Four years old.
Absolutely insulting.
Once, I'd stood atop empires, brokered blood-drenched deals that toppled regimes, and made kings flinch at the sound of my name. Now? I was struggling to unscrew a child-proof cap on a bottle of apple juice.
Humbling? Maybe to lesser men.
But me? I weaponized indignity.
I turned humiliation into fuel.
If the universe thought a fresh start would temper my nature, it had made a fatal miscalculation. Because I remembered everything. The betrayals. The blood. The climb. The power. The fall. And above all—I remembered who I was.
Donquixote Doflamingo.
Now rebranded as the precious, prodigious heir of the Donquixote family in this Hero-drenched society of quirks, capes, and painfully inflated egos. Fools.
This world wasn't mine yet, but it would be. I'd carve my throne from the bones of its expectations.
"Again, Doffy," my father said in that maddeningly soft tone, watching as I adjusted the coil on my new compact rail pistol. "Why exactly do you need rail-based acceleration in a palm-sized weapon?"
I didn't look up. "Because I'm tired of air resistance slowing my bullets."
He chuckled, rubbing his temples. "You're four."
"And yet," I replied dryly, "I seem to be the only one in this household thinking ahead."
He muttered something about therapy. I ignored it.
My father—Donquixote Homing—was a decent man. Kind. Soft. Naïve. The kind of man who believed kindness changed the world. I liked him. I also pitied him.
My mother, Seraphina, was another beast entirely—poised elegance with a razor edge. She doted on me in public, called me her "little angel," but she was no fool. She had the eyes of a woman who had once ordered assassinations over brunch. We understood each other—though she'd never admit it.
After successfully vaporizing another target dummy in my private workshop, I dismantled the weapon, wiped down all traces of my experimentation, and made my way to breakfast.
The Donquixote estate was ludicrously ostentatious. Marble floors polished to a mirror sheen. Crystal chandeliers that looked like they cost more than some countries' GDPs. Staff in tailored uniforms bowed as I passed.
I nodded back. Power was about appearances.
I entered the dining hall. Seraphina was already seated, draped in silver silk, sipping tea like she owned the sun. She lit up when she saw me.
"There's my little prodigy!" she cooed.
I grimaced. "Mother. Tone it down."
She pinched my cheek anyway. "Never."
Homing sat at the head of the table, reading the Quirk Market Digest. He gave me a cursory glance, sniffed the faint scent of ozone and gunpowder clinging to me, and sighed.
"Successful morning?"
I slid into my seat, accepting the juice glass from a maid. "Rail pistol works. Acid payload is still unstable."
"Wonderful," he muttered. "Most four-year-olds play with wooden trains."
"And most four-year-olds are liabilities."
Seraphina laughed behind her teacup. "He gets that from me."
Breakfast passed in the usual mix of domestic banter and tactical misdirection. My parents still thought I was a genius child. They weren't wrong. Just... off by about thirty years of experience and several moral collapses.
But even with their support, I had to tread carefully. The more they saw, the more questions they'd ask. And the last thing I needed was someone sniffing around my origins. Reincarnation wasn't a topic this world was prepared to understand—or tolerate.
As I speared a slice of grapefruit with excessive force, Seraphina hummed, "Your quirk should be manifesting soon, my love. Just imagine the possibilities!"
"Oh, I do," I said, with a slow, knowing smile. "Every day."
Later, back in my suite—an entire wing of the mansion to myself—I finally felt it.
A subtle shift.
Like invisible threads dancing beneath my skin, tugging at my bones, pulling at the space around me.
I raised my hands—and there they were.
Strings.
Delicate, razor-sharp, nearly invisible wires sprouting from my fingertips. Moving, coiling, slicing through the air with the ease of memory.
I laughed.
Not a child's giggle.
A low, cold, rich laugh that hadn't belonged to a toddler in a very long time.
"String-String Fruit… of course."
It wasn't a quirk. Not really. Not in origin. This was Doflamingo's power, down to its marrow—twisted through the rules of this world. The universe had done more than throw me into a new game.
It had handed me back my most dangerous weapon.
I spent hours testing.
Durability? Wood, shredded. Plastic, obliterated. Steel? Not yet.Range? Ten meters. Short. Insulting. But I'd expand it.Control? Wobbly. Sloppy. Amateurish.
Unacceptable.
A snapped thread caught my wrist, leaving a thin line of blood.
I stared at it. Licked the wound clean. Smiled.
"Pathetic," I whispered to the room. "But fixable."
What followed was training—real training. Not childish mimicry. I turned my strings into marionette lines, tested puppet control on a dozen stuffed bears. I built tension traps. Explored thread weaving.
I even constructed a string lift system to hoist myself three floors just for the hell of it.
Then came the second surprise.
I punched a wall.
Not a tantrum. A test.
The wall cracked.
And my hand?
Unscathed.
I stared at the spiderweb of fractures.
This body wasn't normal.
It wasn't just the strings.
It was One Piece logic.
Enhanced durability. Reinforced muscles. A physicality made for violence and dominance.
Haki might not exist here, but the potential? Oh, it was there. I could feel it, waiting beneath the surface like a sleeping beast.
And I would wake it.
I opened my blueprint journal and scribbled new goals.
Phase One – Master the Strings: Not just slashing. Puppeteering. Webs. Traps. Flight. The full arsenal.
Phase Two – Physical Augmentation: Strength, speed, endurance. I'd push this body far beyond human.
Phase Three – Arsenal Expansion: My gadgets weren't obsolete. Not yet. But I'd combine them with my strings. Hybrid weapons. Wire-guided explosives. String-launched grappling hooks.
Outside, dusk settled over the skyline. From my bedroom balcony, I could see UA High in the distance—a towering monument to the world's blind faith in heroes.
They believed in order. In justice. In capes and smiles.
How quaint.
I would play along. For now.
Pretend to be the gifted, sharp-tongued genius child. Let them fawn. Let them label me a prodigy. Let them misjudge me.
Because while they trained to be heroes...
I was preparing to conquer.
I flexed my fingers. Strings rippled out, slicing a training dummy in half from across the room.
This world had given me a gift.
But soon, I would be the one doing the giving.
And I'd gift them hell.