"No," I said flatly, not bothering to soften the rejection with false politeness. "I'm not interested."
The words hung in the air between us like a guillotine blade waiting to drop.
Here was Monkey D. Luffy—the rubber boy himself, protagonist of this twisted world I'd been dropped into—standing before my table with that insufferably optimistic grin plastered across his face, asking me to join his merry band of future world-changers.
'And I wanted absolutely nothing to do with it.'
Luffy's expression faltered for just a moment, confusion flickering across those dark eyes.
"Aw, come on!" he said, leaning forward with renewed enthusiasm, completely undeterred by my blunt refusal. "It'll be fun! We're gonna sail the Grand Line and find the One Piece! I'm gonna be the Pirate King!"
There it was. The declaration that would eventually reshape this world, spoken with the casual confidence of someone announcing their breakfast plans.
In any other context, it would have been laughable—a seventeen-year-old boy in a waiter's uniform claiming he'd become the most powerful pirate in existence.
'But when you have the supposedly meta knowledge that I have, you would know that it was not all laughs.'
Across from me, Petty Officer Kowalski shifted nervously in his seat, those shifty eyes of his darting between Luffy and me as if expecting violence to break out at any moment.
His nervous disposition was exactly why he made such a perfect marine informant—not because he was particularly good at gathering intelligence, but because his cowardice made him predictable, and predictability was a commodity I valued highly in this chaotic world.
I adjusted my hat slightly, the brim casting shadows across my face as I continued to observe the boy who had just asked me to join his crew.
He looked exactly as I'd imagined from the manga—young, energetic, and possessed of that particular brand of optimism that made me want to either tolerate it or completely reject it, depending on my mood.
'Today, I was leaning toward the latter.'
"Listen," I said, keeping my voice level despite the growing irritation, "I appreciate the offer, but I'm not looking to join anyone's crew. I work alone."
It was a simple statement of fact, delivered without malice or unnecessary explanation.
In my experience, the best way to discourage persistent people was to be brutally direct. Being hesitant, I'd learned, was often mistaken for weakness or uncertainty—luxuries I couldn't afford in a world where hesitation could prove fatal.
"But—" Luffy started to protest.
"No buts," I interrupted, holding up a hand to stop him. "And you're working as a waiter right now, aren't you? So, focus on that job instead of playing pirate captain. We'd like to eat our food as fast as possible."
The harshness in my voice was deliberate, calculated to end this conversation before it could spiral into something more complicated.
I'd spent two years carefully avoiding the major plot threads of this world, and I wasn't about to let an overeager teenager derail my plans now.
Luffy's shoulders sagged like a deflated balloon, his trademark grin fading into something that looked suspiciously like hurt.
For a moment, he looked exactly like what he was—a seventeen-year-old boy who'd just been thoroughly rejected by someone he'd hoped to befriend.
"Oh," he said quietly, the enthusiasm draining from his voice like air from a punctured tire. "Okay then. I'll... I'll go get your food."
He shuffled away toward the kitchen, and I felt that familiar pang of guilt that always followed moments like these.
The part of me that remembered being dismissed and ignored throughout my school years wanted to call him back, to explain that it wasn't personal, that I simply couldn't afford to get involved in his 'epic'.
But explanations led to conversations, conversations led to connections, and connections led to complications I couldn't afford.
I'd learned that lesson the hard way during my first few months in this world, when my natural inclination to help others had nearly gotten me killed on more than one occasion.
Kowalski let out a breath I hadn't realized he'd been holding. "That was... intense," he whispered, glancing around nervously. "You sure you had to be so harsh with the kid?"
"Harsh keeps me alive," I replied, though the words tasted bitter in my mouth. "And speaking of staying alive, let's get back to business. Do you have the information about the Arlong Pirates?"
The question seemed to snap Kowalski back to attention, reminding him why we were here in the first place.
He glanced around the restaurant one more time, as if expecting bounty hunters to materialize from the shadows, then seemed to realize the futility of trying to be subtle when sitting across from one of the most recognizable people in the East Blue.
With a resigned sigh, he reached into his coat and produced a stack of folded papers, placing them discreetly on the table between us.
I palmed the documents with practiced ease, slipping them into the Dimensional Bag I had acquired during my first year in this world.
It is a spatial storage device in the shape of a cross bag that I am hanging over my chest right now.
It had cost me two Devil Fruits, but had proven worth the exchange countless times over.
'Especially with all the tricks I can use it with.'
"Everything you asked for is in there," Kowalski said, keeping his voice low despite the futility of discretion. "Information on the Arlong Pirates—their numbers, their base layout, weapons inventory, armory locations, even some of their patrol schedules."
I nodded, already mentally cataloging the information I'd need to review later.
The Arlong Pirates weren't particularly powerful by Grand Line standards, but they were well-established in their territory and had the significant advantage of being able to fight in their element—underwater, where human opponents were at a severe disadvantage.
"You sure you want to go after them?" Kowalski continued, sweat beading on his forehead despite the restaurant's comfortable temperature.
"I mean, I know you're strong and all, but fishmen are ten times stronger than humans underwater. And their leader's got a twenty million berry bounty for a reason."
Twenty million berries. In the East Blue, that was a substantial bounty—enough to make someone a legitimate threat to marine operations in the region.
In the Grand Line, it would barely register as a minor nuisance, but regional perspectives mattered when you were the one facing the business end of a shark-toothed grin.
"I'm not planning to attack their base," I said, which was technically true. I had no intention of launching a frontal assault on Arlong Park.
'That would be the last option. Not out of the table, as that would be stupid, but not the main plan.'
What I was mainly planning was surgical in nature. A targeted retrieval mission for a specific item that belonged to me, nothing more.
"I just need to retrieve something that belongs to me," I continued, the memory of my failure still fresh despite the literal years that had passed.
As for why I decided to finally do it, it is because I have reached the limit of the East Blue.
During the past two years, I had been sailing all over the East Blue collecting Devil Fruits, but I could only get four more fruits, even when I was taking it slow and safe.
In fact, I think it was because I was taking it slow and safe, as when the distance to the Devil Fruit was large enough, the chances of me reaching it before it got eaten became abysmal.
'This had happened more than five times already, the last one being a few weeks ago, when the fruit I was trying to get suddenly disappeared before I was there.'
So I concluded that the fruit was eaten by someone.
The Devil Fruits were already very rare in the four Blues, and to get them in the Blues, other than being very fast, you had to be very lucky to get them.
When the last one recurred again, I decided that I could no longer continue like this, as I would only be in a ghost chase all over the ocean, and if I wanted to return to my world, I would eventually need to go to the Grand Line.
'But before that, I needed to get the Barbossa Sword that was stolen from me by the fishmen pirates.'
I had been delaying this for a while, and now that I had decided to go to the Grand Line, I couldn't delay it any longer.
First, keeping it in the hands of dangerous pirates will be a disaster; second, having such an item will be a great help when navigating the currents of the Grand Line.
Kowalski shifted nervously beside me as I lost myself in these dark contemplations, though I could tell he didn't really understand the weight of what I was planning.
How could he? He'd never been ripped away from everything he knew and loved, forced to navigate a world where death lurked around every corner and the only law was the strength to enforce your will upon others.
We ate our meal in relative silence after that, with Kowalski occasionally muttering about how his career was on the line for cooperating with me.
It was an old refrain, one he trotted out every time we met, as if reminding himself of the risks involved would somehow absolve him of the moral ambiguity inherent in selling information to someone operating outside the Marines' jurisdiction.
I tuned him out, focusing instead on the documents I'd received and the planning that would be required for my upcoming mission.
'The Arlong Pirates had grown complacent in their dominance of Cocoyasi Village and the surrounding area, which would work in my favor. But they were still dangerous, and I'd need to be considerably smarter this time if I wanted to avoid repeating my previous mistakes.'
Lost in these strategic considerations, I almost missed the commotion that began outside the restaurant.
Shouts and screams carried across the water, followed by the distinctive sounds of splintering wood and snapping ship masts—the unmistakable signature of a large vessel in distress.
The conversation in the dining room died away as patrons turned toward the windows, trying to catch a glimpse of whatever was happening outside.
I felt my stomach sink as I recognized the particular tone of panic in those distant voices. This wasn't the controlled chaos of normal port activity—this was genuine terror.
"What's going on out there?" someone whispered from a nearby table.
"Sounds like a ship's in trouble," another patron replied, craning his neck to see through the window.
But then a name began to ripple through the crowd, whispered with the kind of reverence usually reserved for natural disasters and divine interventions.
"Don Krieg's ship..."
"It's Don Krieg..."
"The pirate armada..."
The name sent a visible shiver through the restaurant as the implications sank in.
Don Krieg—commander of fifty ships and five thousand pirates, the self-proclaimed strongest man in the East Blue. A man whose reputation for cunning and cruelty had made him a boogeyman throughout the East Blue.
And apparently, he was here.
Panic began to spread through the dining room like wildfire as patrons realized what was happening.
Chairs scraped against the floor as people began to stand, their faces pale with terror, their conversations dissolving into nervous whispers and barely suppressed hysteria.
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, fighting back the surge of frustration that threatened to overwhelm me.
This was exactly what I'd been trying to avoid—getting caught up in the major plot events of this world.
I'd spent two years carefully navigating around the story's main narrative threads, and now here I was, trapped in the Baratie just as one of the most significant early arcs was about to unfold.
Murphy's Law, it seemed, transcended dimensional boundaries.
"My ship…tsk!" I muttered under my breath, thinking of my small vessel docked outside with Delgado still working on the rudder repairs that had stranded me here in the first place.
'Of all the possible timings for this encounter, it had to happen when I was effectively trapped.'
The repairs wouldn't be complete for at least a few more hours, which meant I was stuck here for whatever was about to unfold.
And based on my knowledge of the Manga, what was about to unfold was going to be spectacularly violent and completely contrary to my carefully maintained policy of non-involvement.
Kowalski was practically hyperventilating beside me, his face having gone completely white as the reality of our situation sank in.
As a Marine—even an off-duty, cowardly one—he was theoretically obligated to respond to this kind of threat. But his terror was so obvious that I doubted he'd be capable of coherent action, let alone heroic intervention.
The sound of heavy footsteps on the dock outside grew closer, accompanied by labored breathing and what sounded like someone struggling to stay upright.
I turned toward the entrance, my hand instinctively moving toward my pistol beneath my cloak, knowing what I would see but hoping desperately that I was wrong.
I wasn't.
The doors to the Baratie burst open with dramatic force, and two figures stumbled inside like something out of a nightmare.
The first was massive—easily two and a half meters tall—but he moved with the unsteady gait of someone on the verge of complete physical collapse. His clothes looked dirty, and his face gaunt with hunger and exhaustion.
Beside him, supporting him as best he could despite his own obvious weakness, was a shorter man with short black hair and a gray jacket.
He looked almost as bad as his companion—pale and sickly, with the hollow-eyed appearance of someone who'd been pushed far beyond his limits.
Don Krieg and his first mate, Gin. Just as they'd been described in the manga, but seeing them in person drove home the reality of their desperation in a way that illustrations never could.
These weren't cartoon villains plotting world domination—they were real people, dangerous people, who had clearly been through hell and were now seeking refuge in the one place that might offer it.
The restaurant fell completely silent as Krieg stumbled forward, his massive frame swaying dangerously with each step. When he spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper, completely at odds with his fearsome reputation and imposing physical presence.
"Food…and water," he croaked, reaching into his coat with trembling hands. "If it is money…I have plenty…Please... just food."
The desperation in his voice was genuine, unmistakable.
Here was one of the most feared pirates in the East Blue, reduced to begging for a basic meal.
Several of the restaurant's cooks had emerged from the kitchen, drawn by the commotion.
Their leader—a rough-looking man with a bandana—stepped forward, studying the weakened giant with wary confusion.
"The heck…?" he muttered, clearly taken aback by Krieg's pale, sickly appearance. "That weak, worn-out looking guy is Krieg?"
The other cooks exchanged uncertain glances, clearly struggling to reconcile the pathetic figure before them with whatever reputation they'd heard whispered in sailors' tales.
I found myself studying Krieg's condition as well—the man was clearly on the verge of collapse, his massive frame trembling with exhaustion and hunger.
But I'd read the manga. I knew what was coming next.
Krieg's response wasn't the violent outburst that his reputation might have suggested. Instead, he dropped to his knees with a sound like thunder, his proud posture crumbling completely as his forehead touched the floor in a gesture of absolute submission.
"Please," he whispered, his voice barely audible in the suddenly silent restaurant. "I'm begging you. Just food. That's all I ask."
The sight was simultaneously pathetic and terrifying. Pathetic because it showed how far the mighty had fallen, terrifying because it demonstrated exactly how desperate he'd become.
'And desperate people, as I'd learned during my time in this world, were capable of absolutely anything.'
The rough cook's expression hardened as he processed what he was seeing. "This is perfect," he said to his colleagues, his voice carrying the kind of grim satisfaction that came with unexpected opportunity.
"We should contact the Marines right now. End his threat once and for all while he's weak."
I couldn't argue with the logic. It would be the smart play, the safe play—remove a major threat while he was vulnerable, preventing countless future deaths and destruction.
From a purely utilitarian perspective, it was the correct choice.
But I also knew it wouldn't happen. Not with Sanji in the kitchen.
As if summoned by my thoughts, the sound of a door slamming open cut through the tension like a blade. A new voice, confident and slightly annoyed, filled the air.
"Move aside, Patty."
I turned to see a blonde man in a black suit emerge from the kitchen, a cigarette dangling from his lips, a plate of food, and a bottle in his hands.
Without waiting for a response, he kicked the rough-looking cook—Patty, as I'd suspected—out of his way with casual efficiency.
Sanji. The future cook of the Straw Hat Pirates, and the man whose principles were about to set in motion a chain of events that would change everything.
Even before he reached Krieg, I knew what was going to happen. I'd read this scene before, watched it play out in manga panels and anime episodes.
But knowing the outcome didn't make it any less frustrating to witness in person.
"You're hungry, right?" Sanji said, walking directly toward Krieg without any apparent fear or hesitation. "Then eat."
He set the plate down in front of the fallen pirate captain, along with a bottle of water. The gesture was simple, almost casual, but it carried the weight of absolute conviction—the unshakeable belief that no one, regardless of their crimes or reputation, should be allowed to starve.
The other cooks exploded in outrage, their voices overlapping in a cacophony of disbelief and anger.
"Sanji, what are you doing?"
"That's suicide!"
"Do you have any idea how dangerous this man is?"
"Doesn't matter," Sanji replied, taking a long drag from his cigarette with the kind of casual indifference that spoke of absolute certainty in his convictions. "He's hungry. That's all I need to know."
I watched the scene unfold with a mixture of admiration and exasperation that had become disturbingly familiar during my time in this world.
I understood Sanji's philosophy—I'd read about it in the source material. The idea that no one should go hungry, regardless of who they were or what they'd done.
It was noble, in its way.
'It was also incredibly, catastrophically stupid.'
'Sometimes,' I reflected as Krieg tore into the food with desperate hunger, 'following your convictions blindly would only lead to regret.'
That was true even in a world where conviction and willpower could literally reshape reality, because even in a fairy tale, not everyone wins in the end.
Each bite seemed to restore a little more of Krieg's strength, a little more of his imposing presence. The transformation was visible and deeply unsettling—like watching a predator recover from injury, knowing that its first instinct upon regaining strength would be to hunt.
"This is insane," one of the other cooks muttered, voicing what everyone in the restaurant was thinking. "He's going to kill us all once he recovers."
The prediction proved accurate faster than anyone could have anticipated.
Krieg finished the meal in less than a minute, then slowly rose to his feet with the deliberate care of someone testing newly recovered strength.
The change in him was dramatic and terrifying—where before he'd been weak and desperate, now he stood tall and imposing, his physical presence filled the room like a gathering storm.
What happened next was as predictable as it was brutal.
Without warning, without so much as a word of gratitude, Krieg's armored arm lashed out with devastating force.
The blow caught Sanji across his neck and sent him flying across the restaurant like a rag doll.
The sound of the impact was sickening—the wet crack of metal against flesh and bone—and Sanji hit the ground hard enough to spider the wood with fracture lines.
"Don Krieg!" Gin shouted, his expression a mixture of horror and betrayal. "That's not what you have promised! You told me that you won't harm this restaurant!"
But Krieg was no longer the desperate beggar who'd crawled through the doors minutes earlier. This was the real Don Krieg—the pirate captain whose reputation had been built on exactly this kind of casual cruelty and calculated betrayal.
His massive hand closed around Gin's shoulder with the lazy confidence of someone who'd never learned to doubt his own strength, lifting the smaller man off his feet as he struggled like a fish caught with a hook.
"I lied," Krieg said simply, his voice carrying no more emotion than if he'd been commenting on the weather.
Then he threw Gin aside like a piece of garbage, the loyal first mate hitting the floor hard and rolling to a stop near an overturned table.
The casual dismissal of his most loyal subordinate sent a chill through the restaurant that had nothing to do with the sea breeze.
This was the real Don Krieg—not the pathetic beggar who'd pleaded for food, but the ruthless pirate captain who'd built his empire on violence and the wreckage of other people's dreams.
"I like this ship," he declared, his voice now strong and commanding as he surveyed the restaurant with the acquisitive gaze of a conqueror. "I think I'll take it for myself."
Panic erupted throughout the dining room as patrons scrambled for the exits with all the coordination of a disturbed anthill.
Chairs were overturned, tables knocked aside, and glasses shattered on the floor as people fought to escape before the violence truly began.
I, of course, was among them.
I had no desire to get caught up in this mess, no reason to play hero when my own mission was already complicated enough. My ship was docked outside, even if we can't sail, we could row away before things got worse—
"Well, well, don't we have a celebrity here?" a voice called out from behind me, stopping me dead in my tracks like a physical blow.
The voice was unmistakably Don Krieg's, and the fact that he knew to call out to me meant that my hope of slipping away unnoticed had just evaporated completely.
I stopped walking, my hand instinctively moving toward the Sword of Gryffindor concealed beneath my cloak.
Around me, the other fleeing patrons continued their desperate exodus, but I could feel the weight of attention settling on my shoulders like a burial shroud.
Slowly, with the careful deliberation of someone who knew they were walking into a trap, I turned around.
Krieg was standing in the entrance of the dining room, his impressive physique and a cruel smile playing across his lips. He looked every inch the infamous pirate captain now—all traces of his earlier weakness erased, replaced by the confident bearing of someone who'd never met a problem he couldn't solve with violence.
And he was looking directly at me with the kind of predatory interest that usually preceded very bad things happening to very unlucky people.
"If it isn't the famous Dead-Eyes Hikigaya," Krieg continued, his voice carrying easily across the now-silent restaurant. "The Sorcerer himself."
…
A/N: Well, That's it for now.
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