Chapter 1: Death by Pocky and the World-Shaking Identity Crisis
Death, Jason Kael decided as the 18-wheeler filled with novelty Japanese snacks painted his consciousness across the grimy asphalt, was surprisingly… anticlimactic. One moment he was jaywalking, arguing passionately with his phone's voice assistant about the optimal viewing order for the Monogatari series, the next he was airborne in a kaleidoscope of shattered Pocky boxes and existential dread.
"Seriously? A goddamn *snack truck*?" his final, incredulous thought echoed in the sudden, crushing silence. "Not a meteor, not a supervillain laser, not even choking on a mochi ball like a proper weeb? Just… discount carbohydrates? Lame."
Then, nothing. A void. Not peaceful, not terrifying. Just… absence. Like hitting the 'off' switch on a particularly crappy TV.
Until a voice shattered the silence. Not a voice. More like the *concept* of sound given smug, omnipotent form. It vibrated through his non-existent bones.
"PATHETIC."
A figure coalesced in the void. Or rather, an idea of a figure – shifting, incomprehensible, radiating boredom and immense power. It wore robes that seemed woven from dying galaxies and flickered with the cheap neon aesthetic of a bad 90s screensaver. ROB. Random Omnipotent Being. Jason recognized the trope instantly. His inner otaku perked up, momentarily overriding the sheer what-the-actual-fuck.
"Jason Kael," the ROB boomed, managing to sound both profoundly unimpressed and vaguely amused. "Lived a life of quiet desperation seasoned liberally with escapist fantasy and questionable hygiene. Died avoiding eye contact with a delivery driver. Truly, a cosmic punchline."
"Hey! Rude!" Jason's disembodied consciousness protested. "I showered! Mostly! And that driver ran the light!" A pause. "Also, is this the part where you offer me a second chance in exchange for defeating the Demon King or something? Because I gotta warn you, my leadership skills peak at organizing Discord movie nights."
The ROB flickered, a celestial sigh rippling through the void. "Demon Kings are passé. So derivative. No, Jason Kael, your death was statistically improbable enough to catch my attention during a particularly dull eon. Consider yourself… a cosmic lottery winner. Sort of."
A screen materialized before Jason's perception. It looked suspiciously like a high-budget mobile game interface.
WORLD SELECTION:
* A) Generic Isekai Fantasy Land #742 (Medieval Stasis, Slimes, Harems - Optional)
* B) Warhammer 40k (Guaranteed Suffering, Grimdark Aesthetic, Short Lifespan)
* C) Marvel Cinematic Universe (Earth-199999) (High Stakes, Flashy Spandex, Recurring Apocalypses)
* D) Random (May Include Sentient Cephalopods or Reality-Warping Teapots)
Jason blinked non-existent eyes. "Uh… C? Definitely C. I know the lore. Mostly. Plus, spandex has… potential."
"Predictable," the ROB sniffed. "Very well. But mere insertion is boring. Let's add…*flavor*."
Another screen popped up.
SYSTEM GRANTED: ONE PIECE TEMPLATE SYSTEM (BETA)
WELCOME, USER. INITIATING SOUL-BINDING...
NOVICE PACKAGE UNLOCKED:
* x1 TEMPLATE ROLL LOTTERY TICKET
"Whoa whoa whoa!" Jason yelled. "One Piece? In the MCU? That's… that's like mixing nitro and glycerin! Are you *trying* to break reality?"
"Entertainment value is paramount," the ROB stated flatly. "Now, ROLL!"
A massive, garishly decorated slot machine spun in the void. Golden icons blurred past: Buggy the Clown (Jason winced), Don Krieg (he groaned), Alvida (he shuddered), Mihawk (he gasped), Shanks (he salivated), Kaido (he felt faint)... The icons slowed… passed Shanks… passed Rayleigh… landed with a final, universe-shaking *CLUNK*.
The image that filled the screen was unmistakable. Towering, muscular, draped in a white captain's coat, a crescent mustache dominating a face etched with both immense power and paternal warmth. Beneath it, the name pulsed with terrifying energy: **EDWARD NEWGATE - "WHITEBEARD"**.
"CONGRATULATIONS!" the ROB announced, its voice tinged with genuine, sadistic glee. "YOU HAVE ACQUIRED THE WHITEBEARD TEMPLATE! INITIATING SOUL-MERGE AND TRANSMIGRATION! DO TRY NOT TO ACCIDENTALLY CRACK THE PLANET IN HALF BEFORE THE FIRST ACT, WON'T YOU? TATA!"
Before Jason could scream, protest, or even fully process the sheer, pants-wetting terror of inheriting the power of the man who could literally sink the world, an unimaginable force punched him through the fabric of reality.
---
He woke up choking on the unmistakable stench of New York City alleyway: rotting garbage, stale urine, and the faint, greasy tang of cheap pizza. Concrete was cold and unforgiving beneath him. He gasped, scrambling upright, his hands – *his hands!* – were large. Rough. Corded with muscle he'd never possessed. He patted his chest, his face. A thick, muscular torso beneath a simple, rough-spun shirt. A strong jaw… and above his lip… he traced the unmistakable curve of a *crescent mustache*.
"Oh, you have *got* to be kidding me," he muttered, his voice a deep, resonant rumble that vibrated in his own chest. It was *his* voice, yet infused with an undeniable basso profundo power. "The stache? Really? Couldn't just give me the earthquake hands and leave the facial hair out of it? What am I, a hipster sea captain?"
Panic started as a cold trickle, then became a tsunami. Whitebeard's power. In the MCU. A world teetering on alien invasions, killer robots, and a purple grape with an annihilation kink. He, Jason Kael, office drone and professional procrastinator, was now a walking, talking natural disaster. The sheer, absurd horror of it bubbled up, manifesting not as a scream, but as a choked, slightly hysterical laugh.
"Okay, Lucy," he declared to the overflowing dumpster beside him. The name felt… right. Bold. Silly. Utterly divorced from the drudgery of Jason Kael. "Lucy. No last name. Last names are for people with tax returns and crippling existential dread. I am now… an entity. A force of nature with a sense of humor and questionable coping mechanisms." He paused, struck by a thought. "Also, probably indigent. ROB didn't exactly stuff my pockets with cash." He patted his rough trousers. Empty. "Yep. Homeless and world-breaking. Classic ROB."
He tried to stand. It was like piloting a battleship. His new body was immense, powerful, but unfamiliar. He stumbled, his shoulder slamming into the brick wall. It was just a clumsy bump.
*CRACK-K-K-K-K-K-K-K-K-K-K-K-K-K-K!*
The wall didn't just crack. A spiderweb of fissures exploded outwards from the point of impact, racing up three stories and deep into the structure. Bricks groaned. Dust and mortar rained down. Lucy froze, staring in utter disbelief at his shoulder, then at the devastated wall. A low, terrified whimper escaped him.
"Oh. Oh, *fuck me sideways with a rusty halberd*," he breathed, the deep voice trembling. "That… that was *me*? A *bump*?" The dark humor flickered, momentarily drowned by raw, primal fear. Memories of Jason's life flashed – the crushing monotony, the missed opportunities, the deep-seated feeling of being insignificant, powerless. Now he had all the power in the world, and the first thing he did was nearly collapse a building by *tripping*. The irony was so thick it choked him. A bitter laugh escaped, harsh and grating. "Guess the 'quiet desperation' part is out the window, huh? Now it's just 'loud, accidental demolition'."
He clenched his fists, feeling the terrifying potential coiled within them like sleeping dragons. This wasn't power. This was a death sentence waiting to happen. To him. To everyone around him. The dark emotions swirled – the familiar despair of his old life twisting into a new, sharper terror. He was a loaded gun in a world of cardboard cutouts.
He needed to get out of the alley. *Now*. Before someone saw the wall. Before he sneezed and leveled the block.
Stumbling like a newborn giraffe made of pure, barely-contained destruction, Lucy lurched towards the alley mouth. He emerged onto a bustling New York sidewalk. People streamed past, oblivious. A guy in a cheap Iron Man t-shirt bumped into Lucy's arm.
*THOOM.*
An invisible shockwave pulsed outwards. It wasn't destructive, not this time, but it was tangible. The guy yelped, stumbling back as if shoved by an unseen hand, his coffee cup flying. He stared at Lucy, wide-eyed. Lucy stared back, his new face a mask of horrified apology beneath the ridiculous mustache.
"S-sorry! Really sorry! New… uh… balance issues!" Lucy stammered in his deep rumble, sounding utterly unconvincing. "Vertigo! Very tragic!"
The guy just scrambled away, muttering about crazy homeless people. Lucy slumped against a newsstand, breathing heavily. Every brush, every accidental touch felt like playing Russian Roulette with a city block. He felt monstrous. Alien. A bull in the world's most expensive china shop.
He spotted his reflection in the newsstand's window. Towering frame. Wild, prematurely white hair starting to sprout. And that damn mustache. He looked like a cosplayer who'd gotten *really* into his role and then lived rough for a month. The absurdity warred with the terror.
"Okay, Lucy," he whispered to his reflection. "Deep breaths. Don't hug anyone. Don't high-five. Definitely don't get startled. You are basically a walking seismic event with a chuuni complex." He managed a weak, darkly amused grin. "On the bright side? Finding a family to protect like Pops wanted just got a whole lot harder. 'Hey, wanna join my crew? I accidentally destroy buildings when I get emotional! Safety not guaranteed!'"
A flicker caught his eye. Not in the reflection. In his *mind*. A translucent, stylized interface snapped into focus, overlaying his vision:
ONE PIECE TEMPLATE SYSTEM
USER: LUCY
ACTIVE TEMPLATE: EDWARD NEWGATE (WHITEBEARD) - SYNCHRONIZATION: 1.5%
ABILITIES:
* GURA GURA NO MI (Tremor-Tremor Fruit) - UNCONTROLLED
* PASSIVE PHYSICAL ENHANCEMENT - MINOR
STATUS: PANICKED, DISORIENTED, HOMELESS
WARNING: TEMPLATE POWER MANIFESTATION EXCEEDS USER CONTROL. SIGNIFICANT RISK OF CATASTROPHIC COLLATERAL DAMAGE.
SUGGESTION: SEEK ISOLATION. PRACTICE MINUTE CONTROL. AVOID POPULATED AREAS.
Lucy stared at the HUD. 1.5% Synchronization? *That* was 1.5%? A bump nearly took out a building? What would 10% look like? 50%? The terror resurged, cold and sharp. The dark humor felt like ashes in his mouth.
"Seek isolation," he muttered, looking around at the teeming city. "Right. Because New York is just *lousy* with deserted, earthquake-proof locations." He pushed off the newsstand, forcing himself to move with agonizing slowness, each step a conscious effort not to shatter the pavement. The weight of his new existence pressed down – the crushing power, the paralyzing fear of using it, the absurdity of his chosen name, the ghost of his wasted life as Jason, and the looming, inevitable chaos of the MCU.
He lumbered down the sidewalk, a giant walking a tightrope over an abyss, the ghost of a bitter smirk on his lips beneath the Whitebeard mustache. "Well," Lucy rumbled softly, the sound barely audible over the city's din, yet vibrating with terrifying potential, "welcome to the party, fuckers. Hope you brought earthquake insurance."
Somewhere, in the back of his mind, the despair of Jason Kael whispered, *You're going to break everything.* The new, chaotic spirit of Lucy, forged in a Pocky-fueled death and cosmic indifference, snarled back, *Maybe that's exactly what this world needs.*
The alley wall behind him, already weakened, chose that moment to shed a large chunk of bricks with a crash. Lucy didn't flinch. He just kept walking, a force of nature learning to crawl, the first tremors of a world-shaking storm contained within a single, conflicted soul. The game was on. And Lucy had no idea how to play, except that losing meant taking the planet down with him. The dark humor flickered again, edged with desperation. Time to find a *really* big punching bag. Preferably uninhabited. And maybe some Pocky. For old times' sake.