It began like last time — with a scream.
Only this time, I didn't freeze.
I was halfway down the eastern path, hauling a bundle of fishing nets, when the sound split the air. A woman's voice, high and sharp, cut off halfway like someone had punched the breath out of her.
Then came the smoke.
Black columns rising over the rooftops. The sharp bite of burning thatch carried on the wind. And beneath it all, the low thud of boots hitting sand in unison.
Pirates. Again.
I dropped the nets.
---
My feet moved before my thoughts caught up. The training took over — breath steady, pace measured, eyes scanning ahead. No wasted movement. No panic.
The first one I saw was a big man, shirtless, swinging an axe into a doorframe while two others tore through baskets of dried fish. Their ship was anchored just off the cove — smaller than the last crew's, but faster. A raiding vessel, built to hit and run.
They didn't see me until I was already moving.
---
I closed the gap fast, bare feet kicking up sand. My right fist found the first man's ribs — solid contact, just under the armpit. He folded with a grunt, but I didn't stop to watch him fall. I slipped past his collapse, ducking a clumsy swing from the second pirate's cutlass.
Boxing drills. Slip left. Counter.
My knuckles smashed his jaw. Felt bone give. His head snapped sideways, and he crumpled to the ground, eyes rolling.
The third one came at me with a spear, stabbing fast. Too fast to rush in.
Swordsmanship training hadn't made me good — just less bad — but it was enough to grab a loose plank from a broken crate and use it as a shield. The spear's tip punched through wood instead of my chest. I wrenched it sideways, twisting until he lost his grip, then drove my shoulder into his sternum.
He went down hard.
---
It was chaos all around. Villagers shouting. Children running. The crack of timbers breaking. I caught sight of Old Man Jiro in the distance, swinging that same gnarled staff I'd seen leaning against my door months ago. He wasn't fast, but he was precise — each strike dropped a man.
My legs moved toward him before I realized it.
Two more came from the side. I felt them before I saw them — movement in my peripheral vision, the shift of sand under heavy boots.
Perception: 31. That number from the Panel flashed in my head like it was part of my instincts now.
I spun, low kick to the shin of the first, then drove an elbow into the second's gut. One choked, the other swore and staggered back. My hands kept moving, a flurry of short punches until both stayed down.
---
The fighting spilled toward the docks. Some pirates had already started hauling sacks of food toward their boat. Not today.
I snatched up a broken oar and charged, swinging wide to sweep a man's legs out from under him. Another lunged with a dagger — I caught his wrist, twisted hard, and smashed my forehead into his nose. Blood sprayed, and he screamed, dropping the blade.
It felt different this time.
Last year, I was fighting to survive. Today, I was fighting to protect.
And I was winning.
---
Minutes blurred into each other.
The beach became a patchwork of smoke, blood, and footprints. My breath burned but didn't break. Each movement flowed into the next — punch, dodge, step, strike. No wasted motion. No hesitation.
When the last pirate fell, the silence came too fast. Just the hiss of burning wood and the sound of my own pulse in my ears.
The survivors from the crew — the smart ones — scrambled back to their ship. No one chased them. We didn't have to. The beach told them everything they needed to know.
---
I stood there, chest rising and falling, sweat and soot mixing on my skin. My hands shook — not from fear, but from the aftershock of what I'd just done.
I had fought. And I had won.
---
Later, while helping clear debris, I saw something flapping against the tide line. At first I thought it was just a scrap of sailcloth. Then the wind shifted, and I saw the ink.
A crumpled, sea-damp sheet stuck in the sand. The image was still clear despite the water stains — a grinning young man in a straw hat, scar under one eye, smiling like the world couldn't touch him.
I froze.
I knew that face.
I'd spent hours in my old apartment watching it on a screen, laughing at his stupidity, cheering at his victories. Monkey D. Luffy. The idiot. The dreamer. The one who, in my world, was just a drawing.
Wanted: Monkey D. Luffy – 30,000,000 Berries.
The number made my stomach knot. Not because it was big — but because I knew exactly what it meant. This was East Blue's king-size bounty. This was the moment in the story where things started to change. Where enemies got stronger. Where the seas began to churn.
Luffy's story had begun.
Which meant my time was running out.
---
I folded the poster with care and slipped it inside my shirt. My hands felt heavier than they should.
Training had kept me alive today.
But the main characters were moving now, and I wasn't one of them.
If I wanted to survive what was coming, I'd need more than this island. More than fishing nets, more than village brawls.
The waves were shifting.
And sooner or later, they'd reach me.
To be continued...