Takuya Ichiro had never been to a harbor town before, but if they all smelled like fish, sea salt, and bad decisions, he wasn't sure he was a fan.
Loguetown.
The last stop before the Grand Line.
And Takuya, a newly isekai'd dumpling casualty turned Overhaul-powered walking disaster, had arrived a week ahead of schedule.
He strolled down the cobbled streets with an oversized straw hat tilted back on his head, his tattered coat billowing behind him in the breeze.
The town was bustling with energy—traders shouting deals, sailors unloading cargo, Marines on patrol. And food. Glorious, sizzling, oil-dripping, delicious food.
"Focus, Takuya," he muttered, pausing to eye a vendor selling something suspiciously close to dumplings. "You're here for a reason."
That reason, of course, was one Monkey D. Luffy. According to canon, the Straw Hats would be showing up in Loguetown any day now—Luffy to visit the execution platform, Zoro to get new swords, Sanji to find food, and everyone else to cause minor chaos.
He needed to be ready.
Not to fight.
To observe. Plan. Maybe slide into the plot like a background NPC with god powers.
Also to maybe steal some of Sanji's cooking.
"Step one," Takuya said, pulling a small notebook from his coat. "Blend in. Avoid the Marines. No terraforming the streets. And no blowing up any more pirate ships unless provoked."
He wandered into a back alley and clapped his hands together. The ground shifted, subtly rising and folding itself into a makeshift lounge seat. He dropped into it and sighed.
From his hidden vantage point, he could see the town square and the execution platform in the distance.
Takuya leaned back in his earthen chair, the rough texture oddly comfortable against his coat. The distant execution platform stood stark against the Loguetown skyline, a silent promise of the chaos to come.
A week. Seven days to kill before the Straw Hats turned this sleepy harbor into a hurricane.
"Blending in requires funds," he muttered, tapping a finger against his notebook. "And funds require… enterprise." His gaze drifted past the bustling market stalls selling fish, rope, and trinkets, landing on a vacant patch of cobblestones directly opposite the looming scaffold. Prime real estate. High traffic.
A slow, unsettling grin spread across his face. "Enterprise it is. But what to sell?" His stomach rumbled, but dumplings were off-limits – too painful a reminder.
Then, the fragments of knowledge collided in his head: the intricate molecular manipulation of his Overhaul quirk, heated Reddit debates about chemical synthesis he'd skimmed during boring lectures, and vivid scenes from Breaking Bad burned into his memory. An idea, dark and audacious, crystallized.
"Cookies," he declared to the empty alley. "Everybody loves cookies."
Day 1: Acquisition & Alchemy
The air at Loguetown's dumping ground was thick and nasty. It smelled like dead fish, rotting seaweed, and everything the town didn't want anymore.
Takuya wrinkled his nose. Piles of broken stuff – busted crates, soggy driftwood, smelly junk – stretched out along the rocky beach. Flies buzzed everywhere.
Perfect, he thought. It was exactly what he needed.
He spotted a small shack near the entrance. Smoke drifted from a rusty pipe on its roof. Inside, a tough-looking man with thick arms and a permanent frown sat hunched over a chipped mug. A sign above him read: "Scrap Boss - Borin."
"Whaddya want?" Borin grunted without looking up.
Takuya put on his friendliest, slightly silly smile, hiding under his big straw hat. "Hello! I need some wood, sir. Old wood. Driftwood, broken pallets, anything you're throwing out. Lots of it."
Borin snorted. "That junk heap ain't goin' anywhere. What for? Firewood? Makin' little carvings?" He eyed Takuya's worn coat like it was trash.
"Special crafts," Takuya lied easily, waving a hand. "Uh... fixing old furniture. Fancy stuff. Needs wood that's got... character. Only old wood has it."
He leaned closer, lowering his voice. "Honestly, sir, I'm broke. Just starting. Can we make a real cheap deal?" He pulled out a tiny stack of Beri bills – barely enough for lunch. "How about this... for that whole big pile back there? The one with the huge, wet logs?"
Borin stared at the pathetic money, then at the enormous, rotting pile Takuya pointed at. A slow, disbelieving laugh rumbled in his chest. "Cheap? Kid, that's an insult.
That pile's been sittin' for half a year. Rats live in it. Ain't even worth burning." He took a slow sip, his eyes sharp. Takuya could see him thinking: Getting rid of it would cost effort... but this fool is paying ME? "Double it," Borin said finally, a mean little smile on his face. "And you haul it yourself. Today."
Takuya pretended to think hard, digging slowly into his pockets. He added a few more crumpled bills. "That's... really tough, sir. But for my art! Okay. Deal."
Borin snatched the money, stuffing it into his vest. "Deal. The pile's yours. Don't whine when bugs eat your 'fancy stuff'. And get it outta here by sunset. Don't care how, just make it gone." He waved Takuya off, turning back to his mug.
Takuya moved fast. He found two big, bored guys leaning near some rusty chains. A few coins got them to help for an hour. They looked at the huge, wet woodpile, then at Takuya, then at the coins, and shrugged. Work was work.
Groaning and sweating, they loaded the heavy driftwood, broken crates, and splintered beams onto a creaky cart pulled by one grumpy donkey.
Takuya led them away from the busy docks, towards the run-down part of town. Buildings here were falling apart – broken windows, sagging roofs, doors hanging crooked. He saw a huge, old building.
Faded paint hinted it once stored ship parts. The big main doors were half-collapsed, but a small side door stood open, leading into dark, dusty emptiness.
"In there," Takuya pointed.
The workers looked uneasy. "Place is wrecked, boss. Roof might cave."
"Just need a spot to sort it quick," Takuya said cheerfully. "Be fast. Promise." He gave them each coins.
Shrugging, they pushed the groaning cart inside the dark hangar and dumped the giant pile of wood right in the middle, where dusty sunlight came through holes in the roof. They unhitched the donkey, gave the pile a nervous look, and hurried out, leaving Takuya alone.
Silence fell, heavy and dusty. Only water dripping somewhere and the scuttling of hidden things broke the quiet. Takuya walked around the enormous pile of wood. He breathed in deep – the smell of wet rot, salt, and decay filled his nose. Perfect raw stuff.
He cracked his knuckles, the sound loud in the empty space. The air around his hands started to shimmer faintly, like heat haze. A low hum made the dust on the floor vibrate. Instead of touching the wood, he knelt and pressed his palms flat on the cracked concrete floor.
"Break it down," he whispered.
It happened instantly. The shimmering energy flowed from his hands like water, spreading across the floor and up the bottom of the woodpile. Where it touched, the wood didn't just snap or splinter – it fell apart.
CRUNCH. SHHHHRRRRIP. FZZZT.
It was a loud, strange noise of things coming undone. Giant, wet logs sagged like wet paper, then collapsed into themselves. They turned into a rushing river of stringy fibers, sawdust, and tiny bits.
Broken planks dissolved into streams of dry powder and sticky grit. Nails, knots, bits of moss – everything was ripped apart into the smallest pieces possible.
Takuya frowned hard, concentrating. His eyes glowed faintly under his hat. He wasn't just breaking it; he was sorting it apart as well.
The energy flow changed, pushing the broken pieces into separate piles as the wave of destruction moved up the mountain of wood:
1. White Powder: Flowing into a growing, pure white hill on his left. (Pure wood fiber).
2. Dark Grit: Gathering into a smaller, rougher pile of sticky, dark stuff on his right. (The glue that held the wood together).
3. Water: Filling in containers that were made out of the ground.
4. Sludge: All the dirt, salt, rust, and rotten bits squishing together into a small, black, stinking lump right in front of him.
The noise was huge inside the hangar – a constant, grinding roar as tons of garbage were torn apart in minutes. Dust filled the air, swirling in the sunbeams.
When the energy finally stopped, the giant, rotting woodpile was completely gone. In its place were three heaps: a big mound of clean white powder, a smaller pile of dark sticky grit, and the ugly lump of stinking sludge. And water filled containers.
Takuya stood up, brushing off his coat. He looked at the piles with cool satisfaction. The white powder was perfect. The dark grit might be useful later.
The sludge... he waved a hand. The concrete floor beneath it seperated the salt from it and crunched and folded over the foul mess that remained, sealing it away.
"Step one," he said, his voice echoing slightly. He scooped some of the pure white powder. It felt cool and soft. "Got what I need." He looked towards the distant door where the sounds of Loguetown drifted in.
Now he could start baking. The big, empty hangar felt like a secret workshop. He had his materials, hidden and ready. The cookies, and the trouble they'd bring, were getting closer. As he got to work.
Takuya scooped a large pile of the pure white cellulose powder onto the hangar floor. He knelt before it, his hands hovering inches above the mound. The air around his fingers began to shimmer faintly, like heat rising off a desert road. A low hum filled the quiet space, making the dust motes dance.
"Okay," he muttered, closing his eyes for a second. He wasn't thinking about boring textbooks or confusing lectures. Instead, pictures flashed in his mind:
Walter White in his yellow suit, meticulously explaining chemical structures in that calm, scary voice from Breaking Bad.
Senku from Dr. Stone, grinning wildly as he turned rocks into sulfuric acid or crafted gunpowder from scratch.
Endless, chaotic Reddit threads filled with angry arguments about molecular bonds and drug synthesis he'd scrolled through when he should have been sleeping.
Somehow, that stuff stuck. The drama, the visuals, the sheer ridiculousness of it all made sense to his brain in a way school never did.
He could ace a test on meth chemistry if it was based on TV episodes, but put the same formulas in a textbook? Brain meltdown. Instant failure. That was just how his weird, entertainment-wired brain worked.
He focused. His power, Overhaul, lets him break things apart and rebuild them at the tiniest level – the level of molecules. But he needed to know exactly what he wanted to build. The cocaine molecule was burned into his mind now, thanks to Walter White's lessons.
"Right," he breathed. "Carbon chain... hook the nitrogen bit here... oxygen over there..." He wasn't reciting complex terms; he was picturing the shapes and connections he'd seen animated or argued about online.
"Link it like that... add the methyl group thingy..." He pictured Senku's manic energy infusing the process.
Sweat beaded on his forehead. The white powder under his hands didn't just sit there. It started to writhe. The pure white fibers subtly darkened to a dirty tan color.
Then, slowly, they began to bleach again, but differently – becoming brighter, cleaner, transforming into a fine, sparkling, crystalline white powder. It wasn't just powder anymore; it looked like crushed diamonds or super-fine snow. The texture changed too, becoming impossibly smooth and silky.
A sudden, harsh smell hit his nose – sharp and chemical, like nail polish remover mixed with cleaning fluid and something medicinal. It stung his eyes and throat.
Takuya grimaced, concentrating harder. He pushed with his power, forcing the unstable molecules to settle down, to lock into their new shape. The harsh smell faded significantly, replaced by a faint, almost sweet chemical scent, like new plastic.
He pulled his hands back. Where the pile of plain wood fiber had been, there was now a smaller, but gleaming, mound of pure, synthetic cocaine.
"Basic chemistry," he panted, wiping sweat from his brow with his sleeve. A dark, amused smile touched his lips. "Who knew wasting hours arguing with strangers online could be so... useful?" He looked around, spotted a relatively clean patch of the concrete floor nearby, and clapped his hands once towards it.
Crunch.
A section of the concrete floor rippled and rose, folding and compacting itself instantly into a small, sturdy, airtight stone jar. He carefully scooped the precious white powder into the jar, sealing it with another subtle crunch as the stone lid fused shut. The jar felt cool and heavy in his hand.
The first key ingredient was ready. Now came the baking.
A/N: If my story brought even a hint of a smile to your face, drop a comment—I'd love to hear it! Knowing I brightened someone's day fuels my creativity! My only goal is to make people smile and find happiness in this dull world. Not to mention I want to reach Oda sensei's level of storytelling.
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