finally got to see him."
A girl tilted her head, curiosity gleaming in her eyes.
"Do you love your dad?"
Akira's lips curled into a soft smile. "I love my father more than anything in the whole world."
The buccaneer snorted, wiping his fingers on his uniform.
"Everyone loves their parents. What makes yours so special?"
The Fishman pushed his glasses up again, intrigued.
"Yeah. And what do you mean by 'more than anything'?"
Akira's smile didn't waver.
"The same way you measure effort by how much time you give it."
The buccaneer frowned.
"Huh?"
Akira spread his hands, as if explaining something simple.
"It's like studying all year and then getting grades that tell the difference between…"
He turned and pointed at the Fishman.
"Who failed."
Then at the buccaneer.
"Who passed."
Finally, he placed a hand on his own chest.
"And who came first."
The class fell silent, the weight of his words settling over them.
"In the same way, time will show if my love for my father… fails, passes, or comes out on top."